The Cathedral of the High Sun was a masterpiece of architectural arrogance. Every pillar was wrapped in gold leaf, and the stained glass was made of crushed gemstones that turned the morning light into a kaleidoscope of wealth.
I stood in the center of the nave, clutching my official "Grand Auditress" seal. The air smelled of expensive incense and ancient secrets.
"Lady Lexen," a voice purred.
A man in white and gold robes descended the marble stairs. This was High Priest Malachi. In the original novel, he was the "Moral Compass" of the Empire. In my professional opinion, he looked like a man who had never seen a tax return he couldn't "bless" away.
"Your Eminence," I said, giving a polite but shallow bow. "I'm here on behalf of the Imperial Treasury. We're conducting a standard review of the 'Tithes for the Poor' fund."
Malachi's smile didn't falter, but his eyes turned as cold as a tombstone. "The Church's finances are guided by the Gods, Lady Lexen. Are you suggesting the Heavens are poor at bookkeeping?"
"I'm suggesting that while the Heavens are perfect, the people handling the collection baskets are human," I countered. "I've noticed that while the 'Tithes for the Poor' increased by 20% last year, the actual distribution to the slums decreased by 10%. That's a 30% gap that seems to have... ascended to a higher plane."
Malachi stepped closer, his presence radiating an uncomfortable heat. "Be careful, child. Auditing a Chancellor is a civil matter. Auditing the Church is a spiritual one. You wouldn't want to find yourself... excommunicated. Or worse."
"Excommunication doesn't affect my ability to add or subtract, Your Eminence," I said, pulling a scroll from my bag. "I'll need the ledgers for the last five years. By sunset. Otherwise, I'll have the Prince's guard seal the Cathedral as a 'crime scene of financial negligence.'"
I spent the next six hours in a cold, damp basement room the priests had "graciously" provided. It was clear they wanted me uncomfortable.
But they didn't realize that an accountant in a cold room is a dangerous animal.
"Hans," I whispered, my breath misting in the air. "Look at this. The 'Sacramental Wine' budget."
Hans peered over my shoulder. "Five thousand gold dragons for wine? That's enough to keep the entire palace drunk for a decade."
"Exactly. But look at the supplier." I pointed to a name in the ledger: The Gilded Grape. "I checked the trade registry this morning. The Gilded Grape doesn't exist. It's a shell company."
"So the money is being moved out of the Church," Hans realized. "But where?"
I traced the numbers, my mind racing. The math was complex—triple-entry bookkeeping designed to confuse even a seasoned scholar. But it wasn't designed to confuse a 21st-century forensic auditor.
"It's not going to Vane," I said, a chill running down my spine that had nothing to do with the room temperature. "The money is being funneled into Military Equipment. Illegal, untraceable black-market steel."
Suddenly, the heavy iron door of the basement slammed shut. I heard the distinct click of a lock.
"Hans?" I called out.
No answer. I ran to the door and pulled, but it didn't budge. From the other side, I heard the faint sound of footsteps walking away.
Then, I smelled it. Smoke.
They weren't just locking me in. They were "cleansing" the evidence.
I looked at the small, barred window high above. I looked at the piles of dry, flammable parchment surrounding me.
"Okay," I muttered, grabbing my heavy cloak and soaking it in the leftover tea. "New rule: No more auditing people who have direct access to 'Holy Fire.'"