The Spirit Thief (19 page)

“Can’t be worse than what happened before,” Josef said. “I’m sure your wiggling on the ground really intimidated Renaud. Might and majesty of the Spirit Court and all that.”

“There’s no other way, Miranda,” Eli cut in. “We need your help in this, and we can’t go in if we can’t count on you not to fall over when things get sticky.”

Miranda looked at the king, who looked thoroughly lost in all this spirit talk. When he saw her looking, he smiled trustingly, and she heaved a long sigh. With great difficulty, she reached down and pulled off her rings one by one, laying them gently on the ground in front of her. She pulled Eril’s pendant over her head and added him to the pile. Lastly, she slipped the Spirit Court signet off her left ring finger and laid it reverently beside the others, the heavy gold glowing warmly in the firelight.

Next, she dug around in her knapsack for the doeskin bag all Spiritualists kept for just this purpose. Her fingers felt uncomfortably light and naked as she dropped her rings one at a time into the soft leather pouch. It was a tight fit—no Spiritualist expects to have to remove all of their rings at once—but after a few tries she managed
to wedge everything in and knot the bag closed with a red silk cord. Out of the glittering pile of rings, she’d kept only one. A small opal band, almost like a child’s promise ring, remained on her left pinky. Her glare dared anyone to comment as she tucked the bulging doeskin bag back into her knapsack.

“Okay,” Eli said, rubbing his hands together as Miranda settled back into her spot by the fire. “Now that we’re serious, here’s the real plan.”

T
he throne room of castle Allaze was as dark and forbidding as its prisons. The sun had set hours ago, but the lamps were still not lit. No one had let the servants in to light them. At the base of the dais stairs, below the empty throne, the masters of Mellinor stood in a loose circle around a balding man whose dust-streaked armor matched his tear-stained face.

“Friends,” Master Oban said, his strong voice wavering, “as many times as you have me tell it, the story won’t change. I saw with my own two eyes the Spiritualist’s lightning strike our king. I watched him fall!”

“I thought the lightning was pointed at the thief?” an official in the back called out, sparking a new torrent of comments.

“Impossible!”

“Master Oban, are you sure you saw—”

“The real issue here—”

“—waited far too long—”

“—always said it was a trap—”

“—greatest tragedy of our times, that’s what they’ll say, and on our watch—”

“Enough,” said the old Master of the Courts. “Leave Master Oban be.”

The masters’ chatter stopped immediately, and the dark room fell silent as the elderly master motioned for Oban to step aside. The Master of Security made way immediately, and the Master of the Courts took his place at the center of the circle. “We can’t deny it any longer,” the Master of the Courts said. “We have to accept that the Spiritualist used us. Perhaps it is as Lord Renaud theorized and she was in league with the thief from the very beginning, or perhaps not. Whatever the circumstances, we are to blame.”

“It was awful convenient, her showing up not an hour after the king’s disappearance,” said a young, minor official, elbowing his way forward. “I for one always believed she was up to something. Why would a wizard come to Mellinor, except to cause trouble?” He glared at the old men. “The only wizard we can trust is Lord Renaud. Even banished, he tried his best to save his brother!”

“But where is the body?” another official shouted back. “Where is our king?”

This raised a new round of shouting, and it was several minutes before the Master of the Courts regained control. “Silence,” he growled, staring down the younger members who were still miming punches at each other. He looked pointedly at Master Oban, who nodded, then at Master Litell, the thin Master of the Exchequer, who looked away. Satisfied, he spoke the words they’d all been waiting for. “In the four hundred years since her founding, Mellinor’s succession has never once been
compromised. After hearing your opinions, divided as they may be, I think we can all agree on one point: If tradition must change, it will not be with us.”

The masters began to murmur again, but the Master of the Courts silenced them with a wave of his hand. “The discussion is over, send him in.”

A young official broke from the circle and ran to the side parlor. His knuckles had barely touched the wooden door before Renaud flung it open. He was already clothed from chin to toes in mourning black, and his pale face seemed to float through the darkened hall of its own accord. The circle opened up as he approached, until only the Master of the Courts stood between him and the empty throne.

The Master of the Courts watched Renaud warily. For a moment, he seemed on the verge of sending the prince away again, but in the end, the Master bowed his head.

“Prince Renaud,” he said, “it is with a heavy heart that we call you here, but in times of uncertainty the kingdom must not be even one day without its ruler. Therefore, it is the agreement of this emergency council that the crown should pass from father to son, brother to brother, as it has always been.”

Renaud bowed solemnly, but there was a twinkle of delight hidden in his blue eyes. When he stepped forward, however, the Master of the Courts held up his hand.

“Yet,” the master said, and Renaud’s eyes darkened, “in the absence of King Henrith’s body, you must understand our predicament. Should, by some miracle, King Henrith be found alive, all titles will revert immediately to him, as is his right.”

“I would expect nothing more,” Renaud said, laying his hand gently on the old man’s shoulder. “Henrith was
my brother and my king as well, as dear to me as my own flesh, even in my exile. Still”—his eyes moved gravely across the circle of faces—“we must not let false hope take root. Miranda Lyonette is a powerful Spiritualist, and the Spirit Court is not an organization to leave such things to chance. I have long speculated that her initial goal was to kill King Henrith in the hopes of bringing me to the throne. She, no doubt, believed that a fellow wizard would be more sympathetic to the Spirit Court’s demands. Only when I rebuked her for the cruel murder of my kinsman did she realize her mistake. Now, I fear she may try to conjure up a phantom of my brother to trick you and turn us against each other, throwing Mellinor into confusion so that the Spirit Court’s agents can sneak in.”

Master Oban went pale. “You mean, it’s not a story? Wizards can really do that? Create apparitions?”

Renaud nodded gravely. “False images, but real enough to touch.” He grabbed the Master of Security’s shoulder with his other hand, and the older man shrank away, shivering. “Our only defense is watchfulness,” he continued, looking each master in the eyes in turn. “I have sent word to the outposts, but I am sure she will try to strike at the castle, where she’s had success before. If you or any of the people below you see anyone resembling the late king, he must be brought to me immediately. The Spiritualist must not be allowed to spread fear and uncertainty among us.”

The officials mumbled to each other, sometimes agreement, sometimes displeasure, but no one dared speak up. Renaud silenced them with a look. “We begin the seven days of mourning at sunrise. Go and make your preparations.”

The circle scattered, but as they walked away, Renaud added. “Master Litell, another moment, if you please.”

The elderly Master of the Exchequer froze and looked timidly over his shoulder. Renaud beckoned, and Litell returned without further protest. A few of the younger officials hung back, trying for a few words with their new king, but he waved them away, and they left the throne room like rejected puppies. When the last one shuffled through the great, golden doors, Renaud turned and gave the Master of the Exchequer his most pleasant smile.

“I need you to let me into the treasury.”

“Now?” Litell rubbed his hands together nervously. “If my lord wishes to review the books, I have the country’s balances in my office. I can wake my assistant—”

“I trust your accounts,” Renaud said. “But what I need to see can be found only in the treasury. You have the key, do you not?”

“Entrusted to me by your father,” Litell said, clutching the heavy chain at his neck. “But I’ll have to call someone to help with the doors…”

“Do it,” Renaud said. “There is something I need to confirm as soon as possible.”

Master Litell jumped at his sudden sharpness, but did as he was told. Renaud followed him out of the throne room and down the steep stairs that led to the oldest part of the castle. Neither man noticed the shadow that followed silently behind them.

It took half an hour and twenty guardsmen to get the treasury open. Master Litell spent the entire time apologizing.

“I am so dreadfully sorry for the delay,” he puffed, standing back as the soldiers heaved again. “That door
hasn’t been opened in thirty years at least, not since your mother’s dower was added. Your father and brother never cared much for the historical pieces.”

They were standing in a long hall deep beneath what was now the prison, but once, hundreds of years ago, had been the heart of the palace Allaze, built by Gregorn himself. The smoke-stained walls were still covered in undulating mosaics that, in the unsteady light of the guards’ lamps, seemed to rise and swell like black waves on an underground sea. Renaud, however, saw nothing except the solid slab of iron as wide as the hall itself, set flush against the bare stone. The great treasury door was triple barred, each man-sized lock marked with the deep graven seal of Mellinor.

At last, with a bone-crunching scrape, the team of guards twisted the last great lock open. Unbound, the door swung slowly inward, picking up momentum as its weight dragged it into the blackness of the long-sealed room. Master Litell sprang forward, taking a torch from the guard captain and holding it aloft at the gaping entry. The glitter of gold bounced back to meet him.

“Everything looks to be in order.” Master Litell handed the torch back to the guard and walked over to Renaud, taking a large stack of papers from a waiting page. “Your Majesty will of course want to see the inventory. Now, everything in the treasury is sorted by date, but you’ll need this list…”

His voice faded as Renaud marched past him.

“That won’t be necessary, Master Litell.” The new king seized a torch of his own from one of the guards. “I know what I’m looking for. Wait here.”

With that he turned and walked into treasury, leaving
Master Litell and the guards to watch from the threshold as Renaud’s torch bobbed out of sight behind the maze of ancient trunks and dusty gold.

Coriano sat in the shadows for a long time, pondering what to do. Following Renaud to the treasury had been easy enough, so had slipping past the guards gawking at the entrance. But now Renaud, after walking past cabinets stuffed with silks, chests of gold, and racks of ancient weapons, had stopped in front of what was perhaps the least interesting part of the whole affair, and he had been staring at it for the last twenty minutes. They were at the center of the treasury where the shelves opened up to make room for what looked to be a support pillar. The pillar, however, failed in that regard, for it stopped ten feet short of the cavernous ceiling. Its knobby, uneven surface glittered dully where Renaud’s torchlight landed. Otherwise, it was completely unexceptional, rising without fanfare from the undecorated stone floor.

Patient as he was, Coriano was growing bored. Also, there was something in the air here. Maybe it was being so deep in the earth, close to the great, sleeping spirits on which the world rested, but the room felt thick with dormant energy. It made him uncomfortable, and the sooner he got out to cleaner, younger air, the better he would feel. After another minute of watching Renaud watch the pillar, Coriano decided it was time to make himself known.

He stepped forward, deliberately scraping his boots against the smooth, dusty floor. Renaud stiffened and whirled around, holding his torch aloft. When he saw Coriano, his eyes narrowed. “You.”

Coriano leaned against a heavy trunk that skirted the
edge of the empty space around the pillar and gave the new king a dry smile. “Me.”

Renaud’s scowl grew more menacing. “How did you get in here? Why have you come back?”

“How I got here isn’t important, because I could do it twenty times again, each time a different way.” Coriano’s voice was dry as the air. He picked up a small gold lion from the case beside him and examined it with bored interest. “As for the why, I wasn’t aware our bargain was complete. You got what you wanted, but I seem to have come up short.”

“You must be mistaken.” Renaud smiled politely. “I paid you before we left.”

“The money is incidental,” Coriano said, putting the lion down again. “I mean our real bargain.”

“Our agreement was that you would take care of the swordsman if I prevented Eli’s interference, which I did,” Renaud said. “If anything, I should be the one complaining. I gave you Josef Liechten on a platter. You were the one who decided to run away.”

“I would hardly call a three-minute fight in a dust storm followed by the release of a mad spirit ‘on a platter,’ ” Coriano said, sneering. “But I wasn’t the only one who let his quarry escape, was I?”

Renaud stiffened. “If you’re talking about my brother—”

“Your brother?” Coriano shook his head. “No, no, I’m sure you’ve got that quite under control. I’m talking about Eli.”