Pele sighed. When her father got like this, there was no point in asking for more explanation. She simply hurried after him, climbing the rickety steps as the house began to shudder. As soon as she was inside, the house took off down the ridge, heading north, toward the mountains.
CHAPTER 7
The Spirit Court’s tower was not the only great building in Zarin. Across the city, past the dip in the ridge made by the swift Whitefall River, the white-painted stone and timber buildings that made up most of the city took a turn for the elegant. The roads steepened as they climbed up the ridge, cutting back and forth until they reached the highest arch of the city’s rocky backbone. There, perched like a coral on a jut of bare rock, stood the Whitefall Citadel, fortress of the Whitefall family, the Merchant Princes of Zarin, and official home of the unprecedented organization they had founded, the Council of Thrones. Though not as tall or as mystical as the Spiritualist’s white tower, it was nonetheless magnificently impressive. The castle stood apart from the city, separated from the steep road by a long bridge that stretched across a natural gap in the ridge. Perched as it was on an outcropping, the citadel seemed to float all on its own, a great, airy fortress of flashing white walls and soaring arches. But most impressive of all were the famous towers of Zarin. There were seven in all crowning the inner keep, so tall they seemed to scrape the sky itself with their hammered gold spires.
Despite its grandness, these days the citadel was mostly for show. It remained the symbol of the Council, and its seven towers stood in proud relief on every gold standard the Council mint pressed, but the enormous bureaucracy that kept the Council turning over had long ago outgrown the soaring towers of its home fortress, spilling into the mansions and trade halls of the surrounding slopes. These days, the only people who actually stayed in the fortress were the Whitefall family of Zarin and any actual nobles who deigned to come to Council functions themselves.
On the fifth floor of the citadel’s inner keep, where everything was as luxurious as money and station could make it, one such man, Edward di Fellbro, Duke of Gaol, was having tea in his rooms. For most nobility, especially those with lands as rich as Gaol, this act would have involved at least three servants, yet Edward was alone, calmly finishing a modest plate of fruit and bread at the corner of his enormous dining table, which was covered, not in cornucopias of exotic fruits and sweetmeats, but with maps.
They were spread out neatly end to end, maps from every region in the Council Kingdom in different styles and time periods, some old and worn, some whose ink had hardly dried, yet every single one of them was dotted with the same meticulous red markings. Sometimes they were Xs, sometimes circles or squares, and very occasionally a triangle. No matter the shape, however, the same tight, neat notation was listed beside each one, usually a number and a short description, and always marked with a date.
Duke Edward stared at the maps intently, his thin face drawn into a thoughtful frown as he took a sip from his teacup only to notice it was empty. Scowling, he held out his cup, and an elegant teapot on four silver legs waddled over to refill it. The pot trembled as it moved, its worked golden lid rattling softly as it poured. The duke glared at the pot and it stopped rattling instantly, moving back to its spot in the tea service with murmured apologies and careful bows so as not to drip.
Edward saw none of it. His stare was already back on the maps, flicking from point to point in no discernible order. From his posture, he might have stayed like that indefinitely, but a knock on the carved door interrupted his contemplation.
“Enter,” he said, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his voice.
The door opened, and one of the Council pages, dressed head to toe in the ridiculous white and silver finery Whitefall made all his servants wear, stepped timidly into the room.
“Spiritualist Hern to see you, my Lord,” the boy announced with a low bow.
Edward put down his fork and pushed his plate away. “Send him in.”
The boy stepped back, and the duke’s unexpected guest sailed into the room. Sailed was the right word. Edward had never met anyone as preoccupied with his appearance as Hern. The Spiritualist was in full regalia today, a tight green coat embroidered with blue and silver in the imitation of peacock feathers, with tall, turned, and pointed cuffs hanging down over the glittering, knuckle-sized jewels of his rings.
“I swear, Edward,” he said, collapsing onto a cushioned lounge by the window as the boy closed the door, “your quarters get smaller every time you come to Zarin. And they’ve got you up on the fifth floor this time, with all those stairs.” He pulled out a handkerchief and patted his flushed face. “It’s intolerable. I never understood why you don’t just take a house in the city like everyone else.”