Unbidden and without reason, tears sprang to her eyes. She wiped them on her coat and bundled herself into a tiny ball in the center of her bed.
You can always come back. The voice’s whisper was like a cool wind on her mind. Why waste your time with people who don’t trust you? Come home, Nico. Come home to where you’re wanted.
She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Never listen to the voice.” Her words were a harsh whisper, but she could almost hear Nivel speaking them with her. “Never listen. Never listen.”
She kept repeating the words until, at last, exhaustion took over and she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
And in her mind, the voice waited.
CHAPTER
3
The sun had barely peeked over the ridge above Zarin when Miranda Lyonette, newly reappointed Spiritualist of the Spirit Court, arrived at the gate of the Whitefall Citadel, home of the Council of Thrones. She hopped carefully off the hired buggy and paid the driver, overtipping him just to be sure she had it right. Hired transportation wasn’t something she was used to, but she hadn’t wanted Gin on this trip. For one, the ghosthound was easily bored, and she had a feeling this visit would be full of waiting. Trips to the Council always were, and a bored ghosthound in the Council of Thrones stables sounded like an invitation for disaster. Second, she hadn’t wanted to mess up her outfit riding through the busy streets. She had dressed her best for this, a white silk jacket and matching wide trousers with short-heeled blue slippers instead of her usual boots. She wore her hair bound back in a tight braid that was a bit severe for her face, but she hadn’t wanted to take chances with it frizzing on her. After all, it wasn’t every day one got a handwritten invitation to the Council from a member of the Whitefall family itself.
The invitation was carefully tucked into her jacket’s inside pocket, and though she’d read it through a dozen times since it arrived at the Spirit Court’s tower by special courier yesterday, she still wasn’t exactly sure why she’d been called to the Council. One thing, however, was certain, the invitation had come from Lord Phillipe Whitefall, Chief Domestic Enforcement Officer to the Council of Thrones and first cousin to Alber Whitefall, the current Merchant Prince of Zarin. There’d been no request for reply, but the letter didn’t need one. Miranda had lived in Zarin long enough to know that when a Whitefall asked you to be somewhere, Spiritualist or common townsfolk, you didn’t say no.
The guards opened the gate when she gave her name, and as she stepped into the courtyard a white- liveried page appeared seemingly from thin air to escort her into the citadel. Miranda followed the boy across the white-paved yard, under the long shadows of the famous seven towers, and into one of the graceful arching doors. The interior of the citadel was as lovely as the exterior, and positively dripping with wealth. Everything, from the paper-thin porcelain vases nestled in carved nooks between the windows to the thick, golden carpet underfoot, was exquisite, tasteful, and quietly expensive. If Miranda had not been here once before, accompanying Master Banage when she was still his apprentice, she would have gawked openly.
The page led her down half a dozen halls before opening a set of heavy double doors into a long gallery filled with tables. Miranda blinked in surprise. Each table was covered with stacks of paper and tended by a small army of well-dressed men and women. They worked furiously, sorting the piles into smaller piles before passing them along to others who bound the papers and stacked them on the shelves that ran along both sides of the gallery. No one spoke as the page led Miranda between the tables. Indeed, no one seemed to notice her at all. Their focus was entirely on their work, and the only sound in the large room was the rustle of paper. Miranda was still staring when the page stopped suddenly, turning to stand beside a tall door at the end of the gallery.
“Lord Whitefall will see you now,” he said, bowing low. “Just through the door, if you please.”
“Thank you,” Miranda said.
The boy hurried off, walking silently back through the long gallery. Feeling a little abandoned, Miranda turned and opened the door. Like every door in the citadel, it opened silently, and she found herself standing at one end of a large, overfull office.
Overflowing would have been a better description. There was paper everywhere, stacked on tables, rolled up in bins, bursting from the shelves that lined the walls. It was all piled as neatly as possible, but there was simply too much for the room to contain. It clung to every piece of furniture like white blubber, and Miranda had to press herself against the door simply to have room to stand. The only wall of the office not covered with shelves was still covered in paper. Maps of the Council Kingdoms, to be specific, every one of which was blanketed with a forest of colored stickpins.
Directly ahead of her, down the little clear aisle that ran like a valley between the mountains of paper, was a sight that made her pause. At the far end of the room was a large desk covered with the same piled paper that infested the rest of the office, but otherwise it was empty. No one sat in the worn, high-back chair set behind it or on the wooden stool beside it. Still, what caught Miranda’s attention was what hung above the desk. There, filling almost the entire back wall of the office, was an enormous piece of corkboard. It ran from just behind the chair all the way up to the room’s soaring ceiling, nearly ten feet from start to finish. Miranda had never seen anything like it, but even more amazing was what was pinned to the board—bounty posters, hundreds of them. They were pinned with military precision, marching in a neat grid from the very top of the board to just above the empty chair’s headrest.
The collection must have been long going, for the posters at the top were an entirely different color from the ones toward the bottom. Miranda leaned forward, trying to make out the names on the lower line, when a sudden voice made her jump.
“Knocking is customary before entering someone’s office, you know.”
Miranda stifled an undignified squeal of surprise, composing her features in an instant before turning to face the voice. Standing in a little alcove set just behind the door was a small, balding man with a large gray mustache. He wore a somber but expensive jacket that he somehow managed to make frumpy, and he was carrying a large stack of papers that he had obviously been going through when she had come in.
He gave her a final glare before tossing the papers on the shelf beside him, nearly causing an avalanche in the process.
“Phillipe Whitefall,” he said. “I assume you are Spiritualist Lyonette?”
“Yes,” Miranda said, dropping a polite bow. “An honor to meet you, sir.”
“Quite,” Lord Whitefall said, turning to walk briskly to his desk. “Apologies if I don’t dawdle on formality, Miss Lyonette. I’m a very busy man.” He sat down with a huff that made his mustache bristle. “I’ve heard much of your exploits from my agents in the field, especially involving Mellinor and this late unpleasantness in the duchy of Gaol. Quite an impressive display for someone so young.”
“I was only doing my job as a Spiritualist,” Miranda said, smiling despite herself. “The Spirit Court takes all infractions against the spirits very—”
“Yes, yes,” Lord Whitefall interrupted. “The Spirit Court’s dedication is not what I’m after. I called you here today to talk about your experience with Eli Monpress.”
Miranda went stiff. “Well—”
“My primary duty as Chief Domestic Enforcement Officer is the maintenance and enforcement of the Council’s bounties,” he said, cutting her off again. “I receive the pledges, set the figures, track the criminals, oversee poster production and distribution, so on and so forth. That’s how you came to my attention.” He reached into the nest of papers on his desk and plucked out a formal letter bearing the Spirit Court’s seal. “Several weeks ago, our office received this rather strange request from you, Spiritualist Miranda. You wrote on behalf of your Court asking that I combine the Spirit Court’s private bounty with the Council’s offering. Is that correct?”
He waved the letter in front of her until she nodded.
“Hardly a common thing,” Lord Whitefall went on, tossing the letter back into the piles. “So I did a little digging and discovered some rather interesting facts about your recent exploits.” He paused, giving her a long, probing look. “It seems you are something of an expert on Eli Monpress.”
“I wouldn’t say expert, my lord,” Miranda put in quickly. “It’s true I’ve been involved with Eli Monpress on
