CHAPTER ELEVEN

KOSENMARK WENT TO his inner rooms for a few moments and returned with a damp cloth and a comb, so that Ilse could make herself presentable. When she had finished, Kosenmark studied her with an appraising look. “Well enough. Now to Maester Hax.”

They arrived at Hax’s office just as he was clearing off his desk for the night. Hax paused and glanced from Ilse to Lord Kosenmark. “Are you paying a visit for pleasure or business?”

“Both,” Kosenmark said. “I’ve brought you an assistant.”

“Ah.” Another expressive glance. “Have you found my services lacking, my lord?”

For the first time, Kosenmark looked uneasy. “Do not argue with me, Berthold.”

“Why not? You like a good argument, or so you claim.”

“A worthy one, yes.”

“Which means you will not listen to my opinion.”

“I will. But not here, and not now.”

Ilse began to wish herself back in the kitchens with the rotten potatoes. She stirred, uneasy, and Hax glanced in her direction. “My lord, you are right. Not here and not now. Would you grant me an interview tomorrow morning? I find it’s easier to arrange my thoughts when I’m fresh.”

“You mean easier to argue back. Very well.” To Ilse, he said, “You will have a difficult master, you see.”

“Like student, like teacher,” Hax said under his breath.

“You see how he does not give up? Not really. He will argue with me for weeks now. Understand, it will have nothing to do with you, or how well you perform your duties. It will only be that he hates to lose. What was that, Berthold?”

“Nothing, my lord. Only that we ought to inform Mistress Raendl of the change.”

“Good. I thought you were beginning to repeat yourself. A sign of old age.”

“A sign that my lord has turned deaf. If you will excuse me, I should like a few words with my new assistant.”

“Then you agree?”

Hax smiled, but it was a stiff unhappy smile. “In form, if not in essence, my lord. Yes, I agree.”

Kosenmark shook his head and murmured something about needing to see to his visitors below. Hax watched him go with a long considering look. “Interesting,” he said. “And unexpected, though not surprising. So you asked for a promotion, Mistress Ilse?”

“No, sir. Lord Kosenmark offered one, and I accepted.”

“Hmmm. How did he come to make that offer?”

Out of kindness and pity, she thought. “Maester Hax …”

Hax waved a hand. “Never mind. You are being discreet. A good trait, especially in your new position. I would encourage it.” He paused and seemed to consider his next words. Ilse expected him to talk about her new duties, but Hax was shaking his head. “It will be very different, with you as my assistant. A challenge for us both, I believe. Very well. Report to me after nine tomorrow morning.”

A clear dismissal. Ilse curtsied awkwardly, not knowing what was correct. Hax seemed not to notice. When she glanced back from the foyer, he was staring off into a corner, his restless hands still.

*  *  *

SHE SLEPT BADLY and woke early, just as the bells began to peal the eighth hour. A floor above her, the large hour glass for Lord Kosenmark’s complicated timepiece would just be turning over, its chimes softly echoing those outside. The other girls still slept—they had worked hours longer than her, and would not wake for some time.

Moving quietly, Ilse padded over to the washstand. I’m not running away, she told herself as she scrubbed her face and combed out her hair. I’m going on to the next challenge.

And yet it was too much like her escape from home, or from Brandt’s caravan, both undertaken in stealth. The practical side of her said that the girls wouldn’t thank her for waking them just to say good-bye. Besides, she wasn’t actually leaving the household.

Bedclothes rustled. Hanne sat up, rubbing her eyes. “Ilse? Where are you going? What happened?”

Ilse came to her bedside and whispered, “Nothing happened. Go to sleep, Hanne. It’s early.”

“But you never came back from the spider room. Then a runner came from Lord Kosenmark, and we heard you were never coming back. Lys said Lord Kosenmark dismissed you, but then Lord Kosenmark came and Mistress Raendl and Mistress Denk went off and didn’t come back for hours and …”

“I’m to work for Maester Hax now,” Ilse said.

Hanne stared. “Maester Hax?”

“Writing letters,” Ilse said, though she wasn’t certain what duties Maester Hax might give her, nor how much Hanne would understand of a secretary’s duties. She smiled and brushed the hair from Hanne’s forehead. The girl’s color was much better and she no longer felt fevered. “You know how much I like reading and writing and books. Did you ask about seeing Mistress Hedda?”

“Kathe gave me something. She said I was silly for not asking, and she was stupid for not seeing. But Ilse, it doesn’t make sense. How—”

“She found a better bed, Hanne. That’s what happened.”

Lys was sitting up in bed, hair tumbled around her shoulders. Ilse felt her stomach twist into a knot at the girl’s satisfied grin. You knew this would happen, she told herself. You expected it. Still, it took all her self-control to keep her expression bland.

“It’s true,” Lys said. “Isn’t it? You finally spread your legs wide enough, and someone fell in. Well, I’m glad to see you go. We all are.”

“Lys …” Dana groaned from her bed.

Ilse stood up, sat back down by Hanne’s side, and took the younger girl’s hands in hers. Running away would not solve anything, especially not with her staying in the same household. Janna rolled over and muttered something about late nights should mean late mornings, but by now Steffi was sitting up and demanding to know what the trouble was.

“It’s her,” Lys said, pointing at Ilse. “She’s the trouble.”

“Oh shut up,” Janna said. “You’re just jealous.”

“Jealous? And you’re not? Since when?”

“Since she did her work. Why are you so afraid of her?”

Lys spat out an ugly curse and launched herself at Janna, who scrambled from the bed. Ilse grabbed at Lys and caught the girl’s wrists. “Stop fighting. Both of you.”

Lys wrenched free and slapped Ilse across the face. Janna shoved Lys away. “Do that again and we’ll tell Mistress Raendl.”

“You would, you sneak.”

“If I’m a sneak, you’re a bully. I know why Steffi’s sister left. And I know why Hanne jumps when you come into the room. Pinch and punch and badger and bully. That’s you, and it’s not right.”

By this time, all the girls were standing around them in a circle. Rosel looked as though she wanted to join the fight, but didn’t dare. Dana and Steffi were whispering to each other. Only Hanne, silent and pale, had retreated toward the door.

It’s not enough to keep from running away, Ilse thought. She stepped between Lys and Janna. “Leave her be,” she said to Janna.

“So you’d rather fight me?” Lys said.

Ilse faced her. “I don’t want to fight.”

“Coward.”

Her dark face was blotched with anger; tears gleamed in her eyes. Strange how Ilse felt a sudden rush of pity for the girl. “Call me whatever you like,” she said. “I don’t care. But stop making trouble for everyone else.”

Lys jerked her chin up. “Why? Who made you the queen?”

“No one. No one made you the queen, either. Even if they did, they might change their minds unless you treat them better.”

Lys lifted a fist, as though to strike. Abruptly her expression changed and she dropped her hand, still clenched. Ilse glanced back. Janna and Steffi and Dana stood behind her, hands linked together. Lys’s gaze shifted from face to face as she took in the situation. “Like a damned princess,” she muttered.

Janna grinned. “’Smatter, Lys? Don’t like to see someone else wearing a crown?” She turned to Ilse and held out her hand. “Come on. We can have one last breakfast together.”

Ilse squeezed Janna’s hand. She found she was smiling. “Yes, I’d like that.”

*  *  *

THE BELLS WERE just ringing nine when she arrived at Maester Hax’s office. Kosenmark opened the door to her knock. “Good morning,” he said. “We were just discussing your new duties. Berthold, come to my office later, and we can review the latest dispatches.”

Maester Hax motioned for Ilse to sit, then poured two cups of tea. “Are you ready to begin?”

“As ready as I know.”

He seemed amused by her answer. “True enough. So let us begin.”

For the next hour, Ilse drank tea and listened intently, while Hax talked and talked about those expectations. He was so kind and patient, she could almost believe she had misunderstood his mood the previous night.

“You will run errands,” he told her, “for me and Lord Kosenmark. You will handle tasks the runners cannot, accepting items that come for Lord Kosenmark or me and securing them, handing off items to the couriers we use, arranging for delivery of packages, writing out fair copies of letters, and writing to his dictation. You will keep track of our supplies and order more through Mistress Denk. Mistress Denk can also assist you with dispatching the letters. Some correspondence travels with the governor’s post, some by private courier, others by merchant caravans and the like. Are you following me?”

She nodded, thinking Hax must have worked wearying hours doing all these tasks, as well as the others Lord Kosenmark had alluded to. The more intricate concerns of my household, as he had phrased it.

They had drained the first carafe of tea, and Hax rang for another, which Janna delivered. Ilse noticed a self-satisfied expression on the girl’s face and wondered what else had happened after she left the kitchen, but Hax was already talking again, his long expressive hands sketching out patterns in the air as he explained how he preferred the accounts to be kept. Ilse had some notion of accounts, but apparently Lord Kosenmark required very particular methods for tracking his investments and expenditures, and some of those methods left Ilse puzzled and shaking her head. Still, she made an effort to understand and remember.

“But all that is secondary,” he said at last.

“Secondary,” Ilse murmured faintly.

Hax smiled at her dismay. “Of course. All these duties come second to Lord Kosenmark’s correspondence.”

Lord Kosenmark received numerous letters from all over the kingdom, he told her. Letters from his family, from old colleagues in Duenne, from the inhabitants of his father’s duchy in the southwest. Her initial task was to separate the letters into three categories, depending on the sender. Those from Lord Kosenmark’s family or from the duchy of Valentain went into the first.

“Also a limited number of other correspondents,” Hax said. “Here are their names.”

He handed her several sheets of paper. Each page contained three columns of names. Lords. Dukes. Merchants. Scholars. The names and addresses ranged throughout Veraenen society and its geography. “What shall I do with letters that don’t match the list?”

“Those you bring directly to Lord Kosenmark. Do not use the house runners,” he added, touching his hands together briefly. “For the most part, these will be important documents for his investments, and he wishes to handle them himself. If Lord Kosenmark is not available, you bring them to me. If I am not available, you will lock them in my office in a certain letter box I will show you.”

“And what if the letters have no names?”

“Those belong to the third category. Bring them to Lord Kosenmark as well, but separate from the rest—it will save us time. Again, if Lord Kosenmark and I are both absent, place the unmarked letters in the letter box.”

Once she accustomed herself to that task, Hax said he would give her more details on how to subdivide them further. “You will learn the names that interest him most. Are you overwhelmed yet?”

She nodded, thinking that Lord Kosenmark attracted a huge amount of correspondence for a man dismissed from court.

“No matter,” Hax said. “We shall not expect you to remember everything the first day. Now …” He took a bunch of keys from his belt and removed one. “I had mentioned a letter box, which I keep in my office. Here is the key. Keep it with you at all times.”

Ilse turned the key over in her hand. It had a long notched blade and large octagonal bow stamped with a leopard. When she closed her hand over it, she felt the buzz of old magic.

“You must also have keys for my office and Lord Kosenmark’s,” Hax went on. “I shall send for the locksmith to make copies.”

“Is that enough?” she asked. “I mean … if Lord Kosenmark is anxious about his papers, would a lock suffice to keep out thieves?”

Hax kept silent long enough that she worried she had trespassed on a forbidden topic. “We have anticipated that,” he said slowly. “It comes from living at court, where there are no secrets except those fiercely guarded. We have magic safeguarding the doors and windows of both our offices. The same holds true for the strongboxes, which Lord Kosenmark had specially built by a friend. That key you hold opens the outer lid. You may then drop letters through the slot, but you cannot retrieve them. Neither can I. Only Lord Kosenmark can.”

Magic. She felt a ripple of anticipation. “Does Lord Kosenmark know that much magic?”

“More than most lords. Not as much as the King’s Mage, certainly. But he has made certain areas of magic his specialty, and he has friends who assist him. Are you bothered by that? Lord Kosenmark said your father originally came from Duszranjo.”

Ilse shook her head. Briefly she thought how she would always need to explain how not all Duszranjo followed the old laws, only the most remote villages in the southern end, those who remembered the wars between Károví and the empire, when mages from both armies scorched the borderlands. And they weren’t laws, she thought. Only the natural response of someone once burned by fire, who starts at any spark or flame.

But like anything else about Duszranjo, the legends were more powerful than the dull shadings of truth. “I was born in Veraene,” she said finally. “Nothing about magic bothers me.”

Hax’s only reaction to that was a shrug. He then went on to explain the procedures for contacting Lord Kosenmark in emergencies—not mentioning what those emergencies might be—and how his schedule usually worked. Eventually the explanations came to an end, and Maester Hax took her across the foyer to her new study.

The room was smaller than Hax’s but comfortable-looking and furnished with a writing table and several chairs. Shelves lined the wall behind the desk. Most were empty, but the lower ones held boxes of writing supplies. Maps and charts hung from another wall; a long narrow table stood underneath. Like the one she had seen in Kosenmark’s office, the maps contained densely written notations in their margins and cryptic marks next to cities and ports. The third wall had a fireplace flanked by more shelves. Lamps hung from the ceiling above both the desk and the table. Someone had already lit the fire.

“You might make a list of your needs,” Hax said. “Tables. More comfortable chairs. Mistress Denk can help with ordering those. Kathe will come by to show you your new quarters. Ah, my lord. I thought we were to meet later.”

Ilse started. Lord Kosenmark had appeared, as silent as a prowling cat, in the doorway. “We were,” he said. “Jez arrived.”

That enigmatic reply meant something to Hax, evidently, because his lips parted in obvious surprise. “So soon. I had not expected—” Then he seemed to remember Ilse’s presence because he glanced at her with an troubled expression. “Mistress Ilse, I must leave you to your own supervision. Write out that list of supplies and wait for me to return.”

He hurried after Kosenmark, who was already mounting the stairs.

Ilse let her breath trickle out. Very strange. Very, very strange. Maybe they would tell her more later. For now, she had her first assignment.

She surveyed the room again. A short examination of the lower shelves yielded a complete set of writing materials, including pens, penknives, ink pots, and reams of inexpensive paper suited for note-taking. A small box held more expensive paper and parchment. She selected what she needed and sat at her new desk.

The chair proved sturdy and comfortable. The desk had several scratches, and its sides were badly dented, but the writing surface itself was smooth enough. All the furniture looked worn and used, and she had the impression that everything had been assembled in haste. It gave the room a temporary feel.

Never mind. It was better than pots and pans.

She sharpened her pen, dipped its point into the ink pot, and tapped away the excess. The blank sheet of paper tempted her with possibilities. It could hold a list. A poem. A letter …

Dearest Klara. I am so sorry that I could not write to you before. You see, I ran away—

Ilse scratched out the letters. Wrong. Everything wrong. It was too soon to write about what happened. Too soon to think about it. She shredded the paper and burned the pieces in her fireplace. Then she returned to her desk and took out a fresh sheet of paper. Make a list, he had said. She could do that much.

She had filled one side of paper when Kathe appeared at her door. “You look more at home,” she said with a smile.

Ilse carefully blotted the last few lines. “Perhaps. I’ve had more training with a pen than a paring knife.”

“So I told my mother when Lord Kosenmark informed us of recent events.”

“Oh dear. I forgot all about your mother. What did she say?”

Kathe’s eyes brightened. “Those are words I should not repeat in gentle company. Let us just say that Mistress Denk and my mother were in rare temper last night—both of them grumbling how Lord Kosenmark must think he was still in court, where the king has more servants than the stars. They were busy past midnight, setting up new rooms for you. Come, would you like to see your new quarters?”

Ilse’s new quarters were in the west wing, on the opposite side of the house from her old dormitory. Like Kathe, she had a small sitting room, with stools and a fireplace and a table for eating or writing. The bedroom was larger than the sitting room, with a clothespress and an oversized bed with quilted covers. One wall had a hanging that depicted a woman’s silhouette, her hair falling into a cascade to her feet. Lir Triumphant said the lettering. A small square window opened onto the courtyard and garden below.

She realized belatedly that Kathe had stopped talking.

“You have that faraway look,” Kathe said. She fussed with the sitting room’s table, wiping away an invisible smudge with her apron. “No more chopping or mincing or washing up together. No more chatting. I shall miss that.”

“No more scraping out barrels,” Ilse replied. “No more polishing radishes.”

Kathe smiled, a bit pensively. “You nearly did polish them, I heard.”

“No, even I knew better. Does Rosel play that trick on every new girl?”

“Just the pretty ones.” Kathe sent her a brief sidelong glance. “You did well with them, from what I saw.”

Ilse shrugged. “Yes and no. Lys …”

“Lys thought you would take her place” was Kathe’s tart reply.

“How? I knew nothing about kitchen work. I still don’t know anything, except scrubbing and scraping.”

“Ah, but you were an expert scrubber and scraper by the end. The scullions are in tears, knowing that you won’t be there to take the worst of the scut work.” The humor faded from her face. “Ilse, do not fret about Lys. You did the right thing with the other girls, and none of them were sulking about your good fortune this morning. As for Lys … give her some time and she’ll settle down.”

“What if she doesn’t?”

“Then my mother will have a word to say. Speaking of my mother, I must get back to the kitchen before she frightens off the new pastry cook. I’ll send up Janna or Steffi with coffee and meat pies for a midday nibble. You’ll need to eat well to keep up with Maester Hax and Lord Kosenmark.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind one ear and glanced around. “And we might not have time for mincing and washing, but we will have more time for private talks. It’s easier, now that you aren’t working for me and my mother. That is, if you like.”

Ilse smiled. “Yes, I would like that.”

Kathe pretended an interest in the carpet. “I’m glad.” Then she shook her head. “Listen to me, babbling nonsense when we both have work to do. Where would you like your tray delivered—here or in your office?”

“In my office,” Ilse said, thinking of her lists.

Kathe laughed. “Now you do sound like Maester Hax.”

Ilse returned to her new office and her list-making. Before she had finished, Hax sent a note with a new assignment. She spent the rest of the morning making an inventory of the supplies in her office and in Maester Hax’s. When she delivered the list to him, he gave her letters to copy and then critiqued the results. After a short noonday meal, they reviewed Lord Kosenmark’s schedule.

He rose early, Hax told her, and spent two hours with the weapons master, Maester Benedikt Ault. After breakfast, he generally spent an hour or more with Maester Hax discussing business. He ate his midday meal alone or with visitors. More visitors came by appointment in the late afternoon. Evenings he spent with more intimate friends, or abroad at some of Tiralien’s great houses, though at times those friends visited him in the common room.

“We keep a schedule, and he changes it,” Hax said. “His company is much sought after.”

Her first day ended close to midnight, and she fell into bed exhausted. In the days that followed, she worked longer hours. Earlier ones. Curious ones.

Lord Kosenmark had not created this position out of charity, she soon realized. Letters arrived daily from all parts of Veraene—fine parchment from dukes and counts, marked with elaborate seals, plainer ones from merchants in the interior, anonymous letters from trading posts along the Károvín border. There were even packages from Lord Dedrick, who liked to send gifts when other obligations, or his father, prevented him from visiting. Ilse sorted them all according to Maester Hax’s instructions.

“I take one immense pile,” she told Kathe, “and from that I make three not-as-huge ones. Then I carry them around for a while, stop, go fetch something for Lord Kosenmark or Maester Hax. Most of the time I wait for them to finish talking in private.”

Kathe’s cheeks dimpled. “So many somethings. No, don’t worry. I shan’t ask what these somethings are. I know you must be discreet. And I can see you like the work.”

Ilse laughed. “Oh yes. I do.”

They found they did spend more time together, and not just because their stations had changed. When Kathe visited merchants to order supplies or to arrange for special consignments, Ilse often accompanied her, and they walked to the open-air markets once a week. Those were not the only times Ilse left the pleasure house. She frequently rode in Lord Kosenmark’s carriage to the courier or posting establishments with packages or letters bound for distant provinces. Other times she delivered or picked up items from noble households in Tiralien itself, either riding or walking, but always escorted by one of Lord Kosenmark’s guards. When she asked why the runners did not make those deliveries, Maester Hax said it was to their benefit if Ilse learned her way about the city.

She came home from one such errand only to meet Lys coming down the side lane with a large basket over her arm. Ilse paused, conscious that she had not seen Lys since their confrontation a month ago. Lys stopped as well and stared. Her face was a blank, but Ilse sensed the anger behind that watchful gaze, which took in Ilse’s new clothing, the sheaf of letters she carried, and the guard and carriage behind her. It was as though she absorbed everything, giving nothing back, not even a reflection.

After a moment, Lys shrugged and continued on her way. Ilse let out an unhappy sigh, then hurried to Maester Hax’s office, where she knew the secretary waited for these letters. She did not understand why Lady Theysson could not deliver the letters herself—she visited the pleasure house frequently enough with Lord Iani—but Ilse knew that if she asked why, Lord Kosenmark would only deflect the question, or Maester Hax would give her a nonsense answer.

“Thank you,” Hax said, taking the sheaf. “Yes. Good. You might not realize it, Mistress Ilse, but Lady Theysson is an accomplished poet. And since these are her latest poems, I shall selfishly dismiss you for your long-delayed dinner. Have you sorted the day’s letters?”

“I gave those to Lord Kosenmark this morning.”

“Alas, more arrived in the intervening hours. I’ve locked them in your office, in your letter box. When you are done, bring them to me. Lord Kosenmark is not at home today.”

Ilse suppressed a faint sigh. Correspondence was indeed her primary task, and it never seemed to end. Tonight would be another meal eaten at her desk.

She stopped by the kitchen to fetch her own dinner tray, hoping to exchange a word with Kathe before she settled down to another session of work. To her surprise, she found Nadine perched on a stool, eating plums and trading rude stories with the spit boys. Nadine finished off a plum and tossed the pit into the fireplace, then looked around at Ilse’s entrance with a flashing smile. “My long-lost love! Come, have a plum with me.”

Ilse suppressed a laugh. She could see dozens of plum pits in the fireplace, and she wondered why none of the girls had tried to stop Nadine from making such a mess. Or perhaps that was no more possible than they could stop a crackle of lightning leaping from the sky. “You know that Mistress Raendl will beat you, courtesan or not,” she told her.

Nadine eyed her with an expression brimful of mischief. “So I had hoped. Or would you prefer to take her place?”

Impossible. Ilse shook her head and turned to Janna, who tried to smother her laughter without much success. “Do we have anything ready for a quick meal?” she asked.

“Stop her, Janna,” Nadine cried. “Don’t let her escape. We want a story.”

“No stories,” Ilse said. “Work. Letters.”

“Grim dreary work. Have you been eating prunes again?”

Ignoring Nadine’s chatter, Ilse gathered her own supper with Janna’s help. If she finished early tonight, perhaps she could spend an hour in the common room. It would not be so bad, not if she stayed in the bright sections, where the visitors played cards or complicated strategy games with boards and markers. Lord Kosenmark had mentioned he had received a new musical instrument, one that operated with strings and hammers set in a box. Eduard had volunteered that he knew how to play it.

She retained that hope until she saw how many letters filled her letter box. Mountains of them, she thought. There were also three letters needing a fair copy, with the notation from Maester Hax that these were urgent and should go into the post this evening with Lord Kosenmark’s signature.

Ilse ate her dinner in a hurry and started with the letter copying.

From Lord Raul Kosenmark of Valentain to Count Fredr Andersien. Tiralien. My Lord Count, It is with delight that I read your letter. I remember our conversation last year, when we discussed the increase in taxes and the parallel difficulties of conducting trade across the borders. I admit that while I have not followed the king’s policies in that matter, I do have friends with some influence and I can direct you to them …

Another one went to Baron Zeltenof, who apparently had asked for advice in governing his newly inherited barony. Lord Kosenmark’s letter demurred such knowledge, but Ilse noted that he went on to suggest a list of books, including the memoirs of another young nobleman from the empire days. Strange, she thought. Such advice did not seem urgent.

She picked up the last one, a letter for a king’s governor in the northern province of Ournes, which bordered on the kingdom of Immatra.

… my lord, I am honored you would send me your thoughts concerning the unrest along the border provinces. Though I am no longer a member of the court or council, I understand that your apprehension is not unusual, nor unreasonable. However, if I did still have influence, I would suggest that we ought not assume aggression without true evidence. As Mandel of Ysterien, wrote three hundred years ago, one generation’s prejudice too often becomes the next generation’s war.…

That letter made her pause. War?

She had heard rumors of war since long before she left Melnek. But Kosenmark talked about war as though he had heard more than rumors. Was it possible that the rumors were more than just rumors?

Unsettled, she finished off the outgoing letters, then turned to the stacks of incoming correspondence. Her duties had changed somewhat in the past week. Now she was to open and screen letters from certain addresses.

Absorbed by her thoughts, she cut open the first letter without reading the address:

Dear Raul, Our predictions were correct. The levies for ordinary soldiers have surpassed the increase in taxes, though we are now instructed to use a different accounting …

Ilse dropped the letter. This was not an invitation or social letter. Nor was it the typical correspondence between business partners—she knew that from her father’s household. She checked the address against her list, feeling faintly queasy. Lord Nicol Joannis, regional governor from Osterling Keep. His was one of the names under “confidential.” She had blundered—badly.

I’ll have to tell Maester Hax that I opened it by accident. He’ll understand.

But her hands were still shaking when she picked up the second letter and compared its name and address to her list. It was another letter for investments, but the address read Duenne’s University.

Not my business, she told herself. Lord Kosenmark might receive financial advice from a professor, for all she knew. She put the letter into the proper stack and reached for the next.

Her hand knocked against the edge of her desk. One of the stacks tilted dangerously. Ilse lunged to stop it—too late. The stack tumbled over and the letters spilled across the floor in a glorious cascade. Cursing loudly, Ilse dropped to her knees and hastily started gathering them up. She could just picture Lord Kosenmark’s expression if he walked into her office now. At least Maester Hax could not see through two sets of closed doors.

She deposited the letters on her desk then saw she had missed one—a dirty parchment envelope without any address that had skittered underneath her desk. As she retrieved it, the sheet unfolded, and her eyes took in three words, hastily scrawled across the sheet in large blocky print: Vnejšek. Jewels. Yes.

Ilse sank back onto her heels and stared at the letter. It read like a game of word links but with strange unaccountable connections. Why was someone writing such nonsense to Lord Kosenmark?

She reread the three mysterious words, and her skin prickled. Vnejšek was the Károvín word for Anderswar—the magic realm, what the poets called the knot where all magic converged. And jewels could only refer to Lir’s lost jewels. Yes. There her imagination failed. Obviously the sender was answering a question posed by Lord Kosenmark. But why? What did he have to do with Károví’s king and Lir’s jewels?

She placed the letter in the third pile and returned to her desk. The next letter came from a merchant’s guild in the north. The name appeared in the second category. Keep going, she told herself. Stop asking questions and you’ll finish sooner. But the questions refused to subside. Why would this merchant write to Lord Kosenmark? She cast her memory over the letters she had copied during the past month. Some were directed to private merchants, but many went to the king’s advisers in Tiralien, or governors through Veraene’s far-flung provinces. Each letter revealed little. It was the larger pattern that left her breathless.

Duenne. The King’s Council. Baerne’s death. Exile.

Impossible, she thought. And yet it explained so much.

He had fashioned his own court, here in Tiralien.