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He smiled. “Perhaps I shall.”
* * *
SHE WOKE AT dawn when Agneth Friesz, the senior guard, came to rouse Ilse and the other guard for early-morning watch. Ilse rose and dressed in her new uniform, but she suspected that Mann, playing the role of an indolent noble, would not make his appearance for several hours. A short word with Friesz confirmed there was a courtyard, next to the stables, where she might drill in private.
Four walls marked off a bare dirt yard. A lamp flickered over one doorway, and smoke rose from a chimney on the opposite side—the kitchen workers baking bread for the new day. Ilse took up the first stance, gathered her concentration, and struck into the shadows.
Over and over went the drill, until her arms ached, and her clothes were soaked in sweat. Mann came upon her an hour after sunrise. He had to repeat himself a second time before she realized it. Then, she leaned down, one hand pressed against her thigh, her sword held loosely to one side.
“Any word?” she said.
He shook his head. “Not yet. Shall we ride through the city, you and I?”
“As you wish, my lord baron.”
He rubbed his hand over his mouth. “Yes, I do wish. We shall have breakfast and go.”
It was midmorning before they departed, Mann, Ilse, and the younger guard. Still no word had arrived from Raul. The bookseller would first have to arrange another delivery to the pleasure house, which might require at least another day. Reluctantly she submitted to a tour of Tiralien, starting at the docks, going past Lord Vieth’s palace, and through a pleasant avenue lined by shops. Once she had starved here. Once she had almost died. She tried not to think of those early, desperate days.
She succeeded, letting Mann choose their route, until they turned into the neighborhood where Raul’s pleasure house lay.
“My lord…”
“Softly now,” Mann murmured. “We shall ride past only.”
Ilse nodded, but her hands were trembling as they approached.
The pleasure house was just as she remembered—a square of golden brick, rising four stories, and surrounded by narrow lanes from its neighbors. This early in the morning, she expected no activity, but it was impossible to miss the emptiness she saw. No guards at the gates or patrolling the lanes. No candles in any windows. No servants passing in and out on their errands. It was as though the house had died, and taken all its inhabitants with it.
“My lady?” This was Mann.
“You forget yourself,” she murmured.
“Never. However, if you prefer, I shall call you guardswoman. So, I see what bothers you, guardswoman. A house left empty, or nearly so. I thought I saw a face in one window…”
“Whatever you saw, we should not stay here,” Ilse said.
“Agreed. Let us continue our tour of the district. We can return to the inn for our midday meal. Undoubtedly a message will await us.”
They proceeded to the next square where Mann purchased more wine, to be delivered to his ship. Ilse pretended to converse with the other guard but with only partial success. The man did not know what to make of her, she realized. She might be the baron’s secret lover. She might be a connection from his court days. Better that, she thought, than what she was. If Khandarr questioned them, they could only answer with what they knew.
On their return, a servant brought Mann a letter.
“A timely response from our bookseller,” he observed, reading through it. “Such diligence heartens me.” To the servant, he said, “Send word back that I will visit him after I dine. I cannot bargain with an empty stomach.” He gave the innkeeper orders to feed his fainting guards, and to have fresh mounts ready for their excursion.
Two hours later, Ilse and Mann arrived at Maester Haas’s antiquarian shop. The bookseller waited for them, a parcel at his side. “You will find other goods in the back rooms,” he said. “Do you wish to examine them yourself, my lord baron?”
“No. My guard shall do so. She is a competent woman and knows my requirements. Let us, you and I, discuss these other rare and lovely objects over a glass of wine.”
Ilse barely paid attention to his last words. Her pulse was thrumming as she passed through the indicated door, to the back room where Raul waited. Ten months, three weeks, five days, since she left Tiralien. Five months since Hallau Island. She had kept an unacknowledged ledger of their time apart, as if she could present such debts to the gods.
A shaded lamp
stood on a high shelf, casting light and shadows over the small room, which was piled high with wooden crates. Several of the crates were open, their contents unpacked and stacked upon a broad table next to a journal book, where someone, Maester Haas or a clerk, recorded the inventory. The air smelled of paper dust, ink, and old leather. There was no sign of Raul himself.
Ilse paused. Her hand slid to her sword hilt, her thoughts fell inward to the balance required for magic, the same balance that swordplay demanded. It could be Raul was delayed, she told herself. It could be that he, too, suspected treachery and waited until he recognized his visitor.
Then a voice behind her spoke.
