“But sir,” the fire said again. “I really think you should look. He’s doing something…” It paused, throwing a puff of nervous smoke into the air. “Odd.”
“Odd?” The duke looked sideways at the chimney. “Odd how?”
“It looks like he’s giving a speech, sir,” the fire finished in a rush, its light ducking back down the chimney just in case the duke decided it was wasting his time. But Edward was frowning, considering his decision. The river demanded his attention, but ignoring Eli Monpress was a risk only fools took. He tried it one way, then another, and came to the conclusion there was nothing to be done but to have a look himself. Keeping the back of his mind on the burning river, the duke walked through the small knot of buildings at the top of the citadel to the battlements on the opposite side, which overlooked the square.
The moment he looked down he understood why the fire had called him. There, standing on a pile of barrels and crates he’d scavenged from who knew where, was Eli Monpress. He was standing in plain sight in the middle of the square, and he seemed to be yelling. Very cautiously, the duke shifted a bit of his spirit away from the river and toward the city center. As his spirit moved over the square, he suddenly heard the thief’s words loud and clear, and his hands clutched the edge of the battlements in white-knuckled fury.
Eli stood atop his mountain of borrowed barrels like a general in a war monument. Light rain soaked his shirt and plastered his black hair to his scalp, which added nicely to the desired effect. Beleaguered heroes always looked better in the rain.
He threw out his hands dramatically as he spoke, pouring every ounce of every scrap of everything he’d ever learned from a lifetime of unconventional wizardry into his voice. “Spirits of Gaol!” he cried, layering just enough power so that his words flowed smooth and strong over the quivering panic around him. “Look at what’s been done to you! Look at the situation you’ve allowed yourselves to be put in! What has happened in Gaol? Free spirits are beholden to no one save their Great Spirit, and yet here you are, cowering while your river is out there fighting the duke for your freedom!”
“That’s not our river!” one of the lamps shouted. “It’s that Spiritualist’s spirit!”
“All the more reason to be ashamed!” Eli answered, his voice harsh. “That an outsider came and risked their neck to save you, and you won’t even help.”
A great round of shouts went up at this, calling him wizard thief, and demanding why should we listen to you? Finally, one voice rolled over the rest. It was the door, the great iron door from the treasury, now standing sullenly at the corner of the square, propped up with sandbags.
“What do you know?” it said. “This is all your fault, anyway. Things were fine until you got here. And now you stand there and tell us to what, rise up? Bah, easy for you! You’re a wizard. You never lived with the duke!”
Eli stared at the door, his eyes wide. When he spoke next, there was a tremor in his voice. “You think I don’t know the duke’s cruelty? You think I just waltzed into Gaol to make empty speeches? Look then!” he shouted, ripping off his coat. “Look for yourselves and then say that I don’t know what it’s like to cross the Duke of Gaol!”
He unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it back, and a great sound went up from the gathered spirits as his bare shoulders came into view. Eli’s skin, always pale, was now a horrid mottle of black and purple bruises. Angry red marks stood out on his lower arms, and his joints were red and swollen until they were painful to look at. All around the courtyard, the spirits who could see the physical world were whispering to those who couldn’t. Those in turn whispered to their neighbors, and Eli’s injuries got worse with every telling. For his part, Eli stood perfectly still, letting the soft rain splash on his injured skin as the story grew around him.
“So you see,” Eli said, gritting his teeth as he gently replaced his shirt, “I, too, have felt what it means to defy the Duke of Gaol.”
But the door was not impressed. “Bah,” it growled. “What are a few bruises? You’re human. You’re free from the true horrors. You can’t even feel the Enslavement, the duke putting his boot on your mind. If you could feel what we feel, you’d be terrified. You wouldn’t last a day living the life we live.”
A general murmur of agreement went up at this, but Eli kept his eyes on the door. “And this life,” he said calmly. “Do you like it?”
“Of course not,” the iron said. “We hate every day, but what can we do? This is our domain; we can’t leave it.”