The Legend Of Eli Monpress (58 page)

“I have an idea,” Eli said carefully, picking a tart out of the pile. “But I’d have to get a look at the scene of the crime to be sure.”

“What?” Josef said. “You mean
inside
the citadel? The one surrounded by armed guards?”

“Well, I certainly can’t tell anything from out here,” Eli said.

Josef frowned. “You do realize this could all be part of the trap.”

“What?” Eli said, his mouth full of sweet pastry. “Fake a robbery so I’d come and investigate? That’s a bit of a long shot. Think of it like this: We’re here for a Fenzetti blade. Now, if another thief did break in, he either took the blade with him or had to leave it. Either way, we have to go into that citadel, either to pick up the thief’s trail or get the blade for ourselves. The way I see it, we’ve just had the opportunity of a lifetime dropped in our laps. They’re getting their orders now, but in a few moments, that whole crowd of citizen soldiers is going to start tearing this town apart looking for Eli Monpress. By going into the citadel, we’ll be going to the only place they’re
not
going to be looking. No thief good enough to get into the Duke of Gaol’s citadel would ever return to the scene of the crime. When you look at it that way, the citadel’s the safest place in the city for us to be right now.”

Josef gave him a long look, casually sliding a dagger in and out of his sleeve as he thought about it. “That’s some twisted Eli logic,” he said at last, “but I’ll bite. Anyway, sneaking into a citadel sounds a lot more interesting than hiding in a warehouse until dark.”

“Ah,” Eli said, licking the last of the tart off his fingers. “But that’s the brilliant bit of the plan. We won’t be sneaking. They’re going to let us in all nice and legal.”

Josef arched an eyebrow. “How are you going to manage that?”

Eli only smiled and shoved the wicker basket at him. “Just eat your breakfast. I’ve got to do some shopping. Be back in five minutes.”

Josef barely had time to grab the basket before Eli was gone, ducking back out into the street with a flash of fake golden hair and vanishing expertly into the crowd. Josef stood there, holding the basket and watching where Eli had been for a moment, and then he sighed and sank back against the wall.

“Never boring with him, is it?” he said, fishing the loaf out of the basket and biting deep into the warm, dark bread.

Nico shook her head and helped herself to another tart.

Ten minutes later, Eli popped back into the alley carrying a small velvet bag in his fist and grinning like a cat who’d just eaten a coop of canaries. Josef stopped twirling the empty breadbasket between his fingers and straightened up. “What did you buy?”

“Take a look,” Eli said and opened the drawstring, upturning the velvet bag over his open hand. There was a faint tinkling sound, and a glittering cascade fell out of the bag into Eli’s waiting palm. They were rings. Jeweled rings in a rainbow of colors, all set in gold bands of various thickness. Some of the stones were round and smooth, others were cut to sharp points that refracted the morning light in glowing colors, and not a single one was smaller than the first knuckle of Eli’s thumb. They were, in short, the tackiest, gaudiest jewelry Josef had ever seen.

“Powers, Eli,” Josef said, picking up a ring set with a ruby that was almost larger than the embellished band it was attached to. “I hope you stole these. I can’t imagine paying good money for something this ugly.”

“Oh, I paid for them,” Eli said, shoving the rings onto his fingers. “But not much, don’t worry. They’re glass. Fakes. I saw them in the window of one of the stores as we were walking up. They’re what gave me the idea for how we’re going to get into the citadel, actually. Look.” He held up his newly adorned hands and wiggled his fingers. “Remind you of anyone?”

He’d crammed the rings onto every finger, thumbs included. His right pinky actually had two rings, both smaller gold and pearl bands that looked like something a father would buy for his spoiled daughter. But he was right, the effect was familiar, and Josef began to understand.

It didn’t seem possible, but Eli’s grin grew even wider. “Come on,” he said, turning on his heel. “This is going to be the most fun I’ve had all year.”

Josef stepped out after him. Nico, still licking her sticky fingers, kept right on the swordsman’s heels.

G
in 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?”