The Crown of Unpaid Debts

How it begins

Ruth found the missing wages under the heading Decorative Stone.

Three hundred and twelve names. Eleven years of work. No payment date.

She turned the ledger sideways, as if a different angle might make the figures less offensive. The treasury clerk opposite her began to fold his napkin into smaller and smaller squares.

"Those are historical accounts," he said.

"So are most accounts. People tend to be paid after they work."

"The western wall was completed before your grandmother was born."

"Then the interest will be substantial."

A shadow crossed the table. Ruth looked up at a man carrying a plain wooden box with both hands. He wore no insignia, but the clerk rose so quickly that his chair struck the paneling.

"Your Highness."

"No," the man said. "Not since Thursday."

He set the box beside the ledger. Inside, resting on folded linen, lay the crown. Ruth knew it from coins and public holidays. In person it looked unexpectedly small, almost fragile, with a dark seam running beneath each copper point.

"Jonas Pell," he said. "Acting treasurer."

"Ruth Calder. Municipal audit office."

"I know. You returned my expense claim."

"You claimed for a horse you had already sold."

"It was a difficult Thursday."

The clerk made a faint noise. Neither of them looked at him.

Ruth touched the margin beside the first unpaid name. The ink warmed beneath her finger. Across the room, the crown answered with a sound like a spoon drawn around the rim of a glass.

She lifted her hand.

"Does it usually do that?"

Jonas pulled out the chair beside hers.

"Only when someone finds an account we were told was closed."

Outside the treasury windows, the city's protective barrier shimmered against the evening rain. For a moment Ruth could see every droplet suspended in its pale curve.

Then one fell through and struck the windowsill.

The clerk stopped folding his napkin.

"Perhaps," Jonas said quietly, "we should begin with the interest."