The Spirit Rebellion (27 page)

“Of course, my lord,” the wind huffed.

Edward waved his hand and the wind flew off back to his patrol, shooting out over the citadel’s edge. When he was gone, Duke Edward turned back to his officers, all of whom had waited patiently through what seemed to them to be a one-sided and nonsensical conversation.

“Gentlemen,” the duke said. “It seems we have a rat in our cupboard. Those of you already assigned positions, please take your soldiers to their places. The rest of you, come with me.” He swept past the table and toward the door. “We have an intruder to catch.”

The officers saluted and went their separate ways, calling for their seconds to rally the conscripts as they trundled down the rickety stairs into the citadel proper.

The inside of the fortress of Gaol was not what Eli had expected. As soon as the guard led them through the iron doors, he’d looked eagerly for narrow halls, high ceilings, archer decks, thief catches, all the wonderful things highlighted on the poster. But the hall they entered was low and perfectly ordinary. Little hallways branched off of it leading to barracks, small offices, meeting rooms, and equipment caches. The walls were of uninspiring thickness, the architecture unremarkable, and there was only one portcullis, not five, as the poster had boasted. In short, it was a normal citadel built on a conservative plan, and perhaps a bit on the cheap.

Eli was supremely disappointed.

“
This
is the great citadel of Gaol?” he said, gazing
around in disgust. “Where are the six-foot walls? The multitiered locks? Where are the booby traps? The poster promised traps in every room!”

The guardsman’s hairy face turned a bit red. “Well,” he mumbled, “that’s just advertising. Those posters of the duke’s were just a precaution. Tell the thieves how impossible it is and they just give up, right? Far cheaper than actually building some supercitadel. Anyway, I’d say it worked. We’ve had no trouble from thieves since word got around about how secure the fortress was.”

“No trouble until last night,” Josef pointed out.

“Well, that’s Monpress,” the guard huffed. “He hardly counts. Don’t worry, though; the duke’ll catch him, Sir Spiritualist, make no mistake.”

“Oh, certainly,” Eli said with disgust, eyeing the hallway, which had now widened out into a large common room. “How did the duke know it was Monpress, anyway?”

“Well,” the guard said, “who else could it be?”

“Who else, indeed?” Eli said, smiling, while Josef rolled his eyes.

The officer led them out of the common room through a flimsy doorway and into a hallway even smaller and drabber than the ones before it. Eli glowered at the man’s back. So far, the “thief-proof citadel of Gaol” was a monstrous waste of time. If not for the Fenzetti, and if he wasn’t so curious about someone impersonating him, Eli would have called the whole thing off the moment they passed the unlocked weapon cabinets. Only when they were almost to the center of the citadel did Eli finally spot something promising. Their guide had led them around a corner and into a small hallway set back from the main
thoroughfare. Unlike the others, this hall was long and narrow, with a ceiling tall enough for archer stands to be placed over troops. Best of all was what waited at the end. There, at the far side of the hall, standing beside a large stone hearth and chimney, was an immense metal door. Its surface was perfectly smooth, without even a knob or handle. It was set flush against the stone without groove or crack, no way to get leverage at all. It stood black and impenetrable in the firelight as they approached, and Eli immediately began to perk up. This was more like it.

When they reached the fire pit the guard captain stopped and began to feel around in his pockets, muttering apologies.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said. “It’s something different every time.” He drew out a small sachet wrapped in white paper. He laid it in his palm, weighing it experimentally before lobbing the packet, paper and all, straight into the banked fire. The paper curled and blackened, its edges cracking as sweet-smelling smoke—Eli picked out cinnamon and thyme—rose in a white plume. Then, without warning, the fire burst upward in a full roar, blasting the tiny hall with a wave of heat.

“You again?” a flickering voice bellowed as the fire churned, but the guard just mopped a bit of soot off his balding head, completely unaware that the fire was speaking to him.

The flames slumped down sullenly. “I know,” it mumbled. “Open the door, close the door. I never get to sleep. It’s been years. I don’t know. No rest, no sleep, nothing but work…” The voice wavered like smoke in the wind and then faded as the fire dropped back to its usual size, leaving only the smell of burnt cinnamon. Somewhere
below them, machinery began to grind and the great door in front of them rolled aside.

“There you are,” the guard said. “That’s the magic gate. Don’t understand how it works, but I suppose it beats pushing that slab open with your shoulder, eh?”

“Indeed,” Eli said, doing his best to convey the absolute disgust he was sure a Spiritualist would have felt at seeing a fire spirit used in that way. It wasn’t hard. He felt kind of sour himself. He didn’t know what kind of operation Gaol was running, but wizards who overworked their spirits deserved to be robbed blind. He only wished he’d been the one to do it. His thoughts drifted back to the terrified crates, but he forced himself to stop. Whatever was going on here, he didn’t have time to deal with it. Anyway, it didn’t matter. Once word got out that Eli Monpress had robbed Gaol, the Spiritualists would start showing up in droves. They would deal with whatever abuses were going on in Gaol. That would be his gift to the spirits, and it would have to be enough. Right now, he needed to find out who was taking advantage of his reputation before the situation got out of control. He had a suspicion, but for once he really hoped he was wrong; otherwise things were going to get very, very annoying. Just thinking about it made him feel tired, and he quickly turned his attention back to the task at hand.

The room beyond the treasury door was massive. It was perfectly square, with bright, mirrored lanterns burning high overhead that Eli suspected were also spirit powered, since he could see no way a servant would get up that high to light them. The harsh, brilliant light fell over what must have once been an impressive and large collection, but was now just a neat grid of empty shelves
with only telltale holes in the dust to show there had ever been anything there.

“The entire holding of the di Fellbro family,” the guard said, almost teary. “Gone.”

“Not all gone,” Eli said, pointing across the room to where a large golden lion still took up half a shelf.

“Aye,” she guard said. “The thief left a few pieces. Some we think were too large for him to carry. Others, well, we honestly don’t know why he left them.”

Eli nodded and leaned closer. “Confidentially, friend,” he said conspiratorially, “how close are your men to catching Monpress?”

The guard’s face went red. “Hot on his heels, sir. I can’t tell you the details, of course. Security must be upheld.”

“Of course,” Eli said, smiling graciously. “Thank you, Captain, we’ll take it from here.”

The captain twisted uncertainly. “Actually, sir, I’m afraid I’ll have to stay. I couldn’t leave anyone, even a Spiritualist, alone in here.”

“Suit yourself,” Eli said with a shrug. “We won’t be long.”

The guard nodded and took a seat on the ledge of the hearth, but Eli had already stopped paying attention to him. He walked across the room to the lion and kneeled down to peer into its open mouth. Josef stood behind him, eyes roving over the empty shelves, while Nico wandered off toward the far end of the room, staring up at the high ceiling.

“So,” the swordsman said quietly, “think they’re actually close to catching the thief?”

“Not a chance,” Eli said, running his fingers over the
lion’s mane. “He wouldn’t have let us in if they had a lead. For all they know, this stuff just vanished in the night. The guard’s probably sticking around because he’s hoping we’ll give him something he can use. Look here.”

His fingers paused their roving just behind the lion’s left paw, and Eli bent down almost to the ground, peering intently at the gold with a knowing smile. “Thought so, this is a fake. Actual Golden Lions of Ser have a tiny blessing to the volcano of Ser stamped into their left paws. This one has nothing.”

“It’s not real gold?” Josef said, drumming his knuckles on the lion’s head.

“Oh, no, it’s real gold.” Eli stood, brushing off his knees. “But whoever robbed this place wasn’t your common cat burglar. Look at the shelves, not a one out of place. Even the dust is undisturbed. This room seems completely secure, far more so than anything we walked through to get here. I’ve been on the lookout since we stepped through the door and even I can’t figure out how the thief got in, or got out again with what had to be a wagonload of priceless artifacts. However, I can tell that whoever did this was patient, educated enough to spot a fake, discerning enough not to want one, and very, very good. That narrows the list down quite a bit.”

“So you know who it was?”

Eli rolled his eyes. “Let’s just say there’s only one man I know who can pull a job like this, but if we’re going to find him, I’m going to need to see a list of the duke’s business contacts.”

Josef looked at him, thoroughly confused. “Business contacts?”

“It’s our only chance. He certainly didn’t leave a clue
here.” Eli craned his head around, scanning the shelves. “Well,” he said cheerfully, “at least the Fenzetti blade is missing.”

“How is that a good thing?” Josef said.

“If the thief took it, we know it wasn’t fake.”

“Or wasn’t here to begin with,” the swordsman grumbled.

“No, no.” Eli shook his head. “If the broker said it’s here, then it’s here. Their information is always reliable; that’s why you pay through the nose for it.”

While he was speaking, Nico appeared beside Josef. The swordsman instantly stopped listening to Eli and turned his attention to her.

“Men with swords are filling the hallway,” she said quietly. “And someone is talking with our guard.”

Eli spun around. Sure enough, there was their guide at the door in deep, frantic conversation with someone Eli couldn’t see. As he watched, whoever it was ran off, and the guard took up position at the center of the door.

“The game is up,” Josef said, looking at Nico. “I’ll take the front. See if you can’t find another exit.”

Nico nodded and they broke, leaving Eli staring at empty space.

“What are you planning?” he whispered loudly, trotting after Josef as the swordsman ran for the door.

Josef didn’t answer. He reached the door and stared down the guardsman, who had turned to face them, a short sword held in his shaky hands.

“I am sorry, Sir Spiritualist,” he said, peering over Josef’s shoulder at Eli. “Orders from the top. The other guards are coming right now. I have nothing but respect for your organization, but please, surrender quietly.”

Eli stared at the guard as if he’d grown a second head before he remembered his cover story and snapped back into character.

“Surrender?” he shouted, beyond indignant. “I am here on the business of the Spirit Court! I am apprentice to the Rector Spiritualis himself, head of the Eli investigation! When it comes to Monpress, I
AM
the highest authority! And I demand that you tell those men to stand down and let us pass!”

Eli had himself in a fury now, and it was working. The guard was sweating bullets, but he still didn’t move. Behind him, the clink of metal boots on stone was deafening as the guards marched down the hall, filling their only escape with a wall of armed men, and not the conscripts from outside either, but professional soldiers.

Eli was about to start a new round of threats when Josef threw out his arm, cutting him off.

Josef looked down at the guard. “You seem like a nice fellow,” he said. “Sorry about this.”

Quick as a cat, Josef stepped forward, sliding inside the man’s guard and pinching his inner arm just below the joint of his armor. The guard cried out in pain, and his sword fell from his now-limp hand. The second it dropped, Josef spun him around and gave him a push. The man went flying into the hallway, straight into the first pack of guards. They scrambled to catch him, but the guard’s weight sent them lurching backward. By the time they recovered, Josef filled the door completely. He drew his swords and stepped into a defensive position, spinning the blades in whistling arcs, an enormous grin on his face.

The soldiers in the hall surged forward, swords drawn,
and as they crashed into Josef, the swordsman did what he did best. He planted his feet and, with a great roar, swept his swords, one high, one low, into the crowd. The soldiers, trained to fight in formation, all held their weapons at the same height. Josef’s swords sang over and below them, past their defenses. The man on the far left had it worst. Josef’s swords slammed into his armor at the shoulder and the thigh, flinging him sideways into the soldier on his right. Josef carried the momentum, throwing himself into the sweep. His weight, the force of his blows, and the unexpected angle were too much for the men, and they smashed into the far wall, grunting in pain and surprise. Swords clattered to the stone as they tried to catch themselves, but it was no use. The moment they were off balance, Josef spun and slammed them again, with his leg this time, beating them against the wall and into the doorman, who’d just finished getting up.