Allegiance, page 23
part #3 of River of Souls Series
“Yes?”
His senior runner, Váná Gersi, opened the door. “Maester Zhalina? A message has come for you.”
Metz or Pribyl, Ehren thought. He wasn’t surprised. Both were newer merchant houses with much to gain, and far more to lose, in the coming contract negotiations. “Do they want an answer tonight, do you know?”
“As soon as you can, Maester Zhalina.”
Ehren held out his hand for the message. Gersi hesitated only a moment before he handed over a small square of paper.
A shock of magic stung Ehren’s palm. He dropped the paper onto his desk and stared at his runner. “Who gave this to you?”
“The stable master,” Gersi said. “He received it from a person he knows.”
A man the stable master recognized? Impossible, Ehren thought. None of his colleagues or acquaintances practiced magic. Except Gersi himself seemed unsettled, and by more than the presence of magic.
“Wait outside,” he said. “I shall send for you when I have an answer.”
Gersi silently withdrew. Ehren rubbed his mouth. He could smell the traces of magic—so strong, so green, as if someone had crushed a handful of new grass under his nose.
Petr Zhalina had never allowed magic within the household—he declared the money better spent on ordinary measures, but Ehren Zhalina had encountered magic aplenty the year he studied at Duenne’s university. He knew there were a dozen or so spells used in everyday commerce—spells to light candles or spark a fire, spells to warm hands or ease a child to sleep. The one most commonly used by scholars and diplomats was a spell to seal a letter against anyone except the intended recipient. It did not require great skill, but it was impossible for strangers to use.
Someone who knows me sent me this letter. Gersi knows them, as well. And the stable master …
With a shudder, he took up the letter once more. The paper was cheap, discolored by grease and smoke, the flap ragged, as though the sender had torn the page from a larger sheet. A rusty red blotch at one corner could have been blood or wine, or the imprint left by a mug to anchor the paper.
Ehren pressed his fingertips against its edges. Strong magic flooded through his veins—he could almost sense it taking stock of his identity. He caught a glimpse of stars against a twilit sky. The next moment, the current vanished from perception, and the paper unfolded onto his desk.
Another shock, stronger than the magic.
I know that script.
The letter was brief—only three short lines—and written in obvious haste.
Ehren, I need your help. If you agree, send word back by Váná Gersi. He knows me. So does the stable master, Eda Hanzl. If you doubt them, let me only say that my favorite book was by Tanja Duhr.
No signature, but he didn’t need one.
My sister wrote this.
He called out, “Gersi, I need you.”
Gersi appeared at once. In his face, Ehren read tension and a great deal of curiosity.
“Bring the sender to our best parlor,” Ehren said. “No, wait a moment.”
His sister had disappeared twice under strange circumstances. He could trust Gersi and Hanzl, at least he hoped he could, but it was safer if he did not involve others. “Bring my visitor here,” he said. “If my wife inquires, tell her I am engaged in a matter of business.”
Alone again, Ehren read the message through a second time. He needed more clues, but this blunt request for assistance offered none. Or was that a clue itself? He remembered his sister as a soft-spoken young woman, as one might expect of Petr Zhalina’s daughter. She had loved their grandmother. Loved him, he believed. But this … She had addressed him simply by name and asked for help.
He cast the paper aside and stood, too anxious to wait patiently. Three years. He’d thought her dead once, when she ran away from Melnek. Then came a letter from the man Alarik Brandt with news that Therez lived. Thief, he called her, and worse. But he also gave the address where Petr Zhalina could find his daughter. It was a house in Tiralien, run by the notorious Lord Raul Kosenmark. Petr had set off at once to fetch his daughter away. He returned without her, and when Ehren asked, he would only say, My daughter is gone. I met a woman named Ilse.
The following year their father died. Ehren exchanged a few letters with Ilse, but he could tell from her excuses that she would never willingly return to Melnek. Then came another message through her agent, saying she had left Kosenmark to live in Osterling Keep. Five short months later, a courier from the regional governor of Fortezzien brought Ehren the news that an unknown man had murdered Ilse Zhalina. She had made a will leaving everything to him.
And now he discovered she was alive.
I cannot bear this. She will vanish again, I know it.
A knock at the door brought him spinning around. “Yes?”
“Your visitor, Maester Zhalina.”
“Come in,” he said. “Please.”
The door opened. A woman entered the room. She spoke quietly to Gersi, who closed the door behind her. Ehren came around his desk, but stopped almost at once when his sister turned back to face him.
He hardly recognized her. Oh, the angles of her face had not changed, not much. She had grown no taller, and that swift tilt of her head as she took in the room and his presence was just as he remembered. But her manner—the set of her lips, the way she met his gaze directly and without a trace of hesitation or shyness—it was as though a different mind inhabited the woman who stood before him.
“Therez…”
“Ilse. My name is Ilse.”
Her voice was low and rough. Angry.
Ehren checked his own quick reply.
She has good reason to be angry with all of us.
And yet, she had come to him, told him she needed his help.
They studied each other a few moments. Ehren took in more of her appearance, more details that spoke of the years they had spent apart, and of a history he could not begin to guess at. Her hair was plaited into a single braid, leaving only a few wisps around her face. She wore loose trousers of some sturdy brown material tucked into low boots, a quilted jacket in the northern style, and gloves. The boots were scuffed, the heels worn. Her clothing had obviously seen much wear. And yet his merchant’s eye could see it was all of good quality. As she drew off her hood, he caught a glimpse of a wide leather band around her wrist.
A knife sheath.
When had she learned to wield a knife? From that Lord Kosenmark? And there was the matter of her magic, another alien skill.
With an effort he recalled himself. “What do you need?”
It was the right thing to say, and the wrong one. Therez—Ilse, he reminded himself—drew an audible breath. “I need your help, Ehren.”
She was clearly uncomfortable here, in what had been their father’s office. “Would you rather we went to my rooms?” he said.
“No.” The tension in her mouth flickered back to life. “Your people will see too much. I do not wish to bring trouble to your house. At least, no more than I already have.”
“Then I will send Gersi for refreshment. We can eat and talk here.”
She made no objection. Ehren went to the door, where his runner stood guard. “Go to the kitchens,” he told Gersi. “Have them send mulled wine, tea, cold meat, and soup.”
When he turned back, he found his sister had removed her jacket and gloves and placed them on the hearth where they might dry. She stood close to the fire, rubbing her hands together. Just as he suspected, she wore a belt hung with more weapons—another knife, even a sword.
Her face averted from his, Ilse spoke. “I hated you. You. Our mother. Even our grandmother. Especially you and Grandmother. Oh, I knew it was because he trapped us all, but I hated that you and she did nothing. And that night, when I came to you—”
She rounded on him so quickly he flinched.
“You are afraid of me?” she asked.
Ehren swallowed, tasted the magic lingering in the air. “I am afraid of your anger. And mine.”
Ilse stared at him, her eyes far too bright. Then the hard lines of her mouth softened to more familiar ones. “So am I. So am I. It reminds me too much of our father.”
So she is not the only one.
A soft knock announced Gersi’s return. Ehren admitted the man, who carried a heavy tray with various carafes and covered baskets. In addition to the dishes Ehren had requested, there was a carafe of cold water, and baskets of dried fruit and meat pies. “Thank you,” Ehren said. “We shall serve ourselves.”
Gersi withdrew. Ehren poured two cups of mulled wine and gave his sister one. Ilse. Not Therez. With every repetition, the name came more naturally. She drank the wine, but when he offered her a plate of meat pies, she refused. “I am not starved, only wet and cold.”
An answer that provoked only more questions to Ehren. He took a meat pie for himself—it would serve well enough for dinner—and gestured toward a low table set around with padded chairs.
It was a fortunate suggestion. Away from the desk, once their father’s, her manner eased.
“So you wrote,” he said. “Tell me the rest. If you can.”
Ilse gave a smothered laugh. “Oh, so much happened. So much, Ehren.”
From the sound of her voice, he thought she might break into tears. He fetched the wine carafe and refilled their cups. Ilse accepted the cup, but did not drink. She turned it around and around in her hands, staring into the dark red liquid. The rain had fallen off in the past few moments, but the rippling of water over stone and glass continued.
“I ran away,” she said softly. “I could not marry Galt. By now you should know why.”
He nodded. Galt had visited them the week after Ilse fled. He had demanded recompense for the broken contract, even though no contract had been signed. Petr Zhalina attempted to negotiate better terms. Galt refused. Only later, when rumors of Galt’s previous engagement, and the reasons for its dissolution, became public knowledge, did he withdraw his demands. It had not stopped Galt from working against House Zhalina in business, but the private threats had ceased.
“And so I went south,” she said. “It was not an easy journey.”
Brandt and the caravan and all that implied. Ehren knew them from Brandt’s letter, his father’s own investigations, and rumors that came north. “You took service with Lord Raul Kosenmark,” he said.
If he thought she would then talk about Kosenmark and her time with him, he had mistaken her. She passed a hand over her eyes, trembling. Just a moment, then she met his gaze with that new assurance that so unnerved him.
“We met with difficulties with Lord Khandarr,” she said. “He threatened me, and so I left. Not long after that various … events overtook me. It’s best if you don’t know—”
“So say you,” he murmured.
She acknowledged the strike home with a nod. “So I say. And that is all I can say for now. Ehren, I must find Lord Kosenmark. I must.”
“Why come to me then?” he asked. “You know I have no connection to the man. How can I help?”
“Baron Eckard,” she said. “He keeps a house in Melnek. Is he in the city still?”
Ehren nodded slowly. “He is.”
“And do you visit with him ever?”
Ehren thought she knew the answer to that question already. “I do.”
“Khandarr will have spies watching him,” Ilse said. “I hoped you might—”
“Find the means to smuggle you inside his household?”
“Yes.”
Ehren took several moments to absorb the implication of her request. Of course the baron knew Lord Kosenmark. They had attended court together, one as a trusted adviser to the old king, one as a senior member of the general council. Both had departed from Duenne after Armand of Angersee inherited the throne. Clearly they continued to meddle in the kingdom’s politics. Just as clearly, the king and his closest adviser knew. This was a most dangerous, deadly game.
And she wants to involve me.
Had she learned this habit, too, from Kosenmark? To ask the impossible?
“You require a great deal,” he said. “And not just of me. I have a wife and our mother to care for. Soon, a child. Or perhaps your spies did not relay that particular information. It is not so important to kings and councillors after all.”
Ilse gazed at him steadily. There was no accusation in her eyes, but neither any gentleness. “You are afraid.”
“Of course I am.”
“And angry.”
He opened his mouth, shut it, and swallowed whatever he thought he might say. “A part of our inheritance,” he said at last.
Her gaze never wavered, but Ehren thought he saw a flicker of acknowledgment in those dark eyes. He wished they had a season apart from duty, or these mysterious doings of high politics, to do nothing more than talk. He suspected they had had much the same ruminations over the past few years, many of the same nights spent in grief and anger at their father. At each other.
His anger leaked away, leaving him with an emptiness centered beneath his heart. It was like a wound, kept raw and tender over three long years. She had come to him. He could not turn her away a second time.
“Tell me what I must do,” he said.
She studied him a moment longer, as if gauging his sincerity. “Very well,” she said slowly. “I need to talk with Baron Eckard. If you could visit him—tonight. Take me in your carriage as a servant, and leave me in the stable yard. You need not do anything more.”
“Tonight?”
She nodded. “I cannot wait any longer. I must find Raul as quickly as the gods allow.”
* * *
THEY SPOKE IN whispers as they planned how to achieve Ilse’s next goal. Memories of their father crowded close around them. More than once, Ehren glanced over his shoulder, only to laugh softly. Ilse, too, felt as though she could hear the ghostly echoes of past lectures in this room. She wondered how Ehren could bear it.
“Then the baron might not be at home,” Ehren said. “What then?”
“I have the necessary passwords. His people will admit me.”
“You trust them as well?”
She rubbed the back of her hand against her forehead. An incipient headache haunted her, borne of the long trek from Duszranjo through the mountains, from the even longer trek she had taken from Mantharah across Károví, always having to give her trust to others. Miro Karasek. Valara Baussay. Bela Sovic. Jannik Maier and the smugglers who brought her across the passes. She wanted nothing more than to hide in a warm dark refuge.
Not yet.
“I have no choice, Ehren. Or rather, none better.”
“You might stay with us. A day or two—”
“No,” she said softly. “I’m sorry, but no. Never here.”
He tilted a hand to one side, a silent acknowledgment of their shared history. “Then I shall have Gersi and Hanzl prepare the carriage.”
They reviewed possible excuses for Ehren to pay Baron Eckard a visit. “How often do you meet?” Ilse asked him.
“Once, twice a month. But always at public affairs, hardly ever in private.”
She pressed her lips together, considering. “Do you and he discuss business? Is there something of note you might want to confer with him about?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. Wait. I might send a letter, an invitation to a small dinner party. A few others in the merchant guild are worried about trade embargoes with Károví and Immatra. He might have advice on how to apply to the king’s councillors.”
“Armand won’t agree.”
“I know. We sent a delegation last month. The king refused to grant them an audience. Theodr Galt himself went to Duenne on behalf of the shipping guild, but I doubt if he’ll have more success. We need to acquire the right connections in court. That gives me an excuse to bring the invitation myself and speak with Baron Eckard.”
A few more details debated. Within half an hour, Ilse had resumed her jacket, gloves, and hood and followed Gersi back through the servant corridors to the side lane where she climbed into a carriage. Gersi himself, dressed in livery, took the reins. They drove around front, where Ehren climbed in.
A short journey followed, during which brother and sister did not speak. It was as though they had touched upon all the important topics, and it only remained for them to sit in a new and strangely companionable silence. What more need they say? Ilse thought. She had come to her brother and asked a great favor. He had agreed at once. He was making recompense for his earlier neglect, she understood. To say more, to ask about their mother, his new wife, the child they expected, seemed false and forced.
Later, she thought, I will send him a letter and ask. If I survive, that is …
The carriage slowed, then turned into a paved circle before a typically elegant mansion, its face a blank wall of stone, interrupted by square windows illuminated by lamplight. Ehren disembarked and went to the front door. A few moments, and a servant admitted him.
The next step achieved. Ilse leaned back into the cushions, as Gersi drove the carriage around to a walled courtyard in back of the house. Here, a team of stable boys released the horses from their harness and brought them under the roof. Gersi himself handed Ilse down from the carriage. She scanned the yard. The rain had died off, but rivulets ran between the paving stones, gleaming silver in the lamplight from the stables.
“I must speak with a man named Amsel,” she said. “Relay that message exactly, please.”
Gersi nodded and went to pass on the name to the stable master. Very soon, an older runner appeared, dressed in formal livery, and carrying a shaded lamp. “You asked for me?” he said to Ilse.
He spoke plainly. No “Mistress” or “My lady.” No excessive eagerness to please her. Good. So far, the code words had produced the expected response.
“I came to inquire about a position in the baron’s household,” she said. “I understand he prefers someone with a knowledge of swordplay.”
