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, but where?
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 know exactly what 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 the Pfennigeist, by the Order of Prefects of the Godly Courts.’”
CHAPTER THREE
Rubies and Pearls
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—the same someone—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 I keep leaving 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 and grimlingen. 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 Gods advise them 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, I might be 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—’”
“Junior Prefect.” 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—junior prefect—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, though that’s a 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.”
My panic begins to subside. At least, it does where the prefect is concerned.
“The margrave requested Prefect Klemens.” Adalbrecht’s messenger says it like an accusation.
The boy bobs his head in apology, shoulders hunching. With the pearls on, I can nearly look him in the eye. I think he’d have a couple of inches on me if he stood straight, but his primary goal seems to be taking up as little space as possible. “Y-yes, sir, he was held up in Lüdz. I was sent ahead to begin the preliminary investigation.” He produces a small journal and a stick of paper-wrapped writing charcoal from another pocket. “I’d like to begin by taking statements—”
Komte von Eisendorf holds up a hand. “I doubt anyone here is sober enough to give you a useful account of what happened, Prefect. Won’t you celebrate with us tonight, and save the questions until morning?”
I see the boy mumble an aggrieved “junior prefect” under his breath before he offers a shrug. “If it suits you. Sir.”
It certainly suits me, considering that somewhere on this estate, Hans the manservant is unwittingly returning a satchel full of stolen Eisendorf jewelry to my coach.
The next hour and a half are a blur. I’m only half there as we sit down for supper, but it’s not hard to keep up the Gisele act, bubbly and glowing and still half drunk as she fields felicitations. All the while my mind whirs like a clock. A few brave souls attempt to strike up a conversation with Junior Prefect Emeric Conrad from where he’s glumly rooted himself at the other end of the table, only to give up in short order, looking almost as miserable as he does.
For once, it’s easy for me to slip away with relatively little fanfare after supper. The rest of the guests are either too busy buzzing about the upcoming wedding, or too gorged and wine-fuddled to notice me quietly asking for my cloak and gloves. (Even Ezbeta is nodding off in an overstuffed damask armchair.) My coachman has been summoned, and a detachment of the messenger’s escort will accompany me back to Minkja, capital of Bóern. All that’s left is to wait in the foyer for the coach to pull around.
Or so I thought. I’m standing at a window in my cloak of positively angelic mink-lined frost-blue velvet, staring out into the moonless night, when a reflection in the glass shifts behind me. I whirl around.
Junior Prefect Emeric Conrad hovers a few yards away. This close, it’s easy to see how he’s practically swimming in his oversized uniform. He lets out an awkward little cough. “Apologies if I startled you, er . . . Prinzessin?”