The Spirit Eater (Legend of Eli Monpress 3)

by Rachel Aaron

  A clatter from downstairs disrupted that happy line of thought, and the boy lunged toward the desk, dumping the orb on the chain back into the secret compartment just as his mother’s footsteps sounded on the stairs. He dove for his bed, still made up from the night before, and jumped between the sheets right as his mother banged on the door, yelling for him to get up and come do his chores before breakfast. He made a noncommittal sound and waited under the covers as she climbed back down. Only when her footsteps vanished did he let out his breath.

  In the town of Home, betraying the mayor was an unthinkable crime. Sometimes even he couldn’t believe what he was doing, but he had to do it. It was his only way out of this tiny, isolated, prison of a town. Keeping that thought front and center in his mind, the young man threw open his door and clattered down the stairs. Under his window, hidden in the dark of the secret compartment of a wronged king, the orb lay quiet and still, listening.

  “You have a spy in Monpress’s town?” Alric, Deputy Commander of the League of Storms, smiled thinly as the blue orb in the woman’s hands faded from stormy sea to calm blue. “Why am I not surprised, Sara?”

  The woman sitting at the cluttered desk beside him leaned back in her leather chair and took a draw from her long-handled pipe. “Because you are a man incapable of surprise, Alric,” she said, blowing a line of smoke in his direction. “Though you seem to delight in surprising others. Now, did you stop by just to eavesdrop on my private correspondence, or do you have a matter you actually came to discuss? If so, you’d better get on with it. I’m very busy right now.”

  With any other member of the Council of Thrones, Alric would have called that a bluff, but with Sara it was the absolute truth. Despite the Council’s supposed indifference to magic, the office of its chief official on the subject was a hive of activity at all hours of the day. Actually, he didn’t know when Sara slept. He’d never seen her leave her labyrinthine compound deep below the Council keep. Even so, he took his time answering. Busy she might be, but her implied threat was an empty one. She would never kick him out before learning why he’d come. No reason he couldn’t use that edge to get a few answers of his own.

  “Even the League isn’t exactly sure where Monpress goes to lick his wounds,” Alric said, taking a seat on the worn couch beside her desk. “Yet here you are, not only with knowledge of the village’s location but with a spy already set up inside. Very impressive; how did you do it?”

  “Quite simple,” Sara said, putting her booted feet up on the desk in front of her and obviously trying not to look like she was bragging. “When Eli’s stolen goods failed to show up for resale, we knew he was hoarding them somewhere. With his flair for the dramatic, I was sure he wasn’t stuffing his treasures under some rock. That left stashing the property, probably in a town. So I put out a general search with the Council tax bureau for any unexpected prosperity, and sure enough I found an interesting report of a little town in the middle of nowhere that, mysteriously, despite losing its place on the central trade route thanks to the Council’s completion of the Great Road, has continued to pay its annual taxes every year, even while all the towns around it were defaulting.”

  “You found him through tax fraud?” Alric was impressed despite himself.

  “Just the opposite,” Sara said. “Eli’s a clever boy, far cleverer than those idiots at the bounty office give him credit for. He knew there’s no faster way to get the Council’s attention than to skip on your taxes. Unfortunately, in his anxiety to slip under the audits, he neglected to take into account that the only thing more suspicious than defaulting on your taxes is to be the one town in a failing area that doesn’t.” She paused, giving Alric a smoke-wreathed glare. “But you didn’t appear in my office unannounced to talk about Eli. Why are you here, Alric?”

  Alric leaned forward. “You are a great friend of Heinricht Slorn, are you not?”

  Sara’s mouth twitched. “Heinricht is a colleague of mine. There’s no greater mind for Spirit Theory on the continent. We often work on problems together. But I don’t know why you’re coming to me. He’s your pet Shaper.”

  “He is indeed very important to our interests,” Alric said benignly, refusing to rise to the bait. “However, a short while ago, he vanished. I had hoped that, as his friend, you would have some clue to his whereabouts. We’re very concerned, you see.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you are,” Sara said, smiling as she cast a pointed look at the golden sword at Alric’s hip. “Swordsmith slipped the leash, did he?”

  “Call it what you like,” Alric said, casually adjusting his coat to cover his sword’s hilt. “I’m only asking if he’s contacted you. Slorn is a proud man, but he’s in a desperate situation. Desperate enough that I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s tried to reach you through his own relay point.” His eyes flicked to the blue orb on its silver chain, still lying on Sara’s desk where she’d put it down. “The information and resources at your disposal are quite considerable, and Slorn’s not a man to pass up opportunities.”

  “What makes you think I gave Slorn a relay link?” Sara said, quietly picking up the blue orb and dropping it into the strongbox on her desk, where it landed on top of a dozen other orbs just like it. “Each link is a monument of wizardry, the product of months of work by myself and my team.” She snapped the strongbox lid shut. “They are for Council use only.”

  “Really?” Alric said. “How interesting, then, that you planted something so valuable in the hands of a boy spy just to keep an eye on Monpress.”

  “Not at all,” Sara said. “Eli is of great interest to the Council.”

  “Really?” Alric’s smile sharpened. “If that’s the case, then it’s even more interesting that you don’t share your information, or the town’s location, with the Council Bounty Office.”

  “If you’re here to talk Council politics, Alric, I suggest you move on,” Sara said crossly. “I have quite enough of it without your nosing about. Now, the answer to your question is no. I have received no communication from Slorn for weeks. Is there anything else I can do for the League?”

  “Just let us know if anything comes up,” Alric said, pushing himself off the couch. “The League’s interests rarely overlap with those of the Council, but we’ve worked together enough for you to know that our word is good. You can believe me when I say that we will not forget your cooperation in this matter.”

  “Quite,” Sara said. “You don’t need me to see you out, I’m sure.”

  “No, thank you.” Alric held his hand out in front of him and closed his eyes, concentrating on his office back at League headquarters. His neat desk, the dark stone, the heavy book piled with paperwork that had undoubtedly multiplied in his absence. It took less than a second before the air shimmered in front of him, opening a long, narrow slit that glowed bright white at the edges. Through it was his office just as he had envisioned it. It was a very neat opening: no sound, no flash, just a slight breeze, but then, Alric had been a League member for a very long time.

  He put one foot through, stepping down on the cold stone of the League fortress, then he paused, standing halfway between two places, and looked over his shoulder. “Oh, Sara,” he said, almost as an afterthought. “The girl who appeared in Eli’s town, your spy said her name was Pele, correct?”

  “You heard it as well as I did,” Sara said stiffly, looking at him around a plume of pipe smoke.

  “Slorn has a daughter with the same name,” Alric said. “Isn’t that interesting?”

  “Does he?” Sara said. “I don’t keep up with his family.”

  “A pity,” Alric said, smiling. “Good day, Sara, and don’t forget to keep me informed. The League is a good friend to those who help us.”

  “And a bitter enemy to those who don’t,” Sarah finished. “Point made, now get out.”

  Alric gave her one final, gracious smile before stepping completely into his office, the cut in reality vanishing with a dim flicker behind him.

  Sara sat in h
er office for a while after he was gone, smoking furiously. Then, with a long sigh, she reached over and yanked the bell pull in the corner. It made no sound when she pulled it, but a second later, a lovely, long-haired man in a garish red coat, green britches, and a tall pair of polished black boots entered her office with a flourish.

  “Forget our discussion this morning,” Sara said as soon as he closed the door behind him. “We’re going bear hunting after all.”

  “Oh?” The man arched one perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Why the change of heart?”

  “It’s the stakes that have changed,” Sara said. “Not the heart. We might have a very rare opportunity to catch two wayward talents in one swoop, but we’re going to need a strong grip.”

  “So send Tesset,” the man said. “He’s the strongest grip we’ve got. And I’ll go along to make sure he doesn’t have one of his fits of morality.”

  Sara shook her head. “No, for this we need the biggest hammer we can get, Sparrow.” She leaned back in her chair. “I want you to get me Mellinor.”

  For the first time since he’d entered, Sparrow’s smug expression faltered. “Banage’s girl? But she’s the head of the Monpress investigation. The particulars of our deal with the Spirit Court involving her employment with the Council are very strict.”

  “As I said,” Sara said, grinning, “the stakes have changed. If Slorn sent his daughter to Eli, then we can only assume the thief is in this race as well. Banage’s pet has a strange connection with Monpress, and that’s exactly the kind of leverage we’re going to need to pull this off. I must have her. No one else will do.”

  Sparrow ran a long hand through his glossy hair. “Banage won’t like it.”

  “Hang Banage,” Sara said, blowing a ring of smoke at him. “Just go find the girl and convince her to come along. That’s what I pay you for.”

  “As you wish,” Sparrow said, turning back toward the door.

  “Have her here tomorrow morning,” Sara called as he left. “First appointment.”

  The door closed without an answer, but she knew Sparrow had heard. Even if he hadn’t, she didn’t care. There were larger games afoot. Sara turned back to her desk and reached under the piles of drafting parchment scribbled with designs and notes. After a little fumbling, she pulled out the long, narrow slip of paper she’d hidden when Alric had stepped unannounced into her room, right before the badly timed call from her spy in Eli’s village had come in. It rankled her that Alric had been there to yank that bit of information, but she pushed her annoyance aside. He was the sort of man who it was better to assume knew everything already anyway. That way you were never caught off-guard.

  She smoothed the strip of paper between her fingers. It had arrived this morning, dropped through her window by a large bird she didn’t recognize. That much wasn’t unusual. She often received messages that way, but the contents of this paper were something else entirely. It was a short letter, barely more than a paragraph, asking for assistance in a chase. The letter was not signed, but there was no need for a name. It was a hand she knew well. After years spent poring over whatever of his documents she could get her hands on, Slorn’s writing was as familiar as her own.

  “Well, well, Heinricht,” she murmured, feeding the note into the little furnace in her office. “Looks like you’ll get your help after all.”

  She smiled as the paper curled into ash. As it burned, she looked up at the wall above her desk. There, pasted to the metal, were two rows of nearly identical wanted posters. They were arranged chronologically, each bearing the same name above a portrait of the same smiling, boyish face. The only differences between them were the list of crimes, which grew longer and denser with each printing, and the number below the portrait. It was the number that was truly impressive, climbing exponentially from its start on the first poster at three hundred standards to the newest entry, a freshly printed sheet at the end bearing a number large enough to be a national budget: ninety-eight thousand gold standards.

  Sara reached up to touch the closest poster, tracing her finger along the boy’s intricately shaded jawline. “High stakes indeed,” she whispered, her face breaking into a smile. “Let’s see whom luck favors this time around, my little Eliton.”

  On the wall, the poster’s unchanging face smiled back, just as it always did.

  CHAPTER

  6

  Miranda Lyonette squinted at the tiny script of the report in her hands, wishing, for the hundredth time that hour, that the Council had decided to save money in some way other than teaching its scribes to write in microscopic strokes. It would also help if the investigators could somehow manage to be thorough and interesting in their reports. It might be asking a bit much, but how anyone could make Eli Monpress’s theft of the Queen of Verdun’s diamond crown and his subsequent getaway through the burning canals boring was beyond her comprehension.

  Miranda threw the report on the table and leaned back in her chair, rubbing her tired eyes. It had been three weeks since Lord Whitefall had made her head of the joint Spirit Court and Council of Thrones Monpress investigation. True to his word, he’d arranged an office for her the next day, and Miranda found herself operating out of a Council warehouse by the river that was uncomfortably warm during the day and damp at night. This was tolerable, however, for the space was large enough for Gin with plenty of room left for the enormous stacks of filing shelves Lord Whitefall had sent over from the main Council offices. She had also been provided with a staff, consisting of a runner, a scribe, and a file clerk. This had struck her as odd at first. She’d thought she’d be getting a Council investigator, or at least someone familiar with Monpress, but that was before she’d discovered exactly how much paperwork was involved in her new position.

  One week into her new job and she understood why Lord Whitefall’s office looked the way it did. The Council produced paper at a spectacular rate. Every afternoon a cart brought boxes of reports, observations, and strategies from the central office. Each was copied in triplicate, one for her to sign and send back as proof that she had read it, one for her active use, and one for her records. Worse, nearly all of it was useless—commentary on past crimes and idiotic suggestions from Council members who seemed to get all their information on Monpress from the gossip sheets, where he was a regular and much followed figure, even when he hadn’t pulled a crime in over a month.

  “Especially when he hasn’t pulled a crime in over a month,” Miranda muttered, looking balefully over at the other stack of papers on her desk. Shorter than the Council reports but still an impressive pile, these were great sheets of cheap yellow paper folded in half and printed with enormous lettering. The top one proclaimed MONPRESS STILL AT LARGE!!! above a dramatized engraving of a jaunty Monpress carrying a fat man with a crown, presumably the king of Mellinor, over his shoulder while a tall man with rings on his fingers and another figure in the white uniform of the Council guards looked around cluelessly in the background.

  Miranda rubbed her throbbing temples. If the Council reports were dull and overresearched, the gossip sheets were the exact opposite. Below the picture were paragraphs full of exclamations and bold claims with the important points underlined for maximum impact. Where was Monpress now? Why hadn’t he been active? Was it a cover-up? Why wasn’t the Spirit Court doing anything? Where are the bounty hunters?

  The speculations ran all the way to the fold, which was a bit long even for cheap sensationalism. Still, with Eli gone to ground, the public was hungry for more coverage, even when it was a simple rehashing of known information. Miranda reached out and flipped the paper open, grimacing as the cheap ink smudged onto her fingers. The feature on Monpress continued below the fold, ending with an editorial piece from an anonymous Concerned Council Member titled OUR GREATEST THREAT.

  “Who is the greatest threat to our security today? Besides the ever-present threat of the Immortal Empress from across the sea, a look down the Council’s bounty list provides a feast of villainy. Yet ask the man on th
e street, the farmer in the field, and the answer is always the same: wizards. We all know of the events in Mellinor, where a wizard nearly took control of a kingdom single-handedly through force of his magic. The so-called Spirit Court has told us this was the doing of Eli Monpress, but if that’s so, then why does Monpress go uncaught? How does an organization that can talk to the wind itself fail to capture a man so notorious? The answer is simple enough for a child: Because they are in allegiance with the thief! How many more disasters will we allow the wizards to blame on Monpress, their ‘supposed’ rogue? How much higher must Monpress’s bounty get before we wake up and realize that our anger should be focused not on the thief, but on his masters, the so-called Spirit Court and its king, Etmon Banage!”

  There was more, but Miranda didn’t bother to read it. She balled up the paper and threw it as hard as she could across the room. It landed beside Gin, who woke with a snort, glaring at the paper before turning his orange eyes on his mistress. “I told you not to waste your time with that trash.”

  “It gets worse every day!” Miranda shouted, slamming her hands on the table.

  “It’s always been like this,” Gin said. “It just seems worse because you’re paying attention to it now.”

  “Look.” She grabbed a fistfull of yellow sheets from the stack and shook them at the hound. “Every one of these sorry excuses for print sings the same tune: ‘The Spirit Court is a bunch of bungling idiots who can’t catch a thief,’ ‘Eli Monpress is working for the wizards!’ And it’s always us. You never see one of these anonymous letters criticizing the Council.”

  “That’s because the Council outsources all its catching to bounty hunters rather than sending its own people,” Gin said, yawning. “Easier to blame someone when you know their name.”