Allegiance, page 6
part #3 of River of Souls Series
Valara turned the page. Nothing about this Ryba. Nothing more about Miro’s mother. Just a series of mundane observations concerning Taboresk itself. Then mysteriously, another paragraph reinstating his son as his heir. No year given, nor any explanation.
The father had nothing more to tell her. She returned to Miro’s entry.
His name meant peace, she learned. (And yet she remembered the blood on his face, from when she first saw him in Morennioù Castle.) He had studied magic in Rastov’s university, founded by the king. (Oh, yes. She had proof of his abilities.) He had joined his father in Károví’s army at the age of fifteen. Less than a year later, he had taken command. When his father died, he had spent two years running Taboresk alone before Leos Dzavek appointed him to that same Privy Council.
Odd gaps and inexplicable changes in his life. Just like his father.
A door clicked open. Valara shut the book hastily and returned it to its shelf just as Miro Karasek entered the library.
He was dressed formally, in a loose jacket and trousers of dark blue wool, trimmed with black. She found herself responding as she would to any member of her own court and started to lift her hand, palm outward, when she caught herself. He was not Morennioùen. He would not understand the subtleties of one palm touching another.
Karasek seemed oblivious to her hesitation. “My duties ended earlier than I anticipated,” he said. “We shall talk, you and your sister and I. Your sister is riding a circuit of the grounds. Until she returns, would you like a tour of the gardens?”
A clear invitation to a private conversation between the two of them. Curiosity pricked at her. “I would. Thank you.”
A short detour brought them to a side door and a small, enclosed courtyard. The skies were a clear hard blue, and the sun shone strong. Yesterday’s storm had passed, leaving the trees bowed and wet, and the grounds muddy. Karasek dispatched runners to fetch boots for him and Lady Ivana.
“The seamstress and shoemakers will arrive this evening,” he told her as they passed through the courtyard’s gate. “You will need more than the few costumes to continue your journey.”
“I am grateful for your generosity.”
His gaze swung toward her. “I would only do what is right.”
Valara could only nod. Karasek was an ambitious man. He risked his life and reputation to see her safely back to her kingdom. Are you making atonement? she had asked him at the Mantharah. Though he asked her the same, she knew he was—for the invasion he led in Dzavek’s name, of course, but also for more. For past lives, and past failings.
Redemption, she thought, for us both.
They had walked in silence along a path paved with stones. The stones, but not the path itself, ended on the verge of rough grassland, overspread with wildflowers, much like the plains she and Ilse had traversed. A short distance ahead, the ground sloped down to a stream. The northern hills were visible, standing in a dark blue mass against the sky. Downstream and east, she saw the roofs and chimneys of a small village.
Here Karasek paused. “I wrote to my agent in Lenov,” he said. “He has instructions to hire a ship and crew, and to provision it for a long journey of uncertain length.”
She recalled the city from Raul Kosenmark’s maps of the coast. Lenov. A port in the southeast corner of Károví. “Will that draw suspicion?”
He shrugged. “Everything will, these days. But I implied that House Karasek wished to engage in some private trading.”
Which brought the next question. “Does the agent know?”
“Of the king’s death?” Karasek said. “Not yet, but he will soon.”
She noticed that he kept his gaze averted.
“Why are you telling me this?” she asked. “Why not wait until this afternoon?”
“Because I have yet more news.”
Ah. Her breath escaped her in a soundless exclamation.
“A courier arrived from Rastov this morning,” Karasek said quietly. “News of the king’s death has spread throughout Rastov and the outlying towns. Markov has contained the worst confusion there, but there will be more troubles until Károví names a new king. Meanwhile, various nobles, my fellow councillors among them, are maneuvering for the throne.”
“Are you saying you must return to Rastov?”
“I don’t know yet. But I told my people the news. They had to know.”
He spoke with peculiar emphasis. A conflict of allegiance, she thought. Between his kingdom, his dependents, and us.
“How might that change our plans?” she asked carefully. “Can Markov order you to return?”
He shook his head. “Not as such. We are equal members of the council. More important, I command the armies. But he has allies, and influence.”
Now she understood why he had asked for this private conversation. He did not wish Ilse Zhalina to know that Károví was poised on the edge of civil war. But she comes with me. She cannot carry the news to Raul Kosenmark and Veraene.
A dozen different questions occurred to her: Did he trust her more than he trusted Zhalina? Did he consider Morennioù a nullity? Or perhaps he thought the Károvín troops there rendered it such. She disliked all those questions, disliked all the answers. It took great control, and the acknowledgment of her father’s good advice, to speak calmly.
“Do you have a counterplan?” she asked.
“Several,” he replied. “I shall need to consider the implications for each one. But I promise I will discuss them all with you, as soon as I can.”
He spoke the truth. She could read that from his tone, from the grave expression he wore as he gazed over his lands. He had broken his trust in several past lives. He would not do so again. But what those vows portended, she could not say.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE KING IS dead. I’m certain, my lord. The news came from our best agent in Károví.
Gerek Hessler recited those words over and over as he jogged up the stairs to Lord Kosenmark’s private rooms. His heart beat painfully fast, his sides ached, but he did not think of stopping. Kosenmark would want, would need, to hear this news at once.
His best intentions lasted until he gained the fourth floor, where he fell against the wall, one hand pressed against his ribs. He had eaten too well since his return from Hallau—eaten too well, and never ventured beyond the walls of this pleasure house. He was an ox again, large and lumbering.
You cannot bind your true nature, a philosopher had written. Unless you wish to chafe your soul as rope and chains chafe the flesh. Gerek closed his eyes and muttered a curse against philosophers and true natures both. Perhaps he would take up weapons drill, like Lord Kosenmark. An hour’s bout every day would take away the fat. Then he laughed silently, to think of himself with a sword and not a pen in his hand.
He touched his shirt where he’d placed the packet with Danusa Benik’s report. It had come by the usual route, through a series of trusted agents from Károví into Veraene, from there to a bookseller in Tiralien, who sent all such correspondence to Lord Kosenmark packed inside crates of old and rare books. No one had tampered with the seals, and layers of magic ensured only Lord Raul Kosenmark could read the full report. But four words written in old Immatran on the outermost envelope were enough to tell Gerek the bones of Benik’s news.
The mountain has fallen.
The mountain had to mean Leos Dzavek, king of Károví. And fallen in the code Benik and Kosenmark used translated to died. Leos Dzavek had ruled Károví beyond the ordinary span of any other human reign—since the fall of the empire. It was almost impossible to believe him dead, except that Benik was no fool. She had lived six years in the Károvín Court, an anonymous runner of the lowest order, but someone skilled at extracting secrets from her companions. She would never report a rumor as truth.
Gerek knocked at the door to Kosenmark’s office with a shaking hand. No answer. He knocked a second time—louder—then tried the latch. Locked, of course. Gerek rattled the latch in irritation. Without much expectation of success, he tried the spell that ordinarily would admit him, and only him, into the office. That also failed.
Has he left without telling me?
Since he and Lord Kosenmark returned to Tiralien, two weeks ago, Kosenmark spent his afternoons in his office. More than once, Gerek had come upon him on his rooftop garden, staring over the city toward the sea. He continued to receive guests in the pleasure house at night, and he met with Gerek over business matters every morning, but otherwise, he kept to his rooms.
Except twice, Gerek thought. When he vanished for a day, each time.
Kosenmark had given no explanation other than to say he’d been hunting. Hunting Lord Khandarr and his agents, Gerek suspected. Though Kosenmark had shut down his shadow court ten months ago, he still had a handful of trusted agents in Veraene. From their reports, Gerek knew that Lord Khandarr had remained in Tiralien several months after the affair on Hallau Island. Word from various agents said the king’s mage hoped to collect further evidence of Kosenmark’s treason, then arrest Kosenmark on his return. Khandarr had given up just a few days before Kosenmark had returned. By now he would have reported to the king, which made this latest news even more imperative.
Gerek set off to search the rest of the house, traversing each floor and wing from end to end—a long and ultimately pointless task. He found no sign of the man, neither in the many public halls and galleries, nor in the private parlors where Lord Kosenmark sometimes met with more secret visitors. Kosenmark’s official schedule for the afternoon claimed he was “at home to visiting nobles.”
He never is, though. Not since he lost Ilse Zhalina on that cursed island.
Gerek paused at one of the side doors that gave onto a small paved courtyard. A stone path led through an open gate to an expanse of green grass, then the formal gardens. Past the gardens lay a patch of wilderness, and beyond that, the edge of Kosenmark’s grounds, which were patrolled by guards. Gerek did not venture past the door, however. You must not leave the grounds, Kosenmark had told him, in their first conference upon their return to Tiralien. Markus Khandarr will not forgive you for escaping his company.
Such a delicate way to describe kidnapping, a beating, and interrogation by magic. There had been no official call for Gerek’s arrest, but as they both knew, the King’s Mage did not always work through official channels.
“Are you hunting our lord, Maester Gerek?”
Gerek stiffened, then reluctantly turned around.
The courtesan Nadine leaned against an arched passageway. She was dressed for an appointment with a client, in a gauzy creation of amber lace, caught by golden ribbons at wrist and ankles. The curves of her body showed through, a dark brown shadow beneath the lace, and a faint breeze carried a trace of her spicy perfume. Kathe had once told him about wild cats she had seen at Duenne’s Court, when a famed handler brought several panthers to perform before the king. Kathe had never quite decided if the handler had tamed the cats, or if the creatures chose to perform such tricks out of boredom. Gerek could picture Nadine as one of those panthers.
His throat quivered. He swallowed hard, a temporary cure at best. He hated his stutter. The damned thing showed itself whenever he was afraid or uncertain or simply anxious, as he was now. Only his elder brother, his cousin Dedrick, and now his beloved Kathe, had the patience to work through his sometimes tangled speech. Gerek swallowed again and considered several short replies that might satisfy this woman.
“So you are hunting,” Nadine went on. “Like a dog homing to its master—”
“Nadine.”
Kathe appeared in the passageway. She spoke breathlessly, as if she had hurried.
Nadine narrowed her eyes—again reminding Gerek of panthers—but she merely shook her head. “Kathe, my love. I thought you were in the kitchen with your mother, terrifying all the girls and boys.”
Kathe smiled, a deceptively pleasant smile, except for the tips of her teeth that she showed. “My mother does well enough on her own. My business is with you this moment. You do remember what I told you the day Maester Hessler came to us.”
Nadine rolled her eyes and gave a dramatic sigh. “That day? So like any other. The sun rose and set. Josef offended a client, though everyone laughed afterward. And your mother insulted yet another pastry cook because she could not bear to yield her place to you, or anyone else, and simply do what she loves best. But Gerek … Gerek. Ah … yes. Now I remember. That was the day you were eating prunes.”
“No teasing,” Kathe said. “Or you will find raisins in all your biscuits, and prunes in every other dish. I can arrange that.” To Gerek she said, “Lord Kosenmark is with Maester Ault, my love.”
Gerek mumbled a thank-you to Kathe and hurried down the corridor to the drill yard where Lord Kosenmark practiced with his weapons master, Benedikt Ault. Kosenmark’s usual time with Ault was in the early morning. But Kosenmark’s usual schedule had proven a mere fantasy these past two weeks.
He found them engaged in a match with wooden practice swords—one that had lasted quite some time, judging by their appearance. Ault was an older man, wiry and strong, with silvered hair cropped short. Like his weapons master, Kosenmark wore a plain cotton shirt and loose trousers. Both were covered with sweat and dust, and several long strands of hair had escaped his braid.
Gerek waved to catch his attention, but neither man noticed. Ault circled around, grinning, then lunged quickly for Kosenmark, who just managed to parry the blow and sidestep the next attack. A series of quick strikes followed, and both took hits as they went around and around the courtyard. Then Ault lunged again. There was a complicated set of maneuvers with blade and foot, and the match ended with them both disarmed. Ault was laughing. Kosenmark bent over, hands splayed against his thighs as he caught his breath. He was grinning.
Then he glanced toward Gerek. His expression smoothed to a blank. “Tomorrow,” he said to the weapons master. “We’ll fight a longer bout.”
“With pleasure, my lord.”
Kosenmark hung his practice weapon on the rack and wiped the sweat from his face. “Walk with me,” he said to Gerek. “We can talk while I bathe.”
Gerek followed him into the pleasure house, down the winding stairs to the immense and luxurious rooms given over to baths. Once he had hated Kosenmark. He had believed him a traitor to the king and Vereane. He had believed this man responsible for the death of Gerek’s cousin, Lord Dedrick Maszuryn. Then Kosenmark had unexpectedly offered him trust.
Let me tell you my intentions, he had said. Believe me or not, but listen. Stay in my household a few weeks longer and share my work. Judge for yourself if I am a traitor to the kingdom or not.
Gerek had listened, watched, and eventually found himself as entangled as all the other followers of this man. There were times Gerek loved him. There were other times he cursed himself for succumbing to the man’s influence, and yet he continued to serve him.
In the bathing chambers, Kosenmark stripped off his sweaty drill clothes and stepped into the waiting pool. For a moment, he floated on his back in the warm waters, seemingly oblivious to his secretary’s presence.
He is not like other men, Dedrick Maszuryn had said, years before when he first told his cousin about his lover, Raul Kosenmark. He chose mutilation. Some said he wanted to spare his brother. Some say he gambled his manhood for a chance to rule beside the old king.
A king who demanded this sacrifice for all his chief councillors.
Then Baerne had died, and his grandson, Armand of Angersee, had dismissed Kosenmark from Duenne. Rumor said Lord Khandarr had offered to restore both Raul Kosenmark’s manhood and his place at court—but in return he had demanded loyalty to Khandarr himself and not the king. Others claimed that Lord Kosenmark had formed a shadow court to work against the king and rule Veraene from a distance.
Both had elements of the truth, but neither was accurate.
Gerek lowered himself to sit by the pool’s edge. Kosenmark sank into the bathwaters with a sigh of pleasure. When he rose again, he splashed water over his face, then took up a bar of soap. “Tell me the news.”
All the words he rehearsed fled Gerek’s memory. He said, “Leos Dzavek is dead.”
The reaction was nothing more than a brief stillness—invisible unless you knew the man. “You are certain of it?” Kosenmark said.
His fluting voice had sunk to a soft even tone. Gerek’s skin prickled in sudden apprehension. He licked his lips. “I-I have not read the report itself. Benik s-s-set spells on the paper keyed to you alone. But she wrote a message on the out-s-side, and its meaning is clear enough. She wrote in old Immatran,” he added, as if Kosenmark needed this reassurance of his agent’s discretion.
Kosenmark merely smiled. “What did that message say?”
“The mountain has fallen.”
“Hmmmm.” Kosenmark lathered his hands and ran them over his body, scrubbing away the sweat and grime from his sword drill. “So our friend Leos is dead.”
“According to the code, yes.”
Kosenmark gave no answer to that. His gaze had turned inward. Even after six months in the man’s employ, Gerek could not read anything in that still, beautiful mask. Unhappiness, perhaps, but a philosopher might say that each emotion implied the presence of its opposite, and he had not known Lord Raul Kosenmark to express such an alien emotion as happiness, at least not in his presence.
Abruptly, Kosenmark submerged himself, then stood up, the water streaming over his body.
He was different from other men, Gerek thought, trying to look elsewhere and failing. Tall and well made, his honey-brown skin gleaming wet, his eyes like polished gold coins. The mage-surgeon had done his job well, but the differences were too obvious to miss. The hairless chest, the stubby penis, the blank expanse between his legs where magic had burned away the flesh.
Kosenmark studied him coolly in return. “Have you seen enough, my friend?”
Gerek flinched and bowed his head. Still with that impassive expression, Kosenmark toweled himself dry and drew on a clean robe. He left the room and mounted the stairs. Gerek trailed behind him, beset with thoughts of dogs and lackeys.
