Moorhaven Imperial Governance Building
Eversley LeGrange took his evening meals alone.
Not out of loneliness — he had learned long ago that loneliness was a choice, and he had made other choices. He simply found that the hours between dusk and full dark were most usefully spent in review. Correspondence, ledgers, the small administrative machinery that kept larger things moving quietly in the right direction.
His office was comfortable without announcing itself. Good furniture, well-maintained. A fire that had been lit at the same time every evening for eleven years by the same man, who knew better than to speak unless spoken to. A glass of whiskey — one, always one — that sat at his right hand and was refilled only when empty.
He was halfway through a report on grain tariffs in the eastern provinces when his secretary placed a second document beside his plate without comment.
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LeGrange set down his fork. He read. When he finished, he read it again. Not because he had missed anything. Because he was precise.
He set the report down. "Sir. Regarding the Ebon Maw crew."
"I've read it."
"The frontliner—"
"I know who he is."
Silence.
"He doesn't," LeGrange said. "Which is the only thing that matters at present."
He picked up his whiskey. "Sir — should we—"
"No." He didn't look up. "A man cleaning dungeons for four gold pieces per job is not a problem. Leave him to it."
He thought for a moment about a young janitor team and what they had found in the Ebon Maw, and what they would do with what they had found.
He had anticipated this.
He took a sip. There was more work to do. There was always more work to do. He returned to the grain tariffs.