Startled, she took a moment to answer. “Of course, my lord.”
He smiled, but his manner seemed distracted. He led her onto the floor just as an alto horn sounded three resonant notes. The water flutes responded with a second theme, and the pattern was established. This was a very formal dance, one generally reserved for court, for weddings, for other grand affairs. Ilse had just learned it the year before she left home. She hoped she remembered the steps.
Kosenmark touched his palms against Ilse’s. “We begin with an introduction,” he said softly. “As strangers must.”
So he had noticed her hesitation. “Thank you.”
He nodded but said nothing more as they moved through the figures for introduction, which were slow and measured, then on to those of a new acquaintanceship, with a faster and lighter pace. Ilse expected him to tell her when the meeting would take place. After a third set passed without him speaking, she began to wonder if something had changed his plans. Though his expression remained pleasant, he was scanning the crowds with quick intense looks.
Be careful of the dishes you choose, the woman had said.
Ilse stepped closer as the next figure required. “My lord, I had a warning.”
Kosenmark immediately looked down at her, attentive. “What kind of warning? From whom?”
“A woman. We sat together at the banquet.” She repeated what she heard, trying to use the same intonation.
“What did she look like?”
“Dark complexioned—darker than mine. A deep blue gown with the sides cut away to show the undergown. She wore diamonds in her hair.” She wanted to add her impression that this woman looked dangerous, but that was too quick, too simplistic a conclusion. “She said nothing wrong, my lord, but her manner was quite strange.”
“I see.” Kosenmark glanced around the room. “That was Lord Dedrick’s sister, Lady Alia. She has her own concerns, which sometimes intersect those of Lord Dedrick’s. She wishes to join the Queen’s Court and fears that Lord Dedrick’s association with me would harm her chances.”
“So her warning meant nothing?”
“Not exactly. The king’s displeasure should never be taken lightly.”
Throughout this exchange, he had held her closer than the figure required. Now he slid a hand along her back, looking down at her with an expression that bordered on warm. Ilse started to draw back when Kosenmark whispered, “I’m sorry. There are those who watch us, and this seems the best pretense. Can you bear that?”
His breath tickled her cheek, but she forced herself to relax, at least outwardly. “I’ll try.”
“Good. Now, we have a choice. We could end this act with a show of outrage from you. In that case, you would remain here among the ordinary guests, while I attend to certain private concerns. That would spare you any more indignities.”
Leaving her outside the meeting. “What is the other choice?”
His golden eyes, so close to her face, took on a speculative look. “You might come with me and attend to those same concerns. It would involve a further ruse, and some damage to your character.”
“A dalliance?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Would they believe it? What about—”
“Dedrick? He left me. I’m a disappointed man. That makes it more believable.”
Ilse hesitated. She hardly liked to bring up the matter of preferences, but apparently her thoughts were clear from the look on her face. Kosenmark laughed softly. “That, too, would be believable. However, I would understand if you refused. We should have to make a scene then. I would stalk off, leaving you angry but untouched on the ballroom floor. The choice is yours.”
Ilse took a deep gulping breath. “I will go with you.”
“Very well. Please excuse the familiarity.”
His cheek grazed hers, then Kosenmark straightened up with a throaty laugh. His eyes were brighter, his gaze more intense. It took all her control not to bolt.
“Try to look as though you enjoy it,” he murmured.
She nodded and leaned against him briefly, her heart pounding. His lips brushed the top of her head. His breath feathered her hair. The dance had taken them to one side of the crowded ballroom, where several arched passageways led to the interior of Lord Vieth’s palace. They ducked through one into a servant’s corridor. Kosenmark drew back from their embrace. With a light touch, he indicated they should turn left.
As she expected, Kosenmark knew Lord Vieth’s palace quite well. He led Ilse through several passageways, then down a flight of steps and along an elegant gallery, decorated with brilliant frescoes showing all the legends about Lir and Toc, from their birth to their season of love, from Toc’s blindness to his death and rebirth. At last they came to a doorway set deep into the marble walls. Kosenmark opened the door without knocking and ushered Ilse inside.
She entered a parlor, small and elegant, whose walls were covered in painted scenes of the empire days. Opposite the inner entrance, glass doors opened onto a courtyard, half-lit by lamplight streaming from the windows above and opposite their room.
Ilse took in the opulent furnishings, the polished floors, and rare paintings in one glance. Then her attention was upon the four richly dressed men and women who sat around the fireplace. Baron Eckard. Luise Ehrenalt. Lady Emma Theysson. One stranger she didn’t recognize.
Ilse felt a ping of satisfaction at seeing Lady Theysson, she who had such skill with words. Baron Eckard, she had expected. Luise Ehrenalt was also no surprise, considering how often Ehrenalt visited the pleasure house. Still, from all the weeks of preparations, she had expected that far more people would attend.
Baron Eckard started when he saw Ilse. He sent a questioning glance toward Kosenmark, who slid around Ilse and into the last remaining chair. “My lord—”
Kosenmark forestalled him with a curt gesture. “To business. We must be quick before others miss our presence. I’ve asked you here to discuss our suspicions.”
“Suspicions?” said Luise Ehrenalt. “Call them proof. The signs are plain enough. King Leos is obviously preparing for war.”
“The signs are not as plain as you would have them, Luise. Yes, we know that Károví has begun naval maneuvers off the Kranjě islands. And I received confirmation this week that the king has recalled certain high-ranking officers from Taboresk, Duszranjo, and Strážny. Both clues point to an invasion, yes, but we cannot know where yet, or why.”
“Veraene, of course,” said Ehrenalt.
“There is no of course,” the unknown man said.
“How can you say that, Benno?”
Kosenmark made a quick gesture that brought immediate quiet. “My lord Iani. Mistress Ehrenalt. Please. I have more news to report.”
He took a parchment sheet from inside his shirt. Ilse recognized it at once—it was the same she had accidentally read a few weeks before, when she discovered Kosenmark’s secret activities. Vnejšek. Jewels. Yes. The paper’s edges looked more frayed than before, as though Kosenmark had folded and unfolded the letter often.
Ehrenalt’s mouth thinned as Lord Kosenmark read the words in his high fluting voice. Lord Iani appeared lost in thought, but then sent a questioning glance toward Ilse. “Lir’s jewels,” he said softly. “Do you think he’s rediscovered them?”
“I doubt it. That is something he would not conceal.”
“Why the troops, then?” said Baron Eckard. “Does he think the jewels are here, in Veraene?”
“I’m not certain what Leos thinks. This message answers questions I posed six months ago to my agents in Rastov: Has the king renewed his search for Lir’s jewels? Where is he searching?”
“So he’s looking in Anderswar,” Iani murmured. “That would explain so much.”
“But it does not explain the troops,” Eckard said. His voice shook with uncharacteristic passion. “Remember three hundred years ago. Remember how Leos Dzavek scoured the borders with magic and plagues. He left a string of ghost cities behind. We must warn the
king.”
He meant the second wars, Ilse thought—a hundred years after the first ones, when a thief had stolen Lir’s jewels from Leos Dzavek. Those were the wars that had redrawn the borders with blood and fire. The ones that had driven the island province of Morennioù to raise a fiery shield to protect itself. Soon after, other provinces had broken away from Duenne’s control. To some, those wars were the true end of the empire.
“Armand already knows,” Raul said. “As much as he wishes to know, which is not enough to reassure me. If I had one wish, it would be an hour with Armand of Angersee and him listening to my concerns about his kingdom.”
“Two desperate men.” It was the first Lady Theysson had spoken. She sounded thoughtful. “With the force of kingdoms behind each. Armand has wanted an excuse to attack Károví ever since he took the throne.”
“Annexation,” Ehrenalt said. It was not a question.
“Probably,” Kosenmark said. “We are not at that point yet. There are a few councillors who would require more proof of Dzavek’s intentions before they support a war.”
“And what constitutes proof?”
Ilse started. Lord Kosenmark’s back was toward her, but she saw how his shoulders stiffened, and his head jerked up. That strong, clear voice had not come from anyone inside this room. It had sounded from the air, as though a ghost stood in their midst to address them. Ehrenalt’s face went blank. Iani and Theysson made as though to stand, but when light flared at the glass windows, they subsided into their chairs.
The courtyard door swung open and a man entered the room. He was tall and thin, almost as gaunt as Lord Vieth, but without the same quantity of gems and fine robes. His hair was long and brown, streaked with silver. His eyes were the color of yellowed parchment.
He looked at each face in turn. A brief look of disappointment appeared and was gone, almost before Ilse registered it. Then he shook his head. “You have no answer for my question, none of you. How long must we wait before we defend ourselves? Until the gutters in Duenne are choked with blood?”
He’s a mage, Ilse thought. Powerful enough to send his voice through walls and doors, to stand among us like a presence. She had seen tricks before, magic workers who could produce the illusion of throwing their voices, but this was no trick. She had heard the voice emanate from air. She had heard it breathe.
Kosenmark bent his head, very slowly, as though it pained him. “Lord Khandarr. Greetings.”
Ilse stilled a tremor at the name. Lord Markus Khandarr, the King’s Mage. How had he found them?
Khandarr stared at Kosenmark without blinking. “You have no answer for my question, I see.”
Kosenmark shrugged. “As usual, I have only more questions. Why don’t you join us? We were having an interesting discussion.”
“I know about your discussion. And I see you are still courting power, Lord Kosenmark.”
“No more than you, Markus.”
Khandarr’s lips parted in a smile. He raised a hand, and Ilse felt the air ripple across her skin. Beeswax and expensive scents gave way to magic’s fresh green tang. Khandarr said nothing more, but the air grew thicker until it was hard to draw a breath, and her skin pulled tight across her forehead. A deep painful pinch in her gut made her gasp. Her throat clamped shut, and her vision went dark.
Dimly she heard Khandarr speaking. “Here is my power. It is enough to make you whole.”
He flicked his fingers. All at once, the painful hold upon her throat vanished and Ilse could breathe. She gripped the chair in front of her to stop herself from sinking to her knees. Khandarr would like that, she thought. She would not give him the satisfaction.
Kosenmark licked his lips. Sweat gleamed from his face, and his lips had turned pale from effort, but he did not look away from Khandarr. “Thank you, but no,” he said. “I shall have to make do with myself as I am.”
Khandarr crumpled his hand into a fist. The current vanished. Someone cried out in surprise, and Kosenmark lurched backward. He recovered himself with an effort and faced Khandarr. “Leave us,” he said softly, and there was a cold and unforgiving note in his voice that Ilse had never heard before.
“Why should I?” Khandarr said.
“Because you are not yet ready to declare yourself king.”
“Neither are you,” Khandarr snapped. With that, he whirled around and stalked through the courtyard door, into the darkness, and was gone.
Ilse stumbled away to lean against a wall. All around the others were talking in quick low tones. Iani was reassuring the others that Khandarr had truly left them. Kosenmark murmured a series of instructions to his colleagues. Something about continuing to watch both sides of the border. Iani was to investigate Anderswar. Eckard was to listen for news from the border. Ehrenalt was to keep a watch on the shipping news. Theysson would continue to mingle in Vieth’s circles, and to listen.
“Unless you feel the danger too great,” Kosenmark said. “Tell me now.”
Eckard shrugged. “He knew my opinions before.”
“And mine,” said Iani. “We have done nothing wrong except talk. Even Armand, with all his suspicions, cannot find fault with us.”
Kosenmark bowed his head. Agreement? Acquiescence? Ilse could not tell which. “So,” he said. “As we planned, let us return to Lord Vieth’s festivities.”
They left the room one by one. Kosenmark stayed behind, with Ilse at his side. Nothing had been decided, she thought with faint disappointment. Even the jewels had not provoked the surprise Ilse had felt when she first read those words and realized their meaning. And who had betrayed their meeting? Kosenmark was turning over the same question, she thought, because he watched each person as they departed.
When they were alone, he turned back to Ilse. “Come. Our play is not yet over.”
They took a more direct route back, to a different corridor outside the ballroom. Ilse could hear the sound of plucked strings—the musicians were playing a slow-moving wheel dance. A few lamps illuminated the corridor. By their light she could see a doorway leading out to another small courtyard, and another opening into a small sitting room. To her dismay, Lord Kosenmark was eyeing her closely.
“What is wrong?” she asked.
“Your face and mouth are all wrong,” he said. “You don’t look as though you just had a dalliance. Kiss your hand.”
Confused, she did so.
He shook his head. “No good. Kiss hard. Harder. Let me see.”
She lowered her hand.
Kosenmark frowned. “It’s not working. But I have an idea. Excuse me.”
He took her face between his hands. Ilse had just enough time to brace her hands against his chest before he kissed her on the lips. It was a long hard kiss, with all the force of passion, and yet strangely impersonal. Ilse held herself rigid throughout, but he did not draw her closer. He touched only her cheeks, which he held firmly as he tilted her head one way and then the other, pressing his mouth against hers. Just when she thought she might suffocate, he drew back an inch.
“Almost,” he whispered in a hoarse voice.
Before she could react, he kissed her again. Softly. A series of tender kisses that sent her heart racing with greater panic. Pretend, pretend, she told herself. He’s pretending, too.
A skilled and expert pretense. Gradually, for he did not seem to be in any hurry, her muscles relaxed, her hands no longer pushed quite so hard against his chest, and her mouth opened to his, and when he paused she kissed him back.
Shocked, Ilse pulled away just as Kosenmark did the same. Through her palms, she could feel his heart beating, and she was all too aware of his warm hands cupped around her shoulders.
He studied her face for a long moment, his expression strangely intent. Not a lover’s expression. A searching curious expression that unsettled her more than the kisses had. But all he said was, “Much better. Now you look as though you’ve been made love to.”
“Nothing else?” she asked, her voice unsteady. “We had time for �
� other things.”
“Not with me. Not nearly enough time.”
She smothered a laugh. Kosenmark smiled, though he still looked strained. “Even better. You should appear pleased, delighted, entranced when you leave me—I have a reputation to maintain. Now,” he indicated the door to the sitting room, “to complete the illusion, I want you to wait here another half hour. You can hear the bells from here, I know. Then go back to the ballroom and sit in an alcove. If someone asks you to dance, tell them you are weary.”
“Where are you going, my lord?”
“To have brief conversation with a friend. Don’t worry. I shan’t lose my way.”
Without waiting for her reply, Kosenmark vanished down the hallway. Ilse retired to the sitting room he had indicated. Like everything else in Lord Vieth’s palace, it was exquisitely furnished, a tiny jewel in a larger treasure cask. Rich hangings covered one wall; a few cushioned chairs circled a table where a line of jade panthers marched across the polished surface; there was even a carafe of fresh water from which Ilse refreshed herself. She was glad for this time alone. Her cheeks burned. Her mouth felt swollen. Part of the evidence, she told herself, though she wished she could wash away the sensation.
After the second quarter bell rang, she reentered the ballroom. No one remarked on her appearance, though one woman glanced in her direction. Ilse found the nearest alcove and took her seat. Not far away, Lord Iani danced with Lady Theysson. Mistress Ehrenalt was drinking wine with another woman. There was no sign of Baron Eckard or Lord Kosenmark.
Then she saw him across the hall, scanning the room with narrowed eyes. His gaze stopped at Ilse and he came directly toward her. Now a dozen people watched his progress across the floor. Others stared at her, and she was conscious how she must look.
“Tired?” Kosenmark said, taking a seat beside her.
She nodded, aware of the heat from his body.
He leaned closer. “We might go.”
“To further the picture of our dalliance?” she asked.
“That would be one reason. But I also have more business awaiting me at home.”
Passion Play Page 22
