The Spirit Rebellion(75)
The guard just stood there, blinking in confusion. Whatever he’d expected the man marching across his square to say, this certainly was not it. “You,” he said slowly, “are Miranda Lyonette?”
“Yes,” Eli said, looking extremely put upon.
The guard looked at the guard next to him. “Isn’t Miranda a girl’s name?”
“How dare you, sir!” Eli cried. “I’ll have you know it is an old family name. Honestly, am I to be constantly hounded by the ignorance of others? A girl’s name, really.”
The absolute scorn in his voice did the trick, and the guard’s face went scarlet. “Forgive me, sir. I meant no offense. It’s just, well, do you have proof of your identity?”
“Proof?” Eli rolled his eyes dramatically. “You insult my name and then ask for proof? Honestly, do I look like I have time for this idiotic song and dance?”
“Anything will do,” the guard said. “Some sort of identification from the Court, or—”
“You know anyone beside Spiritualists who wear rings like these?” Eli held up both his hands, letting his gaudy glass rings catch the sun. “What do you want, a writ signed by Banage himself?”
“That would be good, actually,” the guard said as politely as possible. “I really can’t let you in without papers of some—”
Eli went positively livid. “You dare, sir! I just made the two-day trip from Zarin to Gaol in under four hours. Do you think I had the time to wait for those Court bureaucrats to give me papers? When you’re chasing Monpress, time is of the utmost importance! Already, the trail is getting colder, and for every second you waste I lose hours in the hunt for the thief. If you won’t let me in, then I will make sure your duke knows exactly who is responsible for letting his thief get away!” Eli looked about. “Where is your duke anyway? Bring him here at once!”
The guard blanched. “You see, the duke is terribly busy, and without proper identification, I’m afraid I can’t—”
“Afraid?” Eli’s eyes narrowed. “You’d best be afraid, doorman! Somewhere in that brick of a citadel is a spirit who saw how Monpress did what he did. Even now, that spirit is falling asleep. If it falls asleep entirely it will likely forget what it saw, and if that happens—” Eli paused for a deep, shuddering breath. “You don’t even want to know what I’ll do, but one thing is certain.” His eyes narrowed, pinning the guard captain with a killing glare. “Should that happen, I will make sure everyone, from Zarin’s highest seats of power to the Duke of Gaol himself, knows that you were the reason why.”
The guard bowed, his face pale and sweating. “Apologies, Spiritualist Lyonette; I never doubted you were who you claimed to be. But I’m afraid I still can’t give you access to the treasury without permission from the duke. If you could wait just a—”
“I will not!” Eli said with a flippant wave of his ringed fingers. “Powers, man, you’ve already been robbed blind! What are you afraid I’m going to do in there, steal your dust? Just show me and my assistants to the scene of the crime and I can get to work finding your thief, which I’m sure will make your duke much happier than you interrupting him with stupid requests.”
The guard was sweating profusely now, and Eli took his chance for the final push. “Listen very carefully,” he said slowly, twitching his spirit just a fraction so that the gaudy rings on his fingers glittered with malice. “If I lose the trail because of your delays, you will wish you’d never heard of Spiritualists. Do you understand?”
“Of course, Master Spiritualist,” the guard said, waving his men toward the doors. “Right this way.”
The pack of guards opened one of the great iron doors, and Eli, Nico, and Josef followed the guard captain into the citadel.
In the sky overhead, the wind that had been circling since Eli first stepped out into the square changed direction, blowing up the stone wall to the top of the citadel and through the window of one of the stubby towers at its crown. The tower was all one room, large and circular, with a long table at its center. A cluster of men stood around it, all dressed in the same drab uniform. Most of them looked like dressed-up farmers taken from their fields and thrust into uniforms, which was what they were. They were the conscript leaders, and they all wore the same quiet, obedient expression as they watched the head of the table where Duke Edward was pointing out markers on the city map carved into the table’s smooth, wooden top.
The duke was in the middle of laying out details about how he wanted the perimeter handled, but he stopped midsentence as the wind blew by.