The Spirit Rebellion(108)

Very, very carefully, Miranda emptied the tin in the far corner of the prison, standing back as the black liquid pooled in a low spot on the stone. When it was all gone, she went back to Mellinor and told Monpress to get in position.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he called back.

Miranda gave the signal and the water burst up in a geyser, shooting out of the pit before turning in midair, like water in a pipe, and barreling straight for Eli’s cell door. It hit the iron like a hammer and the metal squealed, but didn’t give way. The water wasn’t finished, though. Mellinor gathered himself in the door’s cracks, pushing his water between the stone and the metal. With no hinges, the door depended on its resolve to stay upright, but no resolve was strong enough to hold with water in every crevice. It clung for a few moments more, and then, with a defeated squeal, the door fell forward, crashing to the ground.

Almost before it hit, Eli jumped out. He was dirty and pale, his short black hair standing up at all angles, but he was beaming as he grabbed Miranda’s hand and gave it a vigorous shake.

“I knew I could count on you,” he said, clasping her hand tightly in his. “I always told Josef, if there’s one Spiritualist with her head on right, it’s Mira—”

He was interrupted by the clink of a lock closing. Eli looked down. The hand that was shaking Miranda’s now had a manacle around its wrist, the other end of which Miranda was fastening around her own. It was one of the manacles from the rack on the wall, and she locked it in place with a key from the key ring he’d given her before tossing the entire ring into the pit of her former cell.

“Eli Monpress,” she said, grinning like her ghosthound, “you are now under the authority of the Spirit Court.”

Eli looked down at his wrist, wiggling his hand against the tight, sharp, metal band. “That was a dirty trick.”

Miranda didn’t stop smiling. She held out her hand, and Mellinor blasted himself against the prison’s outer door, popping the hinges. The door fell over with a squeal of metal on stone, and Mellinor returned to Miranda, leaving the excess water he had gathered to drain away back into Miranda’s cell.

Eli watched as the keys vanished under a layer of filthy, poisoned water. “A very dirty trick,” he grumbled as she dragged him out into the hall.

“I don’t want to hear it,” she said, walking quickly and quietly, using Mellinor’s light to guide her. “You’re the master of dirty tricks.”

“I thought you were above all that,” he said, letting her drag him. “And you know it’s not going to work.”

“Maybe not for long,” she said, “but if I can keep you under control for even an hour, it will be worth it.” She came to a stop at another door, a wooden one this time, blocking the entire hall. It was locked, of course, with a padlock that looked very similar to the one on her cell.

“Well,” Eli said. “I doubt your little spout spirit there has enough water to bash this one in. If only we still had the keys.”

Miranda silenced him with a jab to the ribs and pressed her ear against the door. She could hear shouting on the other side, shouting and guard whistles. They didn’t seem to be coming her way, though. She bent down lower to examine the lock when the door rattled softly. Miranda jumped, slapping her hand over Eli’s mouth as she pressed them back into the wall. The door rattled again, and there was an almost inaudible click as the lock popped open.

Miranda dampened Mellinor’s light to nearly nothing and then reached up to grabbed an unlit torch from the wall bracket above her. She brandished the torch like a bat as the door opened. The moment a head came into view, she braced herself and brought her makeshift weapon down with all the force she could muster.

A second before it would have conked his head, her target dodged. He spun, a shadow in the dark hall, grabbing her arm as he went. She barely had time to gasp before she was on the floor with her arm wrenched behind her and the stranger’s knee in her back.

“Well,” a cultured voice whispered just above her head. “Eli, what are you doing, letting the lady go first?”

The pressure vanished from Miranda’s back, and she felt the chain jerk as Eli rolled over on the floor beside her.

“Letting her go first?” the thief sputtered. “Whose idea do you think this was?”

The man, whoever he was, ignored Eli completely, and a black-gloved hand swooped down to help Miranda to her feet.

“Apologies, my dear,” he said kindly. “The boy never could learn manners.”

Miranda took the hand gingerly, very confused, and lifted her head to see a tall, thin man in late middle age with a handsome, cultured smile wearing wrapped clothes in varying shades of black.