The Spirit Rebellion (22 page)

They sat in silence, and then, slowly, Lelbon stood up.

“Well,” he said, “if that’s your final decision, I won’t insult you with arguments. However”—he reached into the folds of his white robe and drew out a little square of bright, colored paper—“should you change your mind, just give us a signal.”

He pushed the folded paper into Miranda’s hands before she could refuse and turned away, padding across the sand toward the cave’s mouth. Belatedly, Miranda stood up and hurried after to show him out. It was only good manners, though she felt a bit ridiculous playing hostess in a cave. Even so, Lelbon smiled graciously as she ducked with him under the cave’s low-hanging lip and out onto the stony beach.

“I am sorry,” Miranda started to say, but the man shook his head.

“All I ask is that you think about it. After all”—his soft voice took on a cutting edge—“you are the Spiritualist. You must decide how best to uphold your duty.”

Miranda winced at that, but said nothing. Lelbon smiled politely and, after a little bow, walked away down the beach. She watched him go, feeling slightly awkward. After his dramatic and mysterious arrival, she’d thought for sure his exit would be something more dramatic than ambling down the stony beach. But the old man kept walking, his bare feet deftly dodging the patches of stone
and broken shells, growing smaller and smaller behind the clouds of sea spray. She was about to turn back into her cave when she caught a motion out of the corner of her eye.

Far down the shore, she saw Lelbon raise his hand, as if he were hailing someone. As his hand went up, a great wind rose, whipping Miranda’s hair across her face as it barreled down the beach. It reached Lelbon seconds after passing her, and the old man’s shapeless robe belled out around him like a kite. As she watched, his bare feet left the sand. He soared up with the wind, the white of his robe like a seabird against the dull gray sky, and vanished over the cliffs. Miranda ran into the water, hoping to see more of his amazing flight, but the sky was empty, and the old man was already gone.

She was still staring when the sound of something heavy landing in the sand behind her made her spin around. Gin crouched behind her, panting as if he’d run the whole cliff line. “What’s going on? What was that enormous wind?”

“Wasn’t it amazing?” Eril said before Miranda could even open her mouth. “It was one of the great winds who serve the west. I’ve never met a wind so large!”

“What was a great wind doing here?” Gin growled, glaring at the sky.

“Trying to give us a job,” Eril said, whirling so that his words blasted into Miranda’s face. “I can’t believe you turned him down! Illir is the greatest of the Wind Lords, and you passed up the chance to do him a personal favor?”

“Wait, what?” Gin looked at the wind. “What kind of job?”

“One we’re not taking,” Miranda said firmly, sending a poke of power at Eril. “If it had been anywhere else, maybe, but there isn’t a spirit in the world who could make me go to Gaol.”

As she was saying this, Eril was talking under her in a frantic rush, filling Gin in on the particulars of Lelbon’s request. Gin listened, the fur on his back standing up in a ridge by the time the wind finished.

“Is it true?” he said, orange eyes flashing as he looked at Miranda. “You turned down a plea of help from a spirit who sought you out?”

“Don’t look at me like that!” Miranda shouted. “I didn’t make us fugitives to turn around and walk straight into Hern’s backyard! Would you have me make everything we went through in Zarin worthless?”

“Better than making your entire career as a Spiritualist worthless!” Gin shouted back. “We are your spirits, Miranda. We serve you because we believe in you. The Miranda I follow would never turn down a spirit’s plea for help.”

“Weren’t you listening to anything I’ve said?” Miranda cried. “Master Banage—”

“Banage would never forgive a Spiritualist who turned her back on her oath to the spirits in order to serve the Court.” Gin was snarling now. “And you know it.”

“That’s not fair!” Miranda said. “This isn’t that simple!”

“Isn’t it?” Gin growled, turning away. “You told me not too long ago that there was right and there was wrong, and no amount of words could bridge the gap between the two. Maybe it’s time you considered your own words, and what those prized oaths of yours really mean.”

With that, the dog took off down the beach. Miranda could only stare after him, fuming. She felt Eril slide back into his pendant, curling back into place with a long, disappointed sigh, leaving her alone on the long, thin stretch of rocky beach. Suddenly too tired to go back into the cave, Miranda sat down in the sand, digging her bare feet under the smooth rocks and staring out at the pounding waves.

To serve the spirits, to protect them from harm, to uphold their well-being above all else, that was the oath all Spiritualists took the day they received their first ring. Miranda looked down at the heavy gold ring on the middle finger of her left hand, tracing the smooth, perfect circle stamped deep into the soft metal. It was supposed to represent the circle of connection between all things, from the smallest spirits to the greatest kings, and the Spirit Court’s duty to promote balance within that connection.

The ocean spray blew her hair wild around her face as she turned to look where Gin had gone. Balance and duty, right and wrong. Even as she thought about it, she could almost feel Banage’s disdainful look. After all, Banage’s deep voice echoed in her head. What greater shame could there be for the Spirit Court than a Spiritualist who turned her back on a spirit in need?

She reached into her pocket and took out the flat, folded square of colored paper Lelbon had given her. She turned it carefully, unfolding the delicate paper again and again until she held nearly four feet of colorful tissue streaked with reds, greens, and golds in her hands. There was nothing written on it, no note, no instructions, but when she reached the center of the square, the paper
ended in a sharp point tied to a long string. Feeling a bit silly, Miranda stood up, careful to hold the fluttering paper out of the water. She walked to the edge of the beach and released the paper into the wind. It whipped up, colored streamer flapping as it soared into the sky, anchored by the string Miranda wrapped around her fingers. For a long moment the colored kite danced in the sea wind, dipping and bobbing. Then, without warning, a wind snatched the kite out of her hand. The bright, colored paper flew up into the sky, turning little cartwheels as the wind blew it off, dancing and dipping westward, over the sea.

Miranda watched the kite until it vanished behind the clouds, and then she turned to find Gin. She didn’t have to go far. He came trotting up almost at once, looking immensely pleased with himself.

“I knew you’d come around,” he said, tail wagging. “Are we leaving now or do you still need to get something?”

Miranda looked back at the cave. Her little fire had already flickered out, and everything else she had was on her back.

“Don’t think so,” she said. “Ready when you are.”

“I’ve been ready for the last five days,” Gin grumbled, lying down so she could climb up. When she was steady, he jumped, taking the first rocky ledge in one leap. The beach swung crazily below them, and Miranda felt all her blood running to her feet. By the third jump, Gin’s claws were scraping on bare stone, and Miranda closed her eyes to keep from being sick. Then they were on flat ground at the top of the cliff face, and Gin was asking her which way to go.

“East and south,” Miranda said.

“How far?” Gin asked, loping over the scrubby grass.

“I don’t know.” Miranda bit her lip. “If we go east, we’ll hit the road to the river, but if we cut cross-country, two days’ hard running?”

“Right,” Gin said, nodding. “We’ll be there tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow morning?” Miranda scoffed. “You can’t fly, mutt.”

“No?” Gin grinned. “Watch me.”

He picked up speed, racing over the low hills faster and faster until it was all Miranda could do to hold on.

“Gin!” she cried over the wind. “You can’t keep this up all the way to Gaol!”

“You worry about what we do when we get there,” he shouted back. “Leave the running to me.”

After that, Miranda gave up and held on. Clinging to the ghosthound’s shifting fur, she tried to think of what she’d do when they reached Gaol, but her mind was blank. After all, she didn’t even know what they were looking for, and though Lelbon had said the West Wind would help, she didn’t know what kind of help a great wind spirit considered appropriate, or if she’d recognize it when it came. Still, being on the road again, running toward a purpose, these made her happier than she’d been since arriving in Zarin, and she contented herself with holding on as the rocky fields and scrubby grass streaked by. Overhead, the cloudy sky grew dimmer as evening approached.

E
li woke up to bright sunlight in his face and Josef’s boot poking his ribs.

“Get up,” Josef said. “The situation’s changed.”

Eli sat up, rubbing the grit out of his eyes. When he looked again, Josef was gone. He blinked a few times, trying to figure out if he’d dreamed the whole uncomfortable event, and then he spotted the ladder nailed to the wooden wall of the warehouse beside the door.

It was a hairy climb. The ladder was nailed to the wall with no allowance for footing, and he wasn’t actually awake enough for this sort of thing. Still, a few moments later he wiggled through the trapdoor to the sloped roof to find Nico and Josef lying belly down on the wooden shingles, staring across the water. The warehouses, being, as they were, by the river, were at the lowest point of Gaol. From the roof, however, you could see into the city proper, which seemed to be in some commotion.

“The sun’s barely up,” Eli said, yawning. “What is it, a bakers’ riot?”

“Not sure,” Josef said, eyeing the crowds that filled the broad streets leading up to the citadel. “Those are hardly bakers, unless bakers in Gaol make bread with swords. I was going to guess peasant riot, but the crowd’s far too calm, and nothing’s happening at the citadel. So now I’m thinking conscript army, and seeing as we’re knee-deep in a thief trap made for Eli Monpress, I’d say that crowd has your name on it.”

“Well,” Eli said, “they’re going the wrong way.”

He was right. The well-armed crowd in the street was heading away from the docks, marching uphill toward the keep.

“I wonder,” Eli said, standing on his toes to get a better view. “We should head down and find out what’s going on.”

Josef glared at him. “What did I just say last night about curiosity?”

“Josef,” Eli tsked, “this isn’t just curiosity; it’s groundwork. You gave me a day and a night to pull this job, and I can hardly steal a Fenzetti blade from here. Come on.” He smiled, heading for the trapdoor. “Let’s get dolled up.”

He vanished down the ladder. Nico and Josef exchanged a long-suffering look before getting up and following.

Though years of thievery and natural inclination had given Eli a quick hand and inventive eye for improvised disguises, he always kept the staples on hand. There were some things you simply could not count on improvising. The moment he reached the floor of the warehouse, he ran to his pack and began pulling things out. He had a surprisingly large pile before he found what he was
looking for: a small, carefully wrapped package tied with string. Eli undid the knots deftly and the package spilled open, revealing a cascade of golden, flowing hair, the crown jewel of his costume collection.

He shook the wig out a few times, but it needed very little. Wigs of this quality never did, if you stored them right. Eli didn’t know how much it had cost, but he guessed quite a bit since its previous owner, the Princess of Pernoff, had seen fit to store it in the safe with her jewels. Eli had relieved her of both that night, and though the jewels were long gone, the wig remained one of his favorite possessions.

Using his fingers, Eli brushed his short hair back until it was flat against his head, and then, leaning over, slid the wig on with practiced ease. When he came up again, he looked remarkably different. The pale golden locks hung in subtle waves around his face, setting off his pale skin in a way his own dark hair never had, making him look delicate and noble in a fragile way, something he took full advantage of.

“Powers,” Josef said, jumping off the ladder. “Not that thing again.”

“I’ll stop wearing it when it stops working,” Eli said, pinning the wig into its final position with a half-dozen tiny hairpins. “See if there’s anything workable in the crates. I saw one addressed to Freeman’s Clothier in Zarin that might have something good.”

Josef walked over to the pile of wooden boxes and began reading the faded shipping manifests. He had to move several to get to the crate Eli had mentioned, but when he cracked it open, they were not disappointed.

“Perfect,” Eli said, grinning.

Inside was a neatly folded stack of brocade jackets,
obviously intended for some tremendously overpriced shop in Zarin. Eli pawed through them, finally picking out a garish red-and-gold peacock pattern that matched the wig perfectly and, as an added bonus, caused Josef to sigh in disgust. Unfortunately, the only coat in the box that would fit over Josef’s broad shoulders was a hideous green monstrosity that he refused to wear. Finally, Josef settled for a thick, black shirt from his own pack.