Allegiance (River of Souls 3)

To Damek Rudny.

I remember him now. I remember …

A dark night with only a new moon. A ship plunging through high seas. A wounded boy that she tended for weary hours in the hold. Though the details from that life were fragmented and blurred, she recalled one thing with certainty. That other boy had survived. She hoped Damek Rudny had as well.

Evening had fallen when Mann appeared at her door. “We sail with the morning tide. However, I’d like you on board tonight.”

“Why?” she said. “What has happened?”

“Such suspicion,” he replied. “Nothing has ‘happened,’ as you phrase it. My secretary procured a ship by chance this morning, from a captain who had arrived lately in port. I would think you would be overjoyed.”

He vanished before she could reply. The next moment, the old servant came with a complete set of new clothing. Plain dark trousers, sturdy leather boots, a tunic and sleeveless jacket embroidered with Mann’s coat of arms. So she was to play the part of a guard. That would do, yes, that would serve very well.

She dressed in her new clothes, bound her hair in a tight military braid, and transferred her weapons into new sheaths. The servant brought her down the same narrow staircase to a door opening onto a narrow lane, where one of the genuine guards waited, along with two horses. The skies were dark blue, and streamers of mist rippled over the cobblestones, which gleamed wet from a recent rainfall.

Down by the docks, a crew and ship waited. Ilse embarked and was shown to the cabin reserved for Mann’s guards. The ship itself was a swift-sailing craft, equipped with a luxurious private room for Mann, and generous space for his many servants and guards. Ilse spent a restless night and was up before dawn, in time to see Mann’s own elegant carriage arrive, followed by two more guards, and a wagon with Mann’s trunks and a crew of servants. It did not take Ilse long to note how the servants carried themselves as soldiers would.

“Did you send me ahead to guard the ship?” she asked, when he came on board.

“That is your task, is it not?” he said. In a softer voice, he added, “One of my servants reported an attempt at bribery. The questioner wished to know the extent of my friendship with Baron Eckard.”

“And?” she said.

“That is all I know.”

He would not answer more questions and set her to overseeing the disposition of his trunks in the hold. By the time she came above decks once more, the ship had left port and Melnek’s towers were nothing more than an irregular silhouette on the horizon.

What followed were nine days of sailing through wine-dark seas, etched with silver foam. No storms. No difficulties with tides or countertides. It was like running upon a river of ice, with steel blades that neither stuck nor faltered. Nine days spent in silent conversation with herself to contemplate how to report on what transpired in Károví.

* * *

THEY ARRIVED IN Tiralien’s outer sea lanes at midnight. A patrol ship met them as they approached the harbor. Ilse woke at once, but stayed in her cabin, listening.

One gruff voice called a challenge in the king’s name. The captain of Mann’s ship answered. Ilse could not follow the words themselves, but she recognized the pattern of official challenge and response. She lay with one hand on her sword hilt as footsteps rattled over the deck. Sooner than she expected, they retreated. Several long moments later, the captain opened the hatch to below.

“All clear. Inspection tomorrow when we dock.”

Much later that following morning, the ship glided through the harbor to the docks reserved for temporary visitors. Ilse was awake this time, properly dosed with strong coffee, and waiting dressed in Baron Mann’s livery as they approached the shore.

She had come this way once before, in Raul Kosenmark’s private ship. This … this was much different. She noted all the details that had escaped her that other time—the barges and packets crowding the waters, small craft like their own that served as courier vessels, the royal battle ships that claimed a quadrant of their own, the steps upon steps of warehouses rising upward to the city itself. And there, upon the northern shore, Lord Vieth’s palace, which stood not a mile above Raul Kosenmark’s pleasure house.

Home, my love. Home and with news.

She swallowed her impatience. It was easier, once they approached the docks. Royal soldiers swarmed the shore, all of them armed with swords and magic. She wanted to meet Raul freely, not plunge him into fresh difficulties.

And so she stood at attention with the other guards, as the captain for Mann’s ship presented his papers to the port officials. Mann himself stood off to one side, while his servants busied themselves packing a trunk with clothing and essentials for the baron’s

stay in the city. The officers questioned Mann—obliquely. He answered airily that he needed more wine for the voyage. He expected he would make several more stops before he reached his destination. Which was…?

Mann shrugged. Fortezzien was too restless, he opined. Pommersien too wet and subject to disease. Perhaps a brief stay in Klee would suffice. He disliked strict plans. Whatever else, wherever else he visited, he would need two, possibly three days in Tiralien to replenish his supplies. Surely they understood.

The port officials rolled their eyes. The royal soldiers turned away, clearly uninterested.

Ilse let her breath trickle out. The next obstacle overcome.

Hired horses and a carriage brought them to a nearby inn, where Mann obtained several rooms for himself, his guards, and his servants. In passing, he ordered Ilse and another guard to accompany him to his suite, where he wished to discuss their plans for this interval.

Once the outer door closed, the true guard took her position before it, hand on weapon. Mann and Ilse retired into his bedchamber. “My apologies for the appearance,” Mann said. “What comes next?”