Allegiance, page 16
part #3 of River of Souls Series
His speech was slurred, interrupted with false stops, a faint and flawed echo of Raul’s memories of the man, two short years before, when they had last faced each other in Lord Vieth’s palace. Raul covered his reaction with a mask. He remembered now. Valara Baussay had spoken of a confrontation. It was like her to understate the matter.
“I am no traitor,” he said.
“What you did. Says you are.”
Raul shook his head. He could say nothing to defend himself, or anyone in his trust. If they used magic to wrest a confession from his mouth, he might accidentally betray his friends, but until then, he would keep silent.
“You say nothing. You admit it.”
Raul shrugged.
“Your men. Dead. Ah. That … bothers you.”
Raul lifted his glance to meet Khandarr’s. Tried to read the truth from that bizarre and twisted face. The man could be lying. Or he told the truth and had killed Ault and the rest, purely to punish Raul. Both possibilities were true to the man’s nature.
“Lies. Truth. Doesn’t matter,” Khandarr said. “Tomorrow you die. King’s orders.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MARKUS KHANDARR LIMPED down the corridor of the prison quadrant. His feet thumped painfully against the stones, sending echoes ahead and behind. Sixty paces to the stairwell. Twenty steps up to the next landing, and another twenty until he gained the palace itself, never mind how many more steps and stairs lay between there and his quarters. He would sleep badly tonight, even with a heavy dose of wine and herbs. Magic might soothe his aches, but it never lasted as long as he liked.
He almost wished he had put Kosenmark in one of the upper cells. Almost.
Six years. He has not changed. Still a fucking arrogant bastard—
Khandarr’s left foot, dragging, caught the edge between two uneven stones. He stumbled, flailed, and lost hold of his cane. One of the guards caught his arm, then almost immediately let go when Khandarr struck him with a fist. “I am … not … I…”
His tongue tangled itself around the words. Worse than that stuttering fool of Kosenmark’s. No, not a fool. Clever and sly. Damn him, damn them all, and damn that bitch from Morennioù for ruining his body. He wanted to thrust all these guards and minions away and shut himself in the dark and quiet of his rooms. But he could not, so perforce he must allow this half-wit to drag him to his feet. His curses subsided to a low hiss as he regained his balance.
“You did well,” he said slowly as the man handed him his cane.
“Shall I fetch a chair?” the guard asked.
“No. I will walk.”
He motioned for the man to take the lead. The other two guards arranged themselves on either side. Khandarr stared ahead, down the long corridor with its rows of empty cells, the torches sending a ruddy glare over the stone walls and worn tiles, to the dim outline of the stairwell’s entry. Once more he calculated the number of steps to the end of his day. Drew a breath and thumped his cane against the floor.
“We go,” he said.
The brief pause had invigorated him. He stumped at a faster pace, each footfall steady and firm, only using the cane at long intervals. True, the steps cost as much as before. He had to bite his tongue against the agony in his limbs. He would pay the cost for this display later, with drugs and magic.
Thump, crack, thump, thump.
He entered the stairwell. Paused once more, eyes closed, before he started his ascent.
Thump. Thump and crack and thump again. The footfalls came slower now. The cane used more frequently. Arrogant. That was the word for Raul Kosenmark. A useful quality in Duenne’s Court. But Kosenmark’s arrogance would not save the bastard from execution. Thump. Baerne’s beloved pet. Thump, pause, thump.
He had hated Raul Kosenmark from the first. The boy had been scarcely fourteen and newly gelded when he came to court. Beautiful and wild and gifted with sharp-edged wit. Oh, but troubled as well. He might have ruined himself with drink, the way Baerne’s son had, but then Fara of Hanau had collected the boy, as she had collected so many other bright young men and women, and tutored Raul Kosenmark in court and politics. With her guidance, Kosenmark had soared to the grand summit of influence and power.
All that had changed with Baerne’s death. Khandarr remembered the month after the funeral rites. Remembered Armand suddenly freed from his grandfather’s shadow and nearly incapacitated with authority. He had not hesitated about one matter, though. Very soon after he took the crown, Armand dismissed all his grandfather’s senior councillors. He would name his own, he declared. The first mark of the new king and a new reign.
Khandarr gained the next landing. There he leaned on his cane, and breathed heavily. All three guards hovered around him. He could sense their urge to help, and their terror at misreading his wishes. He grinned. The muscles of his face twitched. The flesh hung useless, dead. Two years, the physician had said, until he regained full use of his arms and legs. The face might never recover.
Enough self-pity. He dragged himself up the next set of stairs, step by stone step, still plagued by memories of Raul Kosenmark. That last morning, Khandarr had summoned the young fool to his private suite and offered him a compromise. Vow your allegiance to the king and me, and you will keep your position. You might even regain your manhood.
Kosenmark had refused, simply and without any excuses.
Later, Armand made it exquisitely clear how much he disliked that Khandarr had made such an offer. A humiliation all around.
The main floor gained at last. Khandarr allowed himself another brief respite. His legs shook. He badly wanted his wine and herbs. And he would send for the physician to knead his muscles. If that failed, he might summon one of the girls kept in service for pleasure. He found that sexual release often served better than medicine or magic.
He swung his body around to face his next goal—the stairs leading to the private residence wing. It took all his self-control to lift one leg, plant it firmly, then drag the other forward. Momentum was the key. He stumped and staggered toward the stairs, little caring what the guards thought by now.
Eight steps from his next goal, he glimpsed a shadow approaching rapidly from a side corridor. Khandarr swung around, reeling, his lips already forming the words to summon magic, when he recognized Armand’s senior runner.
The runner knelt before Khandarr. “My lord. The king wishes your presence at once.”
He presented an oversized ring set with emeralds and pearls around an enormous central diamond. An ugly thing, Armand called it. As ugly as his grandfather, who had commissioned the object early in his reign. For all Armand’s bitter mockery, he had kept the ring, saying tradition had its uses. Even so, he had not made use of it until today.
Khandarr gripped his cane with both hands and muttered a curse under his breath. He recognized an imperial summons when he heard it. “Of course. Let his majesty know I come at once.”
“Do you wish a chair?”
What Markus Khandarr wished was to snarl and refuse, but there were too many witnesses, all of them, he suspected, ready to report any sign of disrespect to the king. A year ago, Khandarr would have dismissed their accusations easily. A year ago, Armand would have believed him. Too much had changed since then. Khandarr nodded and offered his thanks to the runner.
The runner signaled. The chair and its six carriers appeared at once. They brought him swiftly and smoothly to a nondescript corridor on the ground floor, tucked between audience chambers and the imperial library. They stopped before an equally nondescript door, guarded by six large men in plain uniforms. Only a single torch illuminated the area.
Khandarr felt the first spurt of true panic then. Baerne had favored this room, saying it allowed him to concentrate on the work itself, and not the grandeur of the office. After he took the throne, Armand had avoided the wing, and especially these rooms, saying he wanted a complete break with all that his grandfather represented.
That makes two things, Khandarr thought. The ring and Baerne’s office.
The carriers lowered the chair, and the guards assisted Lord Khandarr to stand. Khandarr wrapped his fingers around the head of his cane. It felt sturdy in his grip. He rapped the stick onto the tiles, dragged a foot forward. Not one of the guards stirred as he passed the threshold.
Two more guards waited just inside. Khandarr barely acknowledged them. His whole attention was on achieving the king’s presence as swiftly as his body allowed. He stumped and limped and lurched through the next room, into the king’s private office.
It was then he understood the reason for the king’s summons at this hour.
Armand sat behind the desk once used by his grandfather. A few sheets of parchment lay before him, several of them close-written in the style of reports. A leather-bound volume was propped open as though for reference, and others were stacked to either side. Off in one corner stood an enormous sand-clock constructed of priceless metals, the frame ornamented with rubies, the glass gleaming silver as it turned over to mark the next hour.
Facing him was Duke Alvaro Kosenmark. His manner was tense, his back straight and his chin lifted, as though he stood at attention. A military man, Khandarr remembered. The duke had served on the frontier with some honor, and there were rumors he continued to command a small army in Valentain. Ostensibly, the army served to hunt and contain brigands and pirates along the province’s long border, but other reports said this man and his family kept themselves ready for warfare within the kingdom.
He has come about his son.
“Your Majesty,” he said. Then to the duke, “Your Grace.”
“You have arrested my elder son and heir,” Duke Kosenmark said.
“For treason—”
“The guards tell me you plan to execute him tomorrow.”
Khandarr glanced toward Armand. The king did not acknowledge his presence. He sat with hooded eyes, his hands resting lightly on the desk before him. His air was utterly contained, not like his usual impassioned self. An unseen breeze caused the lamplight to flicker over Armand’s face, lending it an age he had not yet attained.
He is like his grandfather. I never expected this. I ought to have.
“We have … evidence,” he said to the duke. “Crimes—”
“Then you will not object to presenting that evidence before the council.”
“We … We … do not need—”
Armand lifted a hand. Khandarr broke off at once. He wished he had been present for the start of this conversation. The duke must have waited until Khandarr was otherwise occupied before he requested this interview with the king. His spies would be good ones, cultivated through long decades at court. A steady throbbing, the result of standing and walking far beyond his endurance, broke through his calculations. He glanced around the room, but there were no other chairs. So. Armand played his own cruel games tonight.
Meanwhile, Armand laid one hand against the other. The gesture resembled those found in the ancient portraits of priest-kings. “It is not the council but the king who decides your son’s fate,” he said mildly.
The duke nodded. “True. But there is the matter of trust. We trust you to guard the kingdom’s welfare, from the least of your subjects to those with riches and authority of their own. If your subjects perceive that your rule has become arbitrary, if you punish without just cause, you break that trust.”
“You threaten me?” Armand asked, still in that soft uninflected voice.
“I merely remind you of the responsibility of your kingship.”
“Very pretty words,” Armand said. “But if we would speak the truth, you came to demand the release of your son.”
“Nothing of the kind,” the duke replied.
Now Armand glanced up, his gaze sharp. The resemblance to his grandfather struck Khandarr even stronger than before. With Baerne, especially in his younger years, before the madness took hold, such a glance presaged a cold, deliberate rage.
But all Armand said was, “What then?”
“A trial,” Duke Kosenmark said. “Display your evidence. Let the accused speak for himself.”
“And if his words prove him guilty?”
“Then execute him. Do it openly, with everyone to witness his fate.”
He spoke bluntly—the famed Kosenmark candor. It masked deceit, Khandarr thought. Can’t you see it? He chewed his lips, his weak and fumbling lips, knowing he could not say anything to Armand in front of the duke.
Armand glanced toward Khandarr and smiled faintly, as if to reassure him. “A fair request,” he said. “At least on the surface. However, the court knows my wishes. They will interpret any concession as a weakness. After all, why should I grant a trial if I know the man is guilty?”
“Then you will have your war, but not the one you desired.”
King and duke regarded each other in silence. Khandarr held his breath. For so long, none had dared to challenge the king. Nor had the king dared to insist on absolute authority. Was this the moment where Armand let go all memories of his grandfather? He would become king in truth, then.
“You cannot save your son this way,” Armand said.
Kosenmark never wavered. “Perhaps not, but I would try to save the kingdom.”
Another long pause followed. It took all of Khandarr’s self-control to remain standing, silent and impassive. He was grateful for the cane’s sturdiness, hated that he must depend upon it to keep upright.
“Very well,” Armand said at last. “You shall have your trial, Duke Kosenmark. May you have joy in its outcome.”
“And you as well, your Majesty.”
Kosenmark rose stiffly. White and gray streaked his hair, which was drawn back in a severe queue, the fashion from many decades past, and when he tilted his face upward, the lamplight emphasized the lines etched in his face. An old man, past seventy, Khandarr remembered. He had married late, fathering seven children quickly. Two had died in childhood. His heir had gambled with Baerne’s decree, had accepted a gelding, only to lose all influence on the old king’s death. The second son had proved dependable and dull. The daughters were yet untried.
“Your Majesty,” Kosenmark said, bowing to Armand. “My lord.” He nodded at Markus Khandarr.
Khandarr waited until the man had exited the room, and a longer interval after that, before he spoke.
“Your Majesty—”
“Be quiet, Markus.”
Khandarr choked back his arguments. Armand watched him with a veiled amusement. “You dislike my decision. No matter. Duke Kosenmark is right in one thing, though not for the reason he believes. We cannot have any secret executions. No unexpected illness. No accidents. Not for Lord Kosenmark, nor his people. Do you understand?”
Khandarr considered the two dead guards, their faces bloody and broken. He had lost his temper, a thing that happened too easily these days. Benedikt Ault and the others might survive with proper care. He would have to see to that before the night ended.
“Yes, your Majesty. I understand.”
* * *
NO CHAIR WAITED for him outside the king’s offices, and no guards within view. (He did not make the mistake of thinking they were not present, however.) Only a single runner, a very junior one, stood at attention. So. One runner for one message. The king had left him his own choice what that message ought to be.
“Lord Raul Kosenmark’s guards,” he said. “Fetch a doctor. The king’s physician. Tell him, do not let them die.”
Anger lent him fluency. He spoke with all the harshness he had contained the past few hours and had the satisfaction of seeing the runner flinch. But terrifying children for no cause was a petty thing after all. With a flick of his hand, he sent the boy off at a gallop.
Khandarr let his breath trickle out and considered the two flights of stairs between himself and the end of the day. He was alone, but not unwatched. No doubt Armand had left orders for the guards to keep away. He drew a rattling breath and launched himself into motion. Stump, stump, crack, thump. Up one flight. Along the next corridor. Up another flight, around the next turning, then the hundred and two more steps to his own door.
A man, dressed in dark blue robes and trousers cut in the latest court fashion, paced the corridor outside Khandarr’s rooms. Jewels glinted from the hem. Metallic threads woven through the cloth glittered with every step. At the thump of Khandarr’s cane, he swung around, causing the lamplight to fall over his dark strong features.
“Maester Galt,” Khandarr said drily. “You keep late hours for a visit.”
Galt hesitated only briefly, then swept into a bow. “My lord. I came as soon as I heard.”
Easy enough to guess what Galt meant. So the man had spies in the palace. That was useful information. He also expected Khandarr to welcome an ally. Galt had a great deal to learn in that case. A test, then, to see how the man responded.
He smiled bitterly. “What have you heard?”
Galt’s expression turned wary. “About Lord Kosenmark. And the king’s wish for a public trial.”
Very nicely spoken. He implied nothing, accused no one.
“I wished to consult with you tonight,” Galt went on. “No, that is too presumptuous. I wished to ask your advice about a related matter, but I see you are ill and weary. May I send my own physician?”
Khandarr narrowed his eyes to slits, felt the ache of mere bodily discomfort ebb in the face of this new puzzle. So many assumptions in those seemingly innocuous statements, and delivered with such obvious desire to please. He did not want to owe this man a debt, but … It might serve a purpose to let him believe this was the case.
“No physician. Stay here. Tell me what you know.”
He allowed Galt to follow him into his rooms, to his bedchamber. There, his servants waited to undress him, to remove the tight stockings he wore to steady his legs. They bathed him with hot cloths, soaked in strong herbs, which eased the trembling. Then they dressed him in layers of soft woolen robes, built up the fire, and helped him into his bed.
Galt waited until they departed before he spoke. To Khandarr’s disappointment—and his relief—the man knew nothing truly dangerous. He had learned of Kosenmark’s arrest through various easily bribed guards. (Khandarr asked for, and received, their names.) He knew about Duke Kosenmark’s interview, and deduced its outcome based on shrewd guesses and bits of conversation he had overheard from other courtiers. The only new piece of information was the presence of the duke’s daughters in Duenne. The family had its own house in the city, but one daughter had been invited by the queen to stay in the palace. A tidbit, no more, but an interesting one.
