Allegiance, page 3
part #3 of River of Souls Series
Ilse poured a mug of steaming coffee and handed it to Valara. “Drink quickly. We have a great deal to discuss.”
Yes, the plans for the next stage of their journey.
Valara gulped down the scalding coffee. The drink tasted like smoke on her tongue; it sent warmth coursing through her bones. If she were to miss anything about these miserable lands, it would be this scent, this flavor, which was like a mouthful of fire. Awake now, she combed her hair and braided it anew.
They ate breakfast quickly—boiled oats mixed with dried fruit and hunks of toasted bread with melted cheese. At last the pot of coffee was empty, the oats and bread devoured. Ilse took their mugs and set them to one side.
“What comes next?” she asked.
“For you,” Karasek said, “shelter in my domain. Once we are there, you shall have privacy and I shall have the means to arrange for a ship. You two are sisters, distant cousins of mine from Duszranjo, who intended to travel to the coast, to visit another, more distant cousin. But bandits attacked your party, late enough that you could not turn back…”
“So we continued to your household,” Valara said. “Yes. A long journey. The attack. The loss of nearly all our possessions. That would account for a great deal. But”—she gestured at the ill-fitting cloak and boots she wore—“perhaps not quite everything.”
He smiled briefly. “No, not quite. I can provide for that, however.”
He fetched the largest of his saddlebags and set it before Valara and Ilse. After a puzzled glance toward Ilse, Valara unbuckled the bag and peered inside. Clothing. A generous quantity. She extracted the first item—it was an embroidered tunic, cut to fit a woman. She set that aside and took up a skirt, which was split into two, perfectly suited to riding. Underneath were two long woolen coats. Valara hardly dared to ask where he had acquired them. If their plans succeeded, she would not have to concern herself with any rumors left behind.
“I also brought this,” Karasek said. He took a many-folded square of paper from his shirt. “Your letter of introduction to my steward, Sergej Bassar. Your name will be Matylda Zelenka,” he said to Ilse. “Yours,” he said to Valara, “is Ivana.”
Karasek handed the letter to Ilse, who read it through before she gave it to Valara. Valara scanned its contents. A typical letter of introduction, she thought, allowing for the differences of language and custom, informing one Mestr Sergej Bassar that Duke Karasek had invited his two cousins to enjoy his hospitality, etc., etc. So many details, so many points where the plan could fracture and miscarry.
“Are you certain they won’t question us?” she asked Karasek. “I look nothing like your people.”
“You don’t,” he agreed. “For that, I brought another kind of disguise.”
He took a square wooden box from the bottom of the saddlebag and unlatched the lid. Inside were several tins of ground spices, which sent up a pungent cloud of scent. Miro washed out their cook pots and fetched a skin of water from the stream. As he mixed and measured the spices, he explained that certain Immatran spies used the dye to color themselves so they were not so conspicuous outside their own kingdom.
“Where did you find the ingredients?” Ilse asked.
“Various sources.”
Valara’s skin rippled in apprehension. Discretion was one matter. Concealing information from your allies was another. “You found it lying by the roadside?” she asked, her tone as light as his was not. “Or did you requisition these supplies from your last garrison?”
His gaze snapped up to meet her. Angry. Good.
“I took no unnecessary chances,” he said softly. “Not for the clothing. Not for the dye itself. These are all common ingredients, which is why our spies, and those of other kingdoms, like the method.”
Throughout the exchange, Ilse Zhalina had observed them both with strange intensity.
What did she see? Valara wondered. The first flaw in an enemy’s shield? A reason for pity or sympathy?
She rubbed her forehead. She could not think of what to say. To her relief, Karasek continued with the next installment of their instructions.
“Head south until you reach the Ostrava Hills. You will find a small lake, fed by streams from the hills. A trail leads directly east from the lake. Four days should bring you to a valley that marks the western edge of my lands. Follow its southern slopes for another day and you will come to my household.”
“Any obvious dangers?” Valara asked. “Other than soldiers hunting for the king’s assassins.”
That provoked an almost smile. “No human dangers. It’s the wrong season for trappers. But the animals they hunt pose a greater risk—mountain leopards, wolverines, lynxes. My father died hunting leopards in these same hills.”
He spoke dispassionately, but the sense of lost possibilities teased at her.
Karasek stirred the dye. It looked like dark brown mud, with a strong, biting smell that Valara could not identify. “Brew another batch when you reach the hills,” he said. “A second application should last a month or two.”
Long enough for him to acquire the ship and for her to leave this kingdom behind.
Silently, the three of them watched the mixture as it bubbled and spit. From time to time, Karasek bent close as though to examine its consistency. Then, though Valara could see no difference, he apparently decided it had cooked enough. He wrapped his cloak around his hands and transferred the bowl to one side to cool.
He would visit the next three garrisons heading south, he told them, then ride directly to Taboresk so as to arrive before them and prepare his people. It was much like their last few hours at the Mantharah, with Karasek giving precise instructions for concealing their presence. Latrine buried. Trash burned and the ashes covered in dirt. The supplies redistributed between their three horses.
The dye had cooled long before they finished.
Valara eyed the viscous concoction. It looked like fresh horse dung, and smelled worse. “Do you expect me to strip?” she asked drily.
Color edged Karasek’s cheeks—a most unexpected reaction.
“No,” he said. “Cover as much of you that shows—face, neck, arms, and hands. You can dye the rest before you reach Taboresk. I want to make certain, however, that your first and most obvious appearance is correct.”
Of course. That answer helped Valara to steady her own heartbeat as she pushed up her sleeves and applied a thick coating to her hands and arms. The dye stung, and its acrid smell made her eyes water. She took up a smaller scoop and applied it to her face, working the dye into the crevasses beside her nose, around her mouth and eyes.
“How long until it takes?” she asked as she continued to apply the paste to the rest of her exposed skin.
“Not long. Less than an hour.”
Valara bit her lip. An hour. She could bear it. It was no worse than when the priests had inked her first and second tattoos, proclaiming her as a princess royal, then heir to the crown. Far less painful than when the gods had burned away her magic.
Ilse stood. “I’ll fetch more water so you can wash.”
She picked up a waterskin and headed toward the stream.
Karasek stood and paced around the camp. As she applied more paste to her throat and behind her ears, Valara glanced at him surreptiously. It did not require much insight to note his impatience to be gone. Did he expect his enemies to count the days between his departure at one garrison and his arrival at the next? Or was it simply the habit of a soldier?
She tilted her head to one side, to reach the back of her neck. Drops from the paste trickled into her eyes. She hissed, caught herself before she rubbed her eyes.
Karasek spun around and hurried toward her. “Hold still. Close your eyes.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. All her other senses leapt to awareness. She heard the rustle of pine needles as Karasek knelt down, much louder than expected. The slither of leather. Taking off his gloves? Then a faint brush of air as he lifted his hand toward her face.
He wiped the liquid away with his sleeve, then said, “Your eyelids. We forgot those.”
His fingers touched her eyelids. She shivered. Karasek paused, but she could hear his breath, amplified, it seemed.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Please. Go ahead.”
Karasek daubed the still-warm paste over her eyelids. More paste went on her eyebrows and in the slight creases beside both eyes. With swift light strokes, he worked the paste into her skin.
Her eyes watered. His hand withdrew, then returned to wipe away the tears with a soft cloth. Beneath the stink of the paste, she could breathe in his scent, a blend of horse and leather and the sweat from riding through the wilderness.
There was a pause. She felt fingertips brush over her cheek. No, that had to be her imagination, because when Karasek next spoke, his voice seemed remote.
“Now we let it set,” he said.
Her eyes still closed against the dye, she heard him pace around the camp. Once, twice. His footsteps were slow and deliberate. More than once he stopped, then his boots creaked slightly. She pictured him kneeling to pluck up a nearly invisible clue.
She recited the litany to summon magic. It did her no good, but the words and cadence were familiar enough to calm her nerves.
I did what you asked, she prayed to Lir, to Toc. I made mistakes, but I tried to do right, in the end. Can you understand? Please?
Silence answered her questions, and eventually, her thoughts drifted into the same almost-resignation that plagued her since Mantharah. The gods would do as they wished. She would discover their intentions only in the aftermath.
Ilse returned with the water. Valara waited until Karasek gave the signal, then splashed her face to wash away the excess dye. She scrubbed her skin, dried her face with the corner of her cloak. She repeated the process twice more and ran her fingers through her hair to catch the last bits of herbs and spices. When she looked up, she found Ilse studying her closely.
“How do I look?” she asked.
“Like a Károvín.”
Hard to read anything from that bland tone. Even more unsettling was Karasek’s dispassionate gaze. “And you?” she said sharply. “How do I look to you?”
He smiled briefly. “Just as our friend said.”
An unsatisfactory reply. She wanted to demand an honest answer, but Karasek was already mounting his horse. His gaze met hers, just for a moment. “Until Taboresk,” he said.
* * *
ILSE WATCHED HIM ride west and south with an uneasy feeling. She had known this man in a dozen lifetimes, but the memory of each was blurred. Twice he had executed her at Leos Dzavek’s command. Now he meant to make restitution. To her. To Valara Baussay.
And yet he is not easy with his compromise between allegiance and honor, she thought. Not when the two do not coincide.
Nor did Valara Baussay appear easy with trusting a man who had so recently been their enemy. In the days after they parted from Karasek, the other woman rode silently beside Ilse over the sun-baked plains that spread like a varicolored quilt of green and gold toward the west and south. They had little cover, except for the sudden narrow ravines carved out by rainstorms and melting snows, or the occasional stand of trees. It was a relief when Ilse at last sighted the Ostrava Hills. Another day brought them to Karasek’s lake, and the trail heading east toward his domain.
Domain. An interesting term. It could mean simply a region granted by the king to a faithful retainer, but the older definition implied the lands of a prince. Yet Károví itself had been called a princedom in the old empire days.
When Ilse calculated they were a day from the valley and Karasek’s lands, she called for an early halt. They built a generous fire and tended to the horses while the dye brewed. This time Valara stripped and painted herself completely with the mixture. She did not speak, but her movements were dogged, her expression remote. If she noticed Ilse glancing in her direction from time to time, she made no comment. Nor did she object when Ilse checked over her work.
It was only the pulse, beating swift and light at her throat, that told Ilse how much her companion’s mood resembled hers.
We are both afraid. In one more day, we come to the true test of our disguise.
After dinner, they dressed in the finest of their new clothing. By agreement, because she spoke the truest Károvín, Ilse took possession of the letter. They buried their borrowed cloaks, their clothing from Veraene, and anything else that might not fit their new roles as Duke Karasek’s distant cousins from Duszranjo. The last two objects they cast into the trench were Valara’s box of dyes and Ilse’s sword.
The sword was the most difficult to give up. She had this blade from Raul, a gift from their days together in Tiralien. He had brought the sword to her, after she and Valara had fled from Osterling Keep.
“You might keep it,” Valara said, in a rare display of understanding.
“I might,” Ilse said, “except that such a sword was made for a woman of my height and strength. It would draw too much suspicion.”
She laid the sword in the pit and covered it with dirt.
The following day they woke to a mass of iron-gray clouds on the horizon. By midafternoon the wind blew raw and cold. They drew rein at the bottom of a dry streambed. Ahead the land climbed through scattered pine forests to a high exposed ridge at least two miles away. Ilse wrapped her new coat tight around her throat and checked the presence of their letter once more.
“Do we stop,” Valara said, “or ride forward?”
Ilse gazed upward to the bare ridge. No cover there, but the streambed would hardly shelter them once the rain started, and she could smell its approach. “We keep going. I suspect we will find better shelter on the other side of that ridge.”
They started off at a fast trot, but once they entered the pine forest, the ground turned rough underfoot and their progress slowed. The storm hit before they covered a mile. The sky turned black, and rain swept down, rattling through the branches. She thought it might come to hail soon. Once they cleared the last band of trees, Ilse pulled her hood low over her forehead and urged her horse into a trot. The ridge was much closer, the ground rising steeply ahead. She glanced over her shoulder to see how Valara did, when she caught the flicker of movement off to one side. Had she imagined that?
Lightning crackled, illuminating a horse and its rider galloping toward them.
Bandits, Ilse thought. Karasek’s lies had become truth. “Ride!” she shouted.
She bent over her horse’s neck and dug her heels into its sides. The horse surged forward. Above the growl of thunder, Ilse heard Valara’s cries to her own mount, encouraging it to run, to gallop, to race the storm. Their pursuer veered toward the ridge, on a path to cut them off, but they still had a chance. Then, to her dismay, a second shadow burst from the gloom. Ilse cursed Miro Karasek and his orders not to use magic. She called out the invocation to gods. Cold fire sprang up from the ground, cutting off the rider. It was enough to let her gain the ridge first, with Valara close behind. Over they went, down the treacherous hillside, into a twisting gorge …
Three more riders blocked her path. Ilse tried to veer to one side, but one of their pursuers had overtaken her and was riding in parallel. “Stop!” he shouted.
She drove her horse into his. The two of them slithered halfway down the slope; she thought she could break free, but then he grabbed the reins from her and dragged her and her horse to a halt. The horse squealed its distress. Ilse reached at once for her sword. Gone. Buried with the rest of her old belongings the day before.
She struck out at the man, then grabbed the reins away. The man only grinned, his teeth a flash of dull white in the murky light. “No fighting. You couldn’t best the lot of us.”
Six or more shadows were milling about. Was one of them Valara? Yes. There she was, tall and bone-thin, her manner that of a queen.
Three more riders approached. Far, far too many for her to overcome with magic. One of them signaled the others with an uplifted hand. The leader?
Whoever it was walked their horse toward Ilse. It was impossible to tell much about the person. They wore a dark cloak, streaming with water, and a hood pulled low over their forehead. A sword hung from the person’s hip, and no doubt they had more weapons hidden from view.
“Who are you?”
It was a woman who spoke.
“We are travelers,” Ilse said carefully.
“That was not my question. Who are you?”
Ilse wet her mouth. “We’re travelers bound for Duke Miro Karasek’s holdings. He expects us. But if you think to rob us, you’re too late. Bandits attacked our party five days ago.”
A brief silence followed. “Is that true?”
“That we have no possessions, or that you aren’t robbers? The first is true. As for the second, I cannot tell. Not from your manner.”
At that, the woman laughed. “No, we are not robbers.”
She raised a hand and spoke a few words in Erythandran. For a moment the wind seemed to hold its breath. Then came the strong invigorating scent of magic, like summer wrapped into a single moment. Light bloomed in the air. It cast a nimbus of silver in the steady rain, and by its glow, Ilse could see the woman’s face. Square-built, a dusky brown so dark, she might have come from Veraene’s southern coast, except for the folds at her eyes, and the slant of her cheeks that said Károví.
“We are patrols for my Duke Karasek of Taboresk,” the woman said, “charged with keeping his domain secure. I ask again. Who are you?”
It was all wrong. This confrontation. The anger and suspicion, even before they had a chance to give the story Karasek had manufactured for them. Drawing a breath to steady her nerves, Ilse met the woman’s gaze.
“We come from Duszranjo at Duke Karasek’s invitation,” she said. “Ask him, if you doubt my word.”
The patrol members were whispering among themselves, but the woman herself did not change expression. “His grace is not here,” she said. “He last wrote to us from the capital, and he gave no news of visitors.”
“The duke wrote his steward, not his sentries,” Ilse replied.
