Passion Play (44 page)

“If only the king had had a different father, and a different grandfather,” she said softly.

“So I often thought,” Kosenmark said. “He was different, as a young child. He needs more courtiers like you, who see the man and not the king.”

She shook her head. “I see the king, too. And only from a distance.”

“But your observation is the key, I think. Perhaps you should be Veraene’s ruler instead of Mad Armand or Khandarr the Merciless …”

“Or Lord Kosenmark, the Meddler Prince.”

Ilse froze, hand over her mouth, aghast at what she’d said. Kosenmark had a peculiar expression on his face—she couldn’t tell if he was furious or simply astonished.

Finally he released a long audible breath. “I would make a very bad king, I think.”

“Not so very bad,” she managed to say.

There was another brief pause. Then Kosenmark tilted back his head and laughed, long peals of real laughter. He was still laughing when he wiped his eyes with the back of one hand. “I did ask you to be honest, didn’t I?”

Ilse’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. “Once or twice,” she muttered.

He was grinning at her now, a look of pure delight that she had not seen for at least a month. Her own heart lifted and she found herself grinning back. Just as quickly she glanced away and covered her mouth with a hand.

Kosenmark took hold of her hand. “You must not take back those words,” he said. “I need your honesty as much as I need your fine sense of honor or even your cleverness, all of which you’ve gifted me with today.”

Ilse shook her head. Her pulse beat far too quickly for comfort, and she did not trust herself to speak. Her companion merely smiled. “Come,” he said. “I meant what I said. Bring your case inside. We have letters to write and plans to make and books to read.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

WHEN LORD KOSENMARK
said books, he meant one particular book—Simkov’s memoirs.

“Read to the bookmark,” he said. “So you can accustom yourself to his style.”

“Why do you want me to read this book?” she asked. They sat side by side, at Kosenmark’s desk, with the book carefully opened to its front page. Even though she itched to turn the page and read, she mistrusted this apparently sudden change in Kosenmark’s thinking.

“To be honest, I am hoping that if you read the book, it might give you ideas on what we ought to do with it. If we do anything with it.”

“Why not give the book to Lord Iani?”

His gaze met hers briefly, just long enough to unsettle her. “Lord Iani is a good friend and much-valued adviser in matters of magic. But he cannot keep anything from Lady Theysson, who might find this information too interesting to leave untouched. As you noted, she wishes me to be more forthright with the king.”

“She wants you to challenge him outright,” Ilse said. “And you think she might use this information to further that cause.”

“Exactly. Whereas you find me merely adequate.”

Ilse swiftly dropped her gaze to the book, conscious that her cheeks were burning. A light touch on her arm made her jump. “I’m laughing at you,” Kosenmark said. “You’re supposed to laugh back.”

“I did,” she said somewhat tartly. “You didn’t like it, my lord.”

“Hah. If that was laughter, I would fear to see you— Never mind. You can stop staring at the title page, Mistress Ilse. I promise not to tease you anymore.”

“Liar,” she murmured, and saw from the corner of her eye that his mouth twitched.

“Read the first section,” he said again. “Then I will show you the important passages.”

Kosenmark was right. The antiquated style and script took some time to decipher at first, and though the memoirs were better written than many others she had read, Ilse found them dull and uninspired at first. Simkov had led an ordinary childhood. Third child in a large family. Father in Rastov’s local militia. Mother a clerk at the university. She had died giving birth to Simkov’s younger brother.

“He was a bureaucrat,” she said to herself.

“One with an excellent memory. Keep reading.”

She forged on through the account of his schooling, the discovery that he could memorize complete passages of the older poets and historians without any effort. It was this talent that brought him to the garrison commander’s attention. They had thought to make him an agent for the crown, sending him across the border to evaluate conditions in Veraene and the northern kingdoms—Dzavek never fully trusted the old empire to remain quiescent—but though an excellent observer, he proved an indifferent spy. More than once he had given himself away because he could not project himself into the many roles required by his profession.

“… And so, after several years of shifting from post to post, I came back to my home in Rastov. My father had retired with a good pension. My sisters had all established their own families, some in the city, and others in Ždor-by-the-Sea. My two brothers had gone west into Duszranjo. It was then that I received my appointment to the Imperial prison.”

To become an interrogator, using his memory to absorb every detail of word and voice and gesture while he questioned prisoners. For the most part, it was not a demanding role. The king was not a vindictive man, and the prison was often empty, but there came to Simkov the usual assortment of Veraenen agents, rabble-rousers, or disaffected nobles whose plots crossed a certain line.

Unaware, Ilse had read far beyond the bookmark, and had reached the halfway point. Dull his life might be, but she had a clear picture of life in Rastov three centuries ago. A kingdom on the brink of war, though no one knew it.

And it was a day in spring when I had an unexpected visitor to my office, a man in the king’s livery, bearing the king’s seal, as though one proof were insufficient to prove the authenticity of his message.
I have a new prisoner for you,
the letter read,
but first I would like to meet with you and discuss his treatment.

Behind her, Kosenmark ordered food, and when it came, he set out the plates and served Ilse while she continued to read. A gap marked the interview between Simkov and Dzavek. Apparently Simkov chose discretion for the historic moment, even though he lived in a different kingdom, under a different name.

Three days passed with Simkov visiting Benacka’s cell every few hours. They tried the usual tricks where they shortened or lengthened the time between meals. They banged pots outside his cell at midnight. All unnecessary tactics, Ilse thought. Benacka must have been half mad with fear already, the same fear that drove him to suicide. He talked, according to Simkov, obsessively about Dzavek, rambled on as to how it was his destiny and his doom to chase after Dzavek, just as Dzavek had chased after him through Anderswar and then Veraene, when Benacka had leaped across the void in the flesh to escape. He had not succeeded. Dzavek had cornered him on a lonely island.

… He spoke of an endless sea, the indigo waves rolling toward eternity. Leaping from Anderswar back to human realms, one might suspect that he had leaped too far, to a world beyond ours, for such is possible when magic involves itself, but the man swore he had landed in Erythandra, saying he recognized the stars and their patterns.

Could he mean Morennioù? But wouldn’t the stars look different, there on the far side of Lir’s Veil?

Ilse shook her head. The island didn’t matter. What did matter was that now she could see why Dzavek had attacked Veraene three hundred years before. With Benacka dead before Dzavek could question him, Dzavek must have scoured every step of that final chase—not finding them in Anderswar, he must have decided they lay hidden in Veraene. If he suffered from an obsession, it was a carefully reasoned one, she thought.

She ate in Kosenmark’s office, wholly absorbed in the puzzle he had given her. Kosenmark said nothing. He refilled her water cup when she emptied it, and set more food in front of her, until he saw that she truly could eat no more. “Go and forget about the problem for today,” he said at last. “We’ll talk more tomorrow, after drill.”

She tried to forget, as he suggested, but Ilse spent the remainder of that day pondering the question, even while she went about her ordinary duties. Every task—from reviewing accounts, to checking over the various household budgets, to sending out letters of business—recalled Simkov’s mundane life, and from there it was a quick and obvious leap to Simkov’s prisoner. When at last she finished her work, she went to her rooms and read the books on magic that Mistress Hedda had lent her. Those told her much about magic but nothing about how to wield this new and burdensome secret. So, though the bells were striking ten, she ensconced herself in Lord Kosenmark’s library to read books on diplomacy and warfare. In between, she played word links with herself, hoping for that leap in associations that might provide her with a solution to Lord Kosenmark’s dilemma.

The next morning, she came to drill tired and muddled.

“You should not wear yourself to tatters like that, Mistress Ilse,” Kosenmark said.

She thought he looked as weary as she felt, but she said nothing.

“It will do her good,” Ault said. “Practice under adverse conditions. That would be my next step. Perhaps I should thank you, my lord, for assisting with her lessons.”

Kosenmark made a noncommittal noise and picked up a wooden knife. “Speaking of assisting, when did you intend to start Mistress Ilse with knife techniques?”

“When she was ready. Today would not be best, I think.”

“What about adverse conditions, Benedikt?”

“Perhaps you would like to take over as her teacher, my lord.”

Kosenmark glanced at Ilse. “No, Benedikt. This is your province. My apologies.”

“None required, my lord.”

Ault took Ilse through her first and second patterns, then set her to practice alone while he and Lord Kosenmark went through a long complicated pattern for swords. From what she glimpsed, it appeared to be a pattern that Lord Kosenmark had studied but not yet mastered. At Ault’s command, Kosenmark would perform one or two moves, then stop while Ault expounded on the proper stance or some other seemingly trivial detail.

“Now for the practical application,” Ault said, taking up a wooden blade.

Ilse paused in between repetitions of her drill. Ault glanced at her but said nothing. He and Lord Kosenmark touched blades.

“Begin with the first set, my lord.”

Their motions were slow, as Benedikt Ault countered and blocked with his blade, each stroke and parry meeting those Lord Kosenmark made while he executed the pattern. It was like a dance, Ilse thought. A graceful endless dance. Yet something about it bothered her. No matter how hard she stared, she could not discern any pattern in their movements.

Gradually Ault increased the speed of his blocks and parries. Kosenmark responded. Faster and faster, yet not the blurred speed of their sword bouts, and so Ilse could follow the action and reaction far more easily than she expected. Now she began to see what Ault had lectured Kosenmark about—the necessity for that particular lunge, followed by that particular block, followed by a curious sidestep that led directly to the next attack.

Strike. Parry. Feint. Strike. Disarm.

Just as she thought that, Kosenmark made another sidestep, then brought his blade up and, with a twist, wrenched Ault’s blade to one side. The next moment, he set the point of his sword to Ault’s chest. The final movement of the pattern.

Yes,
she thought.
That is how we must do it.

The two men bowed. Kosenmark turned around. He hardly looked winded, though the pattern had lasted more than two quarter bells. He must have seen something in her face, because his own expression changed at once. “Benedikt,” he said in a high light voice. “Would you indulge us for today? Mistress Ilse and I need to discuss a certain matter.”

Ault glanced from Ilse back to Kosenmark. “As you wish, my lord. We can make up the time tomorrow, if that meets your schedule.” He saluted Lord Kosenmark with his blade and bowed to Ilse, who thought she detected a glimmer of curiosity in his carefully bland expression. However, Kosenmark was urging her out of the drill yard.

“You have an idea,” he said, once they were alone in his office.

“A very vague one, my lord.” By now her first satisfied thrill had faded, speeded by doubt and the realization that she did not have an answer to his dilemma, only the barest insight into how she might approach it.

Kosenmark was tapping his fingers with obvious impatience. He stopped himself with a self-conscious grimace and let out a sigh. “I am not testing you,” he said. “I asked you for ideas, not a guarantee of success.”

Well then. She took a moment to collect her thoughts. “It was during drill,” she began. “When I watched your pattern with Maester Ault. I thought …” It sounded worse and worse to her now, and in spite of Kosenmark’s encouraging expression, she found it difficult to say out loud her glimmering of an idea. She dropped her gaze to her hands, thinking that if she continued to drill, she would have new calluses from knife and sword, just like Lord Kosenmark’s.