Double Tithe, Frozen Census
"You won't get away with this."
It was the morning after the trial.
Lysias was at his desk before the first bell, and a slate was already waiting for him on it.
— Eight cases remaining. Complete the cross-verification.
It was work hours either way.
He started with the five that had failed seasonal cross-checking.
Before a disappearance could be added to or subtracted from the tally, you had to know when it happened. The slates carried no dates. That left exactly one option.
'Check whether anyone in that household was lost that year.'
People gone, numbers down. The year the number dropped was the year they vanished.
Lysias pulled out the population records.
Milea Village.
One hundred thirty-six. The year before, one hundred thirty-six. The year before that, one hundred thirty-six.
'…'
Agria Village.
Ninety-two. Ninety-two. Ninety-two.
'…Huh?'
The West Hill Village.
Eighty-four. Eighty-four. Eighty-four.
'…'
'…Does nobody in this country get born or die?'
These records had simply never been updated. He was certain of it. His predecessors hadn't kicked the task down the road out of laziness — they'd sat there and copied last year's numbers verbatim.
'…Which is why the cross-checks fail.'
He needed to find the year the count dropped, but by the record, the count had never dropped. The vanished people hadn't vanished from the numbers.
'…'
'…Am I going to have to recount all of this from scratch at some point?'
The thought alone was dizzying, so he shoved it aside for now.
The remaining three cases were blocked even more simply.
Their jurisdictions were split.
Same village, but each slate named a different temple. Apparently jurisdiction hinged on which temple received the offering — and nowhere, in any document, had anyone written down how that was decided.
'…At this rate we're going nowhere.'
Cross-verification was, in the end, village-level work. The slates were village, the rosters were village, the records were village.
'…Then I should sort everything by village and look at it that way.'
Lysias hauled the entire unresolved pile onto his desk. It had to be done once eventually — leave it as it was, and every new find meant digging through the whole heap again.
One stack for Milea.
One for Charon Ferry.
One for the West Hill Village.
And then.
"…"
Agria's.
It was not one stack.
Lysias counted it three times.
Eleven cases.
'…'
Other villages had three at most.
'…What kind of town is this place?'
In his previous life, what Lysias had done for ten years was audit.
Tracing where the money came from and where it went. Laying two ledgers side by side and hunting down the points where they disagreed.
Frankly, it wasn't any remarkable talent. Plenty of people could do it.
'…But nobody here does.'
He learned the reason within a few days.
Here, there was only one ledger.
You wrote down what you collected. That was it. There was no second entry by the receiving side.
Because the gods never forgot.
It was all in their heads. Why write it down twice?
'…Same reason I never kept summaries in school.'
'…Which is why nobody can ever catch anything.'
When there's nothing to reconcile against, nothing can be wrong. The most perfect bookkeeping in the world.
Granted, the fact that it could catch nothing was the whole problem.
Lysias laid out everything he had on Agria.
Eleven unresolved cases. The offering rosters. The population records.
The desk was too small, so he spread them across the floor.
'All right, let's see.'
Population, he'd already checked.
Ninety-two. Ninety-two, three years running.
Next, the offering rosters.
Agria, last year.
Eighty-six mals of wheat. Twenty-three sheep. Nineteen jars of oil.
The year before.
Forty-one mals of wheat. Twelve sheep. Nine jars of oil.
"…"
Lysias's hand stopped.
'…It doubled.'
While the population hadn't moved.
"Excuse me."
He flagged down a passing clerk.
"What now."
"Agria Village."
"What about it."
"Its offerings doubled last year."
"…Ah, that place."
The clerk wore a face that said this is nothing.
"They're devout out there."
"…"
"…"
"How are you measuring devotion?"
The clerk looked at Lysias.
"…Measuring it with what?"
"You just said they were devout. How would you know that?"
"…They gave a lot, didn't they."
"…"
'…No, that's the result, not the reason.'
He didn't say it out loud.
He'd spent ten years watching, without end, what happened to the nail that stuck up in the civil service. Or, to be precise, to himself, the nail that stuck up.
'I wonder what that guy who told me to soften my tone is doing these days.'
He had no intention of hearing that speech again here, four days into the job.
So he asked something else.
"Um, have you ever cross-checked this against the temple's records?"
"…Checked against what?"
"How much actually arrived at the temple."
"…"
"…"
The clerk's expression turned odd.
'Why does he look like that.'
"…The temple would know that."
"We don't?"
"Why would we?"
"…"
"The temple collects it and the temple receives it. Why would we know?"
The clerk left.
Lysias watched his back for a moment, then looked down at the slates spread across the floor.
'…'
'…So the one who collects and the one who receives are the same party?'
In his past life, he would have been drafting audit-initiation paperwork right about now.
Since no such paperwork existed here, he substituted muttering to himself.
"…Wow. Unbelievable."
He looked out the window.
The sun was still high.
The fourth bell had rung; the fifth had not.
'…Two bells to go.'
Lysias sat there for a while.
Honestly, he didn't want to go out.
It was shady here, and cool. The chair creaked, but it was sitable. And above all, nobody paid him any mind.
If he just flipped through slates for two more bells, the sixth bell would ring.
And nobody here — truly nobody — would check what he'd actually done.
'…I could just write "unable to verify." That is an option.'
Everyone wrote that. All eleven cases already carried it.
'…'
'…But then it just stays there, doesn't it.'
Lysias looked at the pile of slates.
If it stayed there, it stayed on his desk. If it stayed on his desk, he kept looking at it.
For a whole year.
"…Oh, for—"
Lysias stood up.
"…I really don't want to."
Want or not, what could he do. It was work hours.
He gathered the slates.
Agria was half a bell's walk on foot.
The wheat fields stretched wide, only just beginning to come up green.
'The fields look fine.'
A few people were out in them. At the sight of Lysias, they straightened up one by one.
And not a single one greeted him.
As he entered the village proper, he heard doors shut — twice.
'What is with this town?'
Lysias looked down at his clothes. Inspector's garb. Grey, with a single shoulder mark.
'Does this look scary or something?'
Frankly, it didn't look scary at all.
He went door to door.
Ask how many lived there, and the answer came one short of the roster. Ask why, and there was no answer.
'…What is going on.'
At the next house, an old man was out in the yard, working on something. Goat hide, by the look of it.
"Good day to you. I'm from the Divine Court."
The old man's hands stopped.
"…The Court?"
"Yes."
"…Is it taxes?"
"No, that's the government offices. We don't do that. We only come when there's a dispute."
The old man's face went white.
'Ah. I put that badly.'
"No, no — nothing's happened here. I'm just checking the books. The offerings doubled last year, so I came to find out why."
"…Ah."
The old man's hands started moving again. Slower than before.
"What are you working on?"
"Goat. Slaughtered it yesterday."
"You do that yourself?"
"Who else would do it for me? Everyone in this village works with their own hands. We sell the hides in spring, salt down the meat, and it sees us through to winter."
"I suppose it would."
'But he does it well.'
For a man who in his past life had only ever touched meat out of a plastic pack, all of it was fascinating.
"…You said the offerings brought you?"
"Yes."
"…"
"Why?"
"Nothing. Just… the last fellow who came was counting how many people lived here."
'The last fellow?'
"Someone came here before?"
"From the temple. Last spring. Went from house to house asking how many."
"A census?"
"Something like that."
The old man turned the hide over.
"Course, that day my son-in-law happened to be here. My daughter's family was staying two days."
"…"
"So he counted four and left."
"…I'm sorry?"
"We're three. Just four that day."
'…'
"…Then why didn't you say so?"
"I did."
"…"
"And the counter said, if it's four, then it's four."
The old man folded the hide.
"And after that, the offering came out for four."
Lysias looked at the slate.
There it was. Four, written in plain strokes.
'…'
'…So that's why.'
Only now did he understand why every household so far had answered one short.
They hadn't failed to update anything.
'…'
Lysias drew a line through the number.
And wrote three.
"…What are you writing?"
"Three. Just as you told me. And since this one's currently four, it needs correcting too."
The old man's hands stopped again.
"…That can be changed?"
"It has to be. It's wrong."
"…"
The old man said nothing.
For a long time.
Then he started pushing the hide again.
'…'
'…What was that.'
The fourth house didn't open.
He knocked. Nothing.
He knocked again.
Footsteps. Inside. Heavy ones.
After a long pause, the door opened.
'Big.'
A head taller than Lysias, shoulders twice as wide.
"Who's asking."
"I'm from the Divine Court."
The man's eyes swept over him.
Alone. No soldiers, no wagon.
'…Here again, then.'
They'd come last spring too. One man then as well, asking how many lived here.
They'd counted, left — and the next month it began.
The man's right hand drifted behind the door.
Where a club stood propped. A thing from his younger days. Three years of soldiering in the east, two of them behind a shield.
If he'd learned one lesson from that time, it was this: when there's only one of them, there's no reason to drag it out.
He looked through the gap of the door. Something shifted behind a cloth at the back of the room.
The man faced front again.
'If it's one man, fine.'
If the slow ones came later, that was a problem for later.
"…What is it."
"Checking the records. How many in your family?"
'…'
"…Three."
"Three?"
Lysias looked at the slate.
"It says four here."
"…"
The man didn't answer.
Pressing here meant learning the truth.
That's what the temple men had done last spring. Isn't it four? Isn't there one more? They'd asked three times.
"…"
"Then I'll correct it to three."
'…?'
Lysias struck something from the slate.
"Looks like it was updated wrong. None of the houses before yours matched either, so I've been fixing them all day."
The man blinked.
"Now, just the offerings. You paid three mals of wheat last year. Before that, one and a half. It doubled — was there some occasion?"
"…"
'There it is again.'
The offerings. These people always led with the offerings. Not enough, still not enough, so pay it in something else.
The man's hand closed around the club's handle again.
"…What's the problem. Is paying more the problem?"
"…"
Lysias looked up from the slate.
"No. The problem's on the temple's side."
"…"
"…Excuse me?"
"Our roster only records what was collected — nothing about what was received. That's not how it should work. The collector writes one entry, the receiver writes another, and then you can reconcile them later."
Lysias tapped the slate.
"But here, the collecting party and the receiving party are the same. So doesn't that mean nobody actually knows how much went where?"
"…"
The man stared at him.
'…Is this man right now…'
'…badmouthing the temple?'
"Anyway, that's what I came to check. The reason it doubled. I'm not asking about anything else. Get the numbers straight and I'm gone."
The man looked at him for a long time.
The hand on the club's handle tightened —
'…'
— and let go.
"…Pfahahaha."
"What is it?"
"Nothing at all."
The man took his hand off the club.
Then he half-closed the door.
"…Ask from there."
"Ah — yes."
Lysias spread the slate against the door gap.
"Three mals of wheat. How many payments was that split across?"
"Three. I was dunned twice."
"For what reasons?"
"First time, they said too much chaff. Second, it didn't measure out right against their bushel."
Lysias's brush stopped.
"…Their bushel?"
"They remeasured with the temple's bushel and said it came up short. By our bushel it was three mals; by theirs, two and a half."
'…'
'They use their own bushel?'
"Where's this bushel kept?"
"At the temple. They only measure there."
"Not in the village?"
"No. Why would there be? We're not the ones doing the measuring."
"…"
"Something wrong?"
"No. Just thinking."
Lysias wrote it down.
He wrote for a long time.
The man watched him through the door gap.
'He's really writing it down.'
The temple men last spring had written nothing. Counted and left.
"…Sun's going down. Come inside. It's cold out."
Inside was dim.
The man poured him water. Lukewarm, with a faint taste of earth.
'Well, water's water.'
Lysias drank half and set the bowl down.
What did they used to call this, back then?
'Ah — a weights-and-measures inspection.'
The first thing a market inspector checked: whether a merchant's scale weights matched the certified weights from the office.
And who did the certifying here?
'The temple, presumably.'
Of course. The temple made the bushel, the temple did the measuring, the temple ruled it short.
'…Wow. Unbelievable.'
In ten years, he had never seen a structure this clean.
"And the wheat they dunned you for? Did you get it back?"
"No. They took it."
"…Who did?"
"The temple. Said tainted goods couldn't be left in the village."
Lysias's brush stopped.
'Hold on.'
'So if you're dunned twice—'
'one and a half mals went out, twice.'
'But the ledger only shows three.'
Lysias looked at the slate again.
— Three mals of wheat —
Three mals received. Nothing else written anywhere.
What isn't written doesn't exist.
What doesn't exist was never taken.
'Beautifully clean, isn't it.'
"…You're writing?"
"Yes. Writing."
The man lifted his water bowl.
"What good does writing do."
"I write a report. Without it, there's no trial. If I don't write it, no trial happens."
"…"
"…And when there's a trial, what then?"
"Hard to say. I'm the one who opens it, not the one who wins it. But one thing's certain — if it never opens, nothing happens at all."
The man set down the bowl.
He said nothing for a long time.
Then he stood and went into the back room.
'…?'
He came back shortly, carrying something.
A small pouch.
"What's this?"
"The dunned portion."
"…You said they took it all."
"I hid a handful. They kept going on about chaff, and it was so absurd I couldn't help myself."
The man set it on the table.
Lysias opened the pouch.
Wheat.
'This is… clean, isn't it?'
Ten years of paperwork hadn't taught him to judge grain by sight. He'd only ever seen it in bags.
But even without the eye, this was obvious.
'Where exactly is all this chaff?'
"May I take this with me?"
"Take it."
Lysias tucked the pouch away and stood.
As he turned to leave, the man spoke behind him.
"Inspector. About that family count."
"Yes?"
"It's four. Our house. Four is right."
"…"
"…Write it. Four."
Lysias opened the slate.
'First it was three, now it's four.'
He corrected it.
"Yes. Four it is."
As he stepped out the door, something moved behind the cloth at the back of the room.
Lysias didn't look.
He was leaving the village when he came upon a cart at the edge.
It was loaded with livestock. Sheep, about six of them. One limped.
Two men were hauling it, and their clothes were wrong. Not village clothes.
"Excuse me. What's with those sheep?"
He stopped a passing elder.
"The ones that won't do. Can't be offered to the god."
"…"
"They call it tainted. Say it can't stay in the village. So every spring they cart it off like that."
"Every spring?"
"Every spring. They come once in autumn too."
The elder walked on.
Lysias watched the cart.
The cart crested the hill and disappeared.
'If they're discarding them—'
'they could just discard them here, couldn't they?'
It smelled distinctly suspicious.
Lysias stood there a while.
He laid out what he'd heard today, in order.
The bushel existed only at the temple. Not in the village.
Measured by that bushel, anything short was dunned.
What was dunned was never returned. Taken away as tainted.
And that happened every spring, and once in autumn.
'…'
'…No, wait just a moment.'
The dunned goods never entered the temple. They were items that couldn't be received.
Which meant they never entered the ledger either.
'…'
'…But they still go somewhere, don't they.'
Lysias looked toward the hill.
The cart was already out of sight.
'…'
If ten years had taught him one thing, it was this: when an item that never appears in the ledger keeps moving somewhere on a regular basis, it is not an accident.
Accidents happen once.
Every spring and every autumn — that isn't an accident.
'…That's a procedure.'
Lysias gathered his slates and started walking.
'…Oh, for—'
'…This reeks, doesn't it.'
'Ugh… damn it all.'
Lysias threw himself into the chair and stared at the ceiling.
The pillars were so high he couldn't even see the ceiling. Just darkness.
'Why am I even here.'
The sixth bell had rung two bells ago. It had rung, and he was still here.
'Ha. God, I hate this.'
On his desk sat the slates he'd carried back from Agria. The report itself was finished — but when he'd submitted it, this had come down in response.
— Verify the remaining twelve households as well.
— Cross-check the offering rosters of the neighboring villages.
'If this was coming, I should've just finished it all yesterday.'
No — if he'd finished it all yesterday, yesterday would have been overtime.
'…And the eight cases haven't even been started.'
'…'
'…Damn it.'
'…Something about this is just monumentally unreasonable.'
He'd known it would run past midnight, but his hands were still fast.
He sorted the neighboring villages' rosters by village. Stood them up by year. Split the offering columns into wheat, sheep, and oil.
Ten years of it, and the body did it on its own.
The goddess watched from across the desk. Her job consisted of picking up a slate and sliding it toward him. Occasionally she slid over a wrong one, and he'd slide it back.
"Why does this one go here? Same village, isn't it?"
"Different years. Even in the same village, different years have to be kept separate. Otherwise you can't tell whether anything grew or shrank."
"Ah…! Like this?"
"Yes. Exactly."
"Oh!"
The goddess picked up the next one.
"Have this."
She set something down. Bread, with something spread on it.
"What is this?"
"Food."
"…Right."
'I know THAT much.'
Lysias took a bite.
'…What is this and why is it so good.'
"It's good, isn't it?"
"It is. Are these what the gods eat?"
"No? Nothing like that."
"…"
"I just baked them myself!"
'You… baked these yourself?'
"Um, my lady."
"Yes?"
"…I still haven't had the honor of asking your name."
The goddess stopped mid-slate and looked at him.
"Oh? Did I not say?"
"You did not."
"…"
"…"
"I'm Authea."
"…Right. Lady Authea."
Lysias picked his brush back up.
The goddess smiled brightly.
"Oh — I've been wondering something. Did something happen at Agria yesterday?"
"What do you mean, happen?"
"They say eleven households answered you. Do you know how long it's been since that happened?"
"…I couldn't say."
"Neither can I."
'…What kind of remark is that?'
"Usually not one household answers. They take us for the temple, you see."
"…Sorry? Aren't we the ones who investigate the temples?"
"We are. But hardly anyone knows that. Both sides of it work in a god's name, after all."
'…Ah.'
Lysias drifted into an old memory for a moment.
The people who led with tax complaints the moment he flashed his auditor's ID. The auntie who kept asking about taxes even after he'd told her three times he was not the tax office.
'Same everywhere, huh.'
"So nobody opens their doors. And if they do, they say nothing. A few years back, one of the inspectors nearly got beaten with a scythe."
"…I'm sorry, what?"
"That was the month after the temple men came through counting households. The village assumed we'd come again."
'…So THAT'S why that man—'
The club in his hand finally made sense.
'…Hold on. Did I almost die yesterday?'
"Um, Lady Authea. Could you perhaps warn me about these things in advance?"
"…Huh?"
The goddess blinked.
"Ah. Right. Sorry. Nobody ever goes out, so it never comes up."
'…Well, that tracks, but still.'
"But Inspector — why do you do this?"
"…Sorry?"
Authea was looking straight at him.
"This is work you don't have to do. You could just write 'unable to verify' and be done. Everyone did. And nobody said a word. …Until recently, anyway."
Lysias paused, brush in the air.
'What do I say to that.'
Truthfully: because he hated that those slates would sit on his desk forever. But that answer didn't exactly make him look good.
"…Because it's work. You do it because it has to be done."
"…"
Authea said nothing.
'Ah. Was that a bad answer?'
"…Heh."
The goddess laughed.
"Yes?"
"Nothing."
Authea raised her hand. And drew something across the top of his desk.
The air over the desk brightened. The letters on the slates were far sharper than before.
"…Ooh."
Lysias lifted a slate to look.
"What is this?"
"So your eyes hurt less."
'Wow. If she handed these out one each, everyone would love her.'
"Thank you."
"Anytime!"
Authea picked up the next slate. She put it in the wrong spot again.
The scent still lingered in the air.
Around midnight, the slates were half sorted.
Lysias was looking at Agria's occupation column.
— Farmers: twenty-one households.
— Other: two.
'…They literally have nothing to sell but wheat.'
There was no answer to that. Wheat farming happened once a year. That once went out as offering; if it was dunned, more went out; and then nothing was left.
'If they had even one more thing to sell.'
Hides, jars, anything. Even one stream of income going somewhere other than the offering plate would let them breathe.
'But there isn't one.'
Lysias wrote on the back of the slate.
— Agria: single-product economy. Nothing but wheat.
— Skilled labor absent.
'So THAT'S why they can't hold on.'
Poverty has its reasons. Here, there was nothing to sell.
He noted it down and picked up the next one.
Scratch. Scratch.
Only the sound of the brush.
And then he fell asleep.
"Hey. Wake up."
Lysias opened his eyes.
His neck wouldn't turn. He was face-down on the desk, with slate-lines printed on his cheek.
"You slept HERE? Are you insane?"
He lifted his head. Dion.
Dark rings under his eyes.
"Why are you here at this hour?"
"I slept too."
"Where."
"Over there."
Dion jerked his chin toward a pillar on the far side.
"…Huh. You too, huh."
"Yep."
Lysias snorted. Dion grinned too.
'…Why is a commissioned graduate sleeping in the pit like this.'
"Want to go wash up?"
"Let's go."
There was a water basin on the floor below.
The two of them stood side by side and splashed water on their faces.
"God. This is filthy cold. Hey — is this supposed to be this cold?"
"They don't warm it until after the first bell. That's why you're supposed to wash after it rings."
"Then when are you supposed to wash? Work starts the second it rings."
"Exactly."
Lysias rinsed out his mouth.
'…Haven't had this taste in a while either.'
It had been the same before. Sleeping at the office, washing in the bathroom — cold water woke the body and soured the mood further.
'Back then I was thirty-two.'
Now he was eighteen.
'…Why does it feel harder, then.'
Next to him, Dion dunked his whole head.
"Hey. If this is the job, what did we even go to the Academy for?"
"…Beats me."
Lysias genuinely didn't know.
Back at their desks, Dion pulled something out. Something wrapped in cloth.
"What's that?"
"Bread. Got it from the kitchen yesterday. For breakfast."
Dion broke it in half.
"Here."
"Wasn't this yours?"
"Forget it. You were out in the field all day."
Lysias took it.
"Thanks."
Crunch.
'…Why is THIS the one that tastes terrible.'
'…So that bread was the weird one.'
"So where'd you get sent, anyway?"
Dion sighed.
"I went out too. Charon Ferry."
"Why there?"
"You, obviously. The cleanup after your trial. The remaining eight cases got split among departments. I drew Charon."
'…Right.'
"Sorry."
"Whatever. I'd have had to go out eventually anyway."
Dion brought a thick stack of slates from his own desk.
"But hey — this one's weird too. Doesn't match."
"What doesn't match?"
"Population and offerings. People stayed flat, but last year it came in double."
Lysias stopped mid-chew.
"…Give it here."
He opened Dion's slate.
Charon Ferry.
Population, one hundred seventy-one. The year before, one hundred seventy-one. Before that, one hundred seventy-one.
'This one's never been updated either.'
Offerings.
Last year, sixty-two mals of wheat. The year before, thirty.
'…Doubled.'
Lysias pulled out the slate he'd filled in yesterday.
Agria. Eighty-six mals of wheat. The year before, forty-one.
He laid them side by side.
'…Why are these EXACTLY the same?'
"Hey. Were they dunned there too?"
"…Dunned how?"
"The offerings. Dunned for chaff. Dunned because the bushel didn't match."
Dion's eyes went wide.
"…How did you know that?"
Chewing on stone-hard bread, Lysias said:
"More importantly — what do the people there do for a living?"
"Fishing, mostly. It's a ferry landing. A few households repair boats."
"Any craftsmen?"
"None. Not a single one."
'None HERE either?'
Lysias flipped the slate over.
'Where did all the craftsmen in this country go?'
"Hey, speaking of which — what does it take to become a craftsman?"
"Huh? Why that all of a sudden?"
"Just curious."
Dion shrugged.
"You have to be able to make things fit for offering. Something worthy of being raised at a temple."
"…THAT's the standard?"
"What else would the standard be? You'd call someone a craftsman for making things that can't be offered to a god?"
'…Huh?'
"How does anyone get certified for that?"
"Three jars. Fire three, one after another, without a single flaw. One crack, one air bubble — start over from scratch."
'…Damn it, how does anyone manage that.'
"Hey. You ever seen anyone pass that?"
Dion thought for a moment.
"No. There was one in my village, supposedly — but that was thirty years ago. He couldn't do it anymore later, either."
"Why not?"
"His hands shook."
'…At that point that's not a craftsman's qualification, that's—'
'—an oracle.'
Lysias opened the slate he'd filled in yesterday.
— Agria: single-product economy. Nothing but wheat.
— Skilled labor absent.
'…No, wait just a moment.'
It wasn't that there were no skilled hands.
The old man yesterday had been skinning a goat hide, and he'd done it cleanly. That yard had a half-fired jar standing in it. The woman next door had been spinning thread.
Everyone was making something.
'But not one of them called himself a craftsman.'
Because the standard was things fit for offering to the temple.
Lysias drew a line through it.
— Skilled labor absent.
And wrote again.
— Skilled labor present. Certifying authority: the temple.
'…Hold on. The temple sets the bushel, AND the temple certifies the craftsmen?'
'…Then it's the temple that decides what these people are allowed to sell, isn't it.'
"Hey. Which temple has jurisdiction over there?"
"Huh? Hold on."
Dion rummaged through his slates.
"Here. A low temple of Hestia, Western District."
Lysias opened his own slate.
Agria.
— A low temple of Hestia, Western District.
'…Same one.'
"Hey. How many villages in the Western District?"
"Let's see. A dozen-some, isn't it? Why, you going after that too?"
"…"
Lysias set down the slate.
'A dozen-some.'
'…And ALL of them paid double?'
If ten years had taught him one thing, it was this: one place out of line is a mistake. Two places is coincidence.
From the third on, it's neither.
'But if it's a dozen-some—'
Lysias leaned back in his chair.
Coincidence could not stack a dozen times over.
Which left exactly one possibility.
'…So who's making it happen?'
Then a thought from earlier came circling back.
Here, there is one ledger.
Because the gods never forget.
'…No, hold on.'
'Then it's not that there's no receiving-side ledger at all, is it.'
'It's in the god's head.'
Lysias opened the slate again.
The jurisdiction field.
— A low temple of Hestia, Western District.
A moment ago he'd read it as an address.
Now it read as a name.
The name of one of the Twelve.