The Spirit Rebellion(69)

“I just arrived,” Miranda explained. “What do you mean ‘called conscription’? Is there a war brewing?”

The man laughed loud and hard. “Council’d hardly allow that, would they? No, the duke can call conscription for whatever he likes. This here is a duchy in the old way. Old Edward owns everything, every field, every house, every business, even this one. We’re all of us working for him, one way or the other, and conscription duty ain’t any harder than farm work. Anyways, no one would say no to him even if he wasn’t landlord and employer. You don’t say no to the Duke of Gaol. Not if you want to keep the things what make life worth living.”

Miranda grimaced. This duke sounded like a monster. That was one good thing about being here on her own rather than on the Spirit Court’s business: She wouldn’t have to introduce herself to the duke before getting to work. “Well,” she said and smiled. “Why has he called conscription this time? Is there an emergency?”

He gave her a look as if she was stupid. “Didn’t you hear? Eli Monpress robbed the duke last night. Stole him clean. Word is the treasury is empty.”

It took every ounce of Miranda’s discipline to keep her face calm, but inside, she was shrieking with joy. Eli Monpress here? Now? She couldn’t even imagine a stroke of luck this fantastic. If she could somehow get her hands on Eli, why, even Hern couldn’t keep her out of Zarin.

She looked up to see the innkeeper staring at her, and Miranda realized she must be grinning.

“That’s too bad,” she said, forcing her face into courteous disinterest. “I hear Monpress has a nice bounty. Did the duke catch him?”

“No word on that yet,” the innkeeper said, shrugging. “The citadel’s been shut up tight. But look at it this way: Would the duke shut down trade and close the borders if he had the thief in a cell?”

He might, actually, if he’d done any research on Eli, Miranda thought, but she kept it to herself.

“Doesn’t matter none anyway,” the man continued. “The duke will catch him all the same. This is Gaol, after all.” He smiled, pushing a small stack of silver coins across the counter.

“Sixty-four exact,” he said. “Take it or leave it, but you won’t find better for the paper around here.”

Miranda had no idea if that was good or not, but she took the money without complaint. The coins were thin pressed, and each was stamped with a man’s face in silhouette, which the block lettering on the edges identified as belonging to Edward, Eighteenth Duke of Gaol.

It must have been a nice bit of money, for the innkeeper’s tone softened considerably. “Anything else, miss?”

Miranda thought a moment. “Yes,” she said. “I’ll need a new set of clothes. And some soap.”

The man raised his eyebrows, but he turned around and got a paper-wrapped bar from the shelf behind him.

“Soap,” he said, slapping the bar on the counter. “One silver. As for clothes…” He walked over to the corner and opened the first of a series of large chests set against the wall. “My daughter’s work,” he said, pulling out a stretch of brown homespun. “Five silvers each. Just pick out what you like.”

Miranda walked over with a grimace. The chest was full of dresses. Farmer girl dresses. With little motifs of daisies on the trim and sleeves. A quick look through the other chests showed more of the same. The man’s daughter was apparently prolific, and very fond of daisies. Seeing this was all she was going to get, Miranda settled on a long, rust-colored dress with a wide skirt that looked like it would do for riding, and, most important of all, long sleeves that went down over her fingers to hide her rings. The color didn’t clash with her hair too badly, and the stitching, though large, was sturdy. Satisfied, she paid the man for the soap and the dress, and he even wrapped it up for her for free, cementing her suspicion that she was being vastly overcharged.

Miranda shoved the package under her arm. Before she turned to leave, however, she asked one final question.

“Sir,” she said, “did it rain last night?”

“Of course not,” the man sniffed. “It’s Wednesday.”

Miranda gave him a funny look. “What does that have to do with rain?”

“This is Gaol,” the man said. “It only rains on Sundays.”

Miranda just stood there a moment, stunned, while in her head, several little pieces clicked into place.

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you very much.”

The man just made a harumphing noise before going back to his ledger.