Anxious to be moving, Miranda left Gin where he was and walked over toward Slorn. The bear-headed man was handing the seed to the League men, who took it with gloved hands. One of them made one of their cuts in reality while the other put the seed in a black sack. When it was secure, they stepped through the portal, vanishing instantly. Slorn watched the space where they had been, his face distant as Miranda walked up to him.
“Did they make you give it up?” she asked.
“They would have,” Slorn answered. “But I handed the
seed over of my own volition. I had learned all I could hope to learn from it.” He looked up, staring off at the snowcapped mountains. “That thing was never a part of my wife,” he said quietly. “Nivel’s soul has already been reborn. All I can do now is work to make this world a place that is worthy of her.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sealed letter. It was quite fat, several pages, and sealed with a large smear of wax. Slorn hefted it in his hand, and then tossed it high into the air. It spun a few times, and then took off like a bird, soaring through the air south and a little east.
Miranda whistled, impressed. “What was that?”
“A letter for my daughter,” Slorn said. “Explaining where I went and why I’m not coming home. I’m not sure where she is, but the letter will find her sooner or later. Preferably later. I don’t want her trying to follow me.”
Miranda frowned. “You’re not going home?”
“No,” Slorn said, walking past her toward his wagon. “I stayed in isolation for Nivel. Now that she’s gone, there is much for me to do. The world is changing, Spiritualist, and not for the better. A great demon eats an entire forest and the Shepherdess doesn’t even send the Lord of Storms to deal with it.” Slorn snorted as he pushed his spent cannon under the now dry and empty barrels. “I’ve dedicated ten years of my life to studying demonseeds, and yet the League has never asked for my findings, nor welcomed them when I forced the subject. Their Shepherdess has no interest in how to make things better. She only cares to keep things as they are, even as her world crumbles around her. So I’m taking my work to someone who will care.”
“Who?” Miranda said.
“The Shaper Mountain,” Slorn said, climbing into the wagon seat.
Miranda’s eyes widened. She’d heard stories about the awakened mountain, but she’d never been there. No one had, except Shaper wizards. It was rumored they knew more about spirits than anyone, and if Slorn was an example, she believed it.
“Take me with you,” she said.
He looked down at her, confused. “Why do you want to go?”
“Because I hate working for the Council with jerks like Sparrow,” she said. “Because I’m sick of going back to Zarin empty-handed, and because I’m sworn to protect the Spirit World.” She looked north again, tracing the outline of the demon that was still burned into her eyes. “After this afternoon, catching Eli Monpress to save the Spirit Court’s pride feels almost petty.” She turned back to Slorn. “Let’s just say my priorities have taken a pretty significant shift in the right direction. If you’re taking your knowledge of demonseeds to the Shapers to make sure things like that don’t happen again, then I’m going with you.”
Slorn leaned back. “And what of your orders? What about Sara and the Council?”
Miranda rolled her eyes. “The Council can choke on its paperwork for all I care, and Sara can go back to her menagerie. The only command I follow is Master Banage’s, and he would tell me to go.”
Slorn smiled, showing his sharp, yellow teeth. “Yes, I believe he would. Very well, you can come if you like. I warn you, we’ll be moving quickly over hard terrain. I hope you’re ready.”
“Travel we can do,” Miranda said. “Just say the word.”
Slorn’s spider-legged wagon stood up with a creak, and he turned it back toward the cliff where his other wagon waited. Gin was already up by the time Miranda reached him, his long body pulled in a great bowing stretch.
“So we’re tossing our lot in with the bear,” he said. “Good. I like him much better than the idiot bird.”
“Glad you feel that way,” Miranda said, jumping onto his back. “Because we’re in deep now.”
“Like we ever do anything halfway.” Gin snorted.
Miranda gave him a friendly kick, and he bounded forward, hopping over the destroyed city after Slorn.
“There they go,” Tesset said, watching the ghosthound through a hole in the wreckage.
“You see?” Sparrow said. “I told you she would turn traitor.”
Tesset looked over his shoulder, but Sparrow wasn’t talking to him. He was talking to the ball of blue glowing glass in his palm.
“She
is
Banage’s little pet.” Sara’s voice pulsed through the orb. “I’d hardly expect her to do otherwise.”
“Well, what do you want us to do about it?” Sparrow said. “Eli’s gone, the Heart is gone, and now Slorn’s off to who knows where. Even if the Spiritualist hadn’t run off, this whole bloody mission would still be a disaster. I say we cut our losses and head back to Zarin before Izo finds us and sends our skins to Whitefall’s office as a warning.”
There was a huff over the orb that Tesset recognized as Sara blowing a stream of smoke into the air. “There’s no call for such drama,” she said. “And there’s no call for scrapping the mission. Honestly, you just got up there. Coming back now would be a waste. I want to know what
Slorn is up to and what kind of mission he found to inspire Banage’s girl wonder. Follow them.”
“Sara!” Sparrow cried.
“Do it,” she snapped. “I’m cutting off now. Whitefall just sent a page. I have to go to some sort of emergency meeting in ten minutes and it will take me at least that long to get up to the hearing room. I’ll check in tomorrow to see how you’re doing, and I don’t want to hear any complaints, Sparrow. Don’t forget, there’s still a nice-sized bounty on your head I could turn in to Whitefall any time I like, and they don’t hand out prison sentences for what you’ve done.”
“How could I forget,” Sparrow grumbled, but the orb had already gone dim. He glared at it for a moment more and then shoved the Relay into the pocket of his ruined silk jacket. “Well, isn’t this just lovely?”
“It is,” Tesset said. “It’s been awhile since I had a good old-fashioned hunt.”
Sparrow harrumphed and ran his fingers through his dusty hair.
Tesset watched him, frowning. “Why didn’t you tell her about the demons?”
“Because I’m trying to get out of here, remember?” Sparrow said. “If I’d told her, she would have asked us to investigate that as well, and I’d rather her hand me to the bounty office on a platter than go anywhere near that place.”
“She’ll find out,” Tesset said. “And she’s going to be mad.”
“We’ll worry about that when it comes,” Sparrow said, giving up on trying to tame the dusty mess on his head. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”
Tesset nodded and followed him out of the maze of broken buildings. He was grinning. A hunt, and a fine quarry too. Just what he needed to combat the city softness he’d been sinking into. He needed something to push him forward, because he wasn’t getting any younger. Somewhere out there, Den was waiting for him. When they met again, Tesset knew he would have only one chance to show his master that his lesson had been well learned. He had to be ready.
Clenching his fists, Tesset started jogging toward where they’d last seen the ghosthound. Sparrow stumbled along behind him, sending a stream of curses into the late-afternoon breeze.
Sara marched up the stairs of the fourth and largest of the Council Citadel’s seven towers. Servants in flawless white pressed themselves against the walls as she passed, peeking at her curiously from under their lowered lashes. She bit her pipe and kept walking.
The meeting room was already full when she got there. Council officials milled beside the catering table, enjoying the array of little sandwiches, cheese plates, and brandy aperitifs that the Council demanded even for its emergency meetings. Sara pushed right past them, going straight for a tall man with close-cropped silver hair holding court by the picture windows, the only person in the room who actually mattered.
“Whitefall,” she said, nodding as the crowd parted to let her through. “I’m extremely busy. What’s this all about?”
Merchant Prince Alber Whitefall, Lord Protector and Grand Marshal of Zarin, gave her a politician’s bright
smile. “I was hoping you could tell me, Sara dear.” He touched her shoulder, guiding her in beside him. “I received an urgent message from the League of Storms. Normally, they fall under your jurisdiction, but this time the message was addressed specifically to me. Very odd. Haven’t I asked you not to smoke in here?”
Sara took a pointedly long draw from her pipe. “What does the League want with you?”
“I don’t know, the reasons were quite vague, but the letter specifically said that I was to call a meeting with you, Phillipe, and all the upper Council. And since you’ve always stressed that the League of Storms is never to be ignored, I did.”
“Phillipe?” Sara gave him a skeptical look. “The bounty office windbag? What does the League want with him?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Whitefall said. “But that’s my cousin you’re talking about. Only I get to call him a windbag.” He waved and smiled. Across the room, the topic of their conversation jumped, and then hesitantly waved back before returning to his plate of sandwiches.
Sara rolled her eyes. “Well, since we’re all here, can we get this mystery meeting under way? I have work to do.”
“Not quite yet,” Whitefall said, adjusting the lapels of his black dinner suit. “We’re still missing the representative from the Spirit Court. And, of course, whomever the League is sending to enlighten us.”
“Spirit Court?” Sara said as the doors opened. She looked over her shoulder just in time to see Etmon Banage himself sweep into the room.
“Powers,” she muttered, smoking furiously.
Etmon saw her as well, but to his credit the only change
was a slight hardening of his eyes as he approached to pay his respects to the Merchant Prince.
“Lord Whitefall,” he said with a nod. “What is the emergency?”
“I think we’re about to find out,” Whitefall said, glancing toward the far wall. Sara and Banage both turned to see a thin white line dropping down through the air. When it reached the floor, a man stepped through. Sara winced. Alric looked furious. He also looked worse for wear. His face was badly bruised, and he walked with a limp. Of course, in his line of work, that wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was the man he was dragging behind him.
By the time the white doorway closed, the room was silent. Everyone was watching the Deputy Commander of the League of Storms and the man dragging on the floor behind him. When he was sure he had everyone’s attention, Alric tossed the man forward. He fell sprawling, leaving thick smears of dirt on the silk carpet.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the Council of Thrones,” Alric said through gritted teeth. “I bring you Izo Barns, also known as Izo the Bandit King, wanted by the Council for one hundred and fifty thousand gold standards.”
The man on the floor curled into a ball, moaning softly to himself with his eyes wide open like a horrified child. Alric just stood there with his arms crossed over his chest.
It was Sara who recovered first. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing,” Alric said. “He’s just had a bit of a fright. But it doesn’t matter. His bounty is good whether he’s dead or alive, correct?”
This question was directed at Phillipe Whitefall,
though it took a few moments for the bounty office director to realize that.
“Yes,” he said, his voice trembling as he bent over for a closer look at Izo’s terror-stricken face. “Izo, scourge of the north, wanted dead or alive for one hundred and fifty thousand. But how did you catch him?”
Alric closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath. “I didn’t. Izo the Bandit King was captured by Eli Monpress. I’m only here to deliver him.”
There was a collective gasp around the room, and then everyone started talking at once.
“Hold on!” Banage’s voice rose over all others. “What right does a wanted criminal and enemy of the Council have to a bounty?”
“Well,” Phillipe Whitefall said, wiping his brow with his handkerchief. “There’s no rule about who can turn in bounties. Keeping them open to lawbreakers actually encourages derision within the criminal element.”
“That’s all well and good,” Sara said. “But how does Eli intend to claim his hundred and fifty thousand? Is he coming to Zarin to collect it himself?”
“Of course not,” Alric said with a long-suffering sneer. “Monpress wishes for the reward to be added to his own bounty.”
This time the room went silent.
Merchant Prince Whitefall stepped forward. “You want us to add a hundred fifty thousand to Monpress’s bounty? But that would bring it to … ” He looked at his cousin.
“Two hundred and forty-eight thousand, your grace,” Phillipe answered.
“Two hundred and forty-eight thousand,” Whitefall said, jabbing his drink at Alric. “A number like that is on
the level of nations. We can’t pin that sort of power on a thief. What kind of fools do you take us for?”
“I am only the messenger,” Alric said. “Will you combine the bounties or not?”
“It’s not like we have much of a choice,” Whitefall said. “If we deny him, we break our own laws. I’m not about to set a nonpayment precedent that will jeopardize our highly successful bounty system.”