Chapter 183 - 128 : Year 31 - 36 Calculated Risk

Chapter 183: Chapter 128 : Year 31 - 36 Calculated Risk

The market below Ashcombe Castle had grown busier over the past few months. Merchant carts arrived more regularly, bringing goods from distant settlements and carrying local produce back out along the roads. The sound of wheels and bargaining rose from the streets, reaching the upper chambers of the castle whenever the windows were open.

Not every noble family possessed a castle. Such a structure took years of labour and considerable wealth to build, and its upkeep was beyond the means of many lesser houses. For those who had one, it represented more than a home. It was a mark of the family’s standing, a legacy passed down through generations, and a reminder of the power its ancestors had once gathered.

Ashcombe Castle was smaller than Castle Veymont, but it remained a source of pride to the family. Its stone walls and guarded gates offered shelter in troubled times, while its towers gave the defenders a view of the streets and roads approaching the castle. If enemies ever took the city, the castle might still hold out as the family’s last refuge.

Its walls would not make it impossible to breach, but anyone attempting to climb them would face archers watching from above, with little cover from their arrows. Even a martial artist would have to contend with the defenders before reaching the battlements, while the narrow gates and passages made it difficult for attackers to force their way inside. A castle could not guarantee a family’s survival, but it offered protection that an ordinary manor could not, and stood as a lasting testament to the house that had built it.

From his study, Viscount Garran Ashcombe watched another wagon pass through the market square. The sight pleased him. His father’s lands had endured difficult years, but the renewed traffic was bringing money into the territory, and the household’s accounts were beginning to look healthier.

Garran was twenty-five, with dark hair, a strong jaw, and an expression that often betrayed his impatience before he could hide it. Since inheriting his father’s title, he had tried to carry himself with the assurance expected of a Viscount. He had land, men under his command, and the authority to make decisions for his own territory. Yet the responsibilities that came with the title had proved more complicated than he had imagined, particularly when those decisions might bring him into conflict with someone more powerful.

To Garran, his inheritance had felt less like a reward than a burden left behind by a father who had passed too many problems into his son’s hands.

He had inherited the title, the obligations, and the troubles that came with the family lands, yet he had begun to feel that too much was expected of him simply because House Veymont stood above his own. The tribute was one such demand.

He had already sent a portion of what was owed, but even that felt like giving away money that should have remained in his hands. Sometimes he wondered why he had sent anything at all. He could have claimed that his stores were empty and his lands had nothing left to offer.

Better still, he might have said that the tribute had been taken by bandits along the road. With so many robberies occurring across the territory, who could easily prove otherwise? He had even considered whether a robbery could be arranged to make the story convincing, though the thought left him uneasy.

It was one thing to hold back money and offer excuses; quite another to risk being caught in a deliberate lie. Still, the longer he thought about how much he had surrendered, the harder it became to accept that he should have sent it in the first place.

A cart rattled over the stones below, drawing Garran’s attention back to the busy streets. He lowered the report and turned from the window, his thoughts lingering on the money he had already surrendered.

Behind him stood his uncle, a slender man with greying hair combed neatly away from his forehead and a narrow face that rarely seemed to reveal much. He wore a dark, finely cut coat, its high collar framing a closely trimmed beard. A silver ring rested on his long fingers, turning slowly beneath his thumb whenever he paused to think. He had always been careful about what he revealed of himself, and even those who knew him well could find it difficult to tell what he was truly considering.

The servant who had brought the latest message bowed and withdrew, closing the door behind him.

Garran lowered the report to the desk.

"Uncle, are you certain this will work?"

His uncle glanced towards him. "You have asked me that already."

"Because count Corren is sending two clerks to examine our accounts. They’ll compare the road expenses with the guard records and inspect the work we’ve claimed to have paid for. What happens if they discover that the figures don’t add up?"

"Then we make certain they do."

Garran’s fingers tightened around the report. "We’ve already sent them less than we owed. We told the Count that the difference went towards repairing the roads and keeping the guards supplied. Some of that money was spent, but not nearly enough to explain the whole amount."

"And that is why we still have time to put matters in order." His uncle crossed to the desk and glanced at the report without picking it up. "The roads have been repaired in places. The guard posts are occupied. Men have been paid, horses fed, and supplies purchased. These are real expenses, even if the records do not yet show their full cost. By the time the clerks arrive, we will have accounts prepared that support the explanation we gave."

"You mean we will falsify them."

His uncle looked at him for a moment. "I mean that you should stop speaking as though you have already been caught."

Garran looked away. Outside, another cart rumbled through the square. The increased traffic was exactly what his territory needed, but the money it brought had also made him wonder how much of it he should be expected to send away. His father had always met House Veymont’s demands without making a matter of them. Garran had begun to question whether that was wisdom or simply a habit inherited from a different time.

"What if the clerks notice something?" he asked. "And what if they report it to Lucian? He could send soldiers here."

His uncle’s expression barely changed.

"Would he?"

"He is still our Count."

"That has not answered my question." The older man drew out a chair and sat, placing one hand on its arm. "Consider what it would mean for him to send soldiers into your lands over a disputed payment. He would be turning an accounting matter into an armed confrontation with one of his own Viscounts. Every other vassal would ask whether he had lost the ability to settle his affairs without threatening force."

"But if he asked Duke Vendettit to intervene?"

"Then he would be admitting that he could not manage his own vassal." His uncle gave a small, humourless smile. "The Duke might listen, but he would have his own affairs to consider. And if he did intervene, do you imagine he would do so without examining the conduct of both sides? Count Lucian would invite the Duke into a dispute he should have been able to settle himself."

Garran was not entirely convinced. "Still, the Count might decide that he has to make an example of me."

"With what?" His uncle’s voice remained quiet. "His patrols are stretched across the roads, his treasury has been weakened by years of repairs and relief, and the drought has left him uncertain how much grain the next harvest will bring. He is still dealing with the gangs that trouble his territory. Every man he sends here is a man he cannot use elsewhere."

He let the words settle before continuing.

"The Veymonts also have only one surviving Force Tempering retainer of the old generation. He is an experienced man, but he is old, and the Count knows what a serious fight would cost him now. Do you think the Count will risk that man’s remaining strength over a disputed tribute when the evidence is uncertain and the consequences could spread beyond your lands?"

Garran lowered his eyes to the report. The prospect of soldiers appearing at his gates had troubled him more than he wished to admit. His uncle was offering him reasons to believe that it would not happen, and with every reason came another excuse to proceed.

"Even if Count Lucian suspects us, he cannot prove that we have deliberately withheld the money," his uncle continued. "We will not close our gates against his clerks, refuse his summons, or openly deny his authority. We will receive his men, present our accounts, and answer their questions. If the figures are consistent and the work they inspect is real, what can they establish beyond suspicion?"

"And if they still believe we are lying?"

"Belief is not proof."

The answer came so readily that Garran felt some of his anxiety ease. He was still uneasy, but he was also beginning to see the situation as his uncle wanted him to see it: not as a dangerous breach of trust, but as a calculated risk that could strengthen his own position.