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“Not important. What I learned there … is.”
Khandarr went on to tell the story of a ship, acquired by Lord Kosenmark’s new secretary, for purposes unknown. Khandarr had his spies investigate the secretary, but without much success. The man had appeared six months before with the usual letter of recommendation. An unimportant creature, but someone Kosenmark trusted.
The key point was the ship. It sailed without warning from Tiralien in late spring. A few weeks later, Khandarr’s agents reported an unidentified ship sighted near Hallau Island. When the coastal patrol signaled it, the ship fled north. The patrol had to break off pursuit when the ship entered Károvín waters.
“Proof,” Khandarr said. “Proof of treason.”
“Are you certain? Or do you simply wish to be certain?”
Khandarr flinched. “Certain. Of course.”
“Then you might wish to know the reports I received, just two days ago.”
It was a moment his grandfather had warned him about—when a councillor, once a mentor, discovered they were not the absolute guide behind the throne. Armand braced himself for anger. He ought to have called the guards inside. Better, he ought to have a second mage in council, someone unconnected with Markus Khandarr. Belatedly, he wondered if such a mage existed in Veraene.
Khandarr’s eyes narrowed to thin dark lines. “What report?”
So he did not know. That, too, was an important clue.
“It concerns King Leos,” Armand said. “My agents tell me he died two months ago.”
There was a moment of silence in the audience chamber.
“Then we have … war?” Khandarr said at last.
“So it would seem,” Armand replied, “except that your Lord Kosenmark’s father arrived in court last month to argue against it. He has gathered a sizable faction to his cause, that being the cause for peace with Károví. Furthermore,” he added, “Lord Kosenmark has returned to Tiralien. If he is a traitor, he is a terribly discreet one. Or clumsy.”
Another silence, even more gratifying than the first.
Was this the true test of Armand’s trust in the man, and Khandarr’s loyalty in return?
You cannot trust without need, his grandfather once said. Nor can your men vow allegiance w
ith no promise in return. Both are paid with the same coin.
“I think,” Armand said, “we must plan our next maneuver.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
ILSE WAITED THREE days before she decided to confront Miro Karasek alone.
It had taken all her strength of will to refrain from demanding an audience that first night and day. Karasek had evaded her, Bela Sovic had distracted her—an obvious ploy, but with the unexpected glimpse into Sovic’s own history and that of Karasek’s father. Later, when Ilse and Valara walked with Karasek through a series of formal gardens, the air heavy with the scent of ripening fruit and dying leaves, she noted a curious and unsettling reticence on his part. He spoke of their future plans, but only in the vaguest terms, and always with a reference to possible delays. He did not mention that Ilse would not accompany Valara Baussay to Morennioù. Nor had he arranged to speak in private about Ilse’s own concerns.
He was being cautious, she told herself, but when a second day passed without any word, she became anxious. She reluctantly accepted an invitation from Bela Sovic for a tour of the river valley, then submitted to the attentions of seamstresses and shoemakers, who arrived from nearby Duchova to measure Duke Karasek’s cousins for new clothes, boots, and shoes. Valara was similarly occupied. Miro Karasek himself was given over to the business of running his holdings: conferences with secretary and steward, making the rounds of his lands, holding audiences with farmers and village speakers to hear their concerns. It was all quite reasonable, all what anyone might expect of relations between a powerful duke and his cousins from a remote province.
On the third day, she rose at sunrise and sent a message to Karasek, requesting an interview at his convenience. She worded the note politely, obliquely, but the abrupt brushstrokes expressed her true emotions. Even in such a short time, she knew his habits. He rose at first light and drilled with his guards. He broke his fast with bread and cheese and strong tea, then rode a circuit with this patrol or that, or sometimes he visited the surrounding farms and villages. The interval between was her best chance to speak privately with him. If he ignored this request, she would have to assume his promise of aid meant nothing.
She dressed in the first of her new costumes, loose trousers and billowing overrobe gathered at her waist by a brocaded sash. Her maid, Anezka, brushed out her hair, then, at Ilse’s request, tied it in a loose braid. Her breakfast arrived soon after. Ilse nibbled at her toasted bread, unable to stomach the hot porridge with its dried fruit and spices. Her nerves were brittle and bright. It was because she acted in secret, because she intended to break her promise to Morennioù and its queen.
“My lady.”
“Yes?”
Anezka curtsied. “His grace sends word he will see you.”
The hour bells were ringing as she approached the entrance to Miro Karasek’s private offices. She had come here once before, her first full day at Taboresk. Karasek had not been available, but the runner had directed her outside to the gardens where the duke walked with her supposed sister.
Today, the runner escorted her down the short corridor. There were no guards, but another runner waited in an alcove by the office.
