Spirit’s End: An Eli Monpress Novel

by Rachel Aaron

  Josef shrugged. “Seemed fitting to me that the man who helped wreck Osera twice should be the one whose head pays to fix it. How long until the Council can pay up? We need the money as soon as possible.”

  “And that’s where we find our problem,” Whitefall said slowly. “Yours is not the only country that’s had to pay for a war, King Josef.”

  “We’re the only country that had to fight one,” Josef said, crossing his arms.

  “I’m not arguing with you there,” Whitefall said. “But armies have to be fed, clothed, and paid whether they meet the enemy or not, and it all adds—”

  “Stop,” Josef said, putting up his hand. “You’re telling me that the Council is broke, too?” When Whitefall didn’t answer at once, he threw his head back. “Powers! Does anyone actually have money in this little club of yours?”

  The gag reduced Eli’s cackle to a safely muted grunt. Whitefall, however, did not look amused.

  “Not being able to produce five hundred thousand gold standards on command hardly counts as broke, King Josef,” he said crisply. “The Council of Thrones would be hard-pressed to do that at any time. Now, however, it is particularly difficult. So difficult, in fact, that were it not for a certain windfall, we’d be unable to offer you any meaningful assistance at all.”

  He tilted his head toward Eli as he spoke, making it painfully clear what windfall he was talking about. Josef didn’t answer, but his eyes also flicked to Eli, and Whitefall’s face lit up.

  “Let me put this as simply as I can,” the Merchant Prince said. “If the Council does not claim the Monpress bounty, there’s little chance of Osera getting a red cent. Of course, this would mean Mr. Monpress would have to stand for his crimes. Though since there’s little question of his guilt, any trial would be a mere formality on his way to the gallows.”

  Eli swallowed against the pressure of the gag.

  “But it doesn’t have to be that way,” Whitefall said, his voice softening. “You’ll find I’m a very understanding soul. I know you and Mr. Monpress are old friends. Who could expect you to condemn your dear companion to death in order to placate a country that’s never made a question of how much it disliked you?”

  Josef’s face darkened, and Whitefall moved in for the kill.

  “Come, King Josef,” he said kindly. “We are grown men. Let’s not bicker. Compromise is the foundation of good governance. Here’s my offer. I’ll give you Eli Monpress, no strings attached. I will let him walk out of this office as your guest and never ask after him again. And to honor the great debt we owe Osera for her bravery, the Council will keep its fleet at Osera to help with the rebuilding as long as necessary. You will get back your friend and your country, and all I ask in exchange is that you leave that head here and never speak of it again. Let Den remain what he’s always been, a black specter from the past. Such things have no place in our modern world. Forget him, forget the bounty, and take friendship instead: Eli’s, mine, and the Council’s. What do you say, King Josef? Is that not fair?”

  Eli glanced at Josef, but the swordsman didn’t look at him. His glare never left his target, the old man smiling behind his large desk.

  “I give you what you want, or you send my friend to the gallows,” he said, scratching his chin. “That sounds very much like a threat, Whitefall. I didn’t know the Merchant Prince of Zarin made threats.”

  “Then you must not have been in politics very long,” Whitefall said drily. “Which is good, actually, because it gives me the chance to do something truly unheard of for a man in my position.”

  Josef arched an eyebrow. “Which is?”

  “Be honest with you,” Whitefall answered. He sat up straight, and for the first time his voice grew deadly serious.

  “When I set Den’s Bounty, I made a gamble. The Council was a fledgling mess then, a dozen countries united in terror against a common enemy. When the Empress’s first fleet was defeated, we immediately began to fall back into the endless infighting and petty quarrels that have divided this continent since the first man called himself king. Even the promise of the Relay wasn’t enough to make the kingdoms forget their old enmity. As someone who’s sought to unite this land all his life, I could not let my hard-won consensus fracture, so I found another common cause—our mutual condemnation of Den’s betrayal.”

  Whitefall glanced at the sticky bloodstain on his desk, and his voice began to tremble with old anger. “The night Den turned traitor, he killed men from every kingdom. He betrayed us all for no reason other than his own bloodlust. Den’s treason was an act everyone could condemn without reservation, and setting his bounty was the first unified action of what became the Council of Thrones. That debt bound us together, and from that first binding, I forged another, and then another. I built this Council on Den’s blood, piling each pebble of common ground one on top of the other until there was enough for all of us to stand on.”

  “With you at the top,” Josef said.

  “But of course,” Whitefall said, lips curving in a thin smile. “I built the Council, after all. I found Sara, I funded the research that became the Relay, I was the first to unite with Osera against the Empress the first and the second time she came, and I was the one who held everything together at the end.”

  Josef tilted his head. “And did it never occur to you that you might have to pay if your gamble fell through?”

  Whitefall shrugged. “It did. But you have to understand, when he betrayed us, Den was in his late fifties. At the time, we assumed he would either return with the Empress herself in the next year to finish us off, in which case the bounty would be the least of our problems, or he would die across the sea and we’d be rid of him forever. Either way, it seemed a safe bet.”

  Josef snorted. “Any gambler knows that even the safest bets can come back around, Whitefall.”

  “You’re right,” Whitefall said. “But gamblers also know that you can’t get blood from a stone. The simple, honest truth, King Josef, is that the Council can’t pay what you’re asking. Even after we handed over the Monpress bounty, we’d still be nearly a hundred thousand short on Den’s. But even if we could clear the total amount, the Council still might not pay. You see, the damage of collecting Monpress’s bounty may well be far worse than defaulting on our debt to you.”

  “How do you figure that?” Josef said. “Eli’s bounty isn’t some giant, made-up number like Den’s. It’s backed by pledges from dozens of countries. Just call them in.”

  “That’s precisely the problem,” Whitefall said. “There’s not a country in the Council at this point that hasn’t involved itself in some way with the Monpress bounty, and several, including Gaol and Mellinor, are in far deeper than they should be. It’s gotten to the point now where collecting the bounty pledges could destabilize the entire Council.”

  Josef rolled his eyes. “Then why did you suggest it?”

  “Because you left me no choice,” Whitefall said heatedly.

  He stopped and took a deep breath. When he spoke again, the Merchant Prince’s voice was low and earnest. “As much as Osera thinks of itself as an isolated island, the truth is we’re all in this together. Osera needs the Council for trade and food, and we need Osera to protect our sea lanes. If you continue to demand what I cannot give, you’ll doom us all, including your own people. And that is a threat, King Josef.”

  Josef sneered, but Whitefall just leaned back in his chair. “I’ve been very generous,” he said. “I’ve offered you your thief, I’ve promised to help rebuild your kingdom, and my ships are yours as long as you need them. What more do you want?”

  Eli glanced at Josef. The swordsman was standing in first position, his eyes fixed on Whitefall with that cold, unwavering intensity usually reserved for serious duels. Eli grimaced. This was going to be bad. But when Josef finally spoke, his voice wasn’t the deep, threatening growl that usually came out of him when he looked like that. It was calm and measured, filled with a resolution as deep as mountain roots.


  “I haven’t been king for long,” Josef said. “But I’ve made promises. Promises to people who lost their country and their children protecting your Council. Promises to my mother. Promises to all of Osera. I didn’t want this crown, but now that I’ve got it, I won’t betray it. Not for Eli, and certainly not to make your life easier.” He relaxed his stance, crossing his arms stubbornly. “I promised to bring five hundred thousand gold home to Osera, and I mean to keep that promise. Anything less is unworthy of my island.”

  Whitefall’s eyes narrowed. “For being so new to kingship, it seems you’ve picked up the basics fairly quickly,” he said. “Making promises you can’t keep and being overly generous with other people’s money are certainly kingly qualities.”

  “I wasn’t finished,” Josef said sharply. “You want a compromise? Fine. Here’s my offer. Osera still gets the full bounty, but we’ll give you fifty years to pay it. In return for our generosity, Osera will pay no Council taxes, tariffs, or dues for the entire fifty-year period.”

  “No tariffs…” Whitefall’s eyes widened. “That is a hefty rate of interest, King Josef.”

  Josef shrugged. “If you don’t like it, I can always take my bounty claim public. I’m sure everyone who pays Council taxes would love to see you default.”

  Whitefall’s jaw tightened in fury. Eli didn’t blame him. If Den’s bounty was the uniting act that formed the Council, then failing to pay it could shatter the public’s trust, not to mention the trust of the member kingdoms. But if Whitefall did try to make good on the pledge, those countries that joined in the years after the first war with the Empress would balk at having to pay for such an enormous bounty they had no part in setting. It was a bitter fruit any way you cut it, one even Whitefall didn’t seem to know how to swallow.

  “That is a bald threat indeed,” the Merchant Prince said at last, thrumming his fingers on his desk.

  “You started it,” Josef said.

  Whitefall did not look amused. “You realize that if I go by your terms, I’ll have to keep Monpress? The Council’s going to need all the leverage it can muster to handle such a long-term debt.”

  “Do what you have to do,” Josef said. “A king has no use for the world’s greatest thief.”

  Eli put on a great show of looking deeply distraught. Whitefall, however, didn’t have to put on airs. He looked positively stricken as he reached into his drawer for a clean sheaf of paper.

  “I find myself at a loss,” he muttered, glancing at Eli. “You turned out to be a very poor bargaining chip indeed, Mr. Monpress.”

  Eli shrugged, but Whitefall’s eyes were already back on the paper. “It will be a few hours before I can have all of this formally drawn up,” he said, jotting down notes. “I trust you don’t mind waiting.”

  “Actually, I do,” Josef said. “This is a simple agreement, Whitefall. I don’t want some Council bureaucrat turning it into a thirty-page treaty full of loopholes. Write it out now, just like I said, then we can both sign and put all of this behind us.”

  Whitefall’s pen stopped midscratch. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m always serious,” Josef said. “Get writing.”

  Whitefall’s fingers clenched the paper, crumpling it into a tight ball, and for a moment, Eli thought the old man was going to order Josef out. But then the Merchant Prince’s shoulders slumped, and he bent down to pull a fresh sheet from the drawer. He set it on the table and, as Eli watched in amazement, began to write out the contract.

  Not that he had a choice. Smart and experienced as Whitefall was, he hadn’t seen Josef coming. Any other king would have taken the first offer and gone home dancing that he had the Council so deeply in his debt, but not Josef. Whitefall was simply unprepared for a king who didn’t care about political power or the Council’s goodwill or even, seemingly, the life of his friend. Josef had come to Zarin to claim five hundred thousand gold standards for Osera, and that was exactly what he was going to do. In the face of such simple, bald determination, even Whitefall’s expert maneuvering was useless. Of course, just because he’d lost didn’t mean Whitefall was done fighting.

  “I’m setting Monpress’s trial for noon tomorrow,” he said casually as he wrote. “The execution will probably be that night, considering the overwhelming evidence. Should be quite the event. I do hope you’ll still be in town to see it.”

  He glanced up, but Josef’s stony expression hadn’t change a hair, and Whitefall returned to his writing with a sigh. “So much for honor among thieves.”

  He wrote in silence for another minute before handing the paper to Josef. The king read it twice and then leaned over the desk, signing his name on the line Whitefall had drawn below the last paragraph. Whitefall turned the paper around and signed as well, stamping his seal in ink at the bottom.

  “That it?” Josef said.

  “That is it,” Whitefall said tiredly. “Unless you mean to kick me while I’m down as well?”

  “No need,” Josef said.

  He turned to leave, avoiding Eli’s eyes as he did, and left the Merchant Prince’s office without another word. Nico followed him silently, a shadow behind her swordsman. As the door shut behind them, Whitefall leaned back in his chair and tossed the contract on the table.

  “And to think Theresa posted two hundred thousand gold standards trying to get that back.”

  He glared at the door a moment longer, then reached back and pulled a velvet rope hidden behind his bookcase. The guards entered immediately, rushing to Eli. They hauled him up straight in his chair, though he was still sitting as straight as when they’d left. When Eli grunted in protest, the larger guard bent his arm back painfully. Eli went limp at once, giving the large man his best pathetic look.

  “Take him away,” Whitefall said. “And tell the pages I need to see the Revenue Board, the Bounty Committee, and the Judiciary as soon as possible. Also, Sara is not to be admitted to my office for the rest of the day.”

  “Yes, Merchant Prince,” the guards said, cutting Eli free.

  Eli stood gratefully, stretching his arms before the guards caught them and tied him again for the trip back. When they cut the gag from his mouth, he pushed the handkerchief out with his tongue and glanced over his shoulder.

  “Pleasure to finally meet you, Alber,” he called.

  Whitefall didn’t even look up as the guards dragged Eli out of his office.

  CHAPTER

  10

  Sparrow was waiting just outside. He fell into step with Eli’s guards as they marched down the stairs, but when they reached the end of the spiraling hall, he told the guards to return to the Merchant Prince; he would take the prisoner from here. The guards didn’t look happy about this. They hadn’t looked happy since Whitefall had first sent them out of his office, but, now as then, they obeyed, and Sparrow led Eli down through the doorway and into Sara’s cavern alone.

  As they climbed down the metal stairs, Eli saw that Sparrow was dragging a little. His already uncharacteristic silence was punctuated with sharp gasps, as though breathing hurt him. The gasps only got worse when they reached the ground, and Eli decided it was time to pry.

  “All right,” he said, slowing down. “I give in. What’s wrong?”

  “You mean right now, or with this situation in general?” Sparrow said, his voice thin and strained.

  “I mean why do you sound like you’re having a heart attack?” Eli said. “I can’t take pride in an escape if the only reason I got out was because my guard dropped dead.”

  “Your compassion is touching,” Sparrow said, pushing Eli to make him go faster. “If you must know, your mother is rather angry with me at the moment.”

  “And that’s making it hard for you to breathe?” Eli said, dragging his feet along the dark stone as best he could. “How does that work?”

  “Terribly well, actually,” Sparrow said. “Here we are.”

  He stopped them at the shiny door to the cistern prison Eli and Banage shared.

  “H
ands out, please,” Sparrow said. “Now hold still while I figure out what new knot those Council idiots invented this time.”

  Eli shoved his hands back, waving them up and down to make the untying as difficult as possible. Meanwhile, he took the precious opportunity to study the lid to his cell from this side. His eyes, already adjusted to the dark from the walk, picked out the same interlocked concentric circles he’d seen inside. They were probably a pressure system, he realized. A kind of spring that helped the metal bounce itself open. Very clever, and very like a Shaper to use the metal’s natural tension to help it move.

  His eyes traced the outer lip, sliding along the polished surface until, finally, he found the hint he was looking for. An intricate mark had been pressed deep into the upper circle, the maker’s seal of the lid’s Shaper. There was no time to study it, so Eli burned the image into his memory as Giuseppe had taught him, focusing only on seeing, not understanding.

  Understanding takes time you do not have, the old thief’s voice droned in his mind. Focus only on the physical act of observation, Eliton, and save the understanding for later.

  It had been one of the harder lessons of being a master thief, but Eli had learned it, and he used it now, memorizing every detail of the mark in the time it took to blink and then looking elsewhere before Sparrow could catch him staring.

  “There,” Sparrow said, pulling the rope free. “Down you go.”

  He raised his foot, slamming his heel down at the dead center of the door’s concentric circles. The metal boomed at the impact, and the door bounced up like a dog standing for a treat. When it was all the way up, Sparrow gave Eli a little push, and Eli, taking the hint, began to climb down.

  “I want you to know it’s been a real pleasure,” Sparrow said, kneeling on the prison’s edge as Eli descended into the dark. “It’s not every day you see the famous Eli Monpress crawling down a hole like a rat. I very much doubt we’ll meet each other again, but I do hope you’ll remember our time together well enough to stay clear of me in the future. Not that I don’t enjoy your company, understand, but a man of my talents doesn’t relish the tornado of attention you seem to attract.”