He left the way he had come, disappearing as quietly as a cat behind the empty bar. Miranda gave him to the count of twenty before pushing her chair back with a clatter and stomping out of the decrepit tavern.
“Complete waste of time,” she muttered, shoving the dirty blanket out of her way. “For all the information he gave us, I might as well have interrogated the door a few more times.”
Marion followed meekly, eyes on the dusty corners in case any other mysterious swordsmen were waiting to make an entrance. “What did he mean ‘a wizard not as you are’?”
“How should I know?” Miranda said, marching down the creaking stairs. “I don’t think he understands what comes out of his mouth any more than we do. We’ll just have to expand the search. There’s got to be something I’m missing. Whatever Coriano says about Eli’s skill, Monpress can’t do what he’s doing without a spirit’s help, and he can’t use spirits without leaving some trace. He’s been lucky so far, but as soon as I can figure out his gimmick, I’ll wring his—” She stopped short.
The street outside was just as empty as it had been when they’d arrived. Gin was where they had left him, slouched on the ground. His large head rested on his paws, one of which had something squirmy pinned in the mud beneath it.
“You have a visitor,” he said, tail twitching. “He didn’t want to wait until you were done with your meeting, but I convinced him otherwise.”
“Gin,” Miranda said through gritted teeth. “Let him up.”
The ghosthound lifted his paw, and Miranda hurried to help the man. Even covered in mud, the royal messenger’s livery was recognizable. He wobbled a bit, like his knees wouldn’t support him, and Miranda had to position herself between him and Gin before he could get his message out.
“T-the Master of Security s-sent me to f-find you, lady,” he stuttered. “A letter just arrived from the king.”
Miranda’s face lit up. “A letter from the king? How long ago?”
“Master Oban sent me as soon as it came,” he said, keeping his distance from the Spiritualist and her monster. “Ten minutes maybe? Twenty?”
That was all Miranda needed. She hooked her arm over Gin’s nose and he lifted her up onto his waiting back.
“Lady!” Marion cried. “Where are you going?”
“To the castle, of course!” Miranda shouted. “Eli’s made his move, and I’m not about to let him get away so easily this time.”
Marion opened her mouth to say something else, but the ghosthound dashed behind her and Miranda swept the girl up onto his back. Gin whirled, patterns flashing wildly over his fur, and dashed up the hill, pouncing in silent bounds toward the castle.
The moment the ghosthound was out of sight, the neighborhood started pouring out of its hiding places. Men, women, and grubby children flooded the muddy street, and the royal messenger found himself surrounded by gawking, dirty people. One look at the knives some of the men wore in their boots and the messenger decided it was time to return as well, and he followed the ghosthound up the hill toward the castle at a dead run.
CHAPTER 7
Oban, the Master of Security, was waiting for them at the castle gate with a roll of parchment in his hand.
“Lady Miranda!” he shouted, running toward them as Gin slid to a stop.
“Is that the letter?” Miranda hopped down.
“Yes.” He shoved the parchment into her hand. “Read it quickly.”
She shook the paper open and read, muttering along as she went. “King is safe… Send riders to the Council… Mellinor shall pledge an additional thirty-five thousand to Monpress’s bounty”—her eyebrows shot up—“and five thousand in cash—these demands are ridiculous!” She shook her head as she finished reading. “ ‘Raise a white flag from the second tower when you receive the new bounty notice from the Council and await further instructions.’ Why that greedy little thief, what is he playing at?” She thrust the note back at Oban. “You said the king wrote this?”
“Yes,” Oban said, “under much duress, we fear.”
Miranda gave him a flat look. “He has very good handwriting for a king under duress.”
“Oh, this isn’t the original.” The Master of Security ran a nervous hand over his bald head. “It’s a scribe copy.”
“Well, that won’t do.” Miranda put her hands on her hips. “Where is the original? I need it now.” Time was precious. If she got it soon enough, the faint, weak spirits in the ink might still remember the ink pot they’d lived in. That would give her a direction at least, maybe even a relative distance, but only if she got to them before they fell asleep completely and forgot that they’d ever been anything except words on a page.