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He tilted a hand to one side, a silent acknowledgment of their shared history. “Then I shall have Gersi and Hanzl prepare the carriage.”
They reviewed possible excuses for Ehren to pay Baron Eckard a visit. “How often do you meet?” Ilse asked him.
“Once, twice a month. But always at public affairs, hardly ever in private.”
She pressed her lips together, considering. “Do you and he discuss business? Is there something of note you might want to confer with him about?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. Wait. I might send a letter, an invitation to a small dinner party. A few others in the merchant guild are worried about trade embargoes with Károví and Immatra. He might have advice on how to apply to the king’s councillors.”
“Armand won’t agree.”
“I know. We sent a delegation last month. The king refused to grant them an audience. Theodr Galt himself went to Duenne on behalf of the shipping guild, but I doubt if he’ll have more success. We need to acquire the right connections in court. That gives me an excuse to bring the invitation myself and speak with Baron Eckard.”
A few more details debated. Within half an hour, Ilse had resumed her jacket, gloves, and hood and followed Gersi back
through the servant corridors to the side lane where she climbed into a carriage. Gersi himself, dressed in livery, took the reins. They drove around front, where Ehren climbed in.
A short journey followed, during which brother and sister did not speak. It was as though they had touched upon all the important topics, and it only remained for them to sit in a new and strangely companionable silence. What more need they say? Ilse thought. She had come to her brother and asked a great favor. He had agreed at once. He was making recompense for his earlier neglect, she understood. To say more, to ask about their mother, his new wife, the child they expected, seemed false and forced.
Later, she thought, I will send him a letter and ask. If I survive, that is …
The carriage slowed, then turned into a paved circle before a typically elegant mansion, its face a blank wall of stone, interrupted by square windows illuminated by lamplight. Ehren disembarked and went to the front door. A few moments, and a servant admitted him.
The next step achieved. Ilse leaned back into the cushions, as Gersi drove the carriage around to a walled courtyard in back of the house. Here, a team of stable boys released the horses from their harness and brought them under the roof. Gersi himself handed Ilse down from the carriage. She scanned the yard. The rain had died off, but rivulets ran between the paving stones, gleaming silver in the lamplight from the stables.
“I must speak with a man named Amsel,” she said. “Relay that message exactly, please.”
Gersi nodded and went to pass on the name to the stable master. Very soon, an older runner appeared, dressed in formal livery, and carrying a shaded lamp. “You asked for me?” he said to Ilse.
He spoke plainly. No “Mistress” or “My lady.” No excessive eagerness to please her. Good. So far, the code words had produced the expected response.
“I came to inquire about a position in the baron’s household,” she said. “I understand he prefers someone with a knowledge of swordplay.”
A twitch at the man’s mouth betrayed his interest. He let his gaze travel over her, a clearly impersonal assessment of her clothing, her weapons, and the manner in which she carried herself. “What manner of swordplay?”
“The most dangerous kind.”
Another twitch. Another examination of her person. “That might be possible. Perhaps you should speak with the baron after all. Come with me, please.”
Ilse followed Amsel through the stables, along a narrow corridor lit by infrequent torches, which brought them after several turns to a small windowless parlor. The air was chill and damp, but a thick carpet covered the tiled floor, and several richly embroidered hangings decorated the walls. One carved chair occupied a corner nearest the empty fireplace.
Amsel fetched a torch to light a branch of candles. “Do you wish a fire?”
“It’s not necessary,” Ilse said.
She took a seat, but as soon as the door closed, she jumped to her feet to pace the room. So, so, so. She was home again. Home meaning Veraene, not Melnek. Only, she had felt an odd pang, seeing Ehren once more, and riding with him through the familiar streets. It was like reading a long-abandoned, almost forgotten book, and finding that certain passages were not terrible, and some even comforting to return to. She allowed herself to dwell on those passages as she waited. Outside, the hour bells rang, followed by the quarter hour.
Two quarter bells sounded before the door opened, and Baron Eckard hurried into the room. He breathed heavily, as though he had been running.
At the sight of her, he stopped and wiped a hand over his eyes, as though he could not trust what he saw. “Mistress Ilse,” he whispered. “It is you. Amsel said a stranger came in Maester Zhalina’s carriage. He gave no names, only that she offered the old passwords. I am sorry I could not come at once. Your brother stayed with me only a few moments, but I had another guest … Never mind about that. I am more glad than I can express to see you. What do you need?”
“Money,” she said at once. “And a fast horse. I must get to Tiralien. I have news from Károví that Raul must hear.”
“Good news, or…”
She shook her head. “Complicated news.”
Eckard’s mouth quirked in wry understanding. “It always is.” Then his expression turned grave. “I’ve heard nothing from Raul these past few months—nothing official that is. He last wrote from Tiralien, a very public letter inquiring after my health, and describing a pleasure cruise he had taken along the southern coast.”
