The Legend Of Eli Monpress (7 page)

Gin trotted to a stop in front of one such establishment, a ramshackle building with the words merrymont tavern painted in fading, uneven block letters across the shuttered upper story.

“This looks like the place,” Miranda said, sliding off Gin’s back. Marion followed timidly, wincing as her nice court slippers hit the muddy road with a wet slap. The wooden buildings here tilted in every direction, leaning on each other like drunks until it was difficult to tell where one ended and the next began. The smell of stagnant water and unwashed bodies hung in a haze over the narrow streets, but there was no one to be seen. Every window was dark and empty, projecting gloom and decay until even the noon sunlight seemed dimmer. Miranda surveyed the empty streets, her face set in her best imitation of the Rector Spiritualis at a Council meeting, equal parts nonchalant superiority and honed indifference to the opinions of others. If growing up in the enormous city
of Zarin had taught her anything, it was that empty streets hid the most ears of all.

“Gin,” she said loudly, “if anyone gives you trouble, don’t bother asking permission, just eat them.”

Gin responded by lazily stretching his forelegs out in front of him and yawning, revealing a mouth of yellow, glistening teeth as his ears swiveled for any hint of sound.

Satisfied that no one would bother them after that little display, Miranda marched up the rickety stairs of the Merrymont and pushed aside the muddy blanket that served as a door. The barroom was narrow, dark, and stank of the river. It was also just as empty as the street outside, though the mugs scattered on the warped tables told her it hadn’t been that way a few moments ago. Large, stained barrels took up most of the room, their taps dripping something that smelled faintly of rotting bread and vinegar. The only windows were papered over with advertisements and notices, including a large, peeling poster featuring a pair of girls wearing outfits that made Miranda blush. Looking away, she selected a cleanish table near the center of the room and sat down so that she was facing the main entrance. Marion, white as new cheese and twice as wobbly, took a seat beside her.

The librarian eyed the empty tables and the trash scattered across the warped floor boards. “I don’t think your expert is here,” she whispered.

“He will be,” Miranda said, setting her bag in the chair beside her. “The Spirit Court pays its informants very well, and bounty hunters thrive in trash heaps like this.”

“Such words of praise,” a deep voice purred behind them. “You’ll make me blush, little wizardess.”

Marion fell out of her chair with a series of squeaks, but Miranda stayed perfectly still.

“Well met, Mr. Coriano,” she said calmly. “You seem to be living up to your reputation.” Without turning, she motioned to the chair on the other side of the table. “Since you have time to sneak around and scare young women, surely you can spare a few moments.”

She felt more than heard him stalk around the table. As he came into her line of vision, Miranda did not waste her first look at the infamous Gerard Coriano. He was shorter than she’d expected, with black hair that he wore tied in a ponytail. His clothes were plain, brown cloth and leather, and his face had a sharp, hawkish handsomeness to it that was pleasant enough save for the long, thin scar running down the left side. It started at his temple, split his eyebrow, and ran down his cheek and over his lips, stopping just above his jaw. His left eye was discolored and murky where the scar crossed it, but it followed her movements just as well as his right, which was cold and flat gray-blue. He wore a sword low on his hip, but the guard and hilt were wrapped in thick felt that only hinted at their shape. Judging from the way he took his seat, however, Miranda harbored no illusions that the wrapping would slow his draw.

Coriano leaned on the table, gloved hands steepled in front of him and a small smile tugging at the edge of his thin mouth. “That was quite a display you put on outside. Normally, I prefer a note left at the bar, but I should know better by now than to expect subtlety from a Spiritualist.”

“I would have contacted you more discreetly if I had time to wait in seedy taverns,” Miranda said. “We
Spiritualists lack the copious amounts of leisure time you bounty hunters seem to enjoy, Mr. Coriano.”

His smile broadened, and he leaned back in his chair. “How may I help you?”

“You’ve been tracking the wizard thief Eli Monpress for months.” Miranda leaned forward. “Both of our last tips came from you. I want to know how you do it.”

Coriano glanced pointedly down at her rings. “What, can’t root him out with your little menagerie? I thought that was one of the Spiritualist’s specialties.”

Miranda didn’t bother to hide her annoyance. “With any other rogue wizard, yes, but Eli hides his tracks very well. You, however, always seem to be right on his heels.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a heavy sack that jingled invitingly when she laid it on the table. “That’s double the normal payment. It’s yours if you tell me how to find him. More, if you lead me there.”

Coriano glanced at the money, then back at her. “If I knew how to find Eli and his companions, do you really think I’d be wasting my time here?”

“Maybe, if you’re as smart as the rumors say.” Miranda moved her hand slightly, maneuvering her rings to catch the dim light. “You might be a great swordsman, but you can’t take Eli on your own. You need a wizard to fight a wizard, or why else would you endanger your prize by tipping off the Spiritualists?”

“How do you know we’re after the same prize?” Coriano said, tapping his fingers on the table.

“Because Eli is the prize everyone is after,” she said sweetly. “Even us. If I catch Eli, his Council bounty belongs to the Spirit Court. Twenty thousand standards would be quite a boon to our budget. However”—Miranda
leaned forward and lowered her voice—“there are things we value far more than money. If you help me, perhaps we can come to an arrangement. I have the authority to be very generous in this affair, Mr. Coriano.”

Coriano leaned forward to match her. “Banage must be desperate indeed if he’s stooped to making deals.”

Miranda jerked back. “The Rector Spiritualis does what is best for the harmony of the Spirit Court,” she said coldly. “Eli Monpress’s rising notoriety threatens the good reputation we’ve spent the last several hundred years building.”

“More valuable than gold indeed.” Coriano smirked. “Can’t have Monpress playing the wolf when the good Rector Spiritualis is busy trying to convince the world he’s leading a flock of sheep.”

“You will not find me a docile lamb,” Miranda said flatly. “Will you help us, or am I wasting my breath?”

“Oh, you’re not wasting anything,” Coriano said. “This has been quite a charming chat. Sadly, I’m afraid I can’t offer you my services this time around. I have a prior engagement. Besides,” he smiled, “I don’t think our methods would mesh.”

“What kind of prior engagement is worth jeopardizing your good standing with the Spirit Court?” Miranda scoffed. “Master Banage has spoken so highly of your services, he would be most disappointed if you didn’t help me now.”

“How dreadful,” Coriano said and arched his scarred eyebrow. “In that case, let me give you some advice, as one professional to another.” He leaned in close, lowering his voice to an almost inaudible whisper. “Don’t underestimate Monpress. He’s a wizard, true, but not as you are, and he’s been doing this for a long time. That
twenty thousand bounty he carries isn’t an exaggeration. Monpress has stolen enough gold from the Council Kingdoms to live like a king for five lifetimes, but the only records we have of him spending it are on setups for ever-larger thefts. Some of the world’s best bounty hunters have chased him for months and caught nothing but stories, others simply vanished. This has led some experienced hunters to dismiss him as a wild chase, but that is because they have failed to understand Monpress’s only constant: his pride in his vocation. Eli Monpress is a true thief. He steals for the joy of it. He doesn’t make a show unless he wants you to see, and he never runs before he’s gotten what he came for. He may act the charming fool, but he has a goal to everything he does. Find out what he really wants, and then position yourself so that he has to go through you to get it. Make him come to you. That’s the only way you’ll catch him.

“Now,” he said, holding up the bag of money, which Miranda hadn’t seen him take, “I’ve told you how to find him, so I’ll be taking the payment as agreed.”

He stood up in one smooth motion and bowed courteously, slipping the bulging coin purse into his pocket. “Forgive me, ladies, I must hurry to my next appointment. I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

He left the way he had come, disappearing as quietly as a cat behind the empty bar. Miranda gave him to the count of twenty before pushing her chair back with a clatter and stomping out of the decrepit tavern.

“Complete waste of time,” she muttered, shoving the dirty blanket out of her way. “For all the information he gave us, I might as well have interrogated the door a few more times.”

Marion followed meekly, eyes on the dusty corners in case any other mysterious swordsmen were waiting to make an entrance. “What did he mean ‘a wizard not as you are’?”

“How should I know?” Miranda said, marching down the creaking stairs. “I don’t think he understands what comes out of his mouth any more than we do. We’ll just have to expand the search. There’s got to be something I’m missing. Whatever Coriano says about Eli’s skill, Monpress can’t do what he’s doing without a spirit’s help, and he can’t use spirits without leaving some trace. He’s been lucky so far, but as soon as I can figure out his gimmick, I’ll wring his—” She stopped short.

The street outside was just as empty as it had been when they’d arrived. Gin was where they had left him, slouched on the ground. His large head rested on his paws, one of which had something squirmy pinned in the mud beneath it.

“You have a visitor,” he said, tail twitching. “He didn’t want to wait until you were done with your meeting, but I convinced him otherwise.”

“Gin,” Miranda said through gritted teeth. “Let him up.”

The ghosthound lifted his paw, and Miranda hurried to help the man. Even covered in mud, the royal messenger’s livery was recognizable. He wobbled a bit, like his knees wouldn’t support him, and Miranda had to position herself between him and Gin before he could get his message out.

“T-the Master of Security s-sent me to f-find you, lady,” he stuttered. “A letter just arrived from the king.”

Miranda’s face lit up. “A letter from the king? How long ago?”

“Master Oban sent me as soon as it came,” he said, keeping his distance from the Spiritualist and her monster. “Ten minutes maybe? Twenty?”

That was all Miranda needed. She hooked her arm over Gin’s nose and he lifted her up onto his waiting back.

“Lady!” Marion cried. “Where are you going?”

“To the castle, of course!” Miranda shouted. “Eli’s made his move, and I’m not about to let him get away so easily this time.”

Marion opened her mouth to say something else, but the ghosthound dashed behind her and Miranda swept the girl up onto his back. Gin whirled, patterns flashing wildly over his fur, and dashed up the hill, pouncing in silent bounds toward the castle.

The moment the ghosthound was out of sight, the neighborhood started pouring out of its hiding places. Men, women, and grubby children flooded the muddy street, and the royal messenger found himself surrounded by gawking, dirty people. One look at the knives some of the men wore in their boots and the messenger decided it was time to return as well, and he followed the ghosthound up the hill toward the castle at a dead run.

O
ban, the Master of Security, was waiting for them at the castle gate with a roll of parchment in his hand.

“Lady Miranda!” he shouted, running toward them as Gin slid to a stop.

“Is that the letter?” Miranda hopped down.

“Yes.” He shoved the parchment into her hand. “Read it quickly.”

She shook the paper open and read, muttering along as she went. “
King is safe … Send riders to the Council … Mellinor shall pledge an additional thirty-five thousand to Monpress’s bounty
”—her eyebrows shot up—“
and five thousand in cash
—these demands are ridiculous!” She shook her head as she finished reading. “ ‘
Raise a white flag from the second tower when you receive the new bounty notice from the Council and await further instructions
.’ Why that greedy little thief, what is he playing at?” She thrust the note back at Oban. “You said the king wrote this?”

“Yes,” Oban said, “under much duress, we fear.”

Miranda gave him a flat look. “He has very good handwriting for a king under duress.”

“Oh, this isn’t the original.” The Master of Security ran a nervous hand over his bald head. “It’s a scribe copy.”

“Well, that won’t do.” Miranda put her hands on her hips. “Where is the original? I need it now.” Time was precious. If she got it soon enough, the faint, weak spirits in the ink might still remember the ink pot they’d lived in. That would give her a direction at least, maybe even a relative distance, but only if she got to them before they fell asleep completely and forgot that they’d ever been anything except words on a page.

The Master of Security blanched. “I’m afraid I can’t get it, lady. The situation’s, um”—he clutched his hands—“changed.”