Allegiance, page 8
part #3 of River of Souls Series
“I’m afraid,” she said.
“So am I,” he replied. “But I am more afraid to do nothing.”
An answer she might have offered herself, a year ago.
She was about to tell him they had nothing more to discuss, when Benno surprised her by asking, “What next? You have a plan—it’s obvious—and you want to tell us about it. Or at least selected portions.”
“Selected portions, yes. More would be dangerous.”
“A simple excuse,” Emma replied.
Benno reproved her with a gentle clasp of hand-over-hand. Lover and friend, she thought bitterly. He would be loyal to us both.
Raul made no gesture to admit or deny what she said. “I go to Duenne tomorrow,” he said. “Leos Dzavek is dead. Armand will know that soon, if he does not already. You can imagine what follows next. So I intend to demand a public audience before the entire council. It is my right as my father’s heir. There I will say all that I should have said years before.”
At first she was unable to speak. Dzavek dead. Raul Kosenmark returning to court and council. It was as though the gods had reached down and overturned all their lives. But immediately after came the thought, He dissolved his shadow court, but his spies are still at work in Károví.
She wondered what else he had kept from her and Benno.
“Will Armand listen?” Benno asked softly. “He never has before.”
Another shrug, but Emma did not mistake that gesture for indifference. “I cannot tell. I also intend to speak with my father and his factions—with any faction that will have me—so that mine is not the only voice. There are others who might dislike me, but they dislike more the idea of a senseless war. They know that Károví will not yield, if they ever do yield, without a long and bloody fight.”
More revelations. “When did your father return to court?”
Kosenmark smiled bitterly. “Another recent event. I wrote to him last month, during my absence.”
Yes, the absence that remained a mystery.
“What of Lir’s jewels?” Benno asked. “Dzavek had one. Surely—”
“I have no report about them.”
She thought he had not meant to disclose even that much, because he fell silent and stared into his water cup. Arranging his lies, she suspected.
But when he spoke again, it was with obvious difficulty. And unexpected honesty.
“Last spring, three Károvín ships foundered off the coast from Osterling Keep. The survivors were taken prisoner. However, one among them was not from Károví. She was from Morennioù.”
“Impossible,” Benno said. “For that—”
Raul held up a hand. “I know. For that, the ships needed to cross the barrier.”
The barrier called Lir’s Veil was a burning wall of magic that had appeared three hundred years before, during the second and bloodiest of the wars between Veraene and Károví. History said Morennioùen mages had died working that spell, all so the island province could separate itself from the mainland. No one knew if that were true—all the ships sent by Veraene’s kings to investigate the matter had vanished.
Emma Iani shivered, thinking of the magical power Dzavek must have expended to break through such an invincible barrier.
“How?” she whispered. “How could they—?”
“I don’t know,” Raul said. “But they did. The key is that this woman was the new queen of Morennioù. I met with her and Ilse Zhalina. The queen admitted that she had discovered the second of Lir’s jewels. She claimed it remained hidden in Morennioù, while the Károvín had taken a decoy specially prepared to deceive them. I am not certain how much of her story I can believe, but the part of recovering Lir’s jewel rang true.”
Emma listened as he told a story of negotiations with this supposed queen, the impasse between them, and Ilse Zhalina’s offer of herself as hostage. She had wondered at their break, had suspected a deception, but never one quite so complete as what Raul’s words implied.
“Our plan was to provide the queen with a ship,” Raul said. “Unlike Dzavek we could not draw on the jewels’ magic, but we hoped to chart a course around Lir’s Veil. There are several old texts that mention such a possibility…” Again he stared into the cup, but this time, Emma had the clear sense of absolute truth, one almost too difficult to speak of.
He drank off the water. “The Károvín found us on Hallau Island,” he said at last. “We fought. The Morennioùen queen fled into the magical plane. Ilse followed her, as did the Károvín officer leading the attack.
“We waited several days,” he said softly. “They did not return.”
After that, Emma could say nothing. No accusations of lies. No demands to know why he had not confided in them earlier. She knew the reasons. They all ended in the words, Because of Markus Khandarr.
Benno shook his head. He reached past the water jug and filled all their cups with strong wine. Emma drank hers down in one gulp. The spirits burned her throat and cut through all her indecision. So, they might die. At least they would die with good cause.
“Tell us what to do,” she said.
“Watch,” Raul said. “Watch for any sign of Ilse, the jewels, or the queen. Can you promise me that?”
He spoke to them both, but it was Emma who replied.
“We can. We promise.”
She took her husband’s hand, felt the answering pressure of his palm against hers, his pulse warm and steady, and knew they had chosen the right path.
* * *
GEREK WAS IMMERSED in a dream of ships and seas when a sharp crack, like the sound of a mast being sprung, broke through. He jerked awake and swayed, thinking he was aboard a ship. A storm was his first thought. The ship foundering on the shoals near Osterling Keep. A dream from lives ago, or one that had never taken place. He stumbled from his hammock. Not a hammock, but a bed. His foot tangled in the linens and he pitched forward. A hand caught him by the shoulder. “Maester Hessler. Maester Hessler, wake up, please. Lord Kosenmark wishes to see you at once.”
The images from that dream—of enormous waves rising up beside the ship, of the moonlight striking through a single patch of clear sky—scattered. The groan from the ship’s planks was his own, protesting. The waves were nothing but fluttering shadows, cast by a single candle on a nearby table. He drew a deep breath, recognized the man’s voice, which continued to urge him awake. Uli. Uli Baier. Kosenmark’s senior runner.
“I-I-I am awake,” he said.
“Take a moment,” the man said. “He wants you with a clear head.”
From somewhere, Uli produced a pitcher of water. Gerek splashed a few handfuls over his face. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes with the towel Uli handed him. Had the runner come prepared? Or were there maidservants gawking at him? He felt too self-conscious, standing naked and bleary-eyed.
“Would you have tea as well?” he asked. “And do you kn-know what he wants?”
Uli shook his head. Gerek would get no answers then, until he spoke with Kosenmark himself. If then, he thought. A week had passed since Benik’s report had arrived. Since then Kosenmark had discussed nothing with Gerek outside the business of the pleasure house. No politics. No mention of jewels or Károví. No mention of Leos Dzavek.
He hurried himself into clothes. Uli lit a second candle for Gerek, who accepted it with thanks and jogged out the door.
The house was silent, the hallways dark. It was three hours past midnight, the middle point between night and dawn. Gerek took the stairs as quickly as he dared. His panting breath echoed from the walls. Had he ever traversed the house at this hour? Once or twice, perhaps, when his work kept him at his desk until late. Kathe would be just leaving the kitchen …
Lamps illuminated the upper landing. A second runner was just exiting Raul’s office. As their glances met, Gerek caught the brief widening of the man’s eyes, the shake of his head. A warning of Kosenmark’s mood?
Gerek entered the room with some trepidation. He found Raul Kosenmark kneeling by the fireplace, which blazed far too bright and hot, despite the close summer night. Papers were spread around him. The letter box—that cursed magic-spelled letter box where Kosenmark stored his most private documents—stood open with all its secret contents exposed, and Kosenmark was feeding the pages one by one into the flames. At Gerek’s entrance, he glanced up with a fey smile.
“I have a gift for you,” he said.
Gerek paused, unable to think of a suitable reply. Or a safe one.
“Under ordinary circumstances, you would thank me,” Raul continued. He stood up and went to his desk, where he sorted through a smaller stack of papers. “But you have had little reason to.”
“My lord—”
“My Lord Haszler, do not pretend gratitude where none is deserved.”
“I-I-” Gerek stopped again at the mention of his true name. He had to force himself to breathe steadily. He noted, as from a distance, that Kosenmark waited patiently.
“I do n-not pretend anything,” he said. “If I am grateful, I-I am. If you dislike that, you should send me away.”
That brought a surprised laugh from Kosenmark. “Very well. No pretense, not from either of us. So. The gift.” He picked out a few pages, heavy parchment covered in small close script. Raul laid them out and touched each one, as if reassuring himself of their existence. His expression had gone pensive, though a stranger might not have noticed the change. “I am offering you this house,” he said, “and everything inside, except for the contents of my private chambers. Those I will send for in a few weeks.”
“The courtesans as well?” Gerek asked.
“You have a need for them?” Raul said drily.
“N-n-no, my lord.”
“Good. I would hate to think you tired of Kathe so easily.”
Never, Gerek thought. Not for a hundred years. Not for a hundred lives.
To Raul, he only bowed his head.
“I regret I cannot attend your wedding,” Raul went on. “I leave for Duenne at first light.”
Another surprise, another exclamation swallowed.
“I have business with the king,” Raul added. “You do not need to know more. I hope…” And here his voice lost its faintly amused tone. “I hope this sudden break will protect you and yours from Lord Khandarr’s attentions. If it does not, send word to Lord Vieth. Do not use the usual channels. Send word directly to Vieth or to Lord Benno Iani.”
He handed over the sheets of parchment, all of them witnessed and stamped with the magical and wax seals of the various offices in Tiralien. Kosenmark had signed over the house itself to Lord Gerek Haszler, favorite cousin of his once lover, Lord Dedrik Maszuryn. He had also allocated a substantial sum to Kathe Raendl, and a second, lesser amount for the house expenses until Lord Gerek took formal possession. Gerek wondered what Kathe’s mother would make of these gifts. He wondered what Kathe herself would think.
The next few hours were spent arranging for contingencies and various fallbacks. If Gerek and Kathe wished to keep the house, he might consider retaining the guards. If they chose to sell, the guards and staff could find employment with the duke at Valentain. And if they in turn chose to go elsewhere …
On and on, each permutation laid out in that fluting voice. It was much like their discussions for other, equally complicated plans, except this one carried with it an air of finality.
At last they were done. Runners carried a few saddlebags below. Others went to work in the long-concealed private chambers, packing clothing, books, and other belongings into crates for later. Dawn was approaching, but Gerek had no inclination to sleep. He watched as Kosenmark gathered a few papers together and wrapped them in waxed sheets. He noted the man did not order him away. Perhaps he was human after all.
At last Kosenmark stood and glanced around the room. His gaze met Gerek’s and he smiled, a genuine one at last. “Your beloved has missed you, undoubtedly.”
As does yours, Gerek thought.
He said nothing, however. He still retained some sense of self-preservation.
Kosenmark’s lips curled into a sardonic smile, as if he guessed Gerek’s thoughts. “Come. Walk with me, please.”
It was a request, not a command—an acknowledgment that Kosenmark was no longer master and lord.
They descended the stairs, but at the second landing, Kosenmark turned into the corridors. Gerek followed. A dog to the last, he thought. But it was true, his earlier impression. Kosenmark was bidding this house farewell. They—he—wandered through the corridors and galleries, through rooms empty of clients, and down another level to the main floor, where they took a circuitous route among the parlors and sitting rooms, the common room, and then, by a twist and a quirk, into a small library, seldom used, that overlooked the gardens below, now little more than shadows in the early morning light.
Kosenmark stared out the window a long quarter hour. Then, with dawn seeping through the trees, he turned away with an audible sigh. He and Gerek paced the last length of halls side by side, until they came to the front entryway where two servants waited.
There was another pause. Another searching glance that took in the high, arched ceiling, the black-and-white-tiled floor, the mosaics in the wall that depicted the goddess Lir and her brother-god Toc in all their incarnations. Until this moment, Gerek had almost convinced himself that Kosenmark would not take the final step, that all these preparations were a pretense. But even as he released his breath, Kosenmark gave a sharp nod to the two servants. They opened the doors and he passed through them alone.
Gerek froze a moment, too startled to move. Then he hurried after Kosenmark.
Outside, Benedikt Ault and eight guards waited on horses. One of the stable boys held the reins for a tenth, riderless horse. This was no entourage of a duke’s son, Gerek thought. This was a military company.
Kosenmark turned and gripped Gerek by the arm. “Be well, be safe, my friend.”
Gerek could do nothing more than return the clasp. Friend to friend. Then Kosenmark was striding toward his horse. He mounted, gave the order to depart, and was away.
CHAPTER SIX
FOR THE PAST six years, Kathe Raendl had awakened to a cacophony of bellsong. She had hated the noise at first and called the bells metal-tongued monsters. Their clamor was nothing like the silvery chimes in Duenne’s palace, which insinuated themselves into your sleep and lifted you to wakefulness. Subtle, much like the court itself.
She had come to love Tiralien even so—the whisper of the seas, the sense of being perched on the edge of the world and its water-filled horizon. She even came to love Lord Kosenmark’s house, a place of shadows and bright-lit halls, filled with elegant statuary, rare books and paintings, its halls scented with sweet perfume and the musk of sexual spendings. But she never forgot the listening devices within, nor that Kosenmark himself was a creature of court and politics. And the bells …
Bellsong crashed through her dreams, waking her abruptly.
She lay there, her pulse beating far too fast, uncertain for a moment where she was. Bells continued to ring. The familiar noise anchored her in the ordinary world. This was Tiralien. The seventh year of Armand of Angersee’s reign. And she was Kathe Raendl, assistant cook in Lord Kosenmark’s pleasure house. She counted the peals. Eight and two quarter-hour chimes. Plus whatever bells she had missed. Call it half past ten, judging by the angle of sunlight.
Too early, she thought, and buried her face into her pillow. Let my mother take charge of the girls by herself.
Except she had promised Mistress Denk to review the kitchen’s budget for the coming month. And there was the problem with Dana, who had run off with a stable boy the week before.
We need to hire extra staff, she thought wearily. Another girl for the kitchen and at least two more to serve in the common room.
She would talk to Mistress Denk this afternoon.
But Mistress Denk would insist they discuss the matter with Kathe’s mother, who was the senior cook. Kathe groaned. Perhaps that discussion could wait.
She lay there a moment longer, unwilling to encounter the day just yet, but memories of the previous night stirred her into wakefulness, restless and unbidden. It had been a chaotic night in the pleasure house. Josef had quarreled with Tatiana. Nadine had tweaked and teased everyone, like a child who knew a terrible secret but refused to tell. Half the kitchen girls were in tears before midnight, and the other half seemed close to taking up knives in battle.
Then there was the quarrel with her mother.
He is nothing but a ruined scholar.
Not true. He’s a good man. Lord Kosenmark trusts him.
And that is your best recommendation?
No, but—
But she could not tell her mother that Gerek Hessler, a wandering scholar and dependent on Lord Kosenmark, was in truth Lord Gerek Haszler, whose cousin was a companion to the queen of Veraene. Not to mention that his other cousin was Lord Dedrick, once Lord Kosenmark’s lover. Those were his secrets, not hers.
Kathe rolled over onto her back to glare at the innocent ceiling.
I love him. I loved him ever since he first knocked on the door. He is clever and brave and …
An idiot would never see past the stutters, the self-effacing mannerisms, which all sprang from incurable shyness, but she knew better. If she had not mistaken things, so did Lord Kosenmark. Not that Lord Kosenmark deserved much more than a knock over his head. She glanced up, as though her thoughts were audible, but there were no vents here. No one could spy on her tears or foul temper.
(Good. If there were, she might throw her heaviest pot at Lord Kosenmark’s thick head.)
So. They would marry in a week or less. Gerek had written to his parents and the rest of his numerous family. Other than Gerek’s older brother, no one seemed to care. Was that good? A poor omen? She couldn’t tell.
Kathe blew out a breath and hauled herself from the bed. Once she had washed and dressed in a clean smock and skirt, she felt more herself. She drank a cup of cold tea to wet her throat, then headed down to the kitchens.
Hanne, Birte, and Janna were already at their workstations. Janna kneaded dough for the afternoon baking. Hanna was grinding coffee beans, and Birte plucked the stems from a basket of fresh strawberries, so that late-rising guests might partake of a light meal before they departed. Steffi and the new girl, Gerda, had lingered over their own breakfast, but the moment Kathe appeared, they started up to clear away their dirty dishes. There was no sign of her mother.
