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

CHAPTER 7

The Spirit Court’s tower was not the only great building in Zarin. Across the city, past the dip in the ridge made by the swift Whitefall River, the white-painted stone and timber buildings that made up most of the city took a turn for the elegant. The roads steepened as they climbed up the ridge, cutting back and forth until they reached the highest arch of the city’s rocky backbone. There, perched like a coral on a jut of bare rock, stood the Whitefall Citadel, fortress of the Whitefall family, the Merchant Princes of Zarin, and official home of the unprecedented organization they had founded, the Council of Thrones. Though not as tall or as mystical as the Spiritualist’s white tower, it was nonetheless magnificently impressive. The castle stood apart from the city, separated from the steep road by a long bridge that stretched across a natural gap in the ridge. Perched as it was on an outcropping, the citadel seemed to float all on its own, a great, airy fortress of flashing white walls and soaring arches. But most impressive of all were the famous towers of Zarin. There were seven in all crowning the inner keep, so tall they seemed to scrape the sky itself with their hammered gold spires.

Despite its grandness, these days the citadel was mostly for show. It remained the symbol of the Council, and its seven towers stood in proud relief on every gold standard the Council mint pressed, but the enormous bureaucracy that kept the Council turning over had long ago outgrown the soaring towers of its home fortress, spilling into the mansions and trade halls of the surrounding slopes. These days, the only people who actually stayed in the fortress were the Whitefall family of Zarin and any actual nobles who deigned to come to Council functions themselves.

On the fifth floor of the citadel’s inner keep, where everything was as luxurious as money and station could make it, one such man, Edward di Fellbro, Duke of Gaol, was having tea in his rooms. For most nobility, especially those with lands as rich as Gaol, this act would have involved at least three servants, yet Edward was alone, calmly finishing a modest plate of fruit and bread at the corner of his enormous dining table, which was covered, not in cornucopias of exotic fruits and sweetmeats, but with maps.

They were spread out neatly end to end, maps from every region in the Council Kingdom in different styles and time periods, some old and worn, some whose ink had hardly dried, yet every single one of them was dotted with the same meticulous red markings. Sometimes they were Xs, sometimes circles or squares, and very occasionally a triangle. No matter the shape, however, the same tight, neat notation was listed beside each one, usually a number and a short description, and always marked with a date.

Duke Edward stared at the maps intently, his thin face drawn into a thoughtful frown as he took a sip from his teacup only to notice it was empty. Scowling, he held out his cup, and an elegant teapot on four silver legs waddled over to refill it. The pot trembled as it moved, its worked golden lid rattling softly as it poured. The duke glared at the pot and it stopped rattling instantly, moving back to its spot in the tea service with murmured apologies and careful bows so as not to drip.

Edward saw none of it. His stare was already back on the maps, flicking from point to point in no discernible order. From his posture, he might have stayed like that indefinitely, but a knock on the carved door interrupted his contemplation.

“Enter,” he said, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his voice.

The door opened, and one of the Council pages, dressed head to toe in the ridiculous white and silver finery Whitefall made all his servants wear, stepped timidly into the room.

“Spiritualist Hern to see you, my Lord,” the boy announced with a low bow.

Edward put down his fork and pushed his plate away. “Send him in.”

The boy stepped back, and the duke’s unexpected guest sailed into the room. Sailed was the right word. Edward had never met anyone as preoccupied with his appearance as Hern. The Spiritualist was in full regalia today, a tight green coat embroidered with blue and silver in the imitation of peacock feathers, with tall, turned, and pointed cuffs hanging down over the glittering, knuckle-sized jewels of his rings.

“I swear, Edward,” he said, collapsing onto a cushioned lounge by the window as the boy closed the door, “your quarters get smaller every time you come to Zarin. And they’ve got you up on the fifth floor this time, with all those stairs.” He pulled out a handkerchief and patted his flushed face. “It’s intolerable. I never understood why you don’t just take a house in the city like everyone else.”

“I see no point for such a useless expense,” the duke said dryly. “Besides, the part of my Council dues that covers these rooms is too dear already. A rich lord does not stay rich by indulging in redundant expense.”

“So you like to say,” Hern said, helping himself to a cup from the tea service, which he held out for the nervous teapot to fill. “What’s that you’re working on there?” He nodded toward the spread of maps. “Plotting to expand your lands? Going to take over the Council Kingdoms?”

“Hardly,” the duke said. “They wouldn’t be worth the bother.”

“So what are these for, then?” The Spiritualist actually sounded fascinated, a sure sign that he was only trying to get Edward talking and comfortable. It was the same song and dance they went through every time Hern visited, and Edward had long since learned it was faster to just go along than try and force the Spiritualist to get to his point sooner. Besides, he hadn’t explained his system in a long while, and explaining something to others was a useful exercise for uncovering faults in execution.

“These,” he said, leaning forward and stretching out his hand to tap one of the red markings on the map in front of him, “are the movements of Eli Monpress.”

Hern blinked. “The thief?”

“Do you know any other Monpresses?” Edward gave him a scathing look. “You asked, so pay attention. Each red mark denotes where he’s been active since he first appeared five years ago.” He moved his fingers over the maps without touching them, tracing a path between the markings. “The Xs are confirmed robberies, the circles are unconfirmed incidents that I believe were his work, and the squares are crimes attributed to Monpress, but which I don’t believe he had a hand in.”

“And how do you make that judgment?” Hern said, blowing on his tea.

“I look for a pattern.” Edward was pleased with the question. A chance to talk through his logic was always welcome. “All men have patterns. It’s human nature, even for someone as famously unpredictable as Monpress. Look here.” He moved his finger over the X closest to him, far south of Zarin, covering the dot that denoted the desert city of Amit.

“Monpress’s first crime we know of was here, the theft of the Count of Amit’s cash prize for the annual Race of the Dunes. He also stole the winning horse, which he then used as a getaway. He’s next seen a few months later”-his finger ran up the maps, heading far north to the very top of the Council Kingdoms-“here.” He tapped a red X in an empty spot of the map, somewhere in the wilderness between the Kingdom of Jenet and the Kingdom of Favol. “He ambushed the wedding procession of the Princess of Jenet and stole her entire dowry, including nearly eighty pounds of gold brick, fifty horses, a hundred head of cattle, and all of the bride’s wedding jewelry.”

“I’ve heard of that one,” Hern said with a laugh. “The story I heard said he did it all by himself, but surely-”

“I think that was the case,” the duke said. “Before the swordsman and the girl came into the picture a little over a year ago, Monpress always acted alone. For the Princess of Jenet, witnesses say he talked the road itself into changing its path, leading the whole procession into a sinking mire that he could reportedly walk over like it was dry land.”

“Come, that’s impossible.” Hern waved his jewel-covered hand. “I’ve got two top-notch earth spirits, and even I couldn’t convince an entire road to move.”

Edward raised his eyebrows, tucking that fact away for future use. “Well,” he said, “however he managed it, the road story fits Monpress’s pattern.”

“Which is?” Hern said, slurping his tea.

The duke gave him a flat look. Even if he was only feigning interest, surely Hern wasn’t that dense. “Look at the history,” Edward said slowly. “Monpress’s crimes are always robberies, and not just robberies, but thefts on a grand scale, usually against nobility. They are never violent, save in self defense, and usually leave little question as to who the perpetrator was.”

“You mean the calling card.” Hern nodded.

“Indeed.” Edward reached up to the very top of his maps and unclipped the small stack of white cards he’d pinned there. They were all roughly the same size, and though a few were on cheaper paper, they all had the same basic look: a white card stamped at the center with the same fanciful, cursive M.

“They started out handwritten,” the duke said, shuffling through the cards carefully so as not to get them out of order. “Then after his third crime, when his bounty was raised to five hundred gold standards, they were all printed. The early ones are still cheap, but for the past two years, he’s used a variety of high-quality stocks, though never the same one twice.” The duke smiled, tapping the cards on the table to line them up again. “Monpress is vain, you see. He’s a glutton for attention. That’s the way you can spot a fake Monpress crime.”

He spread his hands over the maps, coming to rest on one of the red squares just north of Zarin. “Here,” he said. “Two years ago someone broke into a money changer’s house, killing one of his apprentices in the process. The thief left a Monpress calling card, and that was all the local authorities needed. However, anyone who’s spent time studying Monpress knows that, whoever committed that crime, it wasn’t Eli. First off, a money changer’s office is far too small a target. Second, the murder of the apprentice, very unlike him, but the real sign here is the lack of flair. It’s such a simple, unsophisticated crime. Uninventive. For me, that alone is enough to absolve Monpress of guilt in this matter.”

“Impressive,” Hern said, making a good show of actually looking impressed. “Are you going to take all this over to the bounty office, then? Earn a little goodwill from the Council? The northern kingdoms are still rather miffed at you for raising the toll to use your river last year.”

“I calculate my toll based on the damages their drunken, irresponsible barge captains inflict on my docks,” the duke said. “If they have a problem with that, then they are free to reimburse me directly or hire better captains. As for Eli,” the duke said, returning the stack of cards to its place at the top of the map, “I would never dream of giving my findings to a group as disorganized and sensational as the Council’s Bounty Office. If they think they can just throw money at a problem as complex and nuanced as Monpress and make it go away, then they deserve the runaround he’s giving them.”

Hern gave him a sly look over his teacup. “Thinking of collecting the bounty yourself, then? I didn’t think fifty-five thousand was a large enough number to interest a man of your wealth.”

“Do not make assumptions about my interests,” the duke said, sitting back. “Only a shortsighted fool thinks he is wealthy enough not to take opportunities presented.”

“How interesting to hear you say that,” Hern said, sitting up and putting his teacup aside. “As it happens, a new opportunity has just opened up for me.”

The duke smiled and mentally calculated Hern’s timing. Five minutes from arrival to broaching of actual point, faster than usual. Hern must have something big on the line. “How much?” he asked, tapping his fingers together.

Hern looked taken aback. “Edward,” he said, “what makes you think-”

The Duke of Gaol gave him a cutting look. “How much, Hern?”

“Ten thousand gold standards,” Hern said, crossing his legs and draping his arms over the back of the couch. When the duke gave him an incredulous look, he just shrugged. “You asked, I answered. I’ve a rare opportunity here, Edward. Remember what I wrote you a few days ago about forcing Banage to exile his own apprentice to a tower? Well, the girl lived up to her reputation better than I’d thought possible and rejected the deal entirely. Fortunately, I got wind of this before the trial, and just this afternoon I had her convicted of treason.”

“Sounds like a done deal,” the duke said. “Why do you need my money?”

“Well,” Hern said and took another long sip of his tea. “A treason conviction is a serious matter, Edward, especially for a girl as promising and protected as Banage’s little pet. It all happened very quickly and I had to make a few promises the night before to see it through.”

“I see,” the duke said. “And these ‘promises’ add up to ten thousand gold standards? What happened to the thousand I gave you last month?”

“Gone,” Hern said with a shrug. “How do you think I got the signatures for her accusation? Whether they’re Tower Keepers or apprentices, all Spiritualists have an obsession with duty, and that makes getting them to do anything very expensive. Frankly, Edward, you got that trial on the cheap. Any other time and it would easily have cost twice that much to put Banage’s favorite on the spot. But this Mellinor business was such a mess. People were already nice and scared and looking for someone to blame, and who better than the girl at the heart of it?”

“And what does this have to do with me?” the duke said. “So far, all I’ve heard is the usual Spiritualist politics, and I have quite enough politics of my own to deal with. Why should I give you ten thousand standards to fund more?”

Hern’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t get cheap on me, Fellbro. This is as much for your benefit as mine. Fifteen years now I’ve been Gaol’s Tower Keeper, and for fifteen years I’ve been keeping idealists like Banage out of your land. We don’t need to go into what would happen if an investigation of Gaol was requested, but you’d be amazed how fast the Spirit Court’s policy of noninterference with sovereign states can vanish if they judge the cause worthy enough. Such an investigation could be especially troubling if they teamed up with your enemies in the Council, who would love to see a return to lax tariffs and rules of your father’s time. I have worked tirelessly for years now to keep your secrets, and all I’ve ever asked in return is a little monetary assistance in my efforts to reform the Court. Ten thousand is pocket change for a man like you. We both know it, so don’t try and pretend I’m being unreasonable, or else I may have to start suddenly remembering things about Gaol you’d rather I didn’t.”

Edward gave the Spiritualist a disgusted look. Still, the man did have a point, and it had been a while since he’d dipped into the Spirit Court management part of Gaol’s budget. “You’re sure that ten thousand will buy the result you’re after?”

“Certain.” Hern leaned forward. “Miranda Lyonette was one of Banage’s key pillars within the Court. It’s no secret he’s been grooming her to be his successor. Crushing her is the closest we can come to striking a direct blow at Etmon himself. Even though she managed to flee Zarin before her sentence could be carried out, the deed is done.”

“She escaped?” The duke arched his dark eyebrows. “That was careless of you, Hern.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Hern said, shaking his head. “She can’t run forever, and in any case, her reputation is ruined. She’ll never work as a Spiritualist again, and Banage is left alone and bereft, robbed of the apprentice he loved like a daughter. The old man is weakening, a bit at a time. Soon, with enough money and pressure, the damage will be irreversible. We’ll rip Banage’s control of the Court wide open, and then all I have to do is be in the right place at the right time with the right incentives and the Spirit Court will be mine, and, through reasonable extension, yours.”

He finished with a smile the duke found discomfortingly overconfident. Using money to sway circumstance in your favor was one thing, but when you started outright buying people to act against their conscience, a situation could quickly slide out of control. Still, he’d requested Hern as his Tower Keeper exactly because the man knew how to play the Spirit Court. If he couldn’t trust him now he’d have lost a lot more than ten thousand gold.

“One more question,” the duke said carefully. “This Miranda Lyonette, she’s the one the Court sent to Mellinor after Monpress, correct?”

“Yes,” Hern said. “Her failure there was what got her into this mess.”

The duke nodded. “And do you think the Spirit Court will be sending anyone else after Eli while this is going on?”

“No,” Hern said. “I think the Court has had quite enough of Monpress for a while.”

Duke Edward nodded absently, staring down at his maps. “How fortuitous.” He looked back at Hern. “I’ll send a notice for the ten thousand to your house after I’ve warned my exchequer. He’ll assist you as usual in collecting the money from my accounts in Zarin. And if you need more, Hern, don’t bother coming over. Just send a letter with a documented list as to why. All of this beating around the issue is inefficient.”

Hern’s eye’s widened at that, but his smile never flickered. “Lovely chatting with you too, my lord,” he said, standing up with a graceful swirl of his coat.

“Send in the page on your way out,” the duke said, reaching across the table to grab a sheaf of blank stationery and an ink pot from his desk.

Hern shot him a dirty look, but the duke was already absorbed in whatever he was writing, his pen scratching in neat, efficient strokes across the paper. With a sneer at being treated like a valet, Hern left the duke’s room in a huff, grabbing the first page he saw and literally shoving the boy toward the duke’s door before it had even finished closing.

The boy stumbled into the duke’s parlor, blinking in confusion for a few moments before recovering enough to drop the customary bow.

“You,” the duke said without looking up from his note, which he was folding into thirds. “Take this to the printing office on Little Shambles Street. Give it to Master Scribe Phelps, and only Master Scribe Phelps. Tell him that fortuitous circumstances have necessitated an acceleration of my order, and he is to have the numbers outlined on that note ready for distribution at the points written beside them by tomorrow morning. Repeat that.”

“Printing office, Little Shambles Street, Master Scribe Phelps,” the boy repeated with the practiced memory of a trained page who got this sort of request quite often. “I am to tell him that fortuitous circumstances have necessitated an acceleration of your order, and he is to have these numbers ready for distribution at the points written beside them by tomorrow morning.”

The duke handed him the folded note without a word of thanks, and the boy shuffled out, wishing that, just once, the duke would bother to tip for such feats of memory. He never did, but that was part of why Merchant Prince Whitefall charged the old cheapskate double for his rooms.

When the page was gone the duke stood alone at his table going over his plans step by step in his head. He did this often, for it gave him great pleasure to be thorough. Phelps would balk at having to print thousands of detailed posters and have them packed for distribution in one night, but a successful man seized opportunity when it arrived. The Court’s interest in Monpress had been the last uncontrollable element. If they were putting off their investigation thanks to this business in Mellinor, now was the time to strike. Accelerating the pace made him nervous, but he fought the feeling down. Surely this apprehension was merely a product of being in Zarin, where things were messy and chaotic. In a week, all his business here would be done and he’d be on his way back to Gaol, where everything was orderly, controlled, and perfect.

Just thinking about it brought a smile to his face, and he reached down for his teacup, newly refilled by the creeping teapot, which had already returned to its place on the tea service. Yes, he thought, walking over to the tall windows, sipping his tea as he watched Hern climb into an ostentatious carriage in the little courtyard below while, behind him, the page hurried toward the gates with the letter in his hands. Yes, things were going perfectly smoothly. If the printers did as they were paid to do, then tomorrow the net woven of everything he’d learned over years of following Monpress would finally be cast. All he had to do was sit back and wait for the thief to take the bait, and then even an element as chaotic as Eli Monpress would be drawn at last into predictable order.

The happiness of that thought carried him through the rest of his day, and if he drove particularly hard bargains in his meetings that afternoon, no one thought anything special of it. He was the Duke of Gaol, after all.