Ezra didn't go far.
The Master of Coin's office sat on the administrative spine of the palace—rooms built for paper and movement, not comfort. When Ezra left, the corridor was still warm from braziers, still carrying the smell of wax and ink.
The next door was quieter, but the same scent of ink and paper wafted out into the corridor.
Just a guard, two clerks, and a plaque with a stamped crest.
Hearth knocked once, opened the door, and stepped aside.
Kestel Rowan rose from behind a wide desk as Ezra entered.
He was older than Corvin, not by decades, but by posture. A man who slept in the same hours every day, who ate the same meals, who kept the same habits because habit reduced mistakes.
"My lord," Kestel said, bowing.
Kestel—along with the other departments whose main offices were located within the palace—had been briefed by an excited Aerwyna.
He'd always heard the rumors about the child's comprehension, but seeing someone a little over three march around with an eerily adult gait put him on edge. Trueborn children matured faster than nullborn, but it plateaued during adulthood. Ezra should have been only marginally ahead.
Ezra bowed back. Instead of saying he was just looking around, he took a different approach.
Unlike Coin, there were fewer ledgers in sight. There were still books, but they weren't open on desks. Most were shelved or boxed, stacked in a way that made Ezra think of archives more than accounts.
There were racks of sealed tubes. Bundles wrapped in oilcloth. Rolls tied with cord and stamped with wax.
On the desk itself: a sand tray, a knife for cutting wax, and a set of seals laid out like instruments.
"Maester Rowan," Ezra said, repeating the line he'd used on Corvin. "To my understanding, your office keeps records of everything that goes on in Bren, right?"
Kestel's eyes flicked wide. It was bizarre, watching a three-year-old speak without slurring, sounding like he understood more than he should. The implications of that sentence compounded in his mind, but he answered immediately.
"Correct, my lord," he said.
Ezra stepped further in and started, but this time his questions came one by one.
"Do you have tallies of the official population of Bren?"
"Yes," Kestel said. "Ward tallies, levy registers, and assessments. The last full figure we certified was just over three hundred thousand."
"Do you keep birth rolls?"
"We do," Kestel said. "They're not perfect. Not every child is recorded. But lawful households are. Any child tied to inheritance is."
"And death records?"
"Death records, yes," Kestel said. "Cause, not reliably. We record what is reported, and what is required for property, debt, and lawful disposal."
Ezra nodded once.
"How do you know which plot in the city is whose?"
"Deeds," Kestel said. "Charters. Boundary descriptions. Survey marks when they exist. The roll tells you who holds what, and under what conditions."
Ezra's eyes moved past Kestel, toward the shelves.
"How do you know who gets in through the gates?" Ezra asked.
Kestel didn't blink.
"We don't decide who enters," he said. "The Keeper of the Peace and the gatehouse do. We record what is required to be recorded."
"What's required?" Ezra asked.
Kestel's tone stayed even.
"Tolls," he said. "Licenses. Charters. Claims. If a merchant wants the city to treat him as a merchant, he presents papers. If he wants protection under a charter, he presents papers. If he brings controlled goods, the manifest is copied and sealed."
Ezra tilted his head.
"So how do you know if someone is lying?" he asked.
Kestel's answer was immediate.
"Because their papers don't match," he said. "A license has a seal. A charter has a filing. A manifest has a chain of custody." He paused. "And if a man claims a guild name, we send to the hall. Their rolls are copied here."
"What guilds are there?" Ezra asked.
Kestel blinked, then answered.
"Major halls and minor halls," he said. "Masons. Lime and cementers. Carpenters. Smiths. Bakers and millers. Carters. Tanners and dyers. Surveyors." He paused. "And lesser trades besides."
Ezra nodded once.
"And artificers?" Ezra asked.
Kestel's mouth tightened slightly.
"The Artificers' Guild is Imperial charter," he said. "They don't answer to my lord's ordinances the way the halls do. We keep their licenses on file and their seals on record."
Ezra asked, "What do they do in Bren?"
"Install," Kestel said. "Certify. Repair. They don't process raw magic cores or cut crystals here. That work is done in the Imperial and Primarchate capitals."
"And if they claim something is certified?" Ezra asked.
"Then it has their seal," Kestel said. "And a record. Here. And with the Guild."
Ezra nodded once, then continued.
"How bout the healers?"
Kestel frowned. "They act less like a guild and more like a clan. They don't have or keep any records. They also operate outside the city's administration."
"Clan? Pardon?"
"It's complicated. The Empire has a complex relationship with the healers. In the past, they used to be outside of the Empire, and they weren't exactly a united force. As the Empire expanded, it incorporated... let's just say less than traditional magic users. The useful ones, well, let's just say they were persuaded to stay in the Empire."
"I don't understand."
"There are many types of healers in the Empire. We have the ones that use herbs and medicine, and the ones that use magic."
Ezra nodded.
"And the ones that use magic are further divided into two. The clerics and the Life Weavers."
"Life Weavers?"
"Well, they were the ones that were forced to stay. They are the ones that act as a sort of guild, but aren't really. They have not petitioned for a charter to be recognized by the Empire as a guild, so they just stay as it is."
It was a much more complex topic than he had thought it was. It seemed that Kestel could only provide the overview, and if he wanted to get to the bottom of it, he would need to talk to the Life Weavers, clerics, and the physicians directly.
"Okay, let's move on. What if the merchants have no papers?" Ezra asked.
"Then they're not a merchant," Kestel said. "They're a man with goods. The city charges him like one."
Ezra asked, "What about someone who says they're from a House?"
"Then they say the House," Kestel replied. "And the gatehouse sends a runner, or a letter, or they hold him until it's verified. House names aren't claims you make lightly."
Ezra nodded once.
"And if half the city is born here, how do you tell people apart?" he asked.
"By ward," Kestel said. "By block. By household. By sponsor. By trade. By witnesses." He looked at Ezra. "Names repeat. Entries don't."
"When you mean ward, you mean the set of streets inside marked boundaries."
Kestel eyed the toddler like he was a curious specimen, but then he nodded.
Then he asked the question he actually cared about.
"Let's go to mortality rate. For children," Ezra said. "Under ten. What kills them the most?"
Kestel paused.
"My lord," he said carefully, "do you mean what is written as cause, or what is most common in practice?"
"What's most common," Ezra said.
Kestel looked at Ezra for a moment, then decided how honest he could be.
"In the outer ring," he said, "flux. Fever. Weak lungs in winter." He shifted his gaze to the desk. "And accidents. Falls. Work injuries. Illness."
"And in the inner ring?" Ezra asked.
"Much less," Kestel said. "There isn't anything I would say is common."
Ezra nodded once.
"So if I want the leading cause," Ezra said, "the paper won't give it to me cleanly."
Kestel met his eyes.
"No," he said. "Not cleanly."
"Who would know it cleanly?" Ezra asked.
Kestel hesitated, then answered.
"The ones who work the outer ring. And the Keeper of the Peace, if he keeps injury tallies by ward." He paused. "And Works, if the water is fouled."
Ezra nodded once.
"Thank you," he said.
Kestel bowed, but he eyed Ezra like one would a seal he hadn't seen before—real, and worth checking twice.
"My lord."
***
Two guards stood outside the door for the office of the Master of Works.
Hearth knocked once.
Ezra stepped in.
The room was larger than Coin and quieter than the yard. It had the feeling of a place that pulled the outside world in and reduced it to decisions.
A long table ran down the middle with boards laid across it—plans. Not pretty drawings. Measured lines. Numbers. Marks in charcoal and red ink. Small weights held corners down.
Shelves along the walls held tubes and flat folders. A rack held bundled parchment tied with cord, each bundle tagged with a thin strip of waxed paper.
There was a basin in the corner for washing hands. A bucket under it that had been emptied recently. Someone here cared about not grinding grit into paper.
Behind the table, Wulfric Draffen stood with his sleeves rolled to the forearm.
He didn't have Corvin's stillness. He shifted as he stood, like a man used to moving from place to place. His hands were dusted gray.
"My lord," he said at once. He bowed, then straightened quickly.
Ezra bowed back.
"I just want to look around," Ezra said.
Draffen's eyes flicked to Hearth. Then to Dynham. Then back to Ezra.
"Yes, my lord," he said. "You may look."
Ezra walked toward the long table.
He didn't touch the boards. He only looked.
"Maester Draffen," Ezra said, "for my understanding, what does Works do?"
Draffen paused, as if deciding how literal to be.
"We keep the city running," he said. "Stone, water, roads, drains, walls. And when the city gathers—musters—we build the lanes and barriers so it doesn't turn into a crush."
"And labor?" Ezra asked.
Draffen nodded once. "Also labor."
"Your own men?" Ezra asked.
"Crews," Draffen said. "Foremen. Rostered hands. When we can. When we can't, we hire."
"And if you need more than you have?" Ezra asked.
"Then I speak with Coin," Draffen said. "Or I speak with Rolls."
Ezra nodded once. "Coin for pay. Rolls for form."
"Yes," Draffen said. "If I need a street closed, a lane cleared, or a draw point guarded, I speak with Peace and it's done. If I need carts taken for a day, or men pulled into a crew, Peace makes it happen." He glanced toward the shelves. "And anything that needs to survive questions later—orders, rosters, seizure lists, notices—we coordinate with Rolls and give Rowan copies. He logs it, files it, and pushes it through the guilds and the other offices so nobody can pretend they didn't know."
"Copies of what?" Ezra asked.
"Orders," Draffen said. "Labor rosters. Seizure lists. Contracts. Notices. Anything with a seal. We keep ours. Rowan keeps his. If there's a dispute, the copy proves it was done under form."
Ezra nodded once.
"And events?" Ezra asked.
Draffen blinked. "Events?"
"Parades. Visits. Muster days. Barricades. Crowd lanes. Temporary works," Ezra said. "Who does that?"
Draffen stared at him for a beat, then nodded.
"Also Works," he said. "With Peace. And with the household, if it's inside the ring."
Ezra looked down at the boards again. One was inked with blue lines and ward marks.
He pointed without touching.
"That's the aqueduct," Ezra said.
"Yes," Draffen replied. "Main line and branch lines. Feed points. Cisterns."
Ezra nodded once.
"What happens to the water before it reaches the city?" Ezra asked.
Draffen's gaze shifted to the edge of the board, to a mark just outside the wall line.
"Headworks," he said. "Intake gates. Screens. Settling basin."
Ezra's eyes stayed on the line.
"And after?" Ezra asked.
"After, it's distribution," Draffen said. "Castella. Fountains. Bathhouses. Private feeds for chartered houses."
"Who decides who gets a private feed?" Ezra asked.
"Not me," Draffen said. "That's charter. Rolls. Coin, if there's payment. Works only lays the line once it's lawful and funded."
Ezra nodded once, absorbing it.
"If a fountain breaks," Ezra asked, "who reports it?"
"Ward men," Draffen said. "Sometimes Peace. Sometimes the clerk at the nearest post if it's inner ring. Sometimes no one until it stinks."
"And when you hear about it," Ezra asked, "what happens?"
"I send a crew," Draffen said. "If I have one. If I don't, it goes on the board and it waits."
Ezra looked at him. "So your bottleneck is labor."
"Labor and time," Draffen said. Then, after a beat: "And access. People don't like their street torn up."
"And then you go to Rowan," Ezra said.
Draffen nodded once. "And then I go to Rowan."
Ezra turned his gaze back to the water map.
"Do you keep maintenance logs?" Ezra asked.
Draffen paused. "For major works. Not for every fountain. And Rolls always keeps copies."
"Do you keep a schedule?" Ezra asked.
"For some," Draffen said. "Not cleanly. The city isn't clean."
Ezra nodded once as if that answer mattered more than the polite ones.
"How many draw points are in the outer ring?" Ezra asked.
Draffen exhaled through his nose.
"More than I can guard," he said. "Fewer than it needs."
"Guard?" Ezra asked.
"A clean draw point is a target," Draffen said. "If it isn't guarded, people foul it. Or wash in it. Or animals get in. Or someone does it for spite."
Galwell made a small noise—half cough, half laugh—and stopped when Draffen's eyes flicked his way.
Ezra didn't react.
"So Works can build," Ezra said, "but Peace has to keep it clean."
"Yes," Draffen replied. "And if Peace doesn't, you pay twice."
Ezra looked down again.
"If the headworks are fine," Ezra said, "then the water becomes bad in the city."
Draffen's mouth tightened.
"That's one way," he said.
"And the other?" Ezra asked.
"Bad source. Flood week. Dead things upstream. Someone dumping," Draffen said. "But most weeks it's the city. People."
Ezra nodded once.
Then he asked the question that made Draffen's clerks go still.
"My lord," Draffen said cautiously, "why are you asking me about water?"
Ezra didn't answer like a child.
He answered like someone trying not to show his hand.
"Because children die," Ezra said.
Draffen's face twitched, and his attention sharpened.
Ezra looked down at the outer ring marks again.
"I saw them," Ezra said. "Working. Small. Too many."
Draffen let a beat pass.
Then he nodded once.
"Understood," he said.
Ezra's voice stayed even.
"If I wanted to know where sickness can enter," Ezra asked, "what can you give me?"
Draffen didn't answer fast. He was doing the work in his head—what he had, what he didn't, and what would be painful to produce.
"I can give you a map," he said. "Every fountain, cistern, and branch I have recorded."
"And what's not recorded?" Ezra asked.
Draffen's mouth tightened.
"Illegal taps," he said. "Broken covers. Ditches that weren't meant to be drains. Things people do when they're thirsty."
Ezra nodded once.
"Can you tell me which points are near latrines?" Ezra asked.
"Some," Draffen said. "Not all. Latrines move. People dig where they can."
"Can you tell me which points feed bathhouses and workshops?" Ezra asked.
"Yes," Draffen said. "That's on the distribution boards."
Ezra nodded once.
"And who can you task," Ezra asked, "without asking Coin first?"
Draffen blinked. That was a better question than most adults asked.
"My own crews," he said. "Within reason. Anything that becomes a new burden—new guards, new stonework, new ongoing maintenance—I need Coin. Anything that compels other people, I need Rolls. And if it's written, Rowan gets a copy."
Ezra nodded again.
"I want a first pass," Ezra said. "A list of outer ring draw points. Which are guarded. Which are near drains. Which have complaints."
Draffen's eyes narrowed slightly.
"My lord," he said, his tone slightly raised, "pardon my impertinence, but I doubt a list of anything, given to a babe who has not had any tutor, will be of any benefit to the City or Castle Blackfyre for that matter."
Ezra paused and stared. He knew there would be some opposition. Kestel Rowan, while skeptical, didn't overtly oppose any of his requests. This was the first hard pushback he had received.
Ezra sighed. "It might, but it might not. Either way, giving me a copy wouldn't hurt anyone."
Draffen eyed the toddler, then said, "It costs time. It costs my scribes' hands. And it doesn't help this office do its work."
"If you want me to go through formal procedure, I can go to Maester Rowan for a formal request. Still, sooner or later, that will end up in my hands."
Draffen looked at him for a second longer, then inclined his head.
"You are as stubborn as your father and as strong-willed as your mother," Draffen snorted. "At least you understand enough formal procedure and don't throw your weight around."
"I'll do it," he said begrudgingly, "but it will take time."
Ezra asked, "How long?"
"A week for a first pass," Draffen said. "Longer for something clean."
Ezra nodded once.
"And I want to know," Ezra said, "what you can change quickly without tearing the city apart."
Draffen's mouth tightened; his face became much more stark. "And do you want that wrapped in gold foil, my lord?" His voice oozed with sarcasm.
"I can tell you," he said. "In coin, labor, and disruption. In writing, if you want it to hold. And if it's written, Rowan will have his copy."
Ezra turned slightly, as if it was decided.
Then he stopped and looked back.
"Maester Wulfric," Ezra said.
Draffen straightened a fraction.
"Yes, my lord?"
"I can see that you care deeply about efficiency," Ezra commented. "I understand this request will burden your office. From my observation, every office I go to has scribes and other workers. I understand that among the offices you have the most things to do. So I will be grateful for your time on giving me what I need."
Draffen's gaze softened into confusion, but he nodded.
"Don't fret. I am going to work on a solution to ease the burden of the scribes."
Draffen didn't know what expression to give. On one hand, while he was very much skeptical at what Ezra was planning, he was still very impressed with how much Ezra had understood from the Castle's administration. Instead of his previous attitude, he humored him.
"Very well," he said. "I'll judge it when it's in front of me."He paused. "Anything else you want from this office before I go back to work?"
"None for now," Ezra replied as he started to walk out the door with this retinue in tow.