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streamed in through the many windows, reflecting off the shiny ingots, casting brilliant yellow ripples across the lord regent’s transfixed face.
    The room was hot, but it was a comforting heat that warmed du Chagne’s heart. He tried, as he always did, to sense the magic here, the arcane protections the wizard Coryn had placed strategically around his treasure. He could not sense them—though he knew they were there—but the knowledge of their existence comforted him as much as the sight of his treasure.
    How splendid the gold was! And what a great hoard! He knew, at the latest count, that there were twelve thousand four hundred and sixty eight bars of gold in here. And they all belonged to him!
    There were those who claimed that steel, not gold, was the most precious metal. Others, like Duke Rathskell of Solanthus, preferred to keep their wealth in the form of precious gems, like those Stones of Garnet the duke was always boasting about. Butto Bakkard du Chagne, there was nothing like the solidity of gold. It was good for his soul to come here, now and then—as often as possible, if truth be told—to bask in the sight of this vast fortune.
    He stayed for more than an hour, occasionally touching one of the smooth bars, letting the essence of that treasure wash over him. Sweat slicked his head, ran down his face, but it was a cleansing perspiration and only invigorated him. Finally, he felt healed, complete, and ready again to face the world.
    Emerging from the lofty tower-top room, he carefully locked the door and started down the long, winding staircase. It took a long time for him to descend to the great hall of his palace. The trip down was harder, and every step away from his gold seemed to add weight to his shoulders, to bring further burdens to his soul. By the time he reached the bottom, he felt fully mortal again, glum and moody about the challenges awaiting him.
    Frowning, he crossed the vast courtyard and leaned against a chiseled column as he stared at the vast, blue expanse of the bay. Ships dotted that azure highway, two dozen sails that appeared as tiny dots from the regent’s lofty vantage—each one representing another brick in the great house of trade that was once again bringing his cherished city into the forefront of world commerce. Sailors were sailing, merchants selling, craftsmen manufacturing, and vast sums of money were changing hands. Each transaction brought a percentage of profit to him, and every transaction made him richer. He was already rich beyond the imaginings of most.
    Everyone had a task, a part to play, a job to do in the grand scheme of du Chagne’s operations. His main work was to oversee, to organize. He had many to help him, and he paid his assistants, even his common workers, very well. Why, then, did it seem that the lord had to do all the really important things by himself?
    With a sigh, Bakkard turned back to the high, arched doorway of his splendid domicile. He looked up one last time at the turrets, gleaming white against the sky. Tall windows, precious glass imported from Ergoth, gleamed like mirrors in the stonewall, reflecting the dazzling sweep of sea. Inside was the gold.
    Well, didn’t he deserve his rewards? After all, Palanthas had not been prosperous, clean, and productive for long. It was only three short years ago that Bakkard’s knights had finally evicted the Dark Knights from the city and raised the Solamnic banner here for the first time since the before the Chaos War. Signs of devastation, of the thirty-nine years of scourge that had followed that shattering conflict still darkened whole swaths of the city. There were blocks, entire neighborhoods of shantytowns, where teeming thousands lived under tents, crate-planking, or thinly thatched roofs. Other places were still black ruin—catacombs and mazes of charred timber and blasted stone, domains only of rats and of things that preyed upon rats.
    Yet so much of the city had sprung back to life under