I’m going to vomit.Long winter of the heart?Whatever minstrel he consulted with for this garbage, I need to track them down and strangle them with their own lute strings.
“Nothing would bring me greater joy,” I say sweetly. No one has to know I mean murdering the minstrel.
The messenger continues, stone-faced. “‘I myself will be returning to Castle Reigenbach on the morrow, and we hope you all will join us in Minkja for the wedding in two weeks’ time. Guests will be received . . .’”
I don’t hear what he says after that, too busy trying not to look like I’ve been sucker punched. Two weeks? Twoweeks?
No wonder I saw the warning of misfortune. I only have a fortnight to scrape together the last two hundredgildenand make my getaway.
Don’t panic.
It’s harder than it looks.
No, no, I—I can manage this. I’ll just need to pull one more job, maybe two. I can still get out.
The manor door belches a hideous squall as it swings open again, admitting a hulking, rather drab fellow. There are two insignias embroidered in silver thread over the breast of his plain black cloak. One I recognize: the three stars of an official of the Free Imperial States. The other I can’t quite place: a set of scales with a scroll on one side, a skull on the other. I’ve heard of such a symbol, butwhere?
The courier spots him and shuffles to the other piece of paper. “The margrave also wishes to pass on the following: ‘This is the time for celebration, not sorrow. His Lordship understands Bóern has been plagued by a persistent phantom of late. Now that, too, is at an end.’”
Oh no. Now I knowexactlywhat that symbol means. Who that man is.
I may have two weeks to leave Almandy, but I need to get out of Eisendorf Manor as fast as I can.
“‘By special request, Bóern has received dispensation for the investigation, arrest, and trial of thePfennigeist, by the Order of Prefects of the Godly Courts.’”
CHAPTER THREE
RubiesandPearls
There is one key thing that has kept me from being caught until now, and that is the fact that rich nobles don’t know how to handle being robbed in their own homes.
I’m not going to lie, it bothered me when I robbed the von Holtzburgs and they just carried on like nothing happened. Only later did I realize they weren’t going to admit to being victims. At least, not until it was in vogue. For nobles who have lived their entire lives assured of their own safety, it’s embarrassing that someone—thesamesomeone—keeps breaking through their money and their status and taking what they hold dear.
(I know why I left my first red penny, but if I’m being honest, that’s why Ikeepleaving them. I want them to know it’s me, always me, hitting them where it hurts.)
But the nobility has no way to stop it. That slack-jawed bailiff will just wring his cap at the sight of empty jewelry boxes and mutter about ghosts andgrimlingen. They can clap obvious criminals in the stocks, but they’ve no notion how to sniff out wilier culprits like bloodhounds.
The brute in the entrance hall now has been trained to do precisely that. The prefects of the Godly Courts come from the Free Imperial States, where the people elect their leaders, like Minister Holbein—or at least, whoever the Low Godsadvisethem to elect. The Godly Courts are their judges, juries, and executioners, and the duty of a prefect is to find all the facts of a case so the Low Gods themselves may render judgment.
It’s said the prefects know where to look, what to ask, who to listen to; it’s said they wield tools and powers of the Low Gods themselves to uncover the truth.
I’ve heard of prefects being summoned into the imperial principalities and marches, but it’s for nothing less than the worst of villains, like child-snatchers or doxy-butchers. For one to be brought all the way to Minkja for a mere thief means three things:
First, Adalbrecht has rattled sabers and tightened fists to make this happen.
Second, I need to get out of Eisendorf Manor before Ezbeta’s empty vanity is discovered.
And third, Imightbe able to pull off exactly one more theft before I have to clear out of Bóern—and hopefully Almandy itself—for good.
The small crowd draws back to make a path for the prefect as the messenger calls out, “‘My friends, I give you Prefect Hubert Klemens—’”
“JuniorPrefect.” The voice from the entryway is muffled by layers upon layers of wool and fur, but it still reaches us clearly enough to stop the courier mid-sentence. Probably because it sounds a good deal younger than any of us expected.
A moment later, a doorman helps the prefect—juniorprefect—out of his cloak and scarf. It’s like popping an olive pit from the flesh; what looked like a bear of a man is abruptly whittled down to a scarecrow of a boy of no more than eighteen. His dark wool jacket sits loose on his shoulders, a uniform that belongs on someone . . . bulkier. What I can see of a gray waistcoat and dark breeches seem to fit marginally better, thoughthat’sa low bar to clear; his black hair is cut short like a commoner’s, but parted on the side and combed as neatly as any noble’s. All in all, he gives the impression of a collection of billiard cues that unionized to solve crimes.
From what little I remember of my brothers, this boy looks precisely like someone they would have thrown into the pigpen for fun. The effect is only magnified when he fishes in a breast pocket, removes a set of round spectacles, and places them on his pale, narrow face.
“Junior Prefect Emeric Conrad at your service,” the boy says, blinking his dark eyes owlishly. Then he seems to recall he’s not in the Free Imperial States anymore, and adds a nervous, “Sir.”
