Following two days of review, from which he took time off only to drill the younger Bruglioni in the use of arms, Else summoned the senior household staff to a meeting in the kitchen. Nine deigned to appear, along with a few gawkers.

One of the nine was the chief of the four men who guarded the two gates used to get into and out of the citadel. Else told him, "Mr. Caniglia, you and your men are not to allow Mr. Copria, Mr. Grazia, or Mr. Verga to enter the citadel tomorrow." Only a handful of staff lived on the premises. Paludan did not want to feed and house and pay them, too. “They no longer work here. The rest of you, think about who should take over. Let me know tomorrow. Mr. Natta? You want to volunteer to test the jobs market yourself? No? Mr. Montale. I understand that you find new staff when they're needed."

"Uh… Yes, sir. For the household. Not for the people on the business side. Not for anything to do with weapons or body guarding."

"New staff will be needed soon. We're about to shed our nonproducers. How many here now are your relatives? Do any of them actually do anything?"

Montale hemmed and hawed and talked around the edges. Else interrupted. "They won't lose their jobs. If they do them. Would any of you argue that this place isn't a slum? We're going to change that. We have enough people. We start today. Anyone who's been getting a free ride and doesn't want to give it up can take the option pioneered by Mr. Copria, Mr. Grazia, and Mr. Verga. Name a devil. Here's Mr. Grazia."

Grazia was a short, fat man with fat lips and a natural tonsure. The little hair that he did retain was red, lightly touched with gray. Humorists wondered whether his hair would all disappear before the remnants grayed.

Grazia puffed, "Sorry I'm late. There was a crisis."

Some eavesdropper had brought warning.

"Better late than never." The foreigner expected to separate Grazia from his job anyway, in time. "We'll look at your books when we're done here. We haven't been getting the most out of our budget"

Grazia turned a pasty gray.

"Mr. Negrone. Mr. Pagani. General cleaning and upkeep seem to fall within your purview. Brainstorm me some ideas on how to get this place cleaned up, fixed up, and painted, employing a tribe used to taking paid naps and putting in ten-hour shifts playing cards. Madam Ristoti?"

The cook's kitchen was the one bright spot Else had found. She said, "Call me Carina. I have some ideas."

"Excellent, Madam Ristoti. One and all. We're going to be more formal with one another. That will put our work on a businesslike footing. Now. Madam. Your ideas, please."

In the area of managing the backstairs Madam Ristoti possessed a field marshal's mind.

Else gave her three minutes. "Excellent. You're in charge of everything. You can manage that and the kitchen both? Mr. Negrone? You want to take issue?"

Else gave Negrone equal time. Then, "In other words, you have no suggestions. You just object to Madam Ristoti's proposals because she's a woman.”

"That's putting it baldly …"

"There won't be any beating around the bush anymore. Mr. Grazia, I assume you know what everyone gets paid. How much will Mr. Negrone not be taking home if he finds himself unemployed?"

Negrone mumbled something before Grazia could respond.

Else said, "There isn't going to be any debate. If you think there's a better way to do things, tell me. Convince me. If people won't cooperate, tell me. I'll break arms and kick butts. Or instruct Mr. Caniglia not to let them in. So. Let's start. Go figure out how to make this ruin fit for human habitation. Not you, Mr. Grazia. You stay here with me."

Mr. Grazia was not happy.

Later, Else said, "Mr. Grazia, I'm pretty sure you've heard all about Father Obilade."

"Yes."

"You're aware that Paludan Bruglioni tends to overreact when he gets angry?"

"Yes, sir."

"Find a way to put the money back. In the meantime, you'll be my number-one guy around here. Because I have your stones in a vice."

"Yes, sir."

"I hope the others will be as reasonable. Go to work, Mr. Grazia." Else headed for the kitchens. Polo was there, listening to the Ristoti woman.

Caniglia and another man intercepted him. Their expressions were so dark he feared they planned something stupid. But Caniglia said, "A runner left a message for you with Diano."

The other man extended a folded letter. Else said, "I see the seal fell off."

Caniglia grunted.

Else asked, "Why so grim?"

"Some people you told us not to let back in got nasty when I told them. They said they'd be even nastier if I tried to keep them from coming in tomorrow."

"I'll deal with that."

That did not improve Caniglia's mood. That was not the answer he wanted.

"WHO'S THE LETTER FROM?" POLO ASKED. ELSE SAT WITH HIS back against the wall in the common space of their quarters.

"A woman I knew a long time ago. Anna Mozilla. A widow who moved to Brothe a few months ago. She heard I was here. She wants me to know she's here, too. I guess that means she isn't mad at me anymore."

Polo chuckled. "Is this a good story?"

"Not really. She's a widow, but too young to give up the more intimate practices of marriage. At least, she was. And must still be."

"Her turning up mean trouble?"

"I doubt it. Just the opposite, I hope."

"OPEN UP," ELSE TOLD CANIGLIA. "LET'S SEE WHO'S ON TIME for work."

Caniglia opened the servants' postern, which had not been closed and locked for years. Not even after Father Obilade's treason. Paludan was almost willfully blind to anything that he did not want to be true.

Caniglia and young Diano put on a show, allowing the staff in one at a time. Each got a quick visual once-over to see what they were carrying. Which told Else that they had turned a blind eye to that in the past. And, probably, more so when the staff were leaving.

Else wished he understood accounting better. Mr. Grazia's books almost certainly contained more amazing and damning evidence than he could ferret out himself.

What would Paludan's attitude be? He seemed the sort who disdained literacy and ciphering. Though that attitude was less prevalent than Else had expected, based on past encounters with Arnhanders in the Holy Lands. Over there, if you needed something read, written, or calculated, you grabbed a passing Deve.

Where did Gervase Saluda fit? Might he be getting kickbacks? That happened in every palace and large household in Else's end of the world.

"Who is this?" Else asked. A handsome young man carrying a load of tools staggered through the gateway.

Caniglia replied, "Marco Demetrius. A carpenter. Related to the cook. He always turns up when there's carpentry to be done. He's good. And a good worker."

"So Madam Ristoti sent for him." The chief cook seldom left the citadel, though she was not officially a resident.

Copria and Verga tried to get in, one right after the other. Else said, "Mr. Verga, you appear to have forgotten that you don't work here anymore. Don't embarrass yourself. You and Mr. Copria should apologize to the people behind you for holding them up, then leave."

Verga snarled, "Get out of the way. You don't have the authority."

Else hit Verga with a flurry of rib-cracking jabs. Verga fell to his knees, desperately fighting for enough air to remain conscious.

Else told him, "You no longer work here."

Copria was less blustery. He helped Verga get up. They left.

Else hoped that would be lesson enough. He told Caniglia, "I want to know who shows up late. Starting tomorrow, the gate will close ten minutes after starting time. Tardies won't be allowed in and they won't get paid."