The Spirit Rebellion(43)

“I see no point for such a useless expense,” the duke said dryly. “Besides, the part of my Council dues that covers these rooms is too dear already. A rich lord does not stay rich by indulging in redundant expense.”

“So you like to say,” Hern said, helping himself to a cup from the tea service, which he held out for the nervous teapot to fill. “What’s that you’re working on there?” He nodded toward the spread of maps. “Plotting to expand your lands? Going to take over the Council Kingdoms?”

“Hardly,” the duke said. “They wouldn’t be worth the bother.”

“So what are these for, then?” The Spiritualist actually sounded fascinated, a sure sign that he was only trying to get Edward talking and comfortable. It was the same song and dance they went through every time Hern visited, and Edward had long since learned it was faster to just go along than try and force the Spiritualist to get to his point sooner. Besides, he hadn’t explained his system in a long while, and explaining something to others was a useful exercise for uncovering faults in execution.

“These,” he said, leaning forward and stretching out his hand to tap one of the red markings on the map in front of him, “are the movements of Eli Monpress.”

Hern blinked. “The thief?”

“Do you know any other Monpresses?” Edward gave him a scathing look. “You asked, so pay attention. Each red mark denotes where he’s been active since he first appeared five years ago.” He moved his fingers over the maps without touching them, tracing a path between the markings. “The Xs are confirmed robberies, the circles are unconfirmed incidents that I believe were his work, and the squares are crimes attributed to Monpress, but which I don’t believe he had a hand in.”

“And how do you make that judgment?” Hern said, blowing on his tea.

“I look for a pattern.” Edward was pleased with the question. A chance to talk through his logic was always welcome. “All men have patterns. It’s human nature, even for someone as famously unpredictable as Monpress. Look here.” He moved his finger over the X closest to him, far south of Zarin, covering the dot that denoted the desert city of Amit.

“Monpress’s first crime we know of was here, the theft of the Count of Amit’s cash prize for the annual Race of the Dunes. He also stole the winning horse, which he then used as a getaway. He’s next seen a few months later”—his finger ran up the maps, heading far north to the very top of the Council Kingdoms—“here.” He tapped a red X in an empty spot of the map, somewhere in the wilderness between the Kingdom of Jenet and the Kingdom of Favol. “He ambushed the wedding procession of the Princess of Jenet and stole her entire dowry, including nearly eighty pounds of gold brick, fifty horses, a hundred head of cattle, and all of the bride’s wedding jewelry.”

“I’ve heard of that one,” Hern said with a laugh. “The story I heard said he did it all by himself, but surely—”

“I think that was the case,” the duke said. “Before the swordsman and the girl came into the picture a little over a year ago, Monpress always acted alone. For the Princess of Jenet, witnesses say he talked the road itself into changing its path, leading the whole procession into a sinking mire that he could reportedly walk over like it was dry land.”

“Come, that’s impossible.” Hern waved his jewel-covered hand. “I’ve got two top-notch earth spirits, and even I couldn’t convince an entire road to move.”

Edward raised his eyebrows, tucking that fact away for future use. “Well,” he said, “however he managed it, the road story fits Monpress’s pattern.”

“Which is?” Hern said, slurping his tea.

The duke gave him a flat look. Even if he was only feigning interest, surely Hern wasn’t that dense. “Look at the history,” Edward said slowly. “Monpress’s crimes are always robberies, and not just robberies, but thefts on a grand scale, usually against nobility. They are never violent, save in self defense, and usually leave little question as to who the perpetrator was.”

“You mean the calling card.” Hern nodded.

“Indeed.” Edward reached up to the very top of his maps and unclipped the small stack of white cards he’d pinned there. They were all roughly the same size, and though a few were on cheaper paper, they all had the same basic look: a white card stamped at the center with the same fanciful, cursive M.

“They started out handwritten,” the duke said, shuffling through the cards carefully so as not to get them out of order. “Then after his third crime, when his bounty was raised to five hundred gold standards, they were all printed. The early ones are still cheap, but for the past two years, he’s used a variety of high-quality stocks, though never the same one twice.” The duke smiled, tapping the cards on the table to line them up again. “Monpress is vain, you see. He’s a glutton for attention. That’s the way you can spot a fake Monpress crime.”