The Spirit Rebellion (49 page)

“You’ve made yourself more trouble than any money could pay down at this point.” The duke’s voice was an icy knife.

Eli swallowed and took a step back. His back was to the line of houses on the far side of the square, directly across from the citadel. Though the ruckus of rebellion was raging loud and strong around them, the houses facing the duke were silent and crouching. The show of obedience didn’t save them. The duke glared up at the wooden structures and raised his left hand, the one wreathed in flame.

“Stop!” Eli cried. “If you burn it, it’ll never serve you again.”

The duke glared murder at him. “Understand,
thief
,” he said. “I’d rather rule a smoking pit than be disobeyed by my city.”

He waved his hand in a great, glorious burst of orange sparks, and the house behind Eli exploded in flames.

“Let this be a lesson!” the duke cried, his voice booming through the Enslavement that was, even now, still grabbing at order. “The price for disobedience is death!”

The house screamed and writhed as enormous flames raced across its timber frame, devouring the old hardwood with unnatural speed. But then, as fast as the flames had started, they flickered out. The duke’s eyes widened, and he turned to the fire in his hand. It flared up, flickering in terror and pointing wildly at Eli.

Eli was standing at the house’s door, one hand gripping the wood of the door frame. He had his back to the duke, and his figure was shimmering with heat. Steam rose from his wet jacket and with it smoke curled from his shoulders in long white wisps, forming a cloud above his head that flashed and sparked. The cloud grew, clinging
to him, and by the time the last of the house fires flickered out, Eli’s shape was almost invisible behind the thick smoke. A great sound roared up in the sudden darkness, and a giant burst from the sparking smoke. It stood as tall as the house it clung to, glowing and liquid, like flowing fire, in a bulky and almost human shape, complete with a great, grinning face. Little puffs of steam rose from the giant’s surface as the soft rain brushed against it, but the fiery monster ignored the water, grinning down at the duke with monstrous glee.

“You see, Edward,” Eli said, his voice hoarse with smoke but still mocking, still triumphant as he grinned over his shoulder, “you don’t get to set the price anymore.”

The duke’s eyes narrowed. “So your fire spirit appears at last? I was beginning to think it was a rumor after all when you failed to bring it out during out little talk.”

“Come on,” Eli said. “You weren’t nearly scary enough before for me to bring out my trump cards.”

“Really?” The duke scowled. “Well, let’s see how many more I can make you play before you die.”

“Now,” Eli said, turning around, “be reasonable—”

A blast of fire was his only answer. Eli dove sideways as the duke lashed out, sending fire out in great waves, burning anything that would burn. All around them the houses burst into flame, and the wood began to shriek in terror. Eli shouted to Karon. The giant nodded and began moving from house to house, sucking up the fire as he went. But even he wasn’t fast enough to stop it all. The duke’s enslaved flames leaped with singular purpose, eating up the wet wood like sparks on dry grass, turning the square into a trap of flames.

Grim and grinning, his ax gleaming in the firelight, the
duke began to advance on Eli, and Eli, not keen on traps or axes, decided it was time to run. In a burst of speed, he shot past the duke and ran flat-out toward the far side of the square, where the fire had not reached. But hard as he ran, he could hear the duke behind him. The duke moved with amazing speed for a man his age, and just as Eli was about to duck down a fireless alley, the duke gave a shout. There was a flash of light, and a stream of flame leaped over Eli’s head, singeing his hair. A moment later, the houses on either side of the alley burst into a hungry fire.

Eli skidded to a stop and turned to find the duke right on top of him, swinging wildly with the ax. The old man held it like a stick of firewood, but with a blade like that, he didn’t have to be good. Eli shrieked and jumped out of the way, careful to keep his back to the open square and not the burning buildings.

The duke recovered instantly, hurling a wave of flame, not at the houses, but at Eli himself. The thief was gone before it landed, running along the edge of the square and back toward his lava giant, his last refuge. Before he’d gone a dozen feet, the duke landed a blast of fire on his back, and Eli fell. He rolled across the wet cobbles, smacking the giggling flames with his hands until they were smothered, but while he was putting himself out, the duke had closed the distance, and when Eli looked up again, he saw that he was trapped. They were back where they’d started, at the farthest end of the square from the citadel. Eli jumped to his feet as the duke advanced, ready to run again, but there was nowhere to go. He was right up against the burning doorway of a storefront, with the duke in front of him and everything else in flames.

By the time Eli realized that he was truly trapped, it was too late. The duke’s burning hand closed on his shoulder and tossed him to the ground with surprising strength. Eli hit the doorstep hard, crying out as the skin on his shoulder blistered from the duke’s burning grip. He started to get up again, but the duke’s boot slammed down on his chest, pinning him to the ground. Edward stood above him, a black silhouette against the burning night.

“Go on,” the duke whispered. “Call your lava spirit. It won’t do you any good. Your head will be off your shoulders before the words leave you.”

Eli swallowed, and the duke’s boot pressed harder on his chest, crushing the breath out of him.

“I’ve won, Monpress,” the duke said, raising his ax in a shining arc. “I
always
win.”

Eli couldn’t even think of an answer for that. He could only watch as the ax whistled through the air, flying straight for the exposed area between his collarbone and his neck.

A moment before it struck, something strange happened. The blow, which had been straight and true, turned sideways, landing not in Eli’s flesh, but deep in the wooden doorstep beside him. For a moment, both Eli and the duke just stared at the blade. Then Edward ripped it free with a roar of rage and raised the ax again, using both hands this time, the fire from his flame-wreathed fingers scorching the ax’s wooden handle. But as he swung again, Eli saw the ax blade flip in the duke’s hands. It flipped on its own, and Eli heard a small, terrified voice cry out in defiance, “Death to tyrants!”

With that cry, the metal head of the ax let go of its
shaft. It flew into the house behind Eli, burying itself in the burning door. Edward, robbed of the ax’s weight, stumbled into his swing. He was still staring at the bladeless hilt in disbelief when another extraordinary thing happened. The wooden shop sign, its painted surface blistered and illegible from the fire’s heat, let go of its hinges. Nothing had broken, for the nails were still there, still strong. The wood simply had stopped holding on to them. The sign fell with a fearsome cry of vengeance and struck the duke square in the back.

“Go!” the sign shouted, bearing down on the duke with all its weight.

Eli went. He shot up, kicking the duke out of the way and running past him. But the duke was not done. With tremendous strength, he threw the sign off and made a grab for Eli as he passed, catching the thief’s leg and sending them both sprawling on the wet cobbles. Eli kicked, but Edward was too fast. He surged forward, his hands going for Eli’s neck, but just before he reached the thief, the ground beneath them began to rumble. At the corner of the square, the iron treasury door launched off its supports with a great, ringing cry. It rolled like a wheel, bouncing over the cobblestones that swiveled to guide it.

“For the cause!” it cried, its iron voice filled with decades of bottled anger. “Death to tyrants!”

The duke had just enough time to look up, his face pale and disbelieving, as the door flipped itself around and, with a final wordless cry of vengeance, fell flat-side down on top of him.

With a great, iron crash, the enslavement over Gaol vanished. The duke’s control winked out like a snuffed candle, and all at once spirits were everywhere, piling
themselves on top of the door, which was ringing like a gong in triumph. Unfortunately, in their exuberance, they weren’t watching for Eli, who was still lying on his back where the duke had tripped him, staring in amazement. When the second hail of roofing tiles nearly took his leg off, he realized he’d better get out.

He rolled over with a groan, moving stiff and slow where the running and the falls had battered his poor bruises, looking for somewhere safe to lie. But everywhere he looked, spirits were rushing forward, trampling him under a wave of pent-up rage. Eli beat them back as best he could, but it was like fighting the tide, and he realized that he was going to be crushed to death under a riot of celebrating barrels, cobblestones, and roofing tile.

He had just enough time to appreciate the inglorious and ironic nature of such an end when a pair of strong arms burst through the jabbering spirits and grabbed him by the shoulders, hauling him up and out in a single motion.

“You all right?” said a blessedly familiar gruff voice, and Eli nearly burst into tears. He’d never been so happy to hear Josef in his life.

“Better than the other guy,” he said, but the words turned into a choking cough. Even with the rain, the square was still black with smoke.

“He’s fine,” Josef said, slapping him on the back.

Somewhere behind them, Eli heard Giuseppe Monpress’s familiar sigh. “Glad I found you, then. If he’d died here, he’d have been too burned to turn in for the bounty.”

“Thanks for the sympathy,” Eli coughed out, slapping his chest to get his lungs clear. He was just thinking about
maybe trying to stand on his own when he felt the courtyard rumble and looked up to see Karon coming.

“I’ve kept the fires confined as best I could,” the lava spirit rumbled. “But I think it’s time for me to go. The river seems to be taking matters into its own hands.”

As if to prove his point, a great crashing sound rose up in the distance, the sound of water washing over things it shouldn’t. Eli opened his arms and let Karon’s smoke pour into him again, wincing as the pain of the burn on his chest flashed like a fresh wound. But the pain faded quickly, and he pushed off of Josef just before a wave of white water burst into the square. It flooded up the street, surging over the burning houses in absurd, gravity-defying waves. Even the great pile of spirits marking where the duke had fallen was washed under, and everywhere the fire vanished beneath the cool, blue-white surge.

With the water came a stiff wind. It blew from the west, driving the stench of burned wood away. By this point, Eli and the rest had slogged through the water to the steps of the duke’s citadel, where they were out of the flood. The wind hit them head-on, chilling their wet clothes and filling the air with the smell of the cold, rocky shore. Then something landed with an enormous splash just around the corner. Eli jumped at the sound, and Josef’s hand went to the Heart, but he dropped his grip when the source of the sound came around the corner. It was a little old man, thin as whipcord and with a genteel, scholarly appearance that was only slightly ruined by the way he was wringing the water out of his billowing white robes.

He stopped when he reached the stairs, staring at the huddled group with trepidation as he settled his spectacles on his nose.

“Excuse me,” he said, leaning forward inquisitively. “Which of you is Eli Monpress?”

“That would be me,” Eli said, stepping forward. “Might I ask who’s asking?”

“My name is Lelbon,” the man said with a dry, polite smile. “I am a scholar and general errand runner for Illir, the West Wind.”

He paused, as if this should mean something to them, but Josef just stared at him, and the elder Monpress leaned back against the doors, keen to see where this would go. Eli, however, broke into a grin.

“The West Wind, you say?” Eli scratched his chin thoughtfully. “And what is the West Wind doing sending representatives here? Gaol certainly doesn’t count as the western coast.”

“My employer is interested in the well-being of all the lands he blows over,” Lelbon said stiffly. “We’ve been aware of the situation in Gaol for some time, but were unable to interfere due to the local Great Spirit’s refusal to allow outside aid. The Spiritualist Lyonette has been investigating for us and, as you can see, has rectified the situation.”

“By flooding the whole place,” Eli said, laughing. “That’s Spiritualists for you.”

Lelbon just gave him a sour look. “I was sent to you with a warning. Spiritualist Lyonette is currently speaking with my master, but she will be heading in this direction shortly. I am instructed to relay that it would be wise of you to move on.”

“Would it?” Eli said. “And where exactly does your master get off giving me orders?”

“It’s only a suggestion,” Lelbon said with a shrug. “The
great Illir is merely concerned for your welfare. After all, even for as great a spirit as the West Wind, interfering in the affairs of the favorite is politically unadvisable.”

“Favorite?” Josef said, looking at Eli. “Favorite what?”

“Forget it,” Eli said. “All right, you heard the little old man. Let’s get out of here.”

“What, just like that?” Josef asked. “We’re not going to steal anything?”

“What’s left to steal?” Eli said, nodding at the smoldering town and the great empty citadel. “Besides,” he said, grinning at Monpress, “according to everyone,
I
already stole the entire treasury from the thief-proof fortress. That’s quite enough for one country. We’ve got the Fenzetti; we’re done here.”