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Most of her time, however, she spent with Lord Kosenmark in Berthold Hax’s old office, now hers, discussing Károví’s plans and how they involved Lir’s jewels.
“We have a drought,” Kosenmark said, studying the map he had spread over Ilse’s desk. “A drought of information.”
He traced his finger along the border between Károví and Veraene. Using his reports from the past few months, Kosenmark had laid out markers to show troop numbers and locations for both kingdoms. Green for tens, blue for hundreds, red for thousands. The number had shifted several times over the past six months, according to what Ilse had read. Károví had concentrated its troops along the northern east plains, where several well-known passes led through the mountains into Immatra and Veraene. Veraenen troops were thickest at the kingdom’s border near Melnek, but lately Armand had increased the troops in Ournes, on the opposite side of the mountains from those same Károvín troops.
Kosenmark’s restless tracing had dislodged several of the markers. Ilse replaced them carefully. The sight of so many markers near her old home gave her pause. “You knew that he was raising the levies,” she said, more for herself than to remind Kosenmark.
He released an unhappy sigh. “Yes, I knew that. But the picture brings home what words and numbers cannot. Armand has managed to erect a barrier nearly as impenetrable as the one out there.”
He indicated a wavering line drawn through the oceans east of the continent. Toc’s Judgment. Lir’s Veil. The name varied with the speaker, but they all referred to the burning wall of magic that had appeared three hundred years before, during the second and bloodiest of the wars between Veraene and Károví.
The analogy was apt. Three couriers had gone missing in the border mountains in the past month. Ilse knew the passage to be a difficult one—rockslides, sudden storms, an accidental fall—all these could kill even the most experienced tracker. But three in a single month …
Kosenmark tapped the markers, causing them to skitter over the maps. “Never mind,” he said, when Ilse tried to put them right. “We don’t need to know where Armand and Leos have put their troops. The only thing that matters is that the borders are closed to us.”
And to everyone else, Ilse added silently. No tolerance for smugglers. No trade except with special permits, issued by the regional governors and confirmed by auxiliary representatives from the capital. The many new troops stationed at passes and border towns were there to enforce and assist. Kosenmark had sent out orders to his agents to stop sending back reports, but he could not tell if they had received those orders.
“What if you sent your messengers through Immatra?” she said, indicating the northern plains. “Armand doesn’t keep many troops along that border. Or would that still prove too dangerous?”
“Too far,” Kosenmark said shortly. “By the time we get a report, the situation has changed five times over. We need wings,” he said softly. “If we had the wings of birds, we might fly across the mountains.”
Ilse studied the map. The border was the difficulty. High mountains guarded those borders even better than all of Armand’s troops. Leos Dzavek had used that border to his advantage in both wars. If only they could erase those mountains, or even carve a new unknown pass through them.
“Ships,” she said, at the same time as Kosenmark.
He grinned at her. “It must be a good idea, since we both thought of it. Tell me more, Mistress Ilse.”
She hesitated, then shook her head. “I was thinking merchant ships, but that seems too simple.”
“True. Armand will require all the merchant ships to carry special permits. Ah, but the fishing fleets—they go out to sea for weeks or months.”
Meaning that hardly anyone would notice if they took a few weeks longer for their catch. Ilse traced the curve of the Károvíen coastline. Islands dotted the waters there and there. To the north, a few larger islands made a barrier against the winter storms. A lone fishing boat could land undetected either place.
Kosenmark rested his head on his arms and studied the map through slitted eyes. “It still won’t be easy. We’ll need bribes for whoever carries the message or messenger to the islands. And careful planning to deal with the coastal patrols. Unless”—he glanced at Ilse—“you think I’m pursuing more of those useless games.”
She knew the question was genuine, but the answers that came to her were suspect. Was it because Lord Kosenmark’s activities had changed, or was it because her perspective had changed, from prisoner to trusted subordinate? The latter, she suspected.
“You are thinking hard,” he observed.
Ilse colored. “Not as hard as I did a few weeks ago.”
Kosenmark laughed, albeit hesitantly. “Perhaps you are being too harsh.”
“Upon myself? Or upon you?” she murmured. “But I do wonder … I saw nothing wrong at first, only after you locked me up.”
“And so you do not trust your judgment. But before you condemn yourself for inconstancy, ask yourself if there is a difference between what we did last month and today. Or rather, can you see one now?”
Ilse felt her way slowly through the answer. “No and yes,” she said at last. “Both involved intrigue and deception. One does concern the future. But I don’t know …”
Her glance met Kosenmark’s. He was watching her closely with those bright golden eyes. Unsettled by his gaze, she made a show of rearranging the markers into neater rows. The markers represented living soldiers now, but if Armand had his way, they might soon represent dead ones.
“Armand would be wrong to start a war without provocation,” she said at last. “Leos would be right to defend himself, but not at any cost. That much seems clear, but the rest … I lose the rest in shades of gray and brown. Even good intentions are not always enough.”
“Sometimes they are all we have. We must guard them carefully and not—”
A knock interrupted them. Kosenmark frowned and glanced over his shoulder. Ilse thought he might ignore the knock—he sometimes did—but when a second rapid knock followed, a peculiar expression came over his face. “I wonder …” he said under his breath.
Before he could complete that sentence, the door swung open. Lord Dedrick stood in the foyer, one hand resting on the doorframe. His hair was wind-blown, and he still wore his dust-covered riding clothes, as though he had just dismounted from a long journey.
