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She had thought through everything during the voyage from Melnek. “We write a letter and send it through the usual channels. If he can, he will arrange a meeting.”
“And what are those usual channels?”
Another point she had spent hours considering. Ilse remembered every name from Raul’s list of trusted agents. Over a year had passed since Markus Khandarr forced Raul to abandon his shadow court, however, and during their last, brief interlude together, Raul had mentioned how many had changed their loyalty, convinced by bribes or simply fear of the King’s Mage Councillor. There was one Raul still trusted.
Isaac Haas. A bookseller, who specialized in rare books. Letters came to his shop, delivered through other messengers. Haas then delivered the letters under the cover of offering selected volumes for Lord Kosenmark’s perusal, just as he did for his ordinary customers.
It was a risk. She had to take it.
“Let me write a letter,” she told Mann. “Then I can give you directions where and how to deliver it.”
She wrote a brief note, couched in vague terms, about Baron Mann’s interest in acquiring books from the empire period, especially those concerning the poet Tanja Duhr. The baron would like to view Haas’s merchandise, and could Haas arrange an appointment to discuss the matter without interruption. She used the code phrases to indicate news of political importance, the necessity for speed and secrecy, and a request for a private meeting.
Ilse pressed a blotting paper over the ink. Her hands were steady, but her pulse was beating far too rapidly for comfort. Soon, soon, soon. For so long she had contained all her emotions, driven by the necessities of the moment. Now that she was on the verge of being reunited with Raul, she could hardly bear it. Oh, there was much more to be done, but once she and Raul were together, everything else seemed effortless.
She folded the sheet in thirds and sealed it with wax alone.
“No magic?” Mann asked.
“Why do you believe I know magic?”
His smile was wistful, almost. “Why would I believe anything impossible for you?”
She shook her head. She wanted no compliments, not from this man. She wanted Raul. To speak with him of matters political and mundane, to sit in silence when silence gave them comfort, to feel that sense of completion in his company.
Mann observed her, still with that same pensive air. “My apologies,” he said softly. “I spoke without thought.”
“So you did.”
He laughed, albeit painfully. “The kitten bites. I see the shadow of a lioness beyond. My apologies again, Mistress Ilse.” He touched a hand to his forehead, thence to his breast. “I serve you with heart and spirit, with the last breath of this life, and the first of my next.”
Ilse had no answer for such extravagance, especially when she sensed the extravagance served to disguise his own greater emotions. She handed him the letter, and gave him instructions on where and how to have it delivered.
Mann departed to summon a runner. When he returned, he asked, “Are you hungry?”
She shook her head.
“Then you must be tired. Not even that? A lesser man might believe you disliked his company, or preferred another’s to his own, but as you know, I am both arrogant and self-centered. And so I conclude you must be weary of life itself. Therefore, we shall play cards.”
She stifled a laugh at his nonsense, but her laughter verged on tears. Mann had the grace to ignore her distress. He produced a deck of cards from within one sleeve and laid them out in a complicated pattern.
“Do you know the game of Victory?” he asked.
She did not.
He explained the rules of play, and a few key points of strategy. It was a game with complicated rules, played with a specially painted set of cards, but one that absorbed her attention more than she thought possible. They played until midnight. Ilse won a dozen hands. Mann won several others, and the rest were draws.
“You are gifted with strategy,” he observed as he shuffled the cards for another round.
She shook her head. “Hardly. If anything, I have had good tutors.”
“A good tutor can only supply the finish to what already exists. One more hand, then we are done for the night.”
Ilse won that round, and this time, she was certain she had done it herself.
“Until tomorrow,” Mann said. He bowed and kissed her fingertips.
Ilse permitted the gallantry, amused at last by his foolery, which she finally understood masked an entirely different kind of man. “You should court my friend Klara,” she said.
