The guard blanched. “You see, the duke is terribly busy, and without proper identification, I’m afraid I can’t—”
“Afraid?” Eli’s eyes narrowed. “You’d best be afraid, doorman! Somewhere in that brick of a citadel is a spirit who saw how Monpress did what he did. Even now, that spirit is falling asleep. If it falls asleep entirely it will likely forget what it saw, and if that happens—” Eli paused for a deep, shuddering breath. “You don’t even want to know what I’ll do, but one thing is certain.” His eyes narrowed, pinning the guard captain with a killing glare. “
Should
that happen, I will make sure everyone, from Zarin’s highest seats of power to the Duke of Gaol himself, knows that
you
were the reason why.”
The guard bowed, his face pale and sweating. “Apologies, Spiritualist Lyonette; I never doubted you were who you claimed to be. But I’m afraid I still can’t give you access to the treasury without permission from the duke. If you could wait just a—”
“I will not!” Eli said with a flippant wave of his ringed fingers. “Powers, man, you’ve already been robbed blind! What are you afraid I’m going to do in there, steal your dust? Just show me and my assistants to the scene of the crime and I can get to work finding your thief, which I’m sure will make your duke much happier than you interrupting him with stupid requests.”
The guard was sweating profusely now, and Eli took his chance for the final push. “Listen very carefully,” he said slowly, twitching his spirit just a fraction so that the gaudy rings on his fingers glittered with malice. “If I lose the trail because of your delays, you will wish you’d never heard of Spiritualists. Do you understand?”
“Of course, Master Spiritualist,” the guard said, waving his men toward the doors. “Right this way.”
The pack of guards opened one of the great iron doors, and Eli, Nico, and Josef followed the guard captain into the citadel.
In the sky overhead, the wind that had been circling since Eli first stepped out into the square changed direction, blowing up the stone wall to the top of the citadel and through the window of one of the stubby towers at its crown. The tower was all one room, large and circular, with a long table at its center. A cluster of men stood around it, all dressed in the same drab uniform. Most of them looked like dressed-up farmers taken from their fields and thrust into uniforms, which was what they were. They were the conscript leaders, and they all wore the same quiet, obedient expression as they watched the head of the table where Duke Edward was pointing out markers on the city map carved into the table’s smooth, wooden top.
The duke was in the middle of laying out details about how he wanted the perimeter handled, but he stopped midsentence as the wind blew by.
“Is this about Hern again?” Edward said.
“Not this time,” the wind answered, blowing in circles above the farmer-generals. “Someone claiming to be a Spiritualist just bullied your idiot door guard into letting him and his assistants into the citadel.”
The duke scowled. “A Spiritualist? One of Hern’s cronies?”
“No,” the wind spun. “I don’t think it’s really a Spiritualist, either. Didn’t even look like a wizard to me. It was a yellow-haired man, said his name was Miranda Lyonette.”
The duke’s eyes widened. “Miranda?” He pursed his lips. “Considering Hern just sent word that he is escorting
Miss
Lyonette to the citadel as we speak, I find that hard to believe.” He scratched his beard. “Whoever it is, I’ll investigate myself. We can’t afford another contingency at this point. The situation is bollixed enough as it is. Speaking of which, any news from the spy?”
“Not yet,” the wind whispered. “I’ll go check again.”
“Thank you, Othril,” the duke said. “I trust you’ll notify me if anything else odd happens.”
“Of course, my lord,” the wind huffed.
Edward waved his hand and the wind flew off back to his patrol, shooting out over the citadel’s edge. When he was gone, Duke Edward turned back to his officers, all of whom had waited patiently through what seemed to them to be a one-sided and nonsensical conversation.
“Gentlemen,” the duke said. “It seems we have a rat in our cupboard. Those of you already assigned positions, please take your soldiers to their places. The rest of you, come with me.” He swept past the table and toward the door. “We have an intruder to catch.”
The officers saluted and went their separate ways, calling for their seconds to rally the conscripts as they trundled down the rickety stairs into the citadel proper.
The inside of the fortress of Gaol was not what Eli had expected. As soon as the guard led them through the iron doors, he’d looked eagerly for narrow halls, high ceilings, archer decks, thief catches, all the wonderful things highlighted on the poster. But the hall they entered was low and perfectly ordinary. Little hallways branched off of it leading to barracks, small offices, meeting rooms, and equipment caches. The walls were of uninspiring thickness, the architecture unremarkable, and there was only one portcullis, not five, as the poster had boasted. In short, it was a normal citadel built on a conservative plan, and perhaps a bit on the cheap.
Eli was supremely disappointed.
“
This
is the great citadel of Gaol?” he said, gazing around in disgust. “Where are the six-foot walls? The multitiered locks? Where are the booby traps? The poster promised traps in every room!”
The guardsman’s hairy face turned a bit red. “Well,” he mumbled, “that’s just advertising. Those posters of the duke’s were just a precaution. Tell the thieves how impossible it is and they just give up, right? Far cheaper than actually building some supercitadel. Anyway, I’d say it worked. We’ve had no trouble from thieves since word got around about how secure the fortress was.”
“No trouble until last night,” Josef pointed out.
“Well, that’s Monpress,” the guard huffed. “He hardly counts. Don’t worry, though; the duke’ll catch him, Sir Spiritualist, make no mistake.”
“Oh, certainly,” Eli said with disgust, eyeing the hallway, which had now widened out into a large common room. “How did the duke know it was Monpress, anyway?”
“Well,” the guard said, “who else could it be?”
“Who else, indeed?” Eli said, smiling, while Josef rolled his eyes.
The officer led them out of the common room through a flimsy doorway and into a hallway even smaller and drabber than the ones before it. Eli glowered at the man’s back. So far, the “thief-proof citadel of Gaol” was a monstrous waste of time. If not for the Fenzetti, and if he wasn’t so curious about someone impersonating him, Eli would have called the whole thing off the moment they passed the unlocked weapon cabinets. Only when they were almost to the center of the citadel did Eli finally spot something promising. Their guide had led them around a corner and into a small hallway set back from the main thoroughfare. Unlike the others, this hall was long and narrow, with a ceiling tall enough for archer stands to be placed over troops. Best of all was what waited at the end. There, at the far side of the hall, standing beside a large stone hearth and chimney, was an immense metal door. Its surface was perfectly smooth, without even a knob or handle. It was set flush against the stone without groove or crack, no way to get leverage at all. It stood black and impenetrable in the firelight as they approached, and Eli immediately began to perk up. This was more like it.
When they reached the fire pit the guard captain stopped and began to feel around in his pockets, muttering apologies.
“Sorry, sorry,” he said. “It’s something different every time.” He drew out a small sachet wrapped in white paper. He laid it in his palm, weighing it experimentally before lobbing the packet, paper and all, straight into the banked fire. The paper curled and blackened, its edges cracking as sweet-smelling smoke—Eli picked out cinnamon and thyme—rose in a white plume. Then, without warning, the fire burst upward in a full roar, blasting the tiny hall with a wave of heat.
“You again?” a flickering voice bellowed as the fire churned, but the guard just mopped a bit of soot off his balding head, completely unaware that the fire was speaking to him.
The flames slumped down sullenly. “I know,” it mumbled. “Open the door, close the door. I never get to sleep. It’s been years. I don’t know. No rest, no sleep, nothing but work…” The voice wavered like smoke in the wind and then faded as the fire dropped back to its usual size, leaving only the smell of burnt cinnamon. Somewhere below them, machinery began to grind and the great door in front of them rolled aside.
“There you are,” the guard said. “That’s the magic gate. Don’t understand how it works, but I suppose it beats pushing that slab open with your shoulder, eh?”
“Indeed,” Eli said, doing his best to convey the absolute disgust he was sure a Spiritualist would have felt at seeing a fire spirit used in that way. It wasn’t hard. He felt kind of sour himself. He didn’t know what kind of operation Gaol was running, but wizards who overworked their spirits deserved to be robbed blind. He only wished he’d been the one to do it. His thoughts drifted back to the terrified crates, but he forced himself to stop. Whatever was going on here, he didn’t have time to deal with it. Anyway, it didn’t matter. Once word got out that Eli Monpress had robbed Gaol, the Spiritualists would start showing up in droves. They would deal with whatever abuses were going on in Gaol. That would be his gift to the spirits, and it would have to be enough. Right now, he needed to find out who was taking advantage of his reputation before the situation got out of control. He had a suspicion, but for once he really hoped he was wrong; otherwise things were going to get very, very annoying. Just thinking about it made him feel tired, and he quickly turned his attention back to the task at hand.
The room beyond the treasury door was massive. It was perfectly square, with bright, mirrored lanterns burning high overhead that Eli suspected were also spirit powered, since he could see no way a servant would get up that high to light them. The harsh, brilliant light fell over what must have once been an impressive and large collection, but was now just a neat grid of empty shelves with only telltale holes in the dust to show there had ever been anything there.
“The entire holding of the di Fellbro family,” the guard said, almost teary. “Gone.”
“Not all gone,” Eli said, pointing across the room to where a large golden lion still took up half a shelf.
“Aye,” she guard said. “The thief left a few pieces. Some we think were too large for him to carry. Others, well, we honestly don’t know why he left them.”
Eli nodded and leaned closer. “Confidentially, friend,” he said conspiratorially, “how close are your men to catching Monpress?”
The guard’s face went red. “Hot on his heels, sir. I can’t tell you the details, of course. Security must be upheld.”
“Of course,” Eli said, smiling graciously. “Thank you, Captain, we’ll take it from here.”
The captain twisted uncertainly. “Actually, sir, I’m afraid I’ll have to stay. I couldn’t leave anyone, even a Spiritualist, alone in here.”
“Suit yourself,” Eli said with a shrug. “We won’t be long.”
The guard nodded and took a seat on the ledge of the hearth, but Eli had already stopped paying attention to him. He walked across the room to the lion and kneeled down to peer into its open mouth. Josef stood behind him, eyes roving over the empty shelves, while Nico wandered off toward the far end of the room, staring up at the high ceiling.
“So,” the swordsman said quietly, “think they’re actually close to catching the thief?”
“Not a chance,” Eli said, running his fingers over the lion’s mane. “He wouldn’t have let us in if they had a lead. For all they know, this stuff just vanished in the night. The guard’s probably sticking around because he’s hoping we’ll give him something he can use. Look here.”
His fingers paused their roving just behind the lion’s left paw, and Eli bent down almost to the ground, peering intently at the gold with a knowing smile. “Thought so, this is a fake. Actual Golden Lions of Ser have a tiny blessing to the volcano of Ser stamped into their left paws. This one has nothing.”
“It’s not real gold?” Josef said, drumming his knuckles on the lion’s head.
“Oh, no, it’s real gold.” Eli stood, brushing off his knees. “But whoever robbed this place wasn’t your common cat burglar. Look at the shelves, not a one out of place. Even the dust is undisturbed. This room seems completely secure, far more so than anything we walked through to get here. I’ve been on the lookout since we stepped through the door and even I can’t figure out how the thief got in, or got out again with what had to be a wagonload of priceless artifacts. However, I can tell that whoever did this was patient, educated enough to spot a fake, discerning enough not to want one, and very, very good. That narrows the list down quite a bit.”
“So you know who it was?”
Eli rolled his eyes. “Let’s just say there’s only one man I know who can pull a job like this, but if we’re going to find him, I’m going to need to see a list of the duke’s business contacts.”
Josef looked at him, thoroughly confused. “Business contacts?”
“It’s our only chance. He certainly didn’t leave a clue here.” Eli craned his head around, scanning the shelves. “Well,” he said cheerfully, “at least the Fenzetti blade is missing.”
“How is that a good thing?” Josef said.
“If the thief took it, we know it wasn’t fake.”