"By my hand, all offerings sent by the living are void," Gideon said, voice like a carved command. Quincy’s smile slid. "Majesty, that will—" "It will prevent a flood," Gideon interrupted. "Bring me the ledgers." Ambrosio planted both boots on the stone. "You can't just—there are edicts, precedents—" Gideon did not look at him. He traced a thin line in the air. Paper-silver glyphs uncoiled from the line and hung above the dais like a string of teeth. A clerk coughed. "Your signature—" Gideon closed his hand. The glyphs folded into a scrap of ink and inked itself across the oldest ledger on the dais. The inked line slid, alive, across pages older than any envoy underfoot. Quincy swallowed. "The ledgers obey only law and seal. You know that." "My law now," Gideon said. His palm opened. The written ink slid from the page and vanished into his palm as if he had plucked a moth out of moonlight. "No!" Ambrosio barked. "You cannot steal the people's vows. The dead depend on offerings—" "Depend on what their relatives burn," Gideon said. "But the markets of the Underworld are not to be bulldozed by ritual flame. Power is a ledger. I will balance it." Quincy folded his hands. "Balance by royal fiat will drown the smaller houses. There will be outcry. The White Court will—" "There will be an accounting," Gideon replied. "And anyone who complains without cause will answer for it." Someone in the gallery