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“Incriminating documents. Orders concerning Duke Karasek.”
“And me?”
Bela’s lips drew into a thin smile. “They know you are not the duke’s cousin, nothing more. I can assure you that much.”
Ilse swallowed against the tight knot in her throat. “How fortunate, then, that you came here just as they attacked.”
“Hardly,” Bela replied. “My duke ordered me to watch over you.”
Ah. And she had thought herself so clever.
Bela finished her examination. None of the guards carried any secret orders, she told Ilse, nor any messages in any language. Even so, she frowned. “They belonged to Skoch,” she said. “Skoch or Markov, which is much the same thing. Duke Markov dislikes my lord.”
Her tone was cold and flat. Ilse’s skin rippled in apprehension. “What will you do?”
“What I must. Close your eyes. This will not be pleasant.”
Bela spoke a word. The air drew taut, and a great blaze rolled through the forest, sweeping past the trees and tinder to wrap itself around the dead riders and their mounts. Ilse pressed both hands against her eyes.
“Are you able to stand?” Bela said. “We must catch your horse and leave at once.”
Ilse spat the bile from her mouth and dragged herself to her feet. She bound the cut on her arm with cloth ripped from her shirt. Then she whistled and called to Duska, called again as gently as she could. The mare returned slowly, head shaking as if uncertain whether to obey. Ilse calmed the horse with a whispered spell, stroking Duska’s neck and babbling nonsense until the horse ceased to tremble. “You said the duke ordered you to guard me,” she said. “Did he give you a reason?”
Bela had collected the items from Ilse’s cache and was packing them into her own saddlebags. “Only that he had promised your safety. He does not make promises lightly,” she added. “I know that very well. Come. We must ride before Skoch discovers his men are missing. He is a stupid man, but a stubborn one.”
“What about … my sister?”
Bela shrugged. “My lord duke will address her concerns. As for you? You must make the border, no? You have maps. So have I. And better provisions and gear than you could find. Also, a letter that you will find useful, according to my duke.”
A letter. Her skin prickled, remembering a letter she had tried to deliver, centuries ago. A matter of peace between the empire and the newly declared kingdom of Kárvoí. She recalled arguments with Leos Dzavek, other more secret discussions with the emperor’s envoy. Was it possible that this was the gods’ purpose in keeping her alive? Still, she found it difficult to trust, gods or humans. Especially the gods.
“You are not my friend,” Ilse said softly. “Nor is the duke. Tell my why?”
Bela heaved the saddlebag onto her mount. “No, I am not. But Duke Karasek is everything to me. Now stop arguing and get on your horse. We have a long journey, and Skoch will send a second squad when these men do not return.”
* * *
RYBA KARASEK WOKE to a touch on his shoulder. By instinct, he reached for the knife under his pillow. Before he’d touched the hilt, he recognized his man Jirí. With the shutters closed, and the fire banked to coals, Jirí was little more than a mass of shadows, but Ryba knew the weight of his hand from a hundred other mornings past. The half-open door showed lamplight in the next room. Other servants spoke in undertones as they went about their chores. Ryba blinked, rubbed his hand over his eyes to clear them. Oh, yes. He’d given orders for an early rising.
“Tea,” he croaked. “Strong tea. My favorite black boots. You choose the rest.”
Jirí nodded and withdrew, blessedly silent. Ryba let his eyes close, not quite willing to commit to wakefulness. They’d kept a late evening, he and Skoch and Miro. His head thrummed, and Ryba queasily recalled the many bottles of strong wine consumed between them. He’d chattered too much, he remembered, a fault that Miro said was cleverness in disguise since Ryba never divulged any real secrets, only nonsense. Skoch … Skoch had said very little himself, other than platitudes about the king’s passing, and the kingdom’s need for security in these chancy times. Other than polite rejoinders, Miro had said nothing at all.
I am a fool. And my cousin is afraid.
No cleverness in that observation. He knew it from that say-nothing letter three months before, from the mask that had stiffened his cousin’s normally mobile features, and most of all, from the river of tension that ran through the household. He’d heard too many rumors these past six months, and he wanted a private conversation with Miro before Skoch slithered into their company.
With a groan, he levered himself out of bed.
* * *
AN HOUR LATER, scrubbed to wakefulness and dressed to his servants’ satisfaction, Ryba paced through Taboresk’s passageways in search of his cousin. The family’s private wing lay silent, except for two maids sweeping the hall. Ryba grinned at them. One shook her head, clearly disapproving. The older one smiled at him sweetly. She knew him from many visits past.
“No chance of my lord cousin, the duke, lying abed?” he asked.
The elder maid laughed and shook her head. The younger woman sniffed at his tone. Then she seemed to comprehend she ought not to criticize a baron, even one so feckless and foolish as this young man. She gave a brief curtsy. “No, my lord. He rode out earlier with the morning patrol, but I cannot say if he has returned yet.”
“Lir and Toc never know what my cousin will do,” Ryba said.
