chapter EIGHT
ONLY A WEEK had gone by since Gerek Hessler came to Lord Kosenmark’s pleasure house. On the surface, his days passed easily enough. He dealt with an abundance of correspondence and invitations. At times, Lord Kosenmark ordered him to research obscure points in history, or to confirm a quotation by a particular poet for a letter. All very ordinary tasks, some more interesting than others.
And yet he felt a curious displacement from his surroundings. Not in his office, where he spent most of his hours. He had made the office into a home of sorts, filled with comfortable, useful things, much like his private quarters in his father’s household. Mistress Denk had assisted Gerek with choosing furniture from the pleasure house’s stores. Lord Kosenmark had offered several antique maps. And Gerek himself had arranged everything to his liking.
But whenever he ventured beyond the narrow confines of his duties, and into the common rooms or public parlors, he felt as though he were a lost soul, barely visible to the more substantial inhabitants of this enormous and mazelike house. Fortunately, Lord Kosenmark kept Gerek too busy to worry about such things.
Today, for example.
An open crate sat on the floor next to Gerek’s desk. Six more waited in the corner, still bound with leather straps, and sealed with locks bearing the insignia of House Valentain. The crates were filled with books, and had arrived the day before from Duke Kosenmark, a gift to increase his son’s already substantial library. Gerek’s task was to record each book by title, author, and probable date of publication, then compare the list against an existing catalog drawn up several years before by the old secretary, Berthold Hax. Any duplicates would return to the ducal estates.
Gerek took the next book and carefully unwrapped the layers of cloth protecting it. An Account of Morennioù, written by Hêr Commander Dimarus Maszny. It was the man’s personal memoirs of leading an expedition to annex the island province of Morennioù. Inside, Maszny himself had written an inscription to Duke Andreas Koszenmarc, in memory of their friendship. A truly valuable book, which dated from almost a hundred years before the civil wars.
Resisting the urge to leaf through the delicate pages, Gerek recorded the necessary information. Outside, the bell towers tolled the hour, followed by three quarter hour chimes. Almost noon. Hanne or Dana would come by soon with his dinner.
He laid his pen down and blew upon the paper. Eighteen volumes accomplished. Two hundred more remained. He stretched to ease the ache in his shoulders and arm. It was quiet at this hour. Most of the courtesans were still asleep. Elsewhere, the chambermaids were freshening the private suites and parlors, and making the common room ready for the clients. Lord Kosenmark himself had risen well before sunrise for weapons drill. He had spent the usual two hours with Gerek, going over the week’s schedule and this latest delivery from Valentain. Now he was out riding with Lord Vieth and several other nobles.
With another flick of his attention to the door, Gerek slid a small diary from inside his tunic. Here was where he recorded his observations about Kosenmark and the household. It was a habit left over from his university days, when his professors had recommended the students keep journals for lecture notes, findings in their research, anything to help sift through the detritus of history.
He thumbed through the book, scanning the notes he had accumulated so far.
… House located in an exclusive neighborhood, midway between the merchant district and the governor’s palace. Numerous servants, as you might expect for a man of his station. More guards than the usual complement, however, and nearly all chosen from his father’s private men. Then there are the courtesans. Sixteen. Men and women equally. Two followed him from Duenne. The rest he recruited after his arrival in Tiralien. None openly acknowledge his political connections though they are all aware of the listening devices built into the house …
… Lord Kosenmark rises early for morning weapons drill. Day divided between his own concerns (house, staff, etc.) and visits to other nobles in the city. Note: of the names D. mentioned as especial friends—Lord Benno Iani, Baron Rudolfus Eckard, Lady Emma Theysson (memo: Lady Iani by recent marriage)—none visit the house, not even for the general evening entertainment, nor does he accept invitations from them. What invitations he does accept are of the most unexceptional kind, completely unlike the stories D. told me …
That was not entirely accurate. He had found all the luxury and decadence Dedrick had described. There were the perpetual feasts and games and a pervading air of the sexual. He’d met the famous courtesans: Nadine and Eduard, Josef, Tatiana, and the astonishingly beautiful Adelaide, who had pleasured the old king, Baerne of Angersee, himself.
Adelaide’s name recalled the latest scrap of information—that Adelaide intended to leave the pleasure house for Mistress Luise Ehrenalt’s establishment. Ehrenalt was a high-ranking member of the silk weaver’s guild. She was also a former member of Kosenmark’s shadow court. Gerek wrote that down, too.
He paused, pen hovering over the page as he tried to fit all these disparate clues into a single coherent picture. He had come here to uncover the treasonous actions of a self-indulgent lord. Instead he had found an almost ordinary household. If one could call courtesans and their clients ordinary.
Which reminded him. He blotted his last comment, turned the page, and wrote:
… And there is the cook’s daughter, Kathe Raendl, whose position is higher in the household than I had first estimated. It appears she is her mother’s chief assistant, and more. The girl Hanne tells me Kathe had befriended Ilse Zhalina even before IZ worked in the kitchens. It was she Lord Kosenmark chose to attend the young woman through her illness, and she who trained her in the kitchen. Even after IZ turned secretary then lover, she retained KR as a trusted friend, until her own break with Lord K.…
“Maester Hessler?”
Gerek dropped his pen, spattering ink over his notebook and the desk. Cursing softly, he mopped up the spill with his sleeve. His notebook page was smeared, but the script was clear enough. He could copy it over later. He slid the book inside his jacket. “Yes?”
Kathe Raendl backed into the room with a heavily laden tray. Gerek drew a quick breath at the sight of her face. It was too much of a coincidence, his notes, her arrival moments later. He could almost believe she’d used Kosenmark’s spy holes, except it was so unlike her character.
“I knocked three times,” she said. “And it is after noon.”
“I-I-I—” He stopped. Forced out a breath. “I am sorry,” he said with deliberate slowness. “I was distracted. So much work.”
“Ah, distracted. How often have I heard that explanation? It’s as common as mold and dust. Perhaps I should talk to Lord Kosenmark about airing this office, if not the entire wing.”
Gerek shot a suspicious glance in her direction. She had never teased him before. Unlike Kosenmark, she never finished his sentences for him. She waited until he mastered his wretched tongue, forcing out syllable after painful syllable, then helped him work his way back to simple conversation.
Kathe coughed and nodded at his desk. “Do you wish to take your meal here? Or shall I find a parlor elsewhere in the wing?”
Hurriedly he cleared off a space. Kathe set down the tray and laid out several covered dishes, a carafe of fresh cold water, a second of strong coffee brewed just as he liked. From her demure expression, he might have believed her yet another kitchen girl, but he had seen her name throughout Mistress Denk’s accounts. She had lately taken over reporting the kitchen expenditures. She also shared the responsibility for designing the splendid feasts given in Lord Kosenmark’s pleasure house. Denk had commented that Kathe could command a position in any noble’s household as chief cook. He wondered why she lingered here, as a mere assistant.
His attention on these speculations, he reached for his water cup. His hand accidentally brushed Kathe’s. He felt the brief warmth of contact, heard her intake of breath.
Gerek jerked his hand back. “S-s-s-sssorr— Oh damn it!”
He thrust himself away from the desk with both hands and shut his eyes. He could not bear to see her shocked expression. Because she would be shocked. They always were. They never understood his shame.
Kathe remained silent, still. He could sense her presence, however, just on the other side of his desk. He wanted to order her away, but he could tell his tongue would not obey him, not for many long moments. Nor did he dare to open his eyes and meet her gaze. He could not tell what he might do if he saw pity on her face. He’d had enough of pity.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Kathe said softly.
So she had understood. He opened his mouth to speak, felt a betraying tremor in his throat, and shook his head. After another long silence, he heard her quietly exit the room.
He let his head sink onto his hands. It was always the same. My father and grandfather are right. I am a fool. Oh Dedrick. You needed a bolder, braver cousin than I.
From far away came the soft chimes of the quarter hour, echoed by the house clocks. He drew a long breath and glanced at his meal with distaste. The delicately spiced fish, the rice dotted with leeks and peppercorn, all cooked and presented with care, turned his stomach. He drank his cup of water slowly to ease the nausea. Tomorrow was his first full holiday. He wished it had come today. He badly wanted to escape this house for a few hours.
He stacked the dishes onto the tray and carried it to the sideboard for later. Back at his desk, he picked up the next book from the crate. Another set of memoirs, from a member of court in the late empire days. Gerek sighed. The task reminded him of the few, vague life dreams that visited his sleep. I have always been a clerk, writing down others’ deeds.
“Hessler.”
Lord Kosenmark stood in the open doorway. Had he knocked? Gerek couldn’t remember. He curbed the urge to touch the diary, hidden inside his jacket. “My lord?”
“There’s been a change in my schedule,” Kosenmark said.
He still wore his riding clothes from this morning—a sober costume of dark blue wool, edged in darker blue silk, and speckled with raindrops. Blue, the mourning color of Károví. Was that a subtle signal, or merely coincidence? Then Gerek took in more of Kosenmark’s appearance. The tense, straight line of his mouth. How the man’s eyes had turned opaque, as if the eternal golden sun behind them had set.
“Well?” Kosenmark said. “Why aren’t you writing this down?”
“My lord?”
“A visit to Lord Demeyer’s country estates,” Kosenmark said, with the tone of repeating himself. “Expect me to be absent three days. Make my excuses to anyone who requires it. That is one of your responsibilities, no? Never mind. I do not need an answer today.”
He swept from the room, leaving Gerek teetering between apology and outrage.
* * *
WITHIN THE HOUR, Lord Kosenmark had departed on horseback. A carriage with trunks and servants and outriders followed. It was all so unnecessary, Gerek thought, as he returned to his office and his untouched meal. A great deal of show for nothing at all. He nibbled at the rice, then forced down a few mouthfuls of fish and a sweet pale pudding. With food, his headache eased, and he was able to concentrate on the current situation.
Kosenmark had left. He would not return for three days—the number of trunks guaranteed that. So. Yes. It was time for the next stage of Gerek’s long-laid plans.
No one would notice anything he did. They all expected him to hide in his office or his private chambers. Gerek set the dinner tray outside his office for the kitchen maids. He locked his door with keys and magic provided by Kosenmark himself. (A sign that Kosenmark did not entirely trust his household. Gerek reminded himself to note this later in his book.)
Up the silent echoing staircase he padded, past the bright-lit windows overlooking the grounds, to the landing outside Kosenmark’s private rooms. With the lord absent, no runner waited in the alcove beside the door. Gerek had prepared an excuse just in case, but he breathed in relief that he didn’t need to explain himself.
The door to Kosenmark’s office was locked. Gerek had expected that. He withdrew a bloodstained handkerchief from his pocket, which he laid against the keyhole.
The idea had come to him six months ago, soon after he learned about Dedrick’s death. He’d been researching the early empire days, and the closer relationship between mages and rulers, when he came across the spell. It involved hiding the user’s identity, their magical signature, behind another. Used without embellishment, it created a blank in place of the signature. Tricky. And not necessarily foolproof. A trained mage could detect its use. But the only mage among Lord Kosenmark’s friends was Lord Iani, and his later investigations confirmed that Lord Iani had not visited the house for months.
There was a second variation of the spell. If you added the physical traces of a second magic worker, the spell would imprint that other person’s signature atop your own. The older accounts spoke of flesh or skin. Gerek had dismissed that as too difficult. But then Kosenmark had come to Gerek’s office with a fresh-bleeding cut from his morning weapons drill. Gerek had offered Kosenmark his own handkerchief, then accepted the cloth back with barely concealed excitement.
Ei rûf ane gôtter. Komen mir de strôm.
The air pulsed, turned thicker and more pungent—a clear sign that he had deflected a portion of magic’s current into the ordinary world. It was a sensation he had grown used to over the past few months. He was no expert magic-worker, of course. But he had a scholar’s stubbornness and the luxury of solitude, which had allowed him to study and to practice until he had achieved success with a handful of spells.
Ei rûf ane gôtter. Ei rûf ane Lir unde Toc.…
Now a strong fresh scent washed over him, like grass crushed underfoot, or the traces of pine carried by the mountain breeze. He breathed it in, sensed a new fluency in his poor lame tongue. There were a thousand descriptions of how magic tasted and smelled. None of them were right, all of them were true. Gerek continued to recite the spell, words of the long-dead Erythandran language, which rolled from his mouth with an ease he’d never experienced before.
Lâzen mir drînnen Lord Raul Anton Maximilian Kosenmark.
His skin rippled, as though he were a metal speck caught halfway between two powerful magnets. Then he felt an inward ping. The current vanished, and the latch gave an audible click of release.
Gerek had to stop himself from laughing out loud. The spell had worked, mangled tongue and all. Then the urgency of his position overtook him. He stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket and pushed the door open.
Eight days. Twice or three times each day, he had entered this room. Today, he saw everything with fresh eyes, and a mind undisturbed by the presence of others.
It was a place of beauty and quiet and light. Polished red tiles lined the floors. Shelves with books and fine rare statuary covered nearly every wall. Here and there were tables with carvings in ivory or gemstones, done in the modern style. Off in the corner stood the sand glass he’d noticed that first day, an expensive contraption built from pulleys and weights, fashioned from rare metals and pure blown glass of enormous size. Through the windows of the opposite wall he glimpsed the rooftop garden—as yet unexplored territory. The scent of sandalwood hung in the air, like a memory of the man who ruled here.
Gerek went immediately to the iron letter box next to Kosenmark’s desk. His key opened the top lid. Inside was a wide slot where Kosenmark had instructed him to insert any letters that arrived during his master’s absence. He laid the handkerchief over the hinges and lock.
Ei rûf ane gôtter. Ei rûf ane Lir unde Toc.
The magic current sighed into existence. Faster now, he recited the words for the spell and spoke Lord Kosenmark’s full name again. The current flickered with a short-lived tension. Disappeared almost before he could register its presence. A long moment passed before he could take that in. Less confident now, he tried the spell for his own letter box, but substituting Kosenmark’s name. Nothing, not even the faintest buzz of magic, as though the current itself recognized the futility of his attempt.
Gerek blew out a breath, disappointed.
Well, and if the first interpretation of an old document yields nothing, we try another theory, another approach.
Or another room.
Two more doors opened from Kosenmark’s office. One led onto the rooftop gardens. Gerek would explore that region later, if necessary. If he had time and opportunity. The second door was the key, he decided. It led into Kosenmark’s inner rooms—to his bedroom, and other secret chambers that Dedrick had mentioned to Gerek alone, and then only briefly, almost reluctantly.
He turned the chosen door handle. It gave way at once—unlocked. Not surprising, he told himself. The man employed dozens of guards to patrol the grounds. Still, his pulse beat faster as Gerek stepped cautiously over the threshold.
It was a dimly lit world of branching corridors that he faced. One lamp burned low in its bracket just inside the door, and farther off, a shaft of light penetrated from a window set in the ceiling, but for the most part, he had to pick his way through darkness. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he took in the details—a miniature reading room off to one side, a closet with rich costumes, another closet with clothing wrapped in herb-scented covers. He passed by these, then paused beside a long narrow corrider, fitted with grills in the floor and along its walls. That had to be the listening room, where Kosenmark could spy on his own courtesans and guests, if he wished. Dust covered the floor, untouched.
The bedroom itself offered more surprises. From Dedrick’s comments, Gerek had expected an unrestrained opulence—a room swathed in silks and pearls, to use the fanciful words of the more romantic poets. Perhaps he had banished the excessive luxury along with Dedrick, because though the room was furnished with items of good quality, it was hardly a sybaritic vision.
He started with the superficial and the obvious—the clothes-presses, the vast trunk in one corner, the closets, and underneath the bed itself. Off in one corner stood a small desk. Gerek lifted the lid to find the usual writing materials, a few half-finished letters about nothing. If those were coded, they were beyond him. Maybe the next time he visited, he could make copies.
He had a momentary burst of excitement when he discovered a series of recessed buttons behind the desk’s main compartment. He pressed one. The bottom of the desk’s interior slid back to reveal a small space. Inside, however, was nothing more than a single book.
Gerek picked up the book. A volume of poems, by Tanja Duhr. An antique, judging by the worn leather cover and old-fashioned lettering. Tucked between the pages was a thin strip of paper, with writing in Kosenmark’s hand.
To Ilse Zhalina. A gift in return for your gift of conscience and truth. Thank you.
Carefully he replaced the book and shut the desk. It took him several moments to recover his outward composure. His inward composure was another matter. Clearly the book was a gift from one lover to another. And she had returned it. Did that mean their break was genuine? If it was, why did he keep the book in a desk by his bed?
Questions and more questions. He’d come for answers.
A further, more careful search revealed no secret compartments in the bedposts, nor any loose planks in the floor. The few other spells he’d mastered revealed nothing.
After an hour, he worked his way back through the various chambers and rooms and closets, to the outer office once more. Though no fire burned on the fourth floor, his clothes were soaked through with sweat, and he itched from the dust coating his skin. He sank into the chair behind Kosenmark’s desk and surveyed the room.
Imagine yourself in the writer’s skin, one of his professors had said. Use their words to see and smell and taste the world they lived in. History is not an abstract. It is blood and passion. It is real.
Gerek tried to imagine being Lord Raul Kosenmark, a man born to wealth and privilege. Someone ambitious enough at fourteen to have himself emasculated, just to retain his family’s position as councillors to the king. Impossible. I cannot imagine it.
He made a second, more perfunctory search of the desk and drawers. Nothing. Either Kosenmark was entirely innocent, or he’d hidden everything in that damned letter box, locked with a spell Gerek could not begin to guess at.
He hauled the letter box onto the desk and began to examine its surface. It was square, its width and height no longer than his forearm. The polished iron surface showed a blurry reflection of Gerek’s face. Much like Kosenmark’s eyes.
He ran his fingers over the surface. There were no obvious signs of magic, but he knew Kosenmark would have protected this box with magic set into the iron itself. Any attempt to break through the sides would trigger another set of spells to destroy its contents. Still, for every spell to safeguard a box, there existed another to breach those protections. He was no mage, but he could hire one to do the work. Or he might risk everything and simply carry the box to Duenne. He was calculating how he might smuggle himself and the box from the house when he heard footsteps. He heaved the box off the desk and tried to erase all traces of his activities.
Not soon enough.
The door crashed open. Raul Kosenmark appeared in the gap. He stared at Gerek with a hard unblinking gaze.
“So,” he said. “Maester Hessler. No, let us use your proper name. Lord Haszler. Lord Gerek Haszler. Have you found what you were looking for?”