Passion Play (River of Souls 1)

Come to my office. A matter of some importance has come up within the last day, and I need your advice.

Khandarr. So Kosenmark would meet with her today. She was afraid he would put her off. She read the note again, taking in its impersonal wording, the fact that this message carried no signature, and that he had not sealed it with magic or wax, as was his habit. Uneasy, her hand went to her arm, where the healing scar itched.

When she arrived at the landing, Kosenmark opened the door at once and ushered her inside. There had been no runner outside the door, which told her that he wanted no chance listener, even though the door was thick and spelled with magic.

“Did a letter come?” she asked.

“Yes. But not the kind you think.”

He was studying her intently. Only now did Ilse notice that he wore a plain brown shirt and trousers, as though he had come directly from drill. He even wore a knife at his belt and one in his left boot. A letter, but nothing to do with the king’s business. What then?

“I made a discovery,” he said bluntly. “One that concerns you.”

Her pulse jumped. “What kind of discovery?”

“About your recent past. I nearly dealt with the matter alone, but since it does concern you, I reconsidered. Are you strong enough for a short expedition across town?”

Her father had returned. Or Klara had arrived in town.

Kosenmark tilted his head. “Your father is not here. Nor anyone from Melnek.”

“Are you reading my mind, my lord?” she said in a shaky voice.

“Just watching the pictures on your face. No, the matter does not concern your father, though that might be easier. Perhaps you should stay here …”

“I want to come,” she said quickly. “Please.”

He nodded slowly. “Very well. But you look too conspicuous in those clothes. Change into your drill uniform, or something like it, and meet me by the stables.”

When she arrived at their meeting place, she found Kosenmark and several guards standing by a covered wagon. Stable boys were guiding horses between the wagon’s shafts, while Kosenmark’s chief groom supervised the saddling of more horses. All the guards were heavily armed, some with crossbows, some with knives and swords. Even the driver carried a spiked club, which he set into a socket by the dashboard.

“Get in back,” Kosenmark told Ilse. “We have a distance to cover.”

He helped her into the wagon, which had low benches along each side. One of the guards climbed up beside the driver, and she could hear the others mounting their horses. In the shadowy light inside the wagon, Kosenmark’s face looked grim and drawn, as though he had not fully recovered from his injuries. She wanted to ask more details about this expedition, but when she opened her mouth to speak, he immediately shook his head. “You will understand soon enough.”

Out the stables. Along the packed dirt lanes behind the pleasure house. Gates squeaked on their hinges, but no one challenged them as they left the grounds. Soon Ilse lost track of where they might be. The ride took them over smooth pavements, onto uneven stones, over more dirt that squelched beneath the wheels, and then onto a wooden roadway that creaked with their passage. She smelled saltwater and heard the thin cries of gulls overhead. A gulping sound reminded her of waves against pilings. Were they by the wharves?

At last the driver reined the horses to a stop. The guard came round and opened the flap. “All clear, my lord.”

Kosenmark dismounted and helped Ilse down from the wagon. They had come to one of the many warehouse districts by Tiralien’s northern docks. The closest slips were empty, but farther on, Ilse saw crowds of sailors and dockhands swarming from ship to shore. No one looked in their direction. She glanced at Kosenmark, who was inspecting their immediate surroundings. His left hand rested casually on his hip, near the knife.

“Come with me,” he said.

With their mounted guards as escorts, Raul and Ilse followed the docks until they reached a narrow lane heading north. When they came to an old warehouse, Raul knocked softly. The door opened to reveal more guards, who stood aside to let them enter. Raul went inside at once. Ilse hesitated a moment, thinking she did not like where he was leading her. Inside, she could just see Raul’s figure. He had halted, his back toward her. So. He would not persuade or refuse. She followed.

They threaded their way through a maze of rooms to a staircase, which brought them down to an underground storage room, lit by torches. Two more guards, armed with swords and dressed in leather armor, came to attention. Behind them, Ilse saw a low wooden door, with bars across it. The smell of salt and mud was strong here, as well as other smells she could not identify.

Raul gestured to the guards, who unbarred and opened the door. The chamber beyond was pitch-dark. Something inside grunted and Ilse heard a scuffling. Raul took one of the torches and passed within. Ilse took a moment to collect herself before she came after.

The room was dank and close, its floor a composite of mud and rotting planks. Above the ever-present salt tang, Ilse smelled sweat and urine and dung. The grunting had stopped, but something or someone was breathing loudly.

Kosenmark held up his torch. By its light, Ilse saw that a naked man lay on the ground. Ropes bound his hands behind his back. Chains shackled him to the wall, and a knotted rag pulled his mouth into an unnatural grin. When Raul thrust the torch at the man’s face, the man recoiled. Ilse recognized him at once.

Alarik Brandt.

She pressed a hand to her mouth. A glance toward Kosenmark did nothing to reassure her. He was staring at Brandt, his face strange and masklike in the torchlight. “How?” she whispered. “When?”

“He was delivered into my hands last night. Why and by whom you need not know.”