Passion Play

by Beth Bernobich

  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 text
ure. The ink was a violet so dark, it appeared almost black.

  Lilien House, Tiralien. To Lord Raul Anton Maximiliam Kosenmark. My dear Lord Kosenmark, I fear I must call off the picnic that I had planned for tomorrow. Other obligations have intruded, among them a host of unexpected visitors to my household. However, Benno insists that we do not give up the excursion entirely, especially since he would like to present his cousin to you, newly arrived from Duenne. Write to me as soon as you might, and let me know the best time and place for such an introduction.

  After another paragraph of flourishes and polite nothings, the letter ended with all of Lady Theysson’s titles and names.

  “Very … polite, my lord.”

  “So I thought. Did you notice anything odd?”

  She scanned the letter again. “Unexpected visitors” could only mean agents watching her house. Ah, Lord Iani had no cousins in Duenne. Perhaps that phrase translated to news from the capital. But that would not account for Raul’s unease. “I don’t understand. Or rather, I think I understand what she means, but not why it bothers you.”

  “Look again,” he said. “Notice how Emma spelled my name.”

  There was nothing wrong with the spelling. Ilse stared at the invitation, trying to see what Lord Kosenmark meant. Oh. A soft exclamation escaped her. “It’s not her script. Almost, but not quite. Lady Theysson slants her Xs more, and the loops for these Ls are too wide.”

  Raul nodded. “The marks are all correct, however.”

  Kosenmark and his closest associates used a series of unobtrusive marks on their letters—an underlined word, a tiny dot in the margin. The number and placement changed with every message according to a pattern Kosenmark had worked out. A wrong mark might indicate a letter gone astray. What did it mean when the letter had all the right marks, all the usual code phrases, but the script did not quite match?

  “Would she dictate the message?” Ilse asked.

  “I doubt it.”

  He took the letter and folded it carefully into its fan-shape, still frowning. Behind them, Ault was watching surreptitiously, even while he busied himself with checking over the weapons in their rack. How much did he know about Lord Kosenmark’s other activities?

  “What do you mean to do?” she asked. “Could you send another letter to Lady Theysson?”

  “The straightforward method. No. If someone has infiltrated my courier network, my letter will not reach Emma but her substitute. So … I believe I shall accept this invitation to meet Benno’s newly discovered cousin.”

  “But my lord—”

  He cut her off with a gesture. “No arguments. Send a runner to fetch pen and ink.”

  Reluctantly, she did as he ordered. Once the courier had left with his letter, Raul turned back to Ilse. “I should return before dark. If I do not, send out two squads from the guards. Have them search the district around Hansenau Square. That is where I suggested that we have our introductions.”

  She nodded, still uneasy with his decision.

  “One more favor.” Kosenmark hesitated a moment. “If Lord Dedrick visits, tell him I’ve gone to investigate a curious matter. But do not tell him where I’m going. He comes here on his father’s sufferance. I doubt the baron would thank me for leading his son into danger.”

  “What if Lady Theysson comes here?”

  He smiled briefly, without humor. “Then the matter becomes more dangerous than curious.”

  “Why not send Lothar Faulk, my lord?”

  “Because I sense we do not have the time or the privacy for arranging that.” He looked at her again, searchingly. “Are you worried, Mistress Ilse?”

  She blew out a breath. “Yes.”

  Kosenmark grinned. “Thank you. Will it relieve you to know I’m bringing an escort of guards?”

  She flushed. Of course he would bring someone to guard his perimeter. She ought to have remembered. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

  “Don’t be sorry. I’m glad you care enough to argue with me.”

  He drilled every day, Ilse reminded herself, as she and Ault helped Kosenmark arm himself. He knew knife and sword and unarmed combat, and he was taking a squad of guards. Whatever danger he faced, he was not going unprepared. Still she had a sick feeling as Kosenmark gave her a cheerful wave and departed.

  As though he guessed her thoughts, Ault set Ilse to learning a new and complicated sequence of knife strikes and blocks. It took them another hour before she could go through the pattern without reminders, and another hour before she felt comfortable with the moves. “You have it,” Ault told her. “Now practice it slowly.”

  She was tired and hungry and far sweatier before Benedikt Ault dismissed her. “You’re quick but you think too much.”

  “How can I remember the patterns unless I think?”

  “Practice, Mistress Ilse. Practice until your body remembers for you.”

  They agreed to meet again in two hours, after supper. By then, the sun would have set and the air would be cooler. Torches would give them enough light, Ault claimed, and if not, well, it was good practice for her.

  She was halfway to the baths when a runner intercepted her. “Mistress Ilse.”

  Lord Kosenmark was her first thought. “What happened?”

  The runner shook his head. “Nothing. That is, Lord Dedrick came for Lord Kosenmark. They told me you would know where to find him.”

  “He’s not here. He had an important visit to make.”

  But at her answer, the runner glanced around nervously. “Could you speak with him? He seemed rather anxious.”

  He should be anxious, Ilse thought as she followed the runner up to the second-floor parlor, where Lord Dedrick waited. She had no idea what she might tell him, other than Lord Kosenmark had gone on an errand. Saying “a curious matter” would provoke him.

  Dedrick stood with his back to the door, hands clasped behind him, while he examined a painting on the wall. Ilse paused and knocked softly. The moment she did, Dedrick spun around. “Where is Raul?” he demanded.

  She took a deep breath. “Lord Dedrick, I’m sorry, but Lord Kosenmark is not at home.”

  “Did he say where he’d gone?”

  Ilse glanced at the door. The next room appeared empty, but a vent by the fireplace doubled as a listening pipe, and there were peepholes as well. “To investigate a curious matter, my lord. He should be back by dinner. Will you wait for him, or would you prefer to leave a message?”

  Dedrick turned pale. “What curious matter? And where did he go? I have important news.”

  “I’m sorry, Lord Dedrick, but Lord Kosenmark didn’t tell me.”

  “He did. I can see by your face.”

  Ilse bit back the angry retort that came to her lips. Dedrick was clever and stubborn. Soothe the man and he might go away. Provoke him and he would probably lash himself to the doorpost until Raul returned. “Can you tell me the news?” she said in a soft voice.

  Now it was Dedrick who peered into the next room. Ilse closed the door and led him away from the fireplace. He bent close and in a soft voice said, “The watch found one of Lord Kosenmark’s couriers dead in the harbor. His throat was cut.”

  Her stomach lurched at the news. “Who?” she whispered. “When?”

  “I don’t know his name. Faulk wouldn’t tell me. All I know is that the watch discovered the man’s body this morning. Faulk heard of it … however Faulk hears these things.”

  Khandarr’s agents, she thought. Or someone in alliance with Khandarr. They must have intercepted one of Lady Theysson’s messages and used it to create their own false message. He suspected that. He’s not going into the trap unaware.

  “I have more news,” Dedrick said.

  “More?”

  “Armand has summoned Lord Iani to court. Benno left Tiralien yesterday. He and Emma didn’t want to be so obvious as to come directly here, so they sent word through the usual channels.” He paused and ran his hands through his hair. “Raul didn’t answer. And he always answers. T
hat’s another one of his tests. Send word, wait for a reasonable reply. Benno couldn’t wait. He left for Tiralien by sundown, but Emma set Faulk to investigate. That’s when he discovered what happened to the courier. Now will you tell me where he’s gone?”

  Ilse hesitated. Dedrick had the look of someone who would not leave unless dragged out by six of Lord Kosenmark’s strongest guards. She spun around and marched out the door, Dedrick followed close behind. “You cannot walk faster than me,” he told her.

  Ilse ignored him. She skimmed down the corridor to the nearest runner. “Fetch the guard captain,” she said. “Have him bring a squad. Hurry!”

  The guard captain and his squad arrived within moments. Ilse spoke at once. “Captain, Lord Dedrick is not feeling well. He needs to return home at once.”

  “You cannot do that to me,” Dedrick hissed.

  “I can and I must. Captain, you have my word that these are Lord Kosenmark’s wishes. He left explicit instructions—”

  “And I say you are lying,” Dedrick shouted, his face dark and furious. “Listen to me, Captain. You must send two squads after Lord Kosenmark. He’s in danger. And I have news that he must hear.”

  “Mistress Ilse?” The captain turned to her.

  “Send an escort with Lord Dedrick back to his father’s household,” Ilse said. She turned to Lord Dedrick. “You must go home. Lord Kosenmark wishes it. So does your father.”

  Dedrick shuddered at the mention of his father. Yet with an obvious effort, he seemed to bring himself under control. He glanced from Ilse to the captain. “Very well. But I do not need an escort. My own groom can do well enough.”

  “You should have a few men accompany you,” Ilse said firmly. “To ensure that you reach home safely.”

  Dedrick jerked up his chin. All the guards went alert, but then Dedrick released a long breath. “So,” he said. “Yes. I see that you are right, Mistress Ilse. Thank you for your consideration.”

  He gave Ilse a stiff nod. At the captain’s signal, three of the guards detached themselves from the group. Dedrick regarded them with distaste, but he made no further protests and allowed the guards to usher him from the house.