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?We keep a schedule, and he changes it,” Hax said. “His company is much sought after.”
Her first day ended close to midnight, and she fell into bed exhausted. In the days that followed, she worked longer hours. Earlier ones. Curious ones.
Lord Kosenmark had not created this position out of charity, she soon realized. Letters arrived daily from all parts of Veraene—fine parchment from dukes and counts, marked with elaborate seals, plainer ones from merchants in the interior, anonymous letters from trading posts along the Károvín border. There were even packages from Lord Dedrick, who liked to send gifts when other obligations, or his father, prevented him from visiting. Ilse sorted them all according to Maester Hax’s instructions.
“I take one immense pile,” she told Kathe, “and from that I make three not-as-huge ones. Then I carry them around for a while, stop, go fetch something for Lord Kosenmark or Maester Hax. Most of the time I wait for them to finish talking in private.”
Kathe’s cheeks dimpled. “So many somethings. No, don’t worry. I shan’t ask what these somethings are. I know you must be discreet. And I can see you like the work.”
Ilse laughed. “Oh yes. I do.”
They found they did spend more time together, and not just because their stations had changed. When Kathe visited merchants to order supplies or to arrange for special consignments, Ilse often accompanied her, and they walked to the open-air markets once a week. Those were not the only times Ilse left the pleasure house. She frequently rode in Lord Kosenmark’s carriage to the courier or posting establishments with packages or letters bound for distant provinces. Other times she delivered or picked up items from noble households in Tiralien itself, either riding or walking, but always escorted by one of Lord Kosenmark’s guards. When she asked why the runners did not make those deliveries, Maester Hax said it was to their benefit if Ilse learned her way about the city.
She came home from one such errand only to meet Lys coming down the side lane with a large basket over her arm. Ilse paused, conscious that she had not seen Lys since their confrontation a month ago. Lys stopped as well and stared. Her face was a blank, but Ilse sensed the anger behind that watchful gaze, which took in Ilse’s new clothing, the sheaf of letters she carried, and the guard and carriage behind her. It was as though she absorbed everything, giving nothing back, not even a reflection.
After a moment, Lys shrugged and continued on her way. Ilse let out an unhappy sigh, then hurried to Maester Hax’s office, where she knew the secretary waited for these letters. She did not understand why Lady Theysson could not deliver the letters herself—she visited the pleasure house frequently enough with Lord Iani—but Ilse knew that if she asked why, Lord Kosenmark would only deflect the question, or Maester Hax would give her a nonsense answer.
“Thank you,” Hax said, taking the sheaf. “Yes. Good. You might not realize it, Mistress Ilse, but Lady Theysson is an accomplished poet. And since these are her latest poems, I shall selfishly dismiss you for your long-delayed dinner. Have you sorted the day’s letters?”
“I gave those to Lord Kosenmark this morning.”
“Alas, more arrived in the intervening hours. I’ve locked them in your office, in your letter box. When you are done, bring them to me. Lord Kosenmark is not at home today.”
Ilse suppressed a faint sigh. Correspondence was indeed her primary task, and it never seemed to end. Tonight would be another meal eaten at her desk.
She stopped by the kitchen to fetch her own dinner tray, hoping to exchange a word with Kathe before she settled down to another session of work. To her surprise, she found Nadine perched on a stool, eating plums and trading rude stories with the spit boys. Nadine finished off a plum and tossed the pit into the fireplace, then looked around at Ilse’s entrance with a flashing smile. “My long-lost love! Come, have a plum with me.”
Ilse suppressed a laugh. She could see dozens of plum pits in the fireplace, and she wondered why none of the girls had tried to stop Nadine from making such a mess. Or perhaps that was no more possible than they could stop a crackle of lightning leaping from the sky. “You know that Mistress Raendl will beat you, courtesan or not,” she told her.
Nadine eyed her with an expression brimful of mischief. “So I had hoped. Or would you prefer to take her place?”
Impossible. Ilse shook her head and turned to Janna, who tried to smother her laughter without much success. “Do we have anything ready for a quick meal?” she asked.
“Stop her, Janna,” Nadine cried. “Don’t let her escape. We want a story.”
“No stories,” Ilse said. “Work. Letters.”
“Grim dreary work. Have you been eating prunes again?”
Ignoring Nadine’s chatter, Ilse gathered her own supper with Janna’s help. If she finished early tonight, perhaps she could spend an hour in the common room. It would not be so bad, not if she stayed in the bright sections, where the visitors played cards or complicated strategy games with boards and markers. Lord Kosenmark had mentioned he had received a new musical instrument, one that operated with strings and hammers set in a box. Eduard had volunteered that he knew how to play it.
She retained that hope until she saw how many letters filled her letter box. Mountains of them, she thought. There were also three letters needing a fair copy, with the notation from Maester Hax that these were urgent and should go into the post this evening with Lord Kosenmark’s signature.
Ilse ate her dinner in a hurry and started with the letter copying.
From Lord Raul Kosenmark of Valentain to Count Fredr Andersien. Tiralien. My Lord Count, It is with delight that I read your letter. I remember our conversation last year, when we discussed the increase in taxes and the parallel difficulties of conducting trade across the borders. I admit that while I have not followed the king’s policies in that matter, I do have friends with some influence and I can direct you to them …
Another one went to Baron Zeltenof, who apparently had asked for advice in governing his newly inherited barony. Lord Kosenmark’s letter demurred such knowledge, but Ilse noted that he went on to suggest a list of books, including the memoirs of another young nobleman from the empire days. Strange, she thought. Such advice did not seem urgent.
She picked up the last one, a letter for a king’s governor in the northern province of Ournes, which bordered on the kingdom of Immatra.
… my lord, I am honored you would send me your thoughts concerning the unrest along the border provinces. Though I am no longer a member of the court or council, I understand that your apprehension is not unusual, nor unreasonable. However, if I did still have influence, I would suggest that we ought not assume aggression without true evidence. As Mandel of Ysterien, wrote three hundred years ago, one generation’s prejudice too often becomes the next generation’s war.…
That letter made her pause. War?
She had heard rumors of war since long before she left Melnek. But Kosenmark talked about war as though he had heard more than rumors. Was it possible that the rumors were more than just rumors?
