The Spirit Rebellion (30 page)

The duke gave him a cold look, and Othril backed away. “Of course, my lord. As you say.”

The duke nodded. “What about our other business? Is the Spiritualist secured?”

“Yes,” the wind said, used to the duke’s sudden subject changes. “And the measures to make sure she stays that way are in place, as you ordered. Hern was gloating the whole time, though his cronies looked less pleased. He swears she’s the real Miranda Lyonette, the one who worked with Monpress in Mellinor. She won’t wake for another hour or two, but she apparently knows Eli better than most. Are you going to go talk to her?”

“Of course not,” the duke said. “In an hour or two, everything should be over. Besides, no amount of information is worth dealing with extremists like Banage and his sympathizers. I have far too many contingencies as it is. No, so far as I’m concerned, she’s Hern’s problem now. I’m just keeping hold of her for the moment, since Hern can’t keep a prisoner to save his life. It’s his love of gloating. He gives them too many opportunities for escape.”

“What about her dog?” the wind asked. “I’ve been hearing reports from the countryside about a dog.”

“As I said,” the duke said, walking out of the treasury, “Hern’s problem. Moving on, is the city ready for lockdown?”

“Of course,” the wind said. “Has been for hours. All we’re waiting on now is for the conscripts to finish clearing the last of the nonenlisted townsfolk back into their homes.”

“Good.” The duke smiled as he walked down the front steps of his citadel. “It may not be unfolding quite as I designed, but the trap is still in place. Eli will come, mark my words. Just be ready to tighten the noose when you hear the signal.”

“Yes, lord duke,” the wind said, spiraling up into the cloudless sky as the duke made his way across the square shouting for his officers.

On a black cliff above the gray northern sea stood a great citadel. It was cut from the same black stone as the cliff, or perhaps it was part of the cliff. After so many years it was difficult to tell. It stood tall and sharp, looming over the choppy waves and the desolate strip of shore far below like some great weapon dropped in an ancient battle of giants. Yet it stood alone. There was no town nestled in the rocky field at its base, no houses on the barren hills beyond. Nothing but stone and sand and wind-dwarfed trees and the citadel, its windows dark beneath the grudging noon light that filtered through the ashy clouds overhead.

Midway up one of the leaning towers, sitting at a broad desk that faced one of the larger windows overlooking the sea, Alric, Deputy Commander of the League of Storms, was dealing with the morning’s crises. A demonseed had awakened in the desert that spanned the southern tip of the Immortal Empress’s domain. So far, it had eaten three dunes, a cactus forest, a small nomad camp, and the agent who’d been sent to deal with it. Alric listened carefully to the wind spirit who’d come with the report, his thin-lined face set in a thoughtful frown as the wind blustered about the size of the demon and how it had already eaten a great desert storm and didn’t Alric know they were all doomed?

When the wind finally blew itself out, Alric turned to the large, open book that took up most of his desk, and he flipped to the last page. Taking his sharp pen, he neatly
crossed out the name of the now-deceased agent. It was a shame. The boy had shown promise. He flipped forward a few pages and decided to put one of his senior agents on the desert problem. Ante Chejo was an excellent swordsman and a level thinker, and he was from that part of the empire. He would do nicely. Decision made, Alric made a note next to Chejo’s name in the great book and called in a runner. The silent, somber-suited man was at his side instantly. Alric gave him the orders and the runner left to find Chejo.

Thanking the wind for the message, Alric sent it to wait in the courtyard with stern assurances that Chejo would take care of things from here on. The wind didn’t seem convinced, but it left, blowing out the window in a blustery huff and leaving Alric to deal with the other fires that were already flaring up.

There were rumors of a possible demonseed on the southern jungles of the Council Kingdoms and a new report of something off the north coast of the White Wastes, which was probably just a leviathan but had to be investigated all the same. There were reports piling up from agents in the major cities on demon cult activity, fund movements, and possible candidates for the League as well as the usual panic reports from spooked spirits that had to be investigated, compiled observations from each of the great winds, and equipment requests from the League armsmaster. It was the same rubbish over and over, but they had to be sorted, all the same.

He was about halfway through the morning’s work when something fell onto his desk with a clatter. He looked up. It was a bound and capped tube stamped with the seal of their post in Zarin. Alric frowned. It was not
unusual for a message to simply appear on his desk. That was part of the system the League of Storms had always used to spread information quickly, set up long, long before he was born. What was unusual was that Zarin would be sending a report now when he’d just received their morning report thirty minutes ago. He popped the seal with his finger and began to read.

Fear pulse reported at midmorning, Gaol. Spirit destruction, mass panic, suspect five weeks or higher. Request backup.

Alric read the message twice in rapid succession before letting it curl back into a scroll. He hunched forward, his frown deepening. This was a problem. A fear pulse was League jargon for the wave of demon panic that was generally the first warning when a new demonseed finally devoured its human host and became active on its own. Yet Merick, his man in Zarin, had placed the demon at five weeks of unrestrained growth, which was simply not possible. No demon could escape League notice for five weeks, especially not somewhere as populated and civilized as Gaol. But Merick was an experienced League member and not one for embellishment. If he said five weeks, then that’s what they were dealing with.

Alric pushed the message away and leaned back in his chair to consider his options. There were only two demons remotely that active outside of the Dead Mountain itself, Slorn’s wife and Monpress’s pet. Alric drummed his fingers on the table. Nivel was well contained, but Eli’s creature was another matter. If she was the source of the fear Merick reported, then this was going to be a complicated situation. The White Lady had forbidden the League to hunt that specific demon. The Lord of Storms had made
that much clear, though he didn’t say why and obviously wasn’t happy about it. Still, the League couldn’t just ignore a mass panic in a highly populated area. Their mission was to promote order, and order depended on rapid, predictable response. They could cause another panic even worse than the first if they didn’t show up. Alric tapped his fingers thoughtfully, turning the problem over in his head. Slowly, a plan began to piece itself together.

Smiling slightly, Alric took the message and carefully slid it under a stack of other finished papers. Powerful as she was, the White Lady could not read minds. He had no proof that the disturbance in the report was Monpress’s demon. There was no physical description, no witness reports. All he had was a dire message and a request for aid, and following up on such things
was
his job. If he never let on to his suspicions, how was she to know that the accidental elimination of the Monpress demon was less than accidental? He just had to make sure he put the right agent on the job. Someone strong enough to take on a demon of that size and a good enough swordsman to deal with her guardian, not to mention prideful enough to take on the Heart of War. But at the same time, he needed a man ignorant enough not to realize whom he was fighting, and whose loss wouldn’t be a crippling blow to the League when the Lady took her vengeance.

Fortunately, he had just the man in mind.

Smiling slightly more than was appropriate, Alric summoned a runner. The dour man appeared instantly, stepping into Alric’s office through a narrow slit in the air. It opened soundlessly, a cut in the fabric of reality from one place to another, in this case, from the common room to Alric’s office. Instant travel was yet another of
the niceties of League membership, a necessity when you had to travel around the world on short notice, and one that League members designated as runners were particularly skilled at.

Alric smiled at the runner as the cut in the air closed behind him. “Bring me Berek Sted.”

The runner raised an eyebrow. “Sted, sir?”

“Yes,” Alric said. “And if he drags his feet, just tell him he’ll finally get to test that bloodthirsty sword of his.”

If possible, the runner’s face grew even more sour. “Yes, Sir Alric.”

The runner vanished, slipping through a new slit in space so quickly even Alric didn’t see it open. Five minutes later, the enormous man with his sash of hideous trophies and a great, jagged blade worn naked at his side walked into the room.

“Ah,” Alric said, turning to face his guest. “Just the man I wanted to see.”

Sted didn’t answer. He sat down on the heavy bench in the corner, glowering at Alric while the wood creaked under his weight.

“I have a job for you,” Alric said. “A demon has appeared in Gaol. Most likely a girl. I want you to investigate.”

“A girl?” Sted’s voice dripped with disgust. “I don’t fight girls.”

Alric gave him a flat look. “I realize you’re new to the League, but try to remember that what you’re fighting is the thing inside the girl. Demons take the body that serves their purpose.”

“I don’t fight girls,” Sted said again. “Send someone else.”

“This is not open for debate.” Alric’s voice was as cold as a dagger in a snowbank. “If you want to keep your League privileges”—his eyes flicked to the sword at Sted’s side—“I suggest you learn some discipline.”

Sted narrowed his eyes, but said nothing. Alric let him stew a minute before continuing.

“Killing the girl may not be simple,” he said. “She travels with a protector, a swordsman who wields a famous awakened blade.”

Sted grinned and slapped the sword at his side. “Couldn’t be better than mine.”

Alric’s thin mouth twitched. “This sword has had many names, but it is best known by the name it took for itself, the Heart of War.”

Sted’s eyes widened. “The Heart of War, the
real
Heart of War? Why didn’t you say that earlier?”

“This isn’t a pleasure trip, Sted,” Alric snapped. “Your mission is to eliminate the demon girl and secure the seed inside her quickly and quietly. Avoid confrontation with her companions if at all possible. Even spirit deaf, your membership in the League gives you a sense for demons. If she’s active, you should be able to find her easily enough.”

“Aye, aye,” Sted said, standing up. “Quick and quiet. Got it. I’m ready now, so go ahead and open me a door to Gaol.”

Alric turned back to his ledger. “You’re a fully initiated League man,” he said. “Open it yourself.”

Sted grumbled a long string of curses. Then a moment later, Alric heard the unmistakable soft sound of the cut in reality, and the grumbling vanished. When he glanced over his shoulder, the room was empty. Alric turned back
to his ledger with a smile. Either way this gamble played out was good for him. If Sted lived up to his brutal reputation, Alric would have the Monpress demon out of his hair for good. If the girl or her swordsman defeated him, well, that wasn’t really a loss either. He wouldn’t have to put up with Sted’s insubordination anymore, and, while the loss of the sword would be lamentable, Slorn could always make more.

That thought cheered Alric up immensely, and he set to work sorting through the rest of the day’s business with a smile.

T
he man Eli was looking for was not at the hotel he’d been listed under in the ledger. However, the desk clerk, after a little cajoling and a few carefully palmed coins, pointed Eli toward the docks where Mr. Richton was due to set sail for Zarin that afternoon.

“Are you sure this is our thief?” Josef asked as they walked down the curiously empty street toward the river.

“Positive.” Eli grinned from under the brim of his large hat. It was his compromise, since his wig was dirty now, but he might as well have gone bareheaded. They hadn’t seen a soul since leaving the clerk’s office, a fact that was making Josef very nervous indeed.

They made their way along the back alleys to the dock the clerk had mentioned. There was only one ship moored on the long wooden jut, a large, respectable-looking trade vessel running low in the water, heavy with cargo.

Josef looked at it skeptically. “Kind of a slow getaway vehicle.”

“Not if no one’s looking for you,” Eli said, jogging out onto the dock.

On the deck, barefoot sailors were tying off ropes and doing the final work of getting the barge ready to go. One of them, a large river man in a black shirt and red scarf, who seemed to be the leader, looked their way just long enough to glare.

“Shove off,” he grunted.

“Now, now,” Eli said, smiling warmly as he walked up the plank from the dock to the ship’s deck. “Don’t be so hasty. We’re here to see Mr. Richton. It’s very urgent.”

“Oh yeah?” The man straightened up slowly. “Name?”

“Gentero,” Eli said without missing a beat.

The sailor gave him a funny look, but he nodded and walked across the deck to the small cabin at the prow. He knocked once before sticking his head in. A few seconds later he waved them over.