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Ilse held her breath. She could feel Kosenmark’s anger, running just beneath that still blank face. Faulk had to realize it, too, because his thin smile carried a hint of nervousness, as though he sensed the danger of his games.
“We all know Lord Dedrick,” Iani said quietly. “We can trust him.”
“But can we trust his sister? Her concerns are not the same as Lord Dedrick’s. Or ours.”
“Enough, Faulk.” Theysson flicked her fingers to one side. “Your suspicions are valid, I admit. However, I’d like to hear the rest of what Lord Kosenmark has to say.”
“Yes,” Ehrenalt said. “I can see by his face that he’s told us only half.”
“Less than half,” Kosenmark said in a breathy voice. “When Dedrick brought me his news, he also brought me a gift. A gift of great significance, though he didn’t realize it himself.”
As he spoke, he took a small square packet from his shirt, wrapped in oilskin. He untied the strings and unwrapped the oilskin with meticulous care, and then the layer of silk underneath. No one spoke for a moment, then Ehrenalt leaned forward. “A book?” she said doubtfully.
“An old book,” Ilse said.
Kosenmark favored her with a smile. “Very old. The antiquarian provided Dedrick with a certificate of its authenticity, stating that the book was produced three hundred years ago. Dedrick bought it for me because he knows I love such things. I put his gift away without examining it until late last night. And when I did … Let us say that sleep became a difficult matter.”
Ilse half stood to get a better view of the book. Clearly an antique, just as Kosenmark said, its covers were two thick squares of dark red leather, stiffened by wood, Ilse guessed, and fastened with leather ties along its spine. The ties had almost disintegrated with age, and the covers were scored and cracked so that the wood showed through. Kosenmark had not opened the book, but she could see how the pages had turned dark, and though he handled it carefully, bits of pa
rchment crumbled away and floated toward the ground.
“This book contains the memoirs of Karel Simkov,” Kosenmark said. “He served two decades in the Károví army. Just before Dzavek invaded, Simkov deserted to Veraene at first, then settled in the Kingdom of Ysterien, away from the front. There he took a position as a prison administrator, having had such experience in Rastov.”
Ilse glanced from the book to Kosenmark’s troubled face. The others seemed impatient for an explanation. Except for Benno Iani. He was smiling, lips parted and gaze bright, as though he guessed the book’s significance.
“A prison administrator,” he said softly. “Was he there when—”
“Yes,” Kosenmark said shortly. “He was.”
“Explain,” Ehrenalt said. “What is the connection?”
“Prisons,” Kosenmark replied. “Simkov held a trusted position in Rastov’s military prisons. He assisted with interrogations, and oversaw the prisoners’ welfare, both good and bad. It seems that one day, the king himself delivered a prisoner to Simkov—a man named Benacka.”
“Ah,” Theysson breathed. “Now I understand.”
So did Ilse. Benacka. Dzavek’s most trusted lieutenant. The man who stole Lir’s jewels from Leos Dzavek and hid them from all Erythandra. Dzavek had recaptured the man but not the jewels. The night before he intended to question Benacka, the man killed himself. Furious, Dzavek had launched a war against Veraene, believing the jewels to be somewhere in that kingdom. And here was the missing link between all those mysterious clues from Károví.
“Does Leos Dzavek know this book exists?” she asked.
“I doubt it,” Kosenmark said. “Simkov published them under his new name, Barend Happ. He paid to have a dozen copies printed. This might be the only one left.”
“How do they help us? Do they help us?” Theysson said. “What do they say?”
“I don’t know the how yet. What I can tell you is that Simkov spent five evenings alone with the prisoner. His task was to extract information—to interrogate the man—but, according to his memoirs, they spent most of the time just talking. Or perhaps that was Simkov’s usual method to gain his subject’s trust. Whatever the reason, that final evening Benacka rambled on for hours about the jewels.”
“What did he say?” Iani said urgently, reaching for the book.
Kosenmark stepped back and lifted the book high. “No. I’m sorry, Benno, but no. I would prefer you did not read this book. Not until we’ve decided certain things. According to Simkov, Benacka made no sense. He complained how the man hinted and teased but said nothing outright. However, I think if the right person read these memoirs, they would find a treasure of clues here.”
“The right person being Leos Dzavek?” Theysson asked.
“I haven’t decided.”
“You wouldn’t give the book to Armand, would you?” Iani asked.
“No. At least, I think not.”
“So what are your plans?” Faulk said.
