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That won her a grin from Maryshka, one just like her brother’s. “Then let us hurry,” she said. “There will be grilled fish, bread, stewed greens, and hot, hot tea brewed from the freshest herbs I could collect in the fields above.”
She danced down along the path into Ryz, one hand keeping the basket level as she leapt from stone to stone, and down into the village itself. Ilse followed as quickly as she might. Within her pulse beat a joyful rhythm. One man north to collect the necessary medicaments for Bela. A second south to negotiate with the smugglers. Within a week or month, they could win through and she could forget about Duszranjo forever.
* * *
SIX, EIGHT DAYS passed.
At first, Ilse Zhalina spent all her daylight hours with Bela Sovic, gladly leaving Duska to Damek Rudny’s care. He mucked out Duska’s stall, gathered extra hay from the fields, and badgered his sister for where he might harvest wild oats from the meadows above Ryz. He did the same for Lev Kosko’s old mare. When all that proved too dull and steady, he took Duska for short gallops along the Solvatni River.
Evenings, Ilse spent alone, or with Jannik Maier, arguing poetry. They had few candles, so the arguments were conducted in the warm darkness of Károví’s late brief summer, but Ilse found she liked that. Without light, she could focus on words and reason, not the countenance of her opponent.
Bela herself lay fevered and restless. Occasionally she roused herself to accept a cup of soup, or complain about the draughts Ana Rudny prepared, but mostly she lay dozing.
After two days, Ana ordered Ilse away from the house. She gave her regular chores, fetching water from the village well, carrying the family’s slop buckets across the ford and into the fields beyond. Ilse did more. She washed pots and dishes, chopped roots, and carried Bela’s sweat-stained blankets to the river, where she scrubbed them with rocks. Whenever she had a spare hour, she took on the young boys and girls of Ryz in mock battles.
After four days, Ilja Lendl returned with word that the fees offered were sufficient.
The transaction might require additional sums, he reported, depending on when and where the persons in question needed to make their passage across the mountains.
“Can I trust them?” Ilse asked Jannik Maier. “Should I?”
He shrugged. “I believe them to be as honest as possible. However, if I were to entrust myself to their keeping, I would sleep with my sword and knife within reach. Have you decided upon your destination?”
She had. “The city of Melnek. It lies on the border, not far from the mountains.”
“You have friends there?”
A family, once. Friends. Allies of my beloved.
“Yes,” she said, after a moment.
If he noticed the difficulty she had providing such a short answer, he never said anything. Nor did he question her about those friends. She began to wonder how much traffic Ryz saw from these smugglers.
What troubled her the most, however, were Bela’s injuries and Karel Hasek’s continued absence. Bela’s mangled foot was beyond their abilities, and the rockslide had lacerated her flesh from hip to foot. Ana and Maryshka could do nothing more than bind the foot, apply herbs to the terrible wounds, and hope for the best. As for Karel Hasek, everyone could give her a hundred and two reasons why he had not yet returned. A slight injury that slowed his walk. More likely, that Vlaky could not provide the requisite supplies, and so he had to walk farther north to Dubro and the garrison itself.
“You must learn patience,” Jannik told her.
“I should,” Ilse replied. “I cannot.”
Once Armand of Angersee learned of Leos Dzavek’s death, he would seek immediate conquest of Károví. But she could not explain to him the urgency of her mission. She had trusted him as much as she dared. Eventually Jannik left off questioning her, and she was alone with her doubts.
* * *
THE EVENING OF the eighth day, well past sunset, Maryshka came to the barn, where Ilse was sharpening her sword and knives.
“Bela’s fever has returned,” she said. “She needs you now.”
Ilse hurried after Maryshka to the Rudny household. Across the threshold, a fire blazed, sending wave upon wave of pine-scented clouds rolling through the small house. Bela lay on her pallet, twisting from side to side.
“Karel brought the liver and medicine this afternoon,” Ana said. “And she seemed stronger today, but toward afternoon, she took worse. We tried all we could but—”
Ilse sank to her knees and gathered Bela’s hands into hers. Oh my friend, my friend. My companion and friend. Bela’s hands felt heavy and cold, as if the life had already begun to leach from them. No longer the hands of a soldier who wielded a sword as featly as Ilse had witnessed.
“You say the relapse came suddenly?” she asked.
Ana nodded. “Her color had improved, and at noon her appetite was much better. Then between one hour and the next, her fever came back. We thought she might take to the willow doses—she did last night—but the past hour—”
“The last hour she went cold and colder,” Maryshka said. “So we sent for you.”
