chapter FIFTEEN
OVER THE PAST several months, Gerek Hessler spent his holidays wandering the streets of Tiralien, reacquainting himself with the districts from his student days. Today he browsed through the warren of secondhand booksellers in the Little University. Here one might find dozens of cheap novels, or second-rate poetry from the previous decade, but it was also possible to find a genuine treasure. Some of the vendors were iterant, much like the spice dealers Kathe mentioned, selling their wares from carts or baskets in the street.
He picked up a crumbling edition of Alberich Wieck’s essays from one such cart. The copy itself was not valuable—the binding had cracked and several pages were missing—but he had always liked Wieck’s observations on the accepted forms of scholarly interpretation. He handed over a silver denier, received his change, and moved on with the book in his satchel. The next stall carried only mathematics textbooks. Interesting, but not worth the price. He drifted past more shops and stalls into a square populated mostly by butchers and chandlers. One lone vendor, however, had set up a cart by the entrance. Without much confidence, Gerek looked over the man’s wares. Political treatises. Erotic engravings. An occasional tract speculating about spiritual matters.
He turned over a few leaflets without much interest, then paused.
A cookbook?
Gerek glanced back at the other shops, as if considering whether or not to move on. Pretending boredom, he sorted through the bin a second time. It was a cookbook. The title—engraved in thick woodcut letters—mentioned ornamental dishes from the court. He dug past the book to an assortment of heroic poetry volumes, then back to the cookbook itself.
Its condition was better than he would have expected. Water stains covered several pages, but the parchment showed no signs of worm or decay. If the date was correct, the volume dated from the later empire days. If not … well, it made an interesting curiosity.
“Ten silver denier,” the vendor said immediately. “Which is a true bargains for such a rare—”
“Ten copper,” Gerek countered.
The vendor wailed about his poverty, the wife and ten children he fed from his meager earnings, etc., etc. They dickered back and forth a few more times, until Gerek finally handed over two silver denier. The price was robbery, but he thought Kathe might like the book. He knew she studied all manner of cookery. Sometimes Lord Kosenmark liked to hold historical feasts for his noble friends.
He ordered the book wrapped in clean brown paper and added it to his satchel. And because he liked the man’s looks, he added a third silver denier to the sum.
My father was right, I am a fool, he thought, as he accepted the man’s thanks.
But the thought of Kathe’s pleasure overrode everything else. He spent most of the walk back to the pleasure house imagining her delight when he presented this gift.
Except he was not entirely certain of her delight. To be sure, Kathe smiled whenever she greeted him. But she smiled at everyone, including the rag and bones man. Well, she might like the book, even if it comes from me. He could write a note. Say he’d come across the book by chance, which was true.
It was late afternoon when he returned. Guards nodded as he passed through the front doors. Inside, he heard the maids at work in the common room. Gerek was fumbling at the door latch to his rooms when a runner came round the corner. “Maester Hessler. Lord Kosenmark requires your presence.”
“Right away or—?”
“Now, sir.”
Kosenmark never acted without reason. And Gerek had noted how Kosenmark had withdrawn into a deeper privacy over the past week. Could there be a crisis with the kingdom? Gerek thrust the book into the runner’s hands and asked him to deliver it to Mistress Kathe. He would write a note later, he told himself, as he jogged up the stairs to Kosenmark’s office.
Two guards stood outside the door, and another inside—Detlef Stadler, the house’s senior guardsman. But it was the pair farther inside the room that captured Gerek’s attention.
Kosenmark sat at his desk. A stranger stood in front of him—a young man with thick black hair tied in braids. Dressed in salt-stained clothes and carrying the strong scent of fish and tar, he appeared to be a common sailor. At Gerek’s entrance, the young man glanced toward him. His face was marked with bruises and what appeared to be a half-healed burn, which showed bright pink against his dark complexion.
Kosenmark gestured for Gerek to take a seat. “Tell us your report,” he told the young man, adding, “Names are not necessary just yet. You came with news about Osterling.”
The young man nodded. “I did. Three months ago, the royal fleet sighted Károvín ships sailing east. A week later, three of those ships foundered on Osterling’s reefs. In the skirmish that broke out, the garrison troops prevailed. They took a number of prisoners, including a young woman the Károvín had drugged with magic.”
“You have spies within the prison.”
A shrug. “That follows, yes. I learned this woman made several attempts to escape. None succeeded. The old prison uses particular spells to guard against particular kinds of magic. Unfortunately, those spells did nothing to prevent Lord Khandarr—”
“No names,” Kosenmark said.
The young man regarded Kosenmark with evident curiosity. “Very well,” he said slowly. “Then let us say a certain man questioned this woman about her identity, her allegiances, and so forth. The young woman did not cooperate. As is usual with a man of his character, he resorted to forceful magic. The woman defended herself with even stronger magic that struck the man insensible. He had not yet recovered when the woman escaped in the night, leaving the entire garrison, including the other prisoners, either dead or unconscious.”
He paused and drew a deep breath. “I cannot continue without using names, my lord.”
“You can and you will.”
The young man’s lips parted in a bitter smile. “Are you afraid of names, then?”
Kosenmark merely stared at him. Gerek knew that stare and he wasn’t surprised when the young man lowered his gaze. “No names,” he repeated. “Very well. She escaped, this nameless woman. Her path crossed that of two other nameless women in the city. As you can understand, that attracted my attention.”
“Yes, I do understand that,” Kosenmark murmured.
His comment seemed to provoke faint amusement. “Yes. Well, as you can also understand, I offered my assistance. My colleagues organized several distractions. We fabricated evidence that more prisoners had escaped from the garrison. A supposed murder took place in a certain pleasure house. In the confusion, I sailed here by a convenient boat. Your friend—I gather she is your friend—sends a message. She desires a ship for distant ports. She will send further word by the usual channels.”
If he had not known Kosenmark, Gerek would have missed the brief flicker of tension in the man’s mouth. There and gone, like a speck of snow in a fire. He is afraid, Gerek thought. Not of this stranger, but for Ilse Zhalina.
Kosenmark’s voice, however, betrayed nothing. “Did she mention which channels?”
“The usual, my lord. Just as I said.”
“I see. Thank you.” Kosenmark signaled to Stadler. “Please escort our guest to quarters until we can confirm the details.”
Stadler took hold of the man’s arm, but the man pulled away. “You will remember your promises?” he said to Kosenmark.
“You have my word.”
The answer seemed to satisfy, because the stranger gave a curt nod and followed Stadler from the room without any further argument. Once the door closed, Kosenmark rested his head on his hands. “I leave tomorrow,” he said. “Two days at the latest.”
“But my lord, I-I—”
Gerek swallowed the spasm in his throat. Kosenmark kindly did not pay attention to him. “Our friend’s report is not entirely unexpected. I’ve heard rumors that the king’s mage is too ill to leave Fortezzien, and deprived of its usual ruler, the court in Duenne is in disarray. The two might be connected or not. I dislike making assumptions about anything connected to Markus Khandarr. However,” he said, “the matter of the King’s Mage and his health are not our immediate concern. The news this young man brings from Fortezzien is. There are a dozen usual channels a trusted friend might use to contact us. Over the last half year, several have proved unreliable. I suspect that Markus Khandarr has bought their loyalty. In spite of his recent indisposition.” In a softer voice, he added, “They were always more devoted to profit than any particular cause. I cannot blame them, considering past events.”
Meaning Dedrick’s death, along with Lothar Faulk and other trusted associates.
“If anyone inquires after me,” Kosenmark went on, “tell them I am grieving for an old friend’s unexpected death. That should please Markus, once he revives enough to inquire. And I know he will. Have Mistress Denk keep the house open to our oldest clients, but no one else and absolutely no festivities. Meanwhile, I want you to find a ship built for deep sailing. Buy it or lease it, I do not care. Hire a crew. Found it with provisions for a six-month cruise. But do not allow anyone to make a connection between that ship and my name. Use that list of special agents I gave you. I believe I can trust them still…”
It was like those first days, when Kosenmark spoke on without pause about all manner of arcane subjects, while Gerek mentally scurried to keep up. If Gerek had not watched Kosenmark over the past few days—had not noted the sudden deeper reserve, the broken-off invitations, the hours spent alone in his rooms—he would have said that Kosenmark knew about Zhalina’s message even before the stranger brought it.
He did not know. He thought her dead. Murdered.
And this flow of words was a burst of relief that he could at last stop the endless wait and act.
So Gerek listened and burned these instructions upon his memory. Not once did he ask, Where are you going with this ship? Because he knew without asking that even Raul Kosenmark could not know the answer.
* * *
THE JOURNEY TO the Gallenz River lasted over twenty days, far longer than Ilse and Galena had first predicted. They had agreed to act as though Markus Khandarr would send patrols after them, and so they kept well away from the coast and any tracks or trails inland. Instead they struggled through thick pine forests among the hills, and slogged through grassy bogs in the dells, sweating in the close heat.
This morning, they marched in single file through a grove of aspen. Rain had fallen in sheets over the past few days. Their clothes were drenched, their makeshift packs soaked through and heavy. Now the sun shone hot and unforgiving through the trees; steam rose from the damp forest mast. Ilse lifted her face to catch a few drops falling from the leaf canopy and caught a glimpse of Valara’s amused expression.
The expression quickly vanished. Once more hers was the bland, blank courtier’s face of the past weeks. Ilse wiped the raindrops from her face, tasted their clean woody flavor, and continued marching. Ahead, Galena had not even paused. She strode through the wet, a rough-cut staff in one hand to switch away the underbrush.
Three weeks together and we are still strangers.
Oh she was glad for Galena’s presence. It was because of Galena they had enough to eat. Galena knew about building shelters, coaxing fire from damp wood, and how best to disguise their tracks without using magic. She didn’t even complain when Ilse explained that avoiding magic meant a longer delay before Valara could remove the mark from Galena’s cheek.
Even so, Ilse did not miss the many signs of her distress. Galena in Osterling would chatter and laugh, even if the chatter was too quick, and the laughter sometimes brittle. The Galena of the wilderness was a quiet young woman, and when she spoke, it was only about necessities. Galena in the wilderness frequently glanced southward, her lips pressed together.
I wish Lord Joannis had listened to me, Ilse thought. If he had, Galena would be in Osterling still, a very junior soldier in Veraene’s army. She would have a black mark against her name in her records, but with the promise of a better future.
And yet, if Nicol Joannis had listened, Galena would not have encountered a runaway prisoner in the night. And Khandarr would have recaptured Valara Baussay within a mile of Osterling, if not sooner. Ilse ran her hand over her face. If she were master of time and the world, would she undo the past three weeks? Would she set Galena back in her former life?
She knew the answer and did not like it.
Valara was another matter. Ever since her attempted escape, she had marched in steady silence. She obeyed Ilse’s orders, but she never volunteered to do more, nor had she attempted any conversation with either of her companions. She was not sullen or troublesome. She was, Ilse thought, resigned.
Galena’s pace slowed. She pointed with her staff toward a break in the trees. Ilse came up beside her and shaded her eyes. She could just make out a swath of blue sky and a darker horizon, low in the distance.
They had reached the Gallenz Valley at last.
Another hour brought them to the edge of the valley where they paused. To the north and west, the hills rolled up to the sky, and Ilse noted golden bands alternating with russet and green. Farmland, she remembered from her previous trek through the wilderness, years before. What interested her the most were several towns along the river. She thought she recognized the particular configuration of river bends and settlements, but she couldn’t be certain. And for this next step, they could not afford any doubt.
“Where next?” Valara asked.
“We stop for today,” Ilse said. “I want to review our map.”
Galena found them a campsite in a thicket of birch and thorn bushes, near a small stream swollen from the spring rains. Dinner consisted of an insufficient amount of dried rabbit seasoned with wild currants and handfuls of clover. Afterward, they boiled pot after pot of water and stripped to scrub themselves clean.
Ilse brewed a cup of tea and settled down with her maps. Rain had soaked through the thick parchment, and she had to unfold the sheets carefully to avoid shredding them, but the mapmaker had evidently used ink imbued with magic, because the letters and lines were as crisp as when Ilse purchased the maps three months before. She traced the outline of the Gallenz River with one newly scrubbed finger, then peered down into the valley to match the drawing to their surroundings.
The river narrowed between two high banks. Two distinctive bends, with settlements on either side. Those would be Aschlau and Gutell. She knew from conversations with Raul that Aschlau was an overgrown village, founded by a miller and an ironsmith, which lay at the intersection of several large farms. The ironsmith sometimes passed along information to Raul. Gutell was a sister settlement across the river.
Both were too small for their purposes. Villagers noticed and remembered strangers. She scanned the map for other, larger towns or cities, where three wanderers might pass unnoticed. Ah, there—a small city named Emmetz. Measuring with her thumb, she calculated that twenty miles separated Emmetz from Aschlau, sixty miles from Tiralien. Far enough that Khandarr would not keep a watch on them.
“Three more days,” she murmured. “Four at the most, and we shall come to our first test.”
* * *
THEY ROSE AT dawn and shared out the cold remains from supper for breakfast. Galena covered their fire pit and latrine. Valara and Ilse refilled their water skin from the stream, before they set off for the valley below.
At noon, they paused to rest and eat wild onions dug from the ground. Then it was onward through a meadow of new grass and wildflowers, to an almost invisible footpath that turned into a muddy trail rutted with wheel tracks. They filched vegetables from the fields outside Aschlau and ate them raw as they circled around the village for the highway beyond.
And now we are among people again, Ilse thought.
Her stomach tightened from nerves. It was like her first encounter with the river and its highway, after she had escaped from the caravan, but then she had lived for weeks alone, starting at every sound because she feared Alarik Brandt. This time it was Markus Khandarr. Strange how she could not measure the distance of terror between these two.
It was late afternoon of the fourth day, the sun slanting toward the horizon, as they approached the outer buildings of what Ilse decided had to be Emmetz. They passed a blacksmith, then several sizable animal pens, crowded with goats, sheep, and ponies. Beyond these stood a wall of brick houses and a paved street. Passing between them, Ilse saw that the banks of the river were much higher here, and most of the town perched on the slopes leading down to the water.
They asked direction from an old woman carrying a basket on her head. The woman’s eyes narrowed at their clothes and knapsacks, but she answered politely that, yes, they had reached the town of Emmetz and they might find an inn or tavern if they followed the main street. Soon enough they found a cheap-looking inn where they bought bowls of porridge. For a few denier more, the innkeeper filled a tub with hot water so they could bathe. He even offered them a scrap of soap for a small price. They scrubbed themselves as well as they could and beat the dirt from their clothes, but it was obvious they had spent weeks traveling through the wilderness, and Ilse felt as if a dozen eyes watched them as they made their way through the main square.
The late-afternoon sky was darkening, and the air was thick with golden light. Many of the shops had closed, but Ilse found a baker still open. She asked for directions to the street where Raul’s chief agent lived. The baker’s mouth settled into a disapproving line. Not a pleasant neighborhood, Ilse guessed. But the woman gave her directions and even offered her a drink of water after Ilse bought a half loaf of bread.
“Where next?” Galena asked when Ilse came outside.
“Minnow Lane. Once we deal with my friend’s friends, we can find a room and bed for tonight.”
Galena shrugged wearily, as if she hardly cared any longer about inns or friends. Valara shook her head but said nothing. She limped from blisters, but she offered no complaints.
Ilse led them back to the main avenue. From there, they hurried along the edge of the riverbank to an open square. A smaller lane at the bottom of the square, mentioned particularly by the baker, looped down the slopes toward the river. Now Ilse understood the woman’s distaste. An air of neglect overhung the neighborhood. Damp stained the plaster, the air smelled of urine, and paving stones changed to ankle-deep mud and filth.
Her companions followed her silently to the house Lothar Faulk had once described to her. Ilse motioned for them to stand to one side. She knocked.
Nothing. She knocked again and set her ear against the door.
“You won’t find ’em home,” said a rusty voice.
Ilse turned to see an old woman peering down from an open window in another house. “Not at home,” the woman repeated. Then she laughed, a high creaking laugh. “Sold up three months ago. Said that business turned bad here, and he’d try his luck elsewhere.”
“Do you know where?” Ilse said.
“No. But for a man with such terrible business, he whistled and sang a great deal. Are you wanting a room for tonight, lady?”
It was tempting. She might question the woman about Raul’s late agent. But it was equally likely the woman had been set to watch any visitors. She gave a friendly smile and shook her head. “Thank you, but no.”
The old woman muttered something about dirty beggars and slammed the shutters closed. Ilse skirted around the corner, to where Galena and Valara waited out of sight.
“Your friend’s friends were not so lucky for us,” Valara said.
“He has other friends. But I think we should try another town. We can find a bed for tonight, then head for Gutell tomorrow.” They would buy new clothes and good packs before they left Emmetz. They didn’t want to attract more attention.
They retraced their path up the hillside. In the brief interval since they arrived, the sun had disappeared behind the hills. Twilight flooded the streets, making them appear all alike. Ilse thought she remembered the way back. There had been a couple quick turns, then a pair of stairs leading up to the more public avenues.
A wrong turn brought them into a maze of passages, overhung with looming blank walls. Not their first wrong turn, Ilse thought as she surveyed their surroundings.
“We should have followed that other street to the left,” she said.
Galena sniffed. “We’re close to the river. I can smell it.”
“Do we go back?” Valara said.
“Yes, and quickly,” Ilse replied. “We don’t want to spend the night in the streets.”
Especially these streets. She disliked their emptiness, and her hand found her sword hilt.
Her suspicions were confirmed when she turned around to see a shadow blocking their path. It was a boy, all bones and ragged hair. Scars stood out pale against his dusky complexion, and he had the scattering of a beard. He held a knife in one hand, its blade pointed upward. His gaze flicked over Valara, then settled on Ilse. “I saw your money,” he said. “Drop your purse on the ground, and you won’t mind what comes next.”
Ilse exchanged a glance with Galena.
“Thieves,” she murmured, drawing her sword.
Galena already had hers in hand. “Hungry ones.”
What happened next came so quickly, Ilse could not separate cause from result.
Half a dozen figures swarmed from the building on their left. Six or seven more blocked the street behind them. Most of them were older boys, but several were hardly more than children, and there was one girl with a swollen belly. All of them were skinny, their eyes like dark pits in their faces. All of them carried sticks and knives.
Galena slashed at the gang leader’s face. The boy flung his arm up and ducked away in time. The others charged. Ilse parried with her sword and backed up against the closest wall. All her old drill patterns came to her without thinking. Block. Parry. Block again and thrust. Twice she took hard blows that made her gasp and lose the pattern, but these were not trained fighters.
Merely desperate ones. Their numbers could make up for skill. One blow to her head, one slash at her eyes, and she would die.
She glanced around, trying to find her companions. Valara had called up a wall of fiery magic. A double signature hung in the air—the dark of a fox, the cold bright of starlight. Good. Ilse whispered the summons, but she needed all her concentration for the fight, and the current wavered.
Off to one side, Galena’s blade flashed through the twilight. The youngest of the children scattered. One boy fell in a heap, stunned, another boy dropped, clutching his stomach. “Run!” Galena shouted.
With a flurry of blows, Ilse drove through her attackers. Together she and the others pelted toward the next street. If they could gain a few moments alone, she and Valara might combine their magic. They skidded around another corner. Valara stumbled. Ilse dragged her to her feet, but the gang was already upon them.
Galena gave a shout for help. Several shutters overhead were flung open. They immediately shut with a bang. Ilse swung around, looking for her companions. A hand grabbed her by the shoulder and flung her backward. The gang leader, blood streaming from his face, swung his knife high to strike.
Five strangers burst onto the scene. Four plunged into the mass of boys, sending them scattering with blows and sword thrusts. One—a powerfully built man—leapt past his companions to seize the gang leader’s arm. His knife arced through the air. The boy crumpled into a bloody heap. But the man did not release his hold until he’d bent over the boy and touched his throat. Then he lifted his gaze to Ilse’s.
It was Raul Kosenmark.