“Defeated?” Sparrow snorted. “She lost a few ships and a little pride, but women who own half the world don’t roll over just because you beat up their forward fleet. She retreated is all. Your real question should be, what took her so long to come back and finish the job?”
Miranda stared at him. “Well?”
“Well what?” Sparrow said, leaning back tiredly.
“What took her so long?” Miranda said, gritting her teeth on each word.
“How in the world should I know?” Sparrow said. “But she’s back now, and word is she’s got a fleet large enough to crush us flat five times over. Of course, that’s probably an exaggeration, but there must be some truth to it if Whitefall’s worked up enough to squeeze the Council Kingdoms this hard. There must be carts from here to Gaol.”
“I can see that,” Miranda snapped. “What I want to know is, if you knew all this, why you didn’t see fit to tell me.”
Sparrow arched his thin shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. “What good would it have done you to know? You were already running your darling dog into the ground to get to Zarin, so it’s not like the knowledge would have spurred you any faster.”
Miranda’s jaw clenched. “And did it never occur to you that a continent-scale war is something I should be informed of?”
“It did,” Sparrow said. “But quite frankly, Miranda dear, you have a bad habit of getting bent out of shape over things that have nothing to do with you. Remember who sprung you out of your charming little cold cellar under the mountain. You’re working for Sara now. She, not I, decides what you need to know and when, and she said nothing about telling you anything about the war.”
Miranda’s eyes went wide. “Said?” she hissed. “When did you—”
Before she could finish, Sparrow flicked his hand and a blue ball the size of a marble attached to a leather cord rolled out into his palm. Miranda snapped her mouth shut. Of course. She’d forgotten he had a Relay point. How stupid could she be?
“You still should have told me,” she grumbled.
“Think that all you like,” Sparrow said, rolling the Relay point in his hand. “I’m not sticking my neck out for your desperate need to meddle.” He flicked his hand again, and the blue orb disappeared. “Remember, little Spiritualist,” he said, smiling at her startled jerk. “Sara owns you now. I suggest you do as I do and do just what she says, no more and no less. In the meanwhile, get moving. You’re wasting our time.”
Gin snarled and craned his head back, enormous teeth bared, but Miranda shook her head.
“Ride,” she said.
Gin snapped his teeth. “Let me teach this—”
She dug her fingers into his fur. “Go.”
Gin snarled one last time, but then he turned and dashed toward the northern gate as fast as he could go, his fur bristling in wild gray swirls. Miranda hunkered down on his back, grateful that the rushing wind made further conversation impossible.
Zarin’s gates were thrown wide open to accommodate the massive influx of people. The northern gate was staffed with a squad in Whitefall’s white and silver directing traffic. They waved Gin forward without question, and Miranda immediately turned them down a side street, dodging the crowds as best she could. When they were clear of the gate’s confusion, Miranda nudged Gin west, toward Whitefall Citadel. It felt strange to enter Zarin and not go directly to the Spirit Court, but she had the feeling that if she didn’t see Sara first, things would get ugly. Still, she couldn’t help craning her neck as they rode, watching for any flash of the Spirit Court’s white walls between the buildings as Gin began the run up the hill to the citadel.
The approach to the Council’s stronghold was even more crowded than the road into Zarin. The city was packed to bursting. Troops in a rainbow of country colors clogged the streets and side alleys in noisy, suspicious packs. Everyone made room for Gin, even bravado-filled soldiers weren’t stupid enough to stand in a ghosthound’s way, but it was still infuriatingly slow going. Finally, after almost an hour of climbing, they made it to the citadel gate.
The guards stepped aside the moment they saw Sparrow, and Gin trotted into the citadel’s paved yard. Even here, the traffic was heavy. Ornate, official carriages clogged every inch of the Council’s entry, and servants, footmen, and guards stood in every available space, waiting for their masters with sullen, suspicious looks. Gin turned immediately, sticking to the fence until he found a space under the ornamental trees wide enough for his passengers to dismount.
“Wait here,” Miranda said, eyeing the other carriages nervously. “And try not to startle the horses. I’m going to see what’s going on.”
Gin nodded and sat down with a huff, growling deep in his throat. He was still biting mad, but he’d been with Miranda long enough to know that acting out wouldn’t get him anywhere but into her bad graces. Still, swallowing anger graciously was not a ghosthound virtue, and so Miranda had to content herself with leaving him growling in the shady corner of the packed citadel yard. This should have made her nervous, but today she was too angry herself to care. And so, filthy, bedraggled, and furious, Miranda marched past the carriages and up the stairs of the Council of Thrones. Sparrow drifted along behind her, thoroughly amused by the whole affair.
A page separated himself from the flock in the entry hall the moment they entered to inform Miranda and Sparrow that Sara was expecting them.
“Of course she is,” Miranda muttered, waving for the page to lead the way.
But rather than leading them down to the dark cavernous room where Miranda had met Sara before, the boy led them up a grand staircase and into a series of richly appointed halls. The outside commotion was here as well. Servants in a rainbow of liveries were constantly running by with papers tucked under their arms. Here and there, doors were guarded by solemn-faced soldiers who watched them suspiciously as they passed. These crowded hallways lasted only two floors, however. After climbing another set of stairs, they entered a quieter hall of elegant offices with important-looking brass nameplates on the doors, all of which were closed. After climbing yet another set of stairs, they entered an elegant waiting room full of serious-faced men in excessively expensive jackets talking in hushed, urgent voices. The men fell silent the moment Miranda stepped into view, and she paused at the top of the stairs, watching to see where the page wanted her. But the page walked right past the waiting men to the closed door at the far end of the room, which, unlike all the others, bore no nameplate at all.
The page stopped at the door and motioned for Miranda to step forward. The waiting men were openly glaring at her now, and Miranda glanced back at Sparrow only to find that she was alone. She turned in a full circle, eyes wide, but Sparrow was nowhere to be seen. Miranda cursed under her breath. She was less annoyed at Sparrow for vanishing than at herself for being surprised. For a moment, she considered turning around and walking out, obligation or no, but even as she thought about it, she knew she couldn’t. Sparrow and, through him, Sara had saved her from the mountain. The least she could do was show up and see what Sara wanted. After that, she would go straight to Master Banage and tell him everything.
Decision made, Miranda lifted her head and smoothed her dirty hair and travel-stained clothes with quick fingers. When she was as presentable as she could make herself, she walked past the glaring men and through the heavy wooden door the page opened for her.
A roomful of people turned to look at her. A few she recognized at once. Sara stood beside the large wooden desk at one end of the lavish office, a pencil in her mouth and a stack of papers dangling from her hands. Opposite her was Tower Keeper Blint, one of Hern’s old cronies. He was leaning over the desk as well, tapping the map that covered its surface with his jeweled fingers and looking just as displeased to see Miranda as she was to see him. Seated at the desk between them was a man Miranda had never seen personally, but whose face she knew by heart. Though he’d gone a little grayer since the parade days of her youth, no Zarin native could fail to recognize the current head of the family who had ruled Zarin since there was a Zarin: Alber Whitefall, the Merchant Prince himself.
Left alone, Miranda might have stood gawking in the doorway forever. Fortunately, Sara didn’t have that kind of patience.
“Finally,” she said, snapping her fingers and motioning for Miranda to come stand beside her. “What took you? I was beginning to think Sparrow was lying.”
Miranda started to answer, but Blint cut her off.
