Passion Play (45 page)

“Go on,” Kosenmark said. “I promise not to laugh.”

Liar,
she thought. But that reminder helped her to speak. “I thought of drills, my lord. Your drill, and how each move led to the next. And then I thought, what if … what if you used the book as a feint?”

Kosenmark quirked his eyebrows but said nothing.

“You cannot give the book away,” Ilse went on. “If you give it to Armand, Lord Khandarr would use it to recover the jewels, and once he did, Armand would declare war against Károví. It seems illogical, but I can imagine him saying that such a war was just and necessary to prevent future wars.”

“Yes,” Kosenmark said. “It is his favorite saying. Which proves you do listen closely.” He leaned back in his chair and touched his fingers together one by one, as though working through the implications of what she said. “But why not give the book to King Leos?”

“Because you cannot,” Ilse said softly. “Treason is not your nature.”

Kosenmark’s gaze flicked up to meet hers. “Very true.”

“So you must keep the book,” Ilse said. “Use it like a sword, and drive these two kings in the direction you wish.”

“A feint,” Kosenmark said slowly. “Yes, I believe I see what you mean. A dangerous course, Mistress Ilse. If we act too openly, the king could argue treason, no matter what our motives. Or if we act too subtly, the feint might go unrecognized and we achieve nothing.”

“Lord Khandarr is a subtle man.”

“Which adds to the danger. He has an army, and I do not.”

“But you do have an army,” Ilse said. “An army of ordinary people who do not wish to go to war unless war is truly necessary. Merchants. Farmers. Scholars. Weavers.”

Kosenmark shook his head. “It would take an entire kingdom in revolt, and then we have war within, which is no better than war with Károví. Ah, but—” His gaze went inward, and his fingers tapped a rapid beat. Ilse wished she could read his fleeting thoughts, but she kept silent, waiting for him to speak again.

“An army,” Kosenmark breathed. “The soldiers themselves, and their officers, would dislike going to war against an invincible enemy.”

“But he’s not—”

“They do not know that. A feint, Mistress Ilse. You said it yourself. However, it will take careful planning. We must use hints instead of petitions, suggestions rather than open action.”

And so they began with rumors. Kosenmark laid out the initial plans. Lady Theysson and Lord Iani offered improvements. Ilse spent her time writing letters in different scripts, addressed to strange names in faraway cities. With these letters, which traveled circuitous routes, Kosenmark spread rumors among the border garrisons that Károví was rebuilding its defenses, inspired by the weaponry and tactics from the empire days.

“Will he understand?” Ilse murmured.

“He will. He already knows Dzavek has renewed his search for the jewels.”

Using Faulk and his agents, Kosenmark planted more rumors deep within Veraene’s borders. Rumors about dire increases in taxes, disguised as new fees laid upon guilds and independent merchants. And there would be more fees and taxes in the years to come, and more levies of troops. From there, rumors became genuine news of unrest in the border provinces. Within three months, reports about riots came back to the pleasure house.

“Have we gone too far?” Ilse said.

“I don’t know,” Kosenmark said. “My hope is that we demonstrate the consequences of war to Armand. Let him see what it means to him, and to Veraene, if he embarks on a long troublesome bloody war, with only uncertain support among the populace.”

“He is a stubborn man,” Ilse said. “Lord Khandarr, I mean.”

“Much like me,” Kosenmark said.

She wanted to disagree, but stopped. Though she could supply a dozen arguments against the comparison, there were similarities between these two men. Both were stubborn. Both were ruthless. Intent, she told herself. That is the difference between them.

But would intent matter to those who died?

She took up a much-folded square of paper from the stack of reports they had received from Ournes, where a garrison had mutinied. Ordered by the king to quash the rebellion, Khandarr himself rode to Ournes to resolve the matter.

… he arrived while the soldiers were still fortifying their position. The king had assigned him a company of guards for protection, but of course he needed them no more than the sun needs the candle. I saw it all from the nearby hills. The mass of soldiers advancing toward the garrison walls. The glitter of spears and swords atop the walls as the mutineers watched. Then a single man approached the gate alone. He shouted. I thought at first he demanded entrance. Fool. Then he proved me wrong. Whatever he shouted made the air turn bright and heavy. So heavy, I found it difficult to draw my breath, even so far away. Then came a wind. Then came a burst of fire within the walls. Then … And you must credit with what I say next. I saw the soldiers along the perimeter wall burning, burning, and yet they did not die. Even when their bodies fell into ash, I saw the shimmering outline of their souls twist in agony.

Shivering, Ilse folded the paper again and set it aside. No matter how many times she read the account, the horror never faded.

“That bothers you,” Kosenmark said. “What Khandarr did to those soldiers.”

She met his unblinking gaze. “It does, my lord. Those who died in Ournes. Or in the riots last month. They are not markers on a map. They are not numbers in a game. How many have died to serve our secret plans?”

Kosenmark did not flinch away. “Too many. I agree. But those numbers will be as a few faint embers in comparison to the inferno of war.” He sighed. “If I could speak a single spell to visit wisdom upon the king, I would. I cannot. So, in my stead, I send portents and signs. And today I send a petition.”

Ilse started. “But you said—”

“That was before. I believe Armand is ready to hear us. I sent him a letter this morning, while you were busy with your other work. You see, I came here four years ago because the king dismissed me. I told myself that I could not act without his sanction, I could only influence. But I had made an oath to Baerne to serve Veraene with heart and mind and blood. That oath did not vanish on his death. The time has come for me to act.”

“What did you say?” Ilse whispered, going cold with apprehension.

“A warning. Anonymous for now.” He shrugged. “Call it habit, or call it ordinary caution. I am too close to the matter to tell the difference.”

It was a short note, he told her.
Short and blunt, delivered like a thrust with the sword,
Ilse thought as she listened. The note read:

We have secured word of Lir’s jewels, Our demand is this—break off your preparations for war, or we shall ensure that Leos Dzavek has the weapons he needs to defend himself.

Cold washed over her.
He has made his choice,
Ilse thought.
And the kingdom’s.

She only hoped it was the right one.

CHAPTER TWENTY

THE DAY AFTER
his message started toward Duenne, Kosenmark made numerous changes to his household. He hired more guards to patrol the grounds and built a separate dormitory for them by the stables. He brought Lord Iani to the house and had him add layers of new spells to every gate and wall and window. He also gave out that he had removed certain valuables to an unnamed location. When asked, he hinted that there were rumors of armed bandits who had lately made Tiralien their headquarters. The result was that other nobles increased their guards, and the city watch began a new recruitment campaign to handle all the new requests for more patrols.

Even with all these precautions, Ilse felt uneasy. It was the waiting—waiting and silence and a strange inactivity in the pleasure house. It had been three months since the whisper campaign began, nine months since she first arrived at Lord Kosenmark’s house. To Ilse, it felt as though she had lived a half dozen lifetimes, and none of them the same. At Kosenmark’s suggestion, she drilled longer with Maester Ault. Her first awkwardness had passed, and she could execute the most basic techniques for defense. Just as Lord Kosenmark had suggested, Ault started teaching her knife defense and the first moves for an attack.

Today they had added a late-afternoon session with the weapons master. Raul Kosenmark stood opposite Ilse with a wooden knife in one hand, its “blade” angled upward. Benedikt Ault stood to one side, arms folded, eyes narrowed to slits, as he watched.

“Begin!”

Raul lunged forward and swung the wooden knife around toward her neck. Ilse sidestepped the knife and blocked Raul’s arm with a chop to his wrist. Before he could recover his balance, she seized his wrist with one hand and his elbow with the other. One twist, and his knife flew from his grasp. Another twist bent Raul over. Ilse flung one leg over his shoulder, throwing him to the ground.

Raul’s face was red from effort, and he looked winded from the fall, but he was grinning. “You’re getting dangerous.”

Ilse released her hold and stepped back. “You let me.”

“A little.” He stood up, rubbing his shoulder. “Not as much as I did last week.”

“She learns quickly, my lord,” said Ault. He was smiling, that thin tooth-tipped smile Ilse had learned to recognize as approval. “Next month she won’t need your help. We’ll start the next level—blade attacks, first against unarmed fighters and then against those with knives. More unarmed blocks as well. But you made a few mistakes here. First the blade. Where was it?”

She had not stopped to consider that. Then she saw the blade, half-covered by dirt, within Raul’s reach. “I forgot to look.”

“And forgetting means death,” Ault said. “You dropped Lord Kosenmark next to his weapon. If he were a genuine assassin, he would have slashed you across the throat.”

Ilse flushed. “I forgot.”

“It’s a common fault.” Ault’s tone was neutral, which took away any sting of embarrassment. “And my lord, you must endeavor not to predict her moves. That is a common fault with beginners, and one without an excuse.”

Raul looked as though he were trying not to laugh. “True, Benedikt. I wanted—”

“You wanted to let her throw you. Very good, my lord. It does help to let her at first, but she needs a challenge, or else these lessons mean nothing. Now Mistress Ilse, come here and try to move on me. We shall take it step by step. Ah, you thought you’d mastered the throw? Think again. You’ve mastered the first step, but remember: every turn, every gesture, every breath counts. Stand ready.”

Raul took his position by the wall, while Ilse dropped into a waiting stance.

Ault picked up the knife and hefted it. She tensed, watching his face and not his hands, as he had taught her. The moment she blinked, however, Ault flashed into motion, arm sweeping up and around toward her chest. But the weeks of drill did their job. Ilse darted left and blocked, gripped his arm, and threw him to the ground. Ault coughed once, then grinned. “Very good.”

“I thought you were reviewing the technique slowly,” Raul said.

“I will. I just wanted to test her readiness, my lord.”

“Hmmmmm.”

They went over the moves by inches, though all the while Raul’s presence nipped at her awareness, as it always did. Blade ready. Here came the arc. Step to one side. Keep clear of the blade. Remember to breathe. Grab the wrist. Other hand exactly here, where the finger bones meet. Twist and press. Change hands. Thumb here. Keep the attacker off balance.

“Now push, push!” Ault cried. “Keep me away from the knife. Yes, keep going. Ah. Better. Much better.”

Ilse twisted harder, forcing Ault to his knees before she released her hold.

Ault picked himself up lightly and dusted off the dirt. “Better. Do that six more times and I shall believe that you understand. When you do, I will show you two ways to break a man’s arm, and one way to strangle him, once you have him down.”

He took her through the sequence again. And again. Her muscles ached and sweat made her shirt stick to her skin, but she hardly noticed.
Almost there. I almost have it perfect.

A movement at the edge of the courtyard caught her eye. In that moment, Ault slid past her defense and flipped her over his shoulder. She tried to roll onto her feet, but Ault had the wooden blade pressed against her throat. “Dead,” he commented. “Be aware of your surroundings, yes. But do not forget the enemy right in front of you.”

Her ribs ached from the fall, her trousers had a new rip at the knees, and her hair had come undone from its braid. She tied back her hair into a loose knot and wiped the dust from her eyes. Only then did she see what had distracted her—one of Raul’s private couriers had entered the gates. Raul stood near the man, a fan-shaped piece of paper in one hand. He was frowning.

He beckoned to Ilse and handed her the sheet. “An invitation from Lady Theysson. Read it, please, and tell me if you think the affair worthwhile.”

Ilse took the letter and carefully unfolded it. Following the latest fashion, which called for unusual shapes and textures for invitations, this one was written on delicate translucent paper, which had a pebbled texture. The ink was a violet so dark, it appeared almost black.