“Armand is not the first king to disagree with his councillors,” Kosenmark said. “Nor is Lord Khandarr the first councillor to use his position to further his own ambitions. However, I would not see thousands die. Nor can I stand silent while another man drives the king toward such a war, so that he might seize the kingdom for himself. If that is treason, then I am a traitor.”
Without another word, he walked to the farther door and onto the rooftop garden. As the door swung shut, a breeze filtered through, carrying the scent of warm air, of green growing things bursting free of the earth. Of the outer world.
Gerek stared at the blank desktop for several long moments. Considered the man Dedrick had spoken of with such admiration. (And love. Let us not forget they loved each other once.) Considered what he’d observed himself over the past eight days. Kosenmark trusted no one. And yet he had offered to open his secrets to Gerek. Was that proof enough of his good intentions?
You came for truth and honor.
I did, Gerek thought.
He stood. Entered the garden and carefully shut the doors behind him. Twilight had fallen. A dusky violet veil covered the sky, brushed by smoke-black clouds. Light speckled the rising hills; lamplight illuminated the city spreading toward the shore. From there, the seas were only visible as a dark expanse.
Gerek made his way between the rows of budding trees, the beds of newly sprouted flowers. Spring had arrived without his being aware.
Kosenmark sat on a bench at the far end of the garden. His hands were clasped, one within the other. He stared outward to the seas, but his eyes obviously saw nothing of this world.
Gerek stopped and thought through the words he wished to say. He did not want to falter.
“Tell me more,” he said. “So I might do the work properly.”
* * *
THEIR CONVERSATION CONTINUED to midnight, first in the rooftop garden, then in Kosenmark’s private rooms over a supper of bread and cheese and triple-watered wine.
Gerek had known before that Kosenmark allowed him to see only the most unexceptional of his correspondence, but the number of names—the names themselves—left him breathless with astonishment. Lord Iani and Lady Theysson he knew about. Also, Luise Ehrenalt. When he heard the names Eckard, Vieth, and Nicol Joannis, he drew an audible breath. These were all high-ranking members of Veraene’s nobility. Two of these men were regional governors, appointed by the king.
“A shadow court,” he murmured.
Kosenmark’s hands stilled, his expression turned momentarily remote. “Someone else thought that a good name for what I do. I cannot agree entirely. I am not king, and the only true court resides in Duenne. However, the thought behind the name is true. We are nobles and commoners who care deeply about Veraene’s welfare.”
It was after Dedrick’s death that Kosenmark ended his shadow court. Instead, he had begun to approach certain members of Károví’s Court, to negotiate an alliance across both kingdoms to work against the war. So far, he’d had little luck, he told Gerek.
“Their court is smaller, but their factions just as numerous as ours. I had hoped to win Duke Miro Karasek to our side, but friends in Károví tell me King Leos recently sent Duke Karasek on a mission overseas. And other friends told me today of the end to that mission.”
He went on to describe that end. It happened in Osterling Keep, he said, nothing in his expression betraying Ilse Zhalina’s presence there. The king’s patrols had sighted twenty ships heading east. Three returned, only to founder on the shoals off the peninsula. During the skirmish that broke out, Duke Karasek had escaped. So far, he had evaded capture.
From there the conversation turned to the minor nobles in Károví, King Leos’s probable choices for an heir, and the possibility of approaching Ryba Karasek, cousin to that same Miro Karasek. He was only a baron from a minor branch of the family, but if his cousin did not return from his mission, Ryba Karasek might inherit the duchy.
Well after the bells rang midnight, they ended their session. Gerek went off to a restless sleep, crowded with dreams that might have been life dreams, they were so vivid. He woke much later than his usual time. He was overtired, but with excitement bubbling underneath the weariness. Before he left his rooms, however, a note came from Lord Kosenmark, reminding him that today was his weekly holiday.
But I don’t want a holiday. Not yet.
He picked up his pen to protest this interruption, then stopped. Any break in routine would be remarked, especially after Lord Kosenmark’s precipitous departure and return the previous day. He studied the note again. One line that served as a warning, a suggestion, an act of newborn trust, all at once.
Gerek folded the note and dropped it into his private letter box. (Because it was a sign of trust, which he wanted to preserve for the future.) He ate his breakfast without appetite. Spent an unsatisfying hour in the library. Soon his restlessness drove him outside, onto the streets he had not visited since the freight wagon dropped him in front of Kosenmark’s house.
Nine short days. The sky and city had changed in that interval. A green haze covered the trees. He sniffed and smelled the scent of newly blossomed flowers and more, of something born of the sea, as if the oceans themselves had seasons. Above, the cast of winter gray had vanished entirely and the sky was now a soft and vivid blue.
His feet took him to the nearest market square, where he bought a plate of grilled fish and rice from a street vendor, hot tea from another. He ate, then wandered onward, remembering more of the city from those past two visits. There, there was the Little University. There was the old bridge to the tenement district, where he’d lived with his tutor, and the rows of cook shops where he took his meals.
By midafternoon, he had circled back to a small park, a niche of greenery with several stone benches that overlooked a vast market near the coast. He settled there with a cup of hot tea from another vendor, grateful for the steady breeze blowing in from the seas. From here, he could see the entire harbor, a grand sweep from the northern hills, inward to the wide mouth of the Gallenz River, then south in a more gradual curve. Ships of all sizes dotted the dark blue waters, their white sails like flecks of foam at this distance. Farther off, a dark line of much larger vessels moved steadily northward. The king’s fleet? A convoy of merchant ships? He could not tell.
Gradually he became aware that someone stood nearby, watching him.
It was Kathe, with a large basket over one shoulder, a smaller one in hand. “Hello,” she said. “I’m glad to see you found the outside of your office.”
Gerek ducked his head. “I could s-say the same about you.”
She laughed. “Not everyone locks themselves in the house like you, Maester Hessler. Besides, there are times I like to visit the market myself, instead of sending out one of the girls.”
She shifted her loads. Recalling himself, Gerek asked if she would like to sit down. He slid to one end, and Kathe sank onto the bench with a happy sigh. “Thank you. This is my favorite bench in the city, I think. I can visit the harbor, shop in the market, then rest a bit and look at the waves before I go back to the house. Unless, of course, I bought fish. It spoils so easily, even in winter.”
She set the larger basket on the ground between them. It was stuffed high with bundles wrapped in paper, and the sharp scents of several different spices tickled his nose when he bent over to inspect the contents.
“N-no fish, then?” Gerek asked.
“None worth buying today. But I did find a new spice shop. I think they might have connections to smugglers. I know it’s nearly impossible to find red peppers at such a cheap price. No doubt they will be gone before my next visit, so I bought all their stock.”
She chattered on about spices, which provinces or kingdoms produced the best quality, and how the recent increase in tariffs had driven the prices to unbearable heights. There was talk of war, even. That could only make things worse. Gerek listened, happy that she did not insist on replies. So it took him by surprise when s
he asked him, “How do you like working for Lord Kosenmark?”
“Good.” He thought of several things to add, but decided against them. “Good,” he repeated, then cursed himself silently for such a stupid reply.
Kathe didn’t seem to notice. “I’m glad to hear that. I know—” She hesitated. “I’m going to say what I shouldn’t. You see, I’ve been with Lord Kosenmark almost six years. Before that my mother and I saw him at court when he visited our old mistress. Even though he’s told me nothing outright, I can guess what he does. We all do, of course, but there are times he’s trusted me with, well, certain things.”
“What are you saying?” Gerek said.
Her cheeks darkened. “I know he doesn’t give you all his letters. And I know he pretended to leave yesterday, then came back right away. I was worried for you. I was worried for him, too, though he thinks he’s invincible, the great idiot. And if you ever tell that I called him a great idiot, I shall smack you with a fish. Anyway, I’m not asking you to tell me your secrets. I’m just glad that you’ve found the right way with him. If … if that is what makes you happy.”
“I had n-no idea I was s-sso obvious,” Gerek muttered.
Her cheeks dimpled in a pensive smile. “You aren’t. But I was curious about you. And you remind me of someone I knew before.”
Unsure what to say, he fixed his attention on the harbor and the seas. The fleet or convoy was already much farther north, heading between a scattering of islands. The pattern of ships and boats in the harbor had shifted, too. It was like a secret code, transparent to those familiar with waves and tides and water craft, but to strangers such as him, the language remained opaque, unsettling.
“You are angry with me,” Kathe said.
“No. I am n-n-not used to people watching me.”
“You aren’t?” A pause. “They should. I don’t know you very well, but I see much to admire.”
He made a quick gesture of denial.
“I do,” she insisted. “You work hard. You are clever with words. No matter what you think,” she said, overriding his second and more vocal objection. “Words are not just sounds, spoken prettily. They are shapes on the page and in our hearts. I’ve always thought—” She broke off and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m babbling again.”
I like your babbling. But he didn’t dare say that out loud.
They lapsed into another silence, an easier one this time. Gerek pretended to be absorbed in an altercation in the marketplace below—a man driving pigs through the square had lost control over his animals. The pigs were dashing between carts and stalls, upsetting wares. Others were screeching at the hapless swineherd.
Kathe’s unfinished sentence teased at him. He wanted to ask what she thought about words. He wanted to ask what she’d meant the day before, about not needing to apologize. But words were more than flesh and air, no matter what Kosenmark claimed. If he spoke, he might disturb the easy silence between them. It should be enough, he thought, to sit companionably with a friend.
Down below, the swineherd drove his pigs from the marketplace. A few shrill grunts floated up on the breeze, then the noise died off, leaving just the dull, indistinct roar from the crowds. Kathe touched his arm. “I must go back to the house. Will you come back for supper? Or shall I tell them to expect you later?”
Several different answers hovered on his tongue. In spite of what he thought earlier, he had the impression of a rare chance offered. Gerek swallowed and made a silent prayer to Lir. “Would you— Would you like me to carry your basket for you?”
There was just the briefest hesitation from Kathe. The pause lasted long enough that Gerek cursed his impulse. But then she smiled. “That would be kind of you. Thank you.”
Gerek slung the larger basket over one arm and made certain its contents were secure. He took the second from Kathe’s hands. They felt as light as a bundle of cotton. I am an ox, he thought, recalling his mother’s words.
His mother had always used the name with affection. Even so, Gerek hated how it made him feel—large and awkward, a lumpish beast. But today the sky was bright, the breeze clean and brisk. And there was Kathe, holding out her hand.
CHAPTER TEN
WHEN SHE FIRST arrived in Osterling Keep in winter, Ilse Zhalina thought she had unraveled the days and miles to a summer’s day in Melnek, where she had lived as a child. The sky was the color of pale blue ink suspended in water. Dusty green trees fringed the cliffs above the city, and only at night did she sometimes light a brazier to warm her bedroom.
As the season turned into spring, the seas glittered beneath the sun, and fishermen spoke of the coming summer storms. Fleets of merchant ships hurried down from the northern ports to complete their passage before those same calm seas turned rough and wild. Those with a few hours of leave visited the pleasure house, and Ilse worked into the night to keep the house well supplied.
Still, for all the orderly, ordinary succession of her days, she had the impression of a smothering weight over the city. Riders had taken word of the battle and the escaped officer to garrisons along the coast, and Lord Joannis had sent word to Duenne by ship and land. The effects were immediate—more guards in the harbor and around the city garrison. Rumor also talked about an influx of reinforcements due from Konstanzien, up the coast.
Ilse herself stopped using magic entirely. Be cautious, Nicol Joannis had warned her, in his oblique fashion. No more journeys to Anderswar. No more searching for Lir’s jewels. She even stopped using the ordinary spells for lighting candles.
Nor did she meet with Alesso again.
That, however, was not her doing. Two days after their confrontation, Alesso transferred to the late-night shift. Ilse learned about that from the kitchen maids. Interesting, she thought. If he had frightened her out of complacency, perhaps she had done the same with him.
This day and hour, however, her attention was wholly on the pleasure house and its books, not the far-off doings of armies or kings. She sat with the chief cook in the woman’s office, reviewing the monthly accounts. It was midafternoon. The sunlight was white and unforgiving, and the room echoed with activity from the kitchen next door.
The cook, used to the noise, pitched her voice louder. “Fish,” she said.
Fish, hook, net, snare. The old game of word links came effortlessly to Ilse’s mind. She smiled to herself. Ghita Fiori was an utterly plain woman, unimaginative except when it came to her cookery. She would not appreciate a game about words.
“Fish,” Ilse repeated. “I never knew how many kinds of fish lived in the sea, until I came here.”
Ghita snorted. “We only care about the edible ones. Speaking of which, fish needs salt, and the king has raised the salt tax again.”
Taxes. Ilse sighed. “How much?”
“Thirty copper denier for a hundredweight.”
A small sum, except when you considered how much fish and meat the customers consumed in one year. Ilse calculated the probable increase in expenses and sighed again. “That means higher taxes for freight and shipping. Mistress Andeliess might have to increase her prices, too.”
“That is her business, not ours.”
“True. But she’ll want the numbers from me. So, then. We require fish, bought fresh from the wharves, in all varieties that you have so helpfully noted in your expenses and projections. Three hundred silver denier for the past month, including taxes. Next is beef … Yes, Rina?”
It was one of the house runners—Mistress Andeliess’s grandniece, recently hired to begin her internship in the family business. The girl bounced on her toes. Her eyes were shiny with excitement. “I came for Mistress Ilse,” she said. “You have a visitor. In your rooms.”
Ilse frowned. “You took them to my rooms?”
“It wasn’t me.” The girl’s voice squeaked high. “Fredo took them up. But come. You’ll see he had no choice.”
Fredo was the house’s senior runner, old and trusted and wise in discretion. If he had elected to bring this
unnamed visitor directly to Ilse’s rooms without notifying her first, it argued for someone both important and well-known to Fredo.
Lord Joannis. He was the only person who could produce that kind of reaction. But why would he come to her? Perhaps he’d sent word to Raul in spite of his own warning to her.
She blotted the page with shaking hands, all too aware how Ghita and the runner watched her. “We can work together later,” she said. “Tomorrow morning is best for me. That gives me a chance to speak with Mistress Andeliess about the salt tax. Will that suit?”
Ghita answered, but Ilse hardly heard the woman. She gathered up her books and writing case. Murmured a reply that surely made no sense, but all she cared about was the visitor and what news he might bring.
She sped to the stairs at the back of the house. By the time she reached the second-floor landing, she was out of breath. She paused at the door to smooth her hair and recover her poise. If her visitor was Lord Joannis, she would have to act her part in case anyone overheard them. Then she rounded the corner from the landing into the hall.
Her first warning was the sight of two armed soldiers outside her door.
Both men glanced in her direction. Light from an open door beyond cast their faces in shadows. Then one man rested his hand on his sword. The movement sent a ripple of sunlight over the metal studs of his leather glove.
Ilse continued forward, her heart skipping to a faster beat as she took in more details. Royal insignias. Full armor despite the heat. Someone important, then. Given a few moments, she could probably guess the identity of her visitor. She laid a hand on the latch to her door, felt the warmth of recent magic, the hint of a signature she almost recognized.
Inside, a tall man dressed in a dusty drab cloak stood behind her desk. He held a paper in one hand. A dozen more were scattered over the floor, as if he’d tossed them to one side. A wide-brimmed hat shaded his face, but Ilse felt a stir of fear. Something about his height, the dismissive manner with which he flicked aside the paper and took up another.
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