The old man broke free of the guards' support, waving his withered hands in the air. His voice was hoarse but clear. "I can stand. And I'm not thirsty."
The tap of his cane sounded especially jarring in the hall.
Only two deeply sunken slits remained where his eyes had been, the skin around them twisted and puckered like old wounds that had been brutally torn open and barely healed.
Debt had not made him a slave-simply being born on an island not recognized by the world had been enough for a slave ship to drag him away and sell him to the Holy Land.
For their own amusement, those lofty figures had gouged out his eyes with a red-hot iron spoon.
"This year's compensation,"
he said, facing the center of the hall, "why hasn't it been paid?"
The so-called compensation came from the enormous fortune confiscated from the Celestial Dragons' vaults.
They had initially promised annual payments to improve the townspeople's livelihoods. The first year, they paid in full. The second, they paid half. By the third, there was no word of it at all.
Old Moglin slowly turned his neck, his empty sockets sweeping the room.
Those called "heroes"
all turned their faces aside, avoiding that pupil-less gaze.
"The funds have long since run out."
The mayor's voice was steady. "Town repairs, defenses against pirates-which of those doesn't cost money?"
"That was tens of billions of Beli!"
A hoarse roar cut off his excuses.
The faces of everyone in the hall abruptly darkened.
Tens of billions? Each of them had only taken a few billion. How could that add up to such a figure?
"You blind old fool,"
someone sneered, "did you see the money? What are you barking about?"
Killing intent spread like a tide.
If today