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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.
