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The shadows bunched together for another argument. Ilse could not make out the difficulty. A matter of precedence? Or second thoughts? Then one voice rose above the rest. “I told you they’re runaway soldiers. I’ll prove it. Watch.”
Damek Rudny, Maryshka’s brother. Jannik had mentioned the detail in passing, but Damek’s thin dark face, the tumble of dark hair, were so like Maryshka’s that Ilse had already guessed. She was not surprised to find him leading this pack. She had recognized insatiable curiosity in that face. When had their lives crossed before? Not from Károví and Rastov—of that she was certain. An older memory, almost lost in the shadows of centuries past.
Damek crept forward toward the gear Ilse and Jannik had piled in one corner. His eyes gleamed bright in the early sunlight, and his lips had curled back in a grin. He was no thief, this one. He wanted to handle Bela’s sword in front of his friends. Examine the genuine gear used by a genuine soldier. For that he would need to untie the strings …
Magic rippled through the air. Damek yelped and leaped backward, only to slip and land with a loud thump.
No use pretending she could not hear. Ilse levered herself to sitting and coughed. Loudly. With another yelp, Damek staggered to his feet. His friends scrambled toward the barn doors.
“Stop,” she called out.
One terrifed squeak, and the invaders froze in silence.
Ilse stood up awkwardly. Her back and leg muscles groaned from the long days of hiking, and a night spent in unfamiliar quarters. I am not quite nineteen, she thought. I should not feel so old.
She dragged a hand over her face. Wished in vain for a hot bath, then pushed the stall gate open to survey the scene.
Damek leaned against a wall next to the gear. His mouth was pinched into a knot. His skin gleamed with sweat. Bela’s magic had proved a good guardian. The others, three boys and two girls, had stopped in mid-escape in and around the outer doors. These were not Ryz’s youngest children. They were all twelve or fourteen at least, older than what she would have expected, but she reminded herself that Ryz lay far beyond the usual circuit of garrisons and patrols. We are strangers, and therefore exciting …
“Damek,” she said softly. “Thank you for coming so early. Duska will need water and hay. Her stall raked out, of course. And if you like, a short ride before you set her to graze. But only,” she added, “if your mother and father gave permission. Would your friends like to help?”
Damek’s friends rushed out the door. Damek, abandoned, stared at her with wide-eyed panic. Ilse had to choke back her laughter. Still overcome by this unfamiliar sense of antiquity, she pointed to the neighboring stall, where her horse leaned over the wooden slats to observe this strange young human. Ryz’s own old mare had turned away in disgust. Clearly she had no such hopes as Ilse entertained.
“Will you care for them both?” Ilse asked. “Do you promise?”
“Yes. Yes, my lady.” Then he glanced up, grinning, his eyes half hidden by a fall of black hair. “Does she like a gallop?”
He is more than curious. He is irrepressible.
She wanted to laugh and scold at the same time. She suppressed both impulses. Damek was no different from several courtesans in Raul Kosenmark’s pleasure house, though his immediate wishes might be simpler or, at least, more innocent. After some conversation, she left both horses in Damek’s care, then collected a set of fresh clothes and escaped the barn.
She paused on the threshold and scanned the village of Ryz.
Far away, near the river, a dozen or so men and women had already gathered in the greening fields. If she guessed right, one would be Jannik Maier.
“You must feel like a clod of dirt.”
Maryshka Rudny was picking her way down the hillside, a basket filled with greens slung over one shoulder. She wore the same dark blue skirt and quilted jacket as the day before. In spite of the crisp morning air, she was barefoot.
Maryshka smiled at her. “That was rude of me. I’m sorry.”
Her smile was the shadow of Damek’s grin, and provoked a
smile in return. “It’s the truth,” Ilse said. “My friend and I have been riding for too long without a proper scrub. How … How is she?”
Maryshka’s smile wavered. “Your friend does well enough, considering. Jannik sent Karel Hasek north to Dubro to get fresh supplies. We’ve no animals to spare, but the farmers might be willing to trade for a calf’s liver, not to mention a few herbs I cannot grow in the valley. With those, we can build up her strength. Oh, and Jannik told me to tell you that Ilja Lendl started this morning on the task you required. Into the southern mountains,” she added. “If you need a translation for that, I am happy to give one.”
Jannik’s message was clear enough—he had sent Ilja to the band of smugglers who operated a route between Veraene and Duszranjo. It was common knowledge, Bela told Ilse more than once, that smugglers would guide spies and enemies across the border for a price. The trick was to offer enough to whet their interest, not so much that they wanted to kill and rob you.
She was not home, not yet, but she had won another step forward, and she felt the band of tension within her chest ease a fraction. “Thank you for telling me.”
Maryshka was observing her far too closely for comfort. However, all she said was, “No need to thank me. You brought a spot of the unusual here. Not that Karel Hasek would thank you himself. That … man.” She snorted. “I’m not being fair. He works hard, Karel does. He would battle Toc himself to feed his family. That is more than I could say for some. But he is too grim. I cannot abide a man who does not laugh. That is my own shortcoming.”
“Mine as well,” Ilse said. She had a sudden, vivid image of Raul, dressed in muddy drill clothes, laughing because she had disarmed him. Her throat squeezed shut with sudden grief. Too many, many miles until I see you again, my love. I pray that I make it.
She blinked away her tears. To her relief, Maryshka pretended not to notice. The young woman bent and plucked what seemed an anonymous dusty weed from the ground, then added that to her basket. “My mother gave me strict orders to bring you to our house for breakfast,” she said in a casual tone. “Your friend woke more than once last night. She believes you would starve without her attention. I told her you seemed a competent woman, but she only laughed.”
Ilse laughed as well. It was a shaky laugh, however, and entirely unconvincing, even to herself. “My dear friend Bela. She shows such confidence in my abilities. Thank you for the kind invitation. I should love a hot breakfast.”
