chapter TWO
AT ONCE WAS a relative term in Lord Kosenmark’s household. It could mean that same moment, when a courier arrived with urgent news from his father, or from Duenne’s Court. For other matters, one could interpret the phrase to mean soon enough.
Raul chose to use the second meaning today. Summoning a runner, he delivered Gerek Hessler into Mistress Denk’s hands for a few hours. Let the man grow accustomed to the house and its inhabitants. Later that afternoon, he could initiate Hessler into his new duties.
And decide exactly what those duties would encompass.
The runner took Raul’s new secretary away. Once the door closed, Raul raked his fingers through his hair. He could sense the stiffness melting away from his face. How arrogant had he appeared to that poor man? Very, he suspected. He could tell by Hessler’s increased stammering.
I was not fair or kind to him. She would have scolded me, and with good cause.
She, meaning Ilse Zhalina. He laughed silently, thinking of just how Ilse would lecture him. Felt a catch in his chest, just under his ribs, where he thought his heart must lodge. Ilse, Ilse, Ilse. Ever present, like a thorn creeping through his flesh.
My beloved. I should not have agreed to your scheme.
Five months and three days since she left. He felt as though he were a grain of sand within his hourglass, and could feel the moments rasping over his skin. He had a sudden vivid memory of standing in deep warm water, the sand ebbing beneath his feet as the tide ran out. It was not from this life. No, this was a waking dream from some previous life, a previous love between him and her.
… her hand brushing his cheek. The scent of her favorite perfume, of smoke and sandalwood. Her dark eyes pinning him with a gaze that left him breathless. It had been the same throughout the centuries …
Raul pressed his fingers against his eyelids, weary to his bones from unwanted memories. That last unpleasant interview with Markus Khandarr. His exile from court. The news of Dedrick’s death. The moment when Ilse first proposed a different kind of exile for herself. He would be free of Khandarr’s threats, she had declared. Free to revive his shadow court, to seek an alliance with like-minded nobles in Veraene and other kingdoms. Whatever he chose.
He had thought himself brave, but Ilse’s courage left him breathless with astonishment. It was very close to treason, what he and she planned. But they had seen no other way to stop Armand of Angersee’s mad plans for war.
A sharp rap at the door interrupted him—the special pattern used by his runners. Raul shuddered at the break from memory to the present. He ran a hand over his face, took another moment to breathe in a semblance of calm.
“Enter,” he said.
It was his senior runner with a large flat packet, wrapped in brown paper, which he laid upon Raul’s desk.
“Which messenger?” Raul asked.
“The man Haas in Vlôch District.”
Haas was a bookseller—one of the few agents from Raul’s old network he still trusted. A few months ago, Raul had arranged for Haas to collect all his letters from sources outside Tiralien. Haas delivered them once a week to Lord Kosenmark’s pleasure house, along with selected antique volumes for his review. The latest delivery would be waiting below. What would it be this time? Popular novels from the late empire? Historical tracts? Raul ought to have the new secretary inspect the volumes and give his opinion of their value. It would be a good test of the man’s judgment.
“Does he expect a reply?” Raul asked.
“No, my lord.”
“Ah. Then that will be all.”
He waited until his runner withdrew, then took a knife from his desk and cut away the outer covering. Inside were three envelopes, all of them addressed in very different scripts. One was a square of ordinary paper, folded over several times and sealed with yellow wax. Very plain. No magic. The only writing was Haas’s own name, and a few curious marks along one edge. Without unfolding the letter, Raul knew at once that it came from Danusa Benik, his best agent in Károví’s closed and often dangerous court.
She will have important news. She never dares to write otherwise.
Not yet, he told himself. He was too distracted to give her report proper attention.
Am I? Or am I making excuses?
Let us pretend I have good reason. There is time enough tomorrow to criticize my motives.
He scanned the other two envelopes, which were markedly similar except for the handwriting. Both had outer sheets of expensive parchment. But unlike Benik’s, these were sealed with wax and magic. One came from a minor noble in Veraene’s capital, an old friend of Raul’s who often sent him the latest gossip from Duenne’s Court. He set that aside for later.
The second was addressed in a foreign style, without any of the usual signals or marks he associated with his own spies. For a moment he stared at the paper. His name, written in brushstrokes with several flourishes, said that the writer was more accustomed to a different script, and different language.
Karasek. He has answered me.
He snatched up the envelope and felt the buzz of magic over its surface. During his years in Duenne, Raul had studied all manner of spells useful for a court obsessed with intrigue—spells to make and unmake locks, spells to seal a room against intruders, even spells to detect the presence of poison. He was no great mage, but he could sense the layers and protections Karasek had employed. It was an interesting combination. If he read the signs correctly, the spells did not prevent anyone from breaking the seal, but they would leave traces if someone had.
There were no traces of any such attempt. Raul ran a finger along the letter’s edge. Magic and wax cracked, and the sheet fell open.
Lord Kosenmark. I thank you for your invitation to your estates. Alas, my duties require me elsewhere.
The letter was signed Duke Miro Karasek and dated six weeks before.
Raul laid the sheet on his desk and stared at it while he tried to work out the implications of this short, blunt reply.
Miro Karasek belonged to one of the six most influential families in Károví. More important, he and Duke Feliks Markov served as King Leos’s senior generals. Markov held more influence at court, according to Benik’s reports, where his conservative views were popular. Karasek himself had come to his title only seven years ago, and from all reports, he concerned himself with the kingdom’s army, not its politics. His father, however, had advised the king to negotiate less restrictive treaties with Veraene, and to make ties with other kingdoms. Raul had chosen to approach Karasek, hoping he privately shared his father’s views.
Apparently he did not. But such an abrupt rejection.
He blew out a breath. This was a public letter, he reminded himself. Karasek had not set any spells to burn the paper, nor to change the letter’s contents. His magic would only signal if anyone else had broken the seal. So he had expected spies to intercept the message.
With that in mind, Raul reread it more slowly. He kept in mind that here was a man raised to intrigue and caution. There might be clues hidden beneath each word.
… I thank you for your invitation …
Mere politesse? He could not tell. The same held for the word Alas. Oh, but the next phrase held more possibilities.
… my duties require me elsewhere.
Duties. A curious word to choose. It could mean Karasek privately agreed with Raul but dared not say so publicly. And required elsewhere. Could he possibly refer to orders from the king? That one short sentence carried a weight of meaning.
He set Karasek’s letter aside and opened the letter from his agent, Benik. It was possible she had news that would illuminate the matter.
The letter was a single sheet, filled from margin to margin with densely written paragraphs. Ostensibly, it came from an old acquaintance now living on the border between Veraene and the kingdom of Auszterlant. In it, the acquaintance detailed his foray into cattle farming. Number of head, how many herds, where they grazed, etc. Near the end, the friend gave a painstaking account of each member of the family, and asked when Lord Kosenmark might pay them a visit.
The meaning behind those phrases was clear. Ship maneuvers along the coast had ended. Troops recalled from the western border to the Károvín capital, Rastov. Additional ships—the swiftest in the royal fleet—reassigned and docked at the nearest ocean port. Duke Miro Karasek temporarily appointed to a special command …
A coldness rolled over his skin as he pieced the clues together.
Ah, Leos. Now I understand.
Four hundred years ago, Leos Dzavek and his brother, two princes of Károví, had visited Duenne’s Court. In those days, Károví was a minor province within the grand Erythandran empire. Though historical accounts from that time were unclear—and indeed, rewritten by subsequent rulers—one point was clear. Leos Dzavek and his brother had stolen three magical jewels from the imperial vaults. Lir’s jewels, gifted by the goddess to the Erythandran emperors, or so the legends claimed.
Whatever their origin, Leos Dzavek fled home to Károví with all three. He had quarreled with his brother, however, so when Leos launched a revolt, the brother led the emperor’s armies to retake the province. The brother was killed in battle, Károví regained its independence, and several other provinces broke away in the turmoil.
The empire had collapsed into splinters and factions, leaving only the kingdom known as Veraene. Leos Dzavek, however, had lived. It was the jewels, said the rumors, and their extraordinary magic that taught this man how to live centuries beyond the ordinary life span.
Centuries, yes. It was a hundred years later when the nameless elder brother returned to a new life as Leos Dzavek’s trusted retainer. Again the records contradicted each other, but the salient points were clear. The retainer stole the jewels and hid them, then killed himself before Dzavek could extract the truth from him. The jewels remained lost, most likely hidden in the magical plane. Since then, Dzavek had searched for them throughout Veraene, Károví, and all the other known kingdoms.
And now you have found them, Raul thought. One at least.
But which one? And where?
* * *
“WOULD YOU LIKE to see the public rooms first?” the young man named Uwe asked Gerek.
No, he would not. What Gerek wanted most of all was to sit alone in the dark. With a wet rag over his aching eyes. Then he could think over his interview, and prepare himself for whatever came next.
Raul Kosenmark had not allowed him that luxury, however. Instead, Gerek had eaten his midday meal with Mistress Denk while they reviewed the current household accounts, the monthly schedule, and other necessary topics. Finally Denk had released him to a runner for a tour of the house, while servants fetched his luggage from the freight company. She would arrange to have his office and private rooms ready within a few hours.
The runner was polite enough, but Gerek could not give him proper attention. He followed the young man from the office wing, down one floor, and through a maze of corridors that ended at a wide balcony overlooking the pleasure house’s entrance hall. It was all very grand. Tall windows lit the wide-open space, illuminating the many fine paintings and tapestries. The style was deliberately antique, the young man explained. Lord Kosenmark had imported many of the decorations from his father’s estates in Valentain. The rest he had acquired through antiquarian dealers along the eastern coast.
Gerek suppressed a yawn. He had risen well before sunrise that morning, endured three hours riding in the freight wagon, then used up his remaining wits and vitality during the interview with Lord Kosenmark. However, he suspected that Kosenmark wanted his secretary familiar with the house, so he dutifully followed the young man down the winding stairs to the entrance hall and gazed around.
Before them stood an arched entryway with a short hallway that opened into a much larger room beyond. Gerek could make out numerous couches scattered about, and several intimate groupings of chairs and low tables. Three maids were at work, dusting and polishing. One knelt on a richly dyed carpet, scrubbing at spots with a cloth. There was a musky scent in the air, an odor that reminded him of his father’s quarters on those days when his mother spent the day locked in her private suite, weeping.
“That is the common room,” the runner said. “Would you like to see it next?”
The common room was where the courtesans displayed themselves to potential clients. Of course, they were not so crude as to call it that. No, they entertained their visitors with music, conversation, and amusing games. They offered wine and a feast of delicacies from Lord Kosenmark’s famous cook. But the purpose was clear. Did the runner expect him to show an interest in the courtesans, then? Most men would. He had no idea if he were like most young men.
“I-I—” His tongue tangled on several different answers.
He forced out a breath to quell the tremors. Was about to try again, when the sight of a familiar figure undid his efforts.
“Let me show him the house,” Kathe said. “If Maester Hessler doesn’t mind, that is.”
Gerek swallowed. “N-n-n-not-not—”
His words came out stuttering and stumbling. Kathe laid a hand on his arm, as if to reassure him that she understood, and turned to the runner. “That is settled, then. Uwe, please go to the kitchens. My mother has an errand for you.”
Apparently she had some authority, because the runner immediately vanished through a low doorway Gerek had not noticed before.
Kathe laughed softly and shook her head. Her gaze swept up to meet his, and to his surprise, her cheeks were edged with an embarrassed flush. “I am sorry, Maester Hessler,” she said. “I have ordered you and Uwe about most unfairly. Especially Uwe. But you see, I would like to keep away from the kitchens just now. My mother…” She drew a deep breath. “Let us say she finds the latest pastry cook unsatisfactory. It’s better if I find useful work elsewhere until she’s calmer.”
“So I-I am useful work?” Gerek said.
Kathe visibly winced. “That was unkind of me. I am sorry again.”
“You don’t need to be sorry,” he said at once. “I-I should— I am sorry. I was rude.”
She had removed her hand from his arm. Now she touched him again, but briefly this time, as though she were not certain of his reaction. As though it mattered.
“Come,” she said with a semblance of her former cheerfulness. “Let me show you the library first. You will like it, I know. Or would you rather I found you a room where you could sleep a few hours? If I know Lord Kosenmark, he will set you to work at once.”
“Or perhaps you should leave him to us,” said another voice.
A woman leaned against the pillars of the entryway. She wore a diaphanous robe that left her lean body in shadows, even in the bright sunlight pouring through the windows. She smiled at Gerek, but it was not a friendly smile.
“Nadine, you should not tease,” Kathe said.
“I merely follow your example,” Nadine replied.
Kathe ignored her pointed comment. “Why are you awake so early? Do you have an appointment?”
Nadine stretched out in one languorous movement. She was like a wild cat, Gerek thought. A panther from the mountains, strong and lovely and dangerous. Apparently his expression betrayed his thoughts, because Nadine paused in mid-stretch and drew her lips back from her teeth, which showed white and sharp against her brown skin.
“Nadine,” Kathe said. “I’ll tell you again. Do not tease.”
Nadine merely laughed. “You eat too many prunes, Kathe.”
To Gerek’s relief, she flowed back into the common room to join another pair of courtesans—one woman and one man—who were gathered around an expensive-looking musical instrument. As Nadine rejoined them, the man ran his fingers over a series of levers. A bright, rippling melody echoed through the common room.
He let his breath trickle out. His first encounter with a genuine courtesan. Not a very successful one.
“Come with me,” Kathe said, as if nothing had happened. “We should visit the gardens.”
* * *
HOURS LATER, GEREK Hessler sat alone in his new office, one floor below Lord Kosenmark’s spacious private suite. After he and Kathe returned from the gardens, Lord Kosenmark had summoned Gerek to his office. There, they had talked—rather, Kosenmark had talked, and at length, while Gerek did little more than attempt to retain the tumbling flow of names and titles and historical events from the pre-empire early days, to the destructive civil wars that fractured the empire, severing Veraene from Károví, Morennioù, Hanídos, and the northern kingdoms.
He rested his head in both hands. He had done it. He had inserted himself into Kosenmark’s household.
It was but the first step. In all that excess of talk, Kosenmark had given nothing away. He had not mentioned Armand of Angersee or Markus Khandarr, the king’s chief councillor and mage. Nor, of course, anything about his activities since Armand dismissed him from court. There had been one teasing detail—a brief mention of minor Károvín nobility—but then the subject had veered to trading agreements between the two kingdoms, and Gerek had not dared to turn the conversation back.
He wished—again—that Dedrick had confided more during his final visit to Gerek’s family. It had taken place directly before Dedrick went for the last time to Duenne and court. Gerek was certain his cousin had gone at Kosenmark’s request to spy on the king.
And what shall you do if you can prove it? his brother had asked.
I don’t know. But it’s not right, what happened to Dedrick. And no one else cares.
His brother had argued, but in the end he had agreed, however reluctantly, to help Gerek with his plans.
Gerek poured himself a cup of water and drank. Kosenmark had given him a small task: Make a list of the supplies you need. Give the list to Mistress Denk, and she will see to everything. Tomorrow we shall start in earnest.
He searched the desk first, to see what it contained. Not much. One drawer held miscellaneous social correspondence from a year before. The others were empty, or nearly so. He found a pen in need of mending, a bottle of ink (almost empty), and several sheets of cheap paper, yellowed along the edges. The list would be a terribly long one. What had happened to the supplies for the previous secretary?
Ilse Zhalina. Secretary, then lover. She left. This was her desk; Hax’s before that.
Curious, he rummaged through a few more drawers. Nothing. Then, wedged between the bottom drawer and the desk’s side, he discovered a half-finished letter. He smoothed out the paper and examined it. The letter was addressed to a Mistress Adela Andeliess in Osterling Keep. It was written in a distinctly feminine hand—however neat and contained—and inquired about a possible post at Mistress Andeliess’s pleasure house. It ended in mid-sentence.
Gerek Hessler carefully replaced the letter where he’d found it. He sat back and exhaled, pulse leaping in unaccountable distress. Tricks and traps of memory all over this house. How could he never mention her name when he continued to find traces of this woman wherever he looked? From Mistress Denk’s warnings, to Kosenmark’s oblique references, to the signs she herself had left everywhere.
Once more he wondered what was the true story behind her departure.