Minas Tirith, City Hall.
Tristan felt as though his brains were about to boil.
Outside the window, the entire city was like a crucible brought to a boil. Cheers, fireworks, and music blended together, pounding against City Hall's oak windows in deafening waves.
"My lord, this is the inventory for the third shipment of supplies."
A clerk with enormous dark circles under his eyes stacked a brick-thick pile of parchment on the desk. "Also, the harbor is about to erupt. Five thousand prisoners of war, along with the first batch of 'collateral' shipped from Golden Thread Province-the nobles' families-have filled the temporary shelters. The constable asks whether we can requisition the abandoned warehouses south of the city."
Tristan rubbed his throbbing temples. His face, usually as cold and stern as an ice sculpture, was now close to cracking.
"Requisition them." He picked up his quill and signed his name with a flourish. "Tell the constable not to wait on them hand and foot. Those prisoners are labor, not guests. Have the Development Department select workers. Send the strong ones to the mines and those good with their hands to the assembly lines. As for the nobles' families..."
Tristan paused before continuing, "Keep them separate from the ordinary prisoners. They're Lord Veylin's bargaining chips, and a future source of revenue for White Tower Territory's treasury. Give them clean water and bread. Just don't let them starve, but don't make them too comfortable either. Only when they suffer will they urge their families to scrape together the ransom quickly."
"Yes, my lord!" The clerk hurried away with the documents.
Tristan stood and walked to the window.
In the streets, citizens cheered around several wagons laden with spoils of war. Armor and banners that had once belonged to Eastern Foothills Province's elite troops