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He fetched the largest of his saddlebags and set it before Valara and Ilse. After a puzzled glance toward Ilse, Valara unbuckled the bag and peered inside. Clothing. A generous quantity. She extracted the first item—it was an embroidered tunic, cut to fit a woman. She set that aside and took up a skirt, which was split into two, perfectly suited to riding. Underneath were two long woolen coats. Valara hardly dared to ask where he had acquired them. If their plans succeeded, she would not have to concern herself with any rumors left behind.
“I also brought this,” Karasek said. He took a many-folded square of paper from his shirt. “Your letter of introduction to my steward, Sergej Bassar. Your name will be Matylda Zelenka,” he said to Ilse. “Yours,” he said to Valara, “is Ivana.”
Karasek handed the letter to Ilse, who read it through before she gave it to Valara. Valara scanned its contents. A typical letter of introduction, she thought, allowing for the differences of language and custom, informing one Mestr Sergej Bassar that Duke Karasek had invited his two cousins to enjoy his hospitality, etc., etc. So many details, so many points where the plan could fracture and miscarry.
“Are you certain they won’t question us?” she asked Karasek. “I look nothing like your people.”
“You don’t,” he agreed. “For that, I brought another kind of disguise.”
He took a square wooden box from the bottom of the saddlebag and unlatched the lid. Inside were several tins of ground spices, which sent up a pungent cloud of scent. Miro washed out their cook pots and fetched a skin of water from the stream. As he mixed and measured the spices, he explained that certain Immatran spies used the dye to color themselves so they were not so conspicuous outside their own kingdom.
“Where did you find the ingredients?” Ilse asked.
“Various sources.”
Valara’s skin rippled in apprehension. Discretion was one matter. Concealing information from your allies was another. “You found it lying by the roadside?” she asked, her tone as light as his was not. “Or did you requisition these supplies from your last garrison?”
His gaze snapped up to meet her. Angry. Good.
“I took no unnecessary chances,” he said softly. “Not for the clothing. Not for the dye itself. These are all common ingredients, which is why our spies, and those of other kingdoms, like the method.”
Throughout the exchange, Ilse Zhalina had observed them both with strange intensity.
What did she see? Valara wondered. The first flaw in an enemy’s shield? A reason for pity or sympathy?
She rubbed her forehead. She could not think of what to say. To her relief, Karasek continued with the next installment of their instructions.
“Head south until you reach the Ostrava Hills. You will find a small lake, fed by streams from the hills. A trail leads directly east from the lake. Four days should bring you to a valley that marks the western edge of my lands. Follow its southern slopes for another day and you will come to my household.”
“Any obvious dangers?” Valara asked. “Other than soldiers hunting for the king’s assassins.”
That provoked an almost smile. “No human dangers. It’s the wrong season for trappers. But the animals they hunt pose a greater risk—mountain leopards, wolverines, lynxes. My father died hunting leopards in these same hills.”
He spoke dispassionately, but the sense of lost possibilities teased at her.
Karasek stirred the dye. It looked like dark brown mud, with a strong, biting smell that Valara could not identify. “Brew another batch when you reach the hills,” he said. “A second application should last a month or two.”
Long enough for him to acquire the ship and for her to leave this kingdom behind.
Silently, the three of them watched the mixture as it bubbled and spit. From time to time, Karasek bent close as though to examine its consistency. Then, though Valara could see no difference, he apparently decided it had cooked enough. He wrapped his cloak around his hands and transferred the bowl to one side to cool.
He would visit the next three garrisons heading south, he told them, then ride directly to Taboresk so as to arrive before them and prepare his people. It was much like their last few hours at the Mantharah, with Karasek giving precise instructions for concealing their presence. Latrine buried. Trash burned and the ashes covered in dirt. The supplies redistributed between their three horses.
The dye had cooled long before they finished.
Valara eyed the viscous concoction. It looked like fresh horse dung, and smelled worse. “Do you expect me to strip?” she asked drily.
Color edged Karasek’s cheeks—a most unexpected reaction.
“No,” he said. “Cover as much of you that shows—face, neck, arms, and hands. You can dye the rest before you reach Taboresk. I want to make certain, however, that your first and most obvious appearance is correct.”
Of course. That answer helped Valara to steady her own heartbeat as she pushed up her sleeves and applied a thick coating to her hands and arms. The dye stung, and its acrid smell made her eyes water. She took up a smaller scoop and applied it to her face, working the dye into the crevasses beside her nose, around her mouth and eyes.
“How long until it takes?” she asked as she continued to apply the paste to the rest of her exposed skin.
“Not long. Less than an hour.”
Valara bit her lip. An hour. She could bear it. It was no worse than when the priests had inked her first and second tattoos, proclaiming her as a princess royal, then heir to the crown. Far less painful than when the gods had burned away her magic.
