The Spirit Rebellion (26 page)

“Yes, lady,” the waiter whispered back taking the coins gladly. “Whatever you like.”

She smiled and waved as he left, and then, as soon as the door was closed, she grabbed the soup and a hunk of bread and sat right back down on the floor, readying her pen and paper for whatever else Hern might admit.

Out in the hall, the waiter counted over his new wealth. The crazy lady had given him ten coins to
stop
serving her. Well, he wasn’t going to complain, and he wasn’t going to let the rest of the dinner she’d bought go to waste. He was hungry, too, and the slow-roasting pheasants had been tempting him all day. Grinning, he put the money in his apron pocket and hurried down the stairs to the hotel’s register. It was dangerous to carry this much
money around. The other waiters would filch it the first chance they got, which was why everyone gave their tips to the register. Sure, he took a five percent cut, but it was a small price to pay for knowing your money wouldn’t vanish altogether.

The register took his coins no questions asked, and, after noting the amount, threw them into the strongbox with all the other cash. He closed the lid, plunging the coins into darkness. The moment the light went out, the coins began to talk. They buzzed like rattler snakes, spreading gossip, telling what they’d heard, but the waiter’s coins’ story quickly rose to the top. A wizard with rings, powerful ones, spying on Master Hern. The duke must be told!

This was the message given to the strongbox, who in turn told the beam of the wall it was set into, who told the eaves it supported, who told the lamp on its post outside. The lamp, then, did what it had been ordered to do and switched itself on. A moment later, a strange, slow wind blew through the street, circling when it reached the glowing lamp. It heard the story and, judging it important, carried the coins’ words over the rooftops, over the growing crowd in the square, and up to the very top of the citadel, where its master waited.

Back in the hotel, Miranda was almost giddy. Over the course of their lunch, and what sounded like a few glasses of wine, Hern had laid out a dozen plans to bring Banage down, any one of which would be a grievous violation of his oaths. She’d gotten them all down, marking the ones that seemed to be already in progress. It was a dizzying list. Hern had apparently been bribing Tower Keepers
for years, which explained why Master Banage had been having so much trouble with them. She was not really surprised to hear that Hern had been buying votes, but to actually learn the full extent of his reach from his own lips was amazing, and it was all she could do to get it down. By the time their waiter brought the brandy, she had ten pages of close-scribbled notes full of dates, names, and specifics, and she was almost bursting with the urge to wrap everything up and take it to Banage herself, exile or no.

But as the men in the other room settled down with the brandy glasses, an unexpected knock interrupted them. Miranda jumped, thinking it was her waiter again. But the knock was at the other door, and she heard the scrape of chairs as Hern got up to see what was going on. There was a creak as he opened the door, followed by words too quiet for Miranda to make out, and then the crinkle of paper.

“What is it, Hern?” one of the Tower Keepers asked.

Hern didn’t answer. She heard the scrape of his boots as he walked across the room. Not back to his seat, but to the wall that Miranda was crouched against. He was so close she could hear his breath. She held her own, not daring to make a sound.

A moment later, Hern spoke one word. “Dellinar.”

Miranda’s eyes widened. It was a spirit’s name. In the split second after, time slowed to a crawl. She turned and grabbed her papers, shoving them into the pocket of her dress as she called for Durn, her stone spirit. He could stop anything of Hern’s, Miranda was sure, buying her time to get to the window. They were only one flight up; she could make it. But even as her lips formed Durn’s
name, the wall between the rooms exploded in a shower of splintered wood and snaking green vines. The plants sprang like tigers, snapping around her ankles, her waist, and her wrists, slamming her to the floor so hard she saw spots. More vines wrapped around her arms and her head, sliding across her open mouth to gag her. She struggled wildly, but then the vines twined around her throat, nearly cutting off her breath. She looked up and saw Hern kneeling beside her, a wide grin on his face.

“What you feel is my vine spirit about to crush your windpipe,” he said calmly. “If your spirits try anything, he will take off your head.”

Miranda spat an obscenity at him, but all she managed was strangled sound as the vine twisted tighter.

Hern leaned over so that he was in front of her, and he waved a piece of paper. “Lovely bit of warning,” he smiled, glancing down at her scattered notes, which had fallen from her pocket when she fell. “Good timing too. I must remember to thank dear Edward.”

There was shouting out in the hall, and Miranda caught a glimpse out of the corner of her eye of soldiers entering the room. “Spiritualist Hern,” a stern voice announced. “Duke’s orders, both you and the spy are to report to the citadel at once.”

Hern glowered. “I have this well under control, officer.”

The soldier didn’t even blink. “Duke’s orders,” he said again.

Hern rolled his eyes. “Very well,” he said. “But first”—he made a florid gesture with his jeweled hand. Miranda gasped and began to kick as the vines wrenched tight. She reached frantically for her spirits, but it was too late. The plants cut into her skin, binding her limbs and
cutting off her air. Her body grew impossibly heavy, and she lay still, her lungs burning for air.

“Pick her up.” Hern’s voice was very far away. “And mind the vines.”

Hands slid under her and she felt herself lifted. Guards’ faces blurred across her vision, and then she saw nothing.

T
he crowd in front of the citadel was thinning, the conscripts getting their orders from a group of guards in full uniform at the gate and moving off in organized packs toward different sections of town. The peasant soldiers organized with remarkable efficiency, and Eli got the feeling that the duke called in conscripts fairly often. Eli waited until the coast was clear, lounging casually on a bench by a fountain in one of the little parks just off the main square while Josef waited tensely behind him with Nico. Eventually, the last of the conscript groups moved off and most of the uniformed soldiers trudged back into the citadel, leaving only a small knot of guardsman and a lone officer at the door.

Seeing his opportunity at last, Eli stood up and walked toward the square, Josef and Nico trailing along behind. Just before he stepped out into the open, Eli paused and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, his demeanor had changed. His posture was perfectly
straight, his shoulders square, his face intent and uncompromising. When he stepped out into the square he didn’t walk across the cobbles; he marched straight over the open ground to the broad steps at the front of the Duke of Gaol’s impenetrable fortress.

The knot of six guards and their decorated officer stood at attention at the top of the stairs before a heavy iron door. They pulled closer as Eli approached, gripping their spears suspiciously. Eli ignored the warning and walked until he was just shy of the first step. There, he stopped and planted both feet with iron stubbornness.

“If you’re here for the conscription,” the officer said skeptically, “you’re too late to avoid the fine. If you give your name to Jerold here, I’ll be sure the duke knows you showed up, but—”

“Don’t be stupid,” Eli sneered, tossing his golden hair. “I’m no conscript. I am the Spiritualist Miranda Lyonette, head of the Spirit Court’s investigation into the rogue wizard Eli Monpress. I heard that he struck this fortress last night, and I demand access to the scene of the crime.”

The guard just stood there, blinking in confusion. Whatever he’d expected the man marching across his square to say, this certainly was not it. “You,” he said slowly, “are Miranda Lyonette?”

“Yes,” Eli said, looking extremely put upon.

The guard looked at the guard next to him. “Isn’t Miranda a girl’s name?”

“How dare you, sir!” Eli cried. “I’ll have you know it is an old family name. Honestly, am I to be constantly hounded by the ignorance of others? A girl’s name,
really
.”

The absolute scorn in his voice did the trick, and the
guard’s face went scarlet. “Forgive me, sir. I meant no offense. It’s just, well, do you have proof of your identity?”

“Proof?” Eli rolled his eyes dramatically. “You insult my name and then ask for proof? Honestly, do I look like I have time for this idiotic song and dance?”

“Anything will do,” the guard said. “Some sort of identification from the Court, or—”

“You know anyone beside Spiritualists who wear rings like these?” Eli held up both his hands, letting his gaudy glass rings catch the sun. “What do you want, a writ signed by Banage himself?”

“That would be good, actually,” the guard said as politely as possible. “I really can’t let you in without papers of some—”

Eli went positively livid. “You dare, sir! I just made the two-day trip from Zarin to Gaol in under four hours. Do you think I had the time to wait for those Court bureaucrats to give me papers? When you’re chasing Monpress, time is of the utmost importance! Already, the trail is getting colder, and for every second you waste I lose hours in the hunt for the thief. If you won’t let me in, then I will make sure your duke knows exactly who is responsible for letting his thief get away!” Eli looked about. “Where is your duke anyway? Bring him here at once!”

The guard blanched. “You see, the duke is terribly busy, and without proper identification, I’m afraid I can’t—”

“Afraid?” Eli’s eyes narrowed. “You’d best be afraid, doorman! Somewhere in that brick of a citadel is a spirit who saw how Monpress did what he did. Even now, that spirit is falling asleep. If it falls asleep entirely it will likely forget what it saw, and if that happens—” Eli
paused for a deep, shuddering breath. “You don’t even want to know what I’ll do, but one thing is certain.” His eyes narrowed, pinning the guard captain with a killing glare. “
Should
that happen, I will make sure everyone, from Zarin’s highest seats of power to the Duke of Gaol himself, knows that
you
were the reason why.”

The guard bowed, his face pale and sweating. “Apologies, Spiritualist Lyonette; I never doubted you were who you claimed to be. But I’m afraid I still can’t give you access to the treasury without permission from the duke. If you could wait just a—”

“I will not!” Eli said with a flippant wave of his ringed fingers. “Powers, man, you’ve already been robbed blind! What are you afraid I’m going to do in there, steal your dust? Just show me and my assistants to the scene of the crime and I can get to work finding your thief, which I’m sure will make your duke much happier than you interrupting him with stupid requests.”

The guard was sweating profusely now, and Eli took his chance for the final push. “Listen very carefully,” he said slowly, twitching his spirit just a fraction so that the gaudy rings on his fingers glittered with malice. “If I lose the trail because of your delays, you will wish you’d never heard of Spiritualists. Do you understand?”

“Of course, Master Spiritualist,” the guard said, waving his men toward the doors. “Right this way.”

The pack of guards opened one of the great iron doors, and Eli, Nico, and Josef followed the guard captain into the citadel.

In the sky overhead, the wind that had been circling since Eli first stepped out into the square changed direction,
blowing up the stone wall to the top of the citadel and through the window of one of the stubby towers at its crown. The tower was all one room, large and circular, with a long table at its center. A cluster of men stood around it, all dressed in the same drab uniform. Most of them looked like dressed-up farmers taken from their fields and thrust into uniforms, which was what they were. They were the conscript leaders, and they all wore the same quiet, obedient expression as they watched the head of the table where Duke Edward was pointing out markers on the city map carved into the table’s smooth, wooden top.

The duke was in the middle of laying out details about how he wanted the perimeter handled, but he stopped midsentence as the wind blew by.

“Is this about Hern again?” Edward said.

“Not this time,” the wind answered, blowing in circles above the farmer-generals. “Someone claiming to be a Spiritualist just bullied your idiot door guard into letting him and his assistants into the citadel.”

The duke scowled. “A Spiritualist? One of Hern’s cronies?”

“No,” the wind spun. “I don’t think it’s really a Spiritualist, either. Didn’t even look like a wizard to me. It was a yellow-haired man, said his name was Miranda Lyonette.”

The duke’s eyes widened. “Miranda?” He pursed his lips. “Considering Hern just sent word that he is escorting
Miss
Lyonette to the citadel as we speak, I find that hard to believe.” He scratched his beard. “Whoever it is, I’ll investigate myself. We can’t afford another contingency at this point. The situation is bollixed enough as it is. Speaking of which, any news from the spy?”

“Not yet,” the wind whispered. “I’ll go check again.”

“Thank you, Othril,” the duke said. “I trust you’ll notify me if anything else odd happens.”