The Spirit Rebellion: The Legend of Eli Monpress: Book 2

CHAPTER 12

Gin made good on his boast. He ran like the wind itself, his long legs eating up the miles as they ran cross-country, on road and off. His orange eyes were completely unhindered by the darkness, and he stopped only when Miranda made him, which she did as much to catch her breath and unclamp her aching hands from his fur for a bit as to make the dog himself rest. Still, they made the journey from the western coast to the edge of Argo, the kingdom of which Gaol was the most prominent duchy, with time to spare, crossing the border shortly after dawn.

As they ran, Miranda had plenty of time to worry. She had no money or supplies, just what she’d had with her under her Spirit Court robes the day of the trial, which was precious little. Alone and in exile on the beach, she hadn’t given it much attention. Now, however, all she could think was that this was a sorry start to a job. What she needed was some money, a cleaning up, and maybe a writ or other official document that could give her a new identity. As she was, no papers, no money, no authority, her hair thick with salt and her clothes stained with sea spray, she didn’t even know if they’d let her through the city gate.

At their second stop, however, something happened that made Miranda realize she wasn’t giving the West Wind enough credit. After two hours of hard running, Miranda coaxed Gin to a stop by a creek. While he drank, she stretched her legs, which ached from holding on to the ghosthound so tightly for so long. But as she was bending over to touch her toes, she felt something flutter against her fingers. She jumped in alarm and looked down to see it was a note, the paper money some kingdoms issued for internal use instead of coins or council standards. The note fluttered, and she snatched it between her fingers before it could blow away again. It was from the kingdom of Barat, which she vaguely remembered being somewhere south and west. Miranda studied the note intently before slipping it into her pocket. The number printed on the corner was modest, and she didn’t even know if she could find somewhere that would accept it outside of Barat, but it was more than she’d had a moment ago, so Miranda counted it a lucky find and let the matter drop.

The next time they rested, it happened again. This time a small rain of silver coins from Fenulli, a city-state hundreds of miles away, landed inches in front of Gin’s nose. After that, every time they stopped, more money appeared, always from countries to the west, and always in small amounts, yet their pile was growing. By the time they reached the Gaol border, Miranda’s pockets were bursting, and she was feeling much more confident about the whole affair. She was still going over the particulars in her head, how she would change the money, what she would say if anyone commented (“My father collected currencies,” or “We’re a traveling act,” which would explain the dog nicely), when she realized Gin was acting oddly. They were still at the Gaol border, off the road but in sight of the signs, standing in a little valley just below a well-kept vineyard, but Gin showed no signs of moving on. Instead, he was pacing back and forth, in and out of the duchy.

“What is it?” she asked, too tired to be as concerned as she should be.

“Look at the ground,” Gin growled, his nose against the grass. “See anything odd?”

Miranda looked at the ground. It looked like field grass to her, with a few stones scattered about. Fortunately, Gin answered his own question before she had to admit her ignorance.

“The grass is wet here,” Gin said, pawing at the ground on the non-Gaol side of the border, “but dry here.” He jumped the little gully that marked the beginning of the duchy and nosed at the bright green, but bone-dry, Gaol grass. “It’s like that all through here,” he snorted, raising his head. “Like it didn’t rain on Gaol at all. What kind of weather acts like that?”

Miranda frowned and squinted upward, but the sky was the same rainwashed clear blue as far as she could see on both sides of the border. She looked back at the ground, and her frown deepened. What kind of weather indeed?

“We are here to investigate strange happenings,” she said. “This would certainly count, but it can’t just be that the rain is acting odd. I don’t think the West Wind would need us for something like that. Let’s go farther in. Maybe we’ll find more oddities.”

Gin nodded and they trotted up the hill into Gaol itself. They kept the road in sight but stayed to the ridges and trees, Gin slinking lower and lower as the farms grew denser. Still, everything they saw looked perfectly normal. Idyllic even, so much so that Miranda began to wonder why they’d been sent here at all.

“I never knew Gaol was so pretty,” she said delightedly as they crossed a stone bridge over a clear, babbling brook. “Why in the world does Hern spend so much time scheming in Zarin when he’s got this to come home to?”

“Well, I don’t like it one bit,” Gin said. “It’s too open and too neat. Even the grass growing in the fields is lined up in a grid. It’s unnatural.”

“Better get used to it,” Miranda said, signaling him to stop at a picturesque stand of shaggy fir trees. “Because you’re going to be waiting here while I go change this money and gather information. I saw a sign for an inn and trade house a little ways back. It’ll be a start, if nothing else.”

Gin snorted. “I’m not going to wait here while you wander off.”

“We’re trying to keep a low profile, remember?” Miranda said, jumping down. “Ghosthounds aren’t exactly inconspicuous.”

Gin rolled his eyes at that, but he sat down, which meant he was going to go along. Miranda smiled and checked her pockets one last time. The mix of coins and paper ruffled pleasantly under her fingers. Satisfied, she ran her hands through her windblown, salt-stiff hair and bound it back in a stiff braid. When she was as presentable as she could hope for, she left the trees and made her way down the hill to the large, charming lodge at the bottom, whose bright painted sign advertised lodging, baths, and all manner of trade and services for travelers.

Miranda swerved west and came up to the inn on the road as though she’d been walking on it the whole time. The main building was set back from the road itself, behind a large yard for caravans to turn around in. However, the turnaround was empty this morning. So were the stables, Miranda noted as she climbed up the wooden steps and opened the door to the inn. The building was just as charming inside as it was outside, with large wooden beams across the ceiling, warm lamps hanging on the walls, and a large stone hearth surrounded by benches. Feeling decidedly out of place in her dirty clothes, Miranda put on her most competent face and walked over to the dry-goods counter, where an old man was sorting through a large accounts book below a neatly lettered sign advertising money changing.

“We don’t trade any council standards,” he said as she approached. “Local currency only.”

“I wasn’t going to-” Miranda started, then dropped it, fishing her money out of her pockets instead. “Local is fine. Can you change these?”

The man stared at the strange collection of currencies as though Miranda had just emptied a fishing net on his desk and gave her a look sour enough to curdle cheese. “This ain’t the Zarin exchange, lady.”

“Just change what you can,” Miranda said. “Please.”

The man sneered at the pile, and then, with a long-suffering sigh, began to sort the notes and change into stacks.

“So,” Miranda said, leaning forward just a little. “Quiet day?”

“Quiet?” The man snorted. “Try dead. The duke’s called conscription and suspended all travel, or didn’t you notice the empty road?”

“I just arrived,” Miranda explained. “What do you mean ‘called conscription’? Is there a war brewing?”

The man laughed loud and hard. “Council’d hardly allow that, would they? No, the duke can call conscription for whatever he likes. This here is a duchy in the old way. Old Edward owns everything, every field, every house, every business, even this one. We’re all of us working for him, one way or the other, and conscription duty ain’t any harder than farm work. Anyways, no one would say no to him even if he wasn’t landlord and employer. You don’t say no to the Duke of Gaol. Not if you want to keep the things what make life worth living.”

Miranda grimaced. This duke sounded like a monster. That was one good thing about being here on her own rather than on the Spirit Court’s business: She wouldn’t have to introduce herself to the duke before getting to work. “Well,” she said and smiled. “Why has he called conscription this time? Is there an emergency?”

He gave her a look as if she was stupid. “Didn’t you hear? Eli Monpress robbed the duke last night. Stole him clean. Word is the treasury is empty.”

It took every ounce of Miranda’s discipline to keep her face calm, but inside, she was shrieking with joy. Eli Monpress here? Now? She couldn’t even imagine a stroke of luck this fantastic. If she could somehow get her hands on Eli, why, even Hern couldn’t keep her out of Zarin.

She looked up to see the innkeeper staring at her, and Miranda realized she must be grinning.

“That’s too bad,” she said, forcing her face into courteous disinterest. “I hear Monpress has a nice bounty. Did the duke catch him?”

“No word on that yet,” the innkeeper said, shrugging. “The citadel’s been shut up tight. But look at it this way: Would the duke shut down trade and close the borders if he had the thief in a cell?”

He might, actually, if he’d done any research on Eli, Miranda thought, but she kept it to herself.

“Doesn’t matter none anyway,” the man continued. “The duke will catch him all the same. This is Gaol, after all.” He smiled, pushing a small stack of silver coins across the counter.

“Sixty-four exact,” he said. “Take it or leave it, but you won’t find better for the paper around here.”

Miranda had no idea if that was good or not, but she took the money without complaint. The coins were thin pressed, and each was stamped with a man’s face in silhouette, which the block lettering on the edges identified as belonging to Edward, Eighteenth Duke of Gaol.

It must have been a nice bit of money, for the innkeeper’s tone softened considerably. “Anything else, miss?”

Miranda thought a moment. “Yes,” she said. “I’ll need a new set of clothes. And some soap.”

The man raised his eyebrows, but he turned around and got a paper-wrapped bar from the shelf behind him.

“Soap,” he said, slapping the bar on the counter. “One silver. As for clothes…” He walked over to the corner and opened the first of a series of large chests set against the wall. “My daughter’s work,” he said, pulling out a stretch of brown homespun. “Five silvers each. Just pick out what you like.”

Miranda walked over with a grimace. The chest was full of dresses. Farmer girl dresses. With little motifs of daisies on the trim and sleeves. A quick look through the other chests showed more of the same. The man’s daughter was apparently prolific, and very fond of daisies. Seeing this was all she was going to get, Miranda settled on a long, rust-colored dress with a wide skirt that looked like it would do for riding, and, most important of all, long sleeves that went down over her fingers to hide her rings. The color didn’t clash with her hair too badly, and the stitching, though large, was sturdy. Satisfied, she paid the man for the soap and the dress, and he even wrapped it up for her for free, cementing her suspicion that she was being vastly overcharged.

Miranda shoved the package under her arm. Before she turned to leave, however, she asked one final question.

“Sir,” she said, “did it rain last night?”

“Of course not,” the man sniffed. “It’s Wednesday.”

Miranda gave him a funny look. “What does that have to do with rain?”

“This is Gaol,” the man said. “It only rains on Sundays.”

Miranda just stood there a moment, stunned, while in her head, several little pieces clicked into place.

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you very much.”

The man just made a harumphing noise before going back to his ledger.

Miranda walked up the road until she was out of sight of the inn’s windows, then sprinted up the hill to where Gin was hiding. She’d worried he would be asleep, but the dog was awake and waiting.

“What’s going on?” he asked as soon as she ducked under the shaggy treeline.

“Strange and wonderful things,” she answered, peeling off her shirt. “Mellinor, could I get some water?”

The water spirit complied, and she was sopping wet in an instant. Peeling the soap out of its waxed-paper wrapping, Miranda began to scrub her face and hair. She relayed her conversation with the innkeeper as she washed, occasionally breaking to ask Mellinor for more water, which he gave immediately, for he was listening as well.

“Eli Monpress! Do you believe the luck?” Miranda said again, leaning over to wring out her hair.

“Lucky indeed,” Gin said. “But go back to that bit about the rain. As I’ve heard it, only a Great Spirit can order the rain, and only then if it’s got the cooperation of the local winds. How is a human doing it?”

“Maybe he’s Enslaving the Great Spirit of this area,” Miranda said, wincing as she picked at a knot of tangles rooted at the back of her neck.

“Preposterous,” Mellinor rumbled, giving her a bit more water. “If this place was Enslaved, we would have known miles ago. The whole world would have known. Trust me, a land whose Great Spirit is Enslaved does not look like this.”

The water slung outward, taking in the lovely hills, rolling farmland, and flowering orchards. Miranda was going to point out that Mellinor had looked pretty nice to her when she’d arrived, but then she remembered that spirits probably saw something completely different and she kept her mouth shut, washing the last of the soap out of her hair in silence.

“Well, whatever’s happening, it’s not good,” she said, squeezing her hair dry. “Time to ask the spirits what’s going on.”

She pulled the dress over her head, the thick fabric catching on her wet skin. When the dress was in place, she knelt on the needle-strewn ground and pulled the green stone ring off her little finger.

“Alliana,” she said softly, placing the ring on the ground, “say hello to the grove for us.”

The moment the ring touched the ground, a circle of bright green moss began to spread over the brown needles. It spread to the base of the nearest tree, the moss’s tiny rootlings prodding the bark. But as the moss crept up the fir tree, its quiet, tiny sounds became frustrated.

Finally, almost five minutes later, the moss retreated, and Alliana herself spoke up. “It’s no good, mistress,” the moss said, sounding quite put out. “I can’t get the tree to talk. I couldn’t even talk to the sapling sprouting below it. I don’t understand; green wood is normally very chatty.”

Miranda frowned. “You’re saying they wouldn’t wake up?”

“No, they’re awake,” the moss grumbled. “They just won’t talk. I don’t know what kind of land this is, but its spirits are frightfully rude.”

Miranda bit her lip. This was an unexpected problem. “Try another tree.”

They tried five altogether, but every time it was the same. The trees would not talk. None of the spirits in the little grove would. Finally, Alliana asked to go back to sleep, as this was all too frustrating for her, and Miranda drew her back into the moss agate.

“All right, I give up. What’s going on?” Miranda said, sliding the ring back onto her finger. “Could it be Eli? What did he call it, building goodwill with the countryside?”

“No amount of goodwill does that,” Mellinor said, flicking a spray of water at the reticent trees. “And I doubt even the thief has this kind of reach. Normally, I’d say Enslavement. I never knew anything else that could shut up young trees once a wizard woke them up, but they don’t seem frightened, just worried.” The water made a thoughtful splashing sound. “No, something is wrong in Gaol, and I doubt it’s only here. The West Wind was right to be worried.”

“So what are we going to do about it?” Gin said, tail twitching.

“Start at the top,” Miranda answered. “If anyone can tell us what’s going on, it’s the Great Spirit of Gaol. Since the Fellbro River is by far the largest spirit in this area, I’m going to guess it’s either in charge or knows who is, so we’ll start with it, and for that, we’re going to the capital.”

“The capital?” Gin gave her a look. “The river runs all down the duchy’s eastern side. Why do we need to go to the capital?”

“Because it’s only three miles away, and because Eli’s in the capital.” Miranda smiled, shaking her sleeves until they fell down over her rings, hiding them completely. “Nothing wrong with a little bonus.”

“I thought you said Eli had already robbed the duke,” Gin said. “Wouldn’t he be long gone by now?”

“Come on,” Miranda said. “This is Eli we’re talking about. When has he ever just run away? I don’t think he even could, not with an entire treasury. Even Nico’s not that strong. No, I bet he’s hiding in the capital, waiting on his chance to waltz out while everyone goes crazy around him. Who knows, maybe he’s still in the duke’s citadel.” She grinned. “After all, ‘the last place a man looks is under his feet.’ ”

Gin gave a long sigh. “It’s a dark day indeed if you’re quoting the thief.” He lay down. “Come on, let’s get going. I did a little scouting while you were gone. If we keep low, we can hide behind copses and hedge walls almost all the way.”

Miranda glared at him. “You were supposed to wait here.”

Gin just wagged his tail, and Miranda shook her head before climbing on.

“Just try and remember to be sneaky,” she whispered as they crept out of the fir trees.

“Who do you think I am?” Gin snorted. He slunk up the hill, keeping behind the vineyards until he reached a stretch of trees and bushes that did indeed shelter them for the next few miles, just as he’d said it would.

When they reached the outskirts of Gaol’s walled capital, Miranda left Gin hidden in an empty barn. He was much easier to convince this time around. Even Gin admitted there was no way he could sneak into a city, and besides, the night’s running was catching up with him. Miranda left him sleeping under the straw in the hayloft, and then, strolling casually out of the barn, she started for the city.

With the embargo on travel, she’d expected it would take some finagling to get into Gaol’s capital-a bribe for the guards, maybe, or some wall climbing. But as she got closer, she realized it wasn’t going to be a problem. The road was full of people, farmers mostly, from their clothes, and almost all of them wearing swords. These must be the conscripts, she realized. The duke was apparently building himself quite an army. Because of this influx, the guards at the large gate were letting people in without much question. No one, however, was coming out. Miranda held her breath and kept her head down as she passed through the gates, but the guards didn’t even speak to her. For once, she was very grateful to be ignored.

Gaol’s capital was as lovely as the countryside around it, with a high, thick wall, a grid of neatly paved streets lined with iron street lamps, and tall, close timber and stone buildings with tiled, sloping roofs.

“It’s every bit as orderly as the land outside,” Mellinor whispered in her ear as she turned onto one of the side streets. “The Great Spirit must be a horrible taskmaster.”

“I don’t think the Great Spirit’s the problem,” Miranda muttered. This was a wizard’s doing, she was certain. But how, and why? Those were the questions she was here to answer. As for who, though, she had a pretty good idea already. She looked northeast, where the pointed roof of an instantly recognizable tower poked over the rooftops. This was Hern’s territory, after all, and as she thought about it, several strange things in Hern’s past began to make sense, like how he’d refused year after year to take an apprentice of his own. She’d always chalked that up to self-importance combined with laziness, but if he were hiding something in Gaol, suddenly his not taking an apprentice would be cast in a new light. Same with his stubborn refusal to let other Spiritualists do any studies in Gaol, and his insistence that no Spiritualists cut through the duchy on their way to other places. He’d claimed his duke disliked Spiritualists disrupting his duchy by riding through on strange creatures, and since Hern was powerful and influential, and going around Gaol was a simple matter, no one had thought to question that explanation.

Well, Miranda thought, glaring at the tower, that was about to change. With a final sneer, she turned and started walking downhill toward the river.

As she went deeper into town, the crowd got thicker. Everyone, men and women, was carrying swords. Some moved in orderly groups through the streets, conscripts who’d already received their orders. Others, people who’d come through the gate with her, were still pushing toward the citadel, which seemed to be the heart of the whole operation. By the time she’d reached the edge of the town center square, the crowd was shoulder to shoulder. Miranda pushed her way through as best she could, but it was clear she wasn’t going to get to the river this way. She scowled at the wall of backs in front of her and started looking around for a side street she could take down to the water. That’s when she spotted him.

There, pushing his way through the crowd not five feet from her, was Hern. He was overdressed as always in a bright blue coat with silver embroidery, and looking hurried. The rings on his fingers glittered dangerously as he elbowed his way past a belligerent, and very large, pair of farmers. Once he was past, he gave the crowd a sneering look and turned down a side street lined with large, beautiful houses. As soon as he was around the corner, Miranda followed him.

“Miranda,” Mellinor said in a warning voice. “What are you doing?”

“Think about it,” she whispered, sneaking through the crowd. “Hern’s secretiveness, strange things going on with the spirits in Gaol, the West Wind asking me, Hern’s enemy, specifically to investigate? It doesn’t take a genius to put it together.”

“That may be,” Mellinor said, “but don’t forget your own words. You didn’t want to take this job specifically because of Hern. I don’t like Hern any more than you do, but the world hasn’t changed in the last day. You said it yourself: if anyone sees you here, they’re going to think it’s revenge. Take your own advice, ignore the pompous idiot and keep going for the river.”

“The river will still be there in an hour,” she said under her breath. “I can’t miss an opportunity like this. Think, if I can prove that Hern’s behind whatever is going on here, I can destroy his credibility, maybe even get a retrial. It would be even better than catching Monpress. Even if it’s just that he knows what’s going on and hasn’t reported it to the Court, that would be enough to throw mud all over his career.” She stood on tiptoe, catching a glimpse of Hern’s blond head through the crowd, before ducking down again. “No,” she said. “He has to be up to something. The Spirit Court referendum is coming up any day now, and he wouldn’t dare leave Zarin and miss the run-up for that unless he had a very good reason. I’m going to find out what that is.”

Mellinor didn’t like that one bit, but he didn’t say anything else. Miranda trailed Hern for two blocks. It was nervous work. All the houses faced the road, and there was no cover for her to hide behind once they left the crowds. But Hern never so much as looked behind him. He just marched in that pompous, hurried way of his until he reached the steps of a large, expensive-looking inn. Here, he went up the stairs, nodding to the boy who opened the door for him, and vanished inside. A moment later, Miranda followed. The boy didn’t open the door as readily for her, but a coin changed his mind and Miranda found herself in the opulent entry hall of a wealthy inn in a wealthy town. Hern was at the far end of the room, talking with two men Miranda recognized as Tower Keepers. Just as she spotted them, a well-dressed servant walked over to escort the men up the stairs.

“Miss?”

Miranda jumped, startling the waiter who was hovering at her elbow. “Can I help you, miss?”

“Yes,” Miranda said, pointing at the stairwell Hern had just disappeared up. “What’s up those stairs?”

“The private dining rooms, ma’am,” the man answered skeptically, eyeing her rough clothes.

“Good,” Miranda said. “I’d like one. How much?”

“It’s fifteen silvers for a private meal,” the man said. “We’ve got grouse and pheasant in a plum glaze, with-”

“Sounds lovely,” Miranda said, shoving the money at him. “Show me up.”

The man’s haughty expression vanished when the money hit his hand, and he cheerfully led her up the stairs. There were several dining rooms, but only one of the doors was closed. She picked the door beside it, and the waiter showed her into a small room with a dining table and a little stand in the corner with water, stationery, and a jug of flowers. Best of all, it had a simple plank wall separating it from the closed dining room next door. She could just barely hear the buzz of voices coming through the wood, and then Hern’s haughty laugh.

“This is perfect,” Miranda said, nodding. “You may go.”

The waiter gave her a confused look, but bowed and left, shutting the door behind him. The minute he was gone, Miranda got down on the floor beside the wall and pressed her ear against the planks. The men’s voices drifted through, muted but understandable.

“It’s a mess is what it is,” one of the Tower Keepers was saying. “We voted against the girl like you said and nothing’s changed except Banage is more self-righteous than ever. Also, the tide in the Court’s on his side now. My position as head of the committee on Forest Spirit management is threatened.”

“You knew the risks.” Hern’s voice was bored. “But you took my money all the same. You think your committee head position’s in danger now, just wait until the Court hears about how you took a bribe to bring down Banage’s favorite.”

Miranda’s eyes widened. She shot off the floor and grabbed the stationery from the table, as well as the ink pot and pen. Here was Hern admitting to everything she’d suspected. She had to get it down on paper so she didn’t forget a word.

Both of the Tower Keepers were angry now, accusing Hern of threatening them, trying to call his bluff, but Hern’s voice was as calm as ever.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “we can go up together, or we can go down together. Your choice.”

The men grumbled, and Miranda got the feeling Hern was giving them that same haughty, implacable look he’d given her the day of the trial. It must have worked, for a few moments later he started asking them about the situation in Zarin.

Miranda was writing furiously when the door to her room clicked. She sprang off the floor and into her chair just as the waiter entered with a covered dish.

“First course,” he said cheerily. “Mushroom soup with cream and a bread tray. Your main course will be up in just-”

He stopped as Miranda frantically put a finger to her lips. The voices from the other room had stopped as well, listening. Then she heard their door open. They were also getting their first course. Miranda let out a sigh of relief, and then she flashed the waiter a dazzling smile.

“Sorry,” she said. “It’s been a very long trip. All I want to do is sit quietly for a while.” She stood and pressed a stack of coins into his hand. “Don’t bother with the other courses,” she whispered. “I just want to be left alone.”

“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.