Stetch leaned back in his chair, and Katarina watched carefully as the warrior finally pulled his eyes away from the ornate Meracian script. He looked up, mouth parting as he took a breath. The next moment, she knew, Stetch would grunt “no”, or something equally succinct and unacceptable.
He paused, mouth lolling open as he stared into her eyes. ‘Dangerous,’ was all he said.
Katarina was speechless for several seconds. What? He’s agreeing to it? She had already prepared a speech, ready to lecture the Sworn man on why they needed to go to the tea rooms, even if it was almost certainly a trap. But if they know where I am, why have they not simply sent assassins to the inn? Katarina already knew the answer though. It was easier to bring your prey to you than stalk it in unfamiliar territory. If they did it right, she’d be dead before anyone realised a murder had taken place. But an assault here? she thought. It would be a bloodbath. And spies, as Katarina well knew, preferred to operate in the shadows, their existence a rumour rather than street gossip in the wake of a massacre. And Stetch had to know that, so why was he allowing her to blunder into a trap?
Perhaps he’s finally reached the limit of his tolerance. True, she tried to make his life miserable just for fun, but Katarina couldn’t recall a single event that might have precipitated this sudden change of heart. ‘It might be a trap,’ she said.
Stetch snorted a laugh. ‘Definitely.’
He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, hefting his tankard and slurping its contents. Katarina’s eyes followed the mug as it thumped down to the table, clear liquid slopping over the lip. Water? That, she realised, was what had been bothering her. The familiar aroma of ale had been absent from Stetch when she had rejoined him. True, she had only been upstairs for a few minutes, but that was usually more than enough time for Stetch to get his hands on some form of ale or liquor. Katarina swallowed nervously. Things must be really bad if he’s stopped drinking. A sober Stetch was probably more terrifying than a drunk one, and almost definitely more dangerous.
‘You’re not going to try and stop me going?’
Stetch shook his head. ‘Try?’ The wry grin on his face made it clear that, if he chose, there would be no trying involved.
‘Are you tired of my company?’
The question unsettled him for a moment, but Stetch nodded.
Katarina went cold. ‘So if I survive, I can expect a knife in the back? What will you do? Tell my father the Meracians did it?’
Stetch cursed, his face black with fury. ‘Idiot,’ he muttered.
‘How dare—’
Katarina gasped as the slap spun her head, colours twirling in front of her eyes. She sat there, speechless, as hard eyes held her in place.
‘I know my duty,’ Stetch growled. He flicked the note across the table, the spinning paper sliding off the edge and into Katarina’s lap. ‘A trap,’ he grunted. ‘Keep one alive, maybe get some answers.’ He leaned forward, a finger shooting out towards Katarina’s face. She flinched, but the finger hovered a couple of inches in front of her nose. ‘Don’t die,’ Stetch barked. He relaxed back into his seat. ‘Or do.’ He shrugged.
Katarina swallowed hard. I’ve gone too far. Not smart considering she was about to step into a trap and the angry man in front of her was, regrettably, probably her best hope of survival. I suppose I should apologise. That, however, might give Stetch entirely the wrong idea.
‘You know that only ladies are allowed in the tea garden? You will have to wait outside.’
He nodded, a nasty grin spreading across Stetch’s face. ‘Whistle if you’re dying’. He thought for a moment. ‘Loudly,’ he added.
‘Perhaps you should disguise yourself as a lady.’
His reply was not something a lady should ever have to hear.
*
The Lady Garden Tea Rooms were situated in High Mera’s central district, nestled between two small estates on the main thoroughfare that ran west to east between the bridges joining the district to the rest of the city. Katarina hesitated on the threshold, fighting the doubts that had been building in her mind. The entrance to the grounds was clouded with ivy and fragrant flowers. Beyond it lay twenty-five feet of paving, the sole path through the verdant green lawn to the small, one-storey establishment. Painted a uniform tan, the building appeared quietly understated, a haven of tranquillity where the wives of nobles might meet and discuss the latest gossip, fashions, and manipulations of their spouses. And quite possibly the last place I will ever see.
Katarina took a deep breath and stepped off the road, numb legs taking her slowly to the porch, strands of ivy brushing her hair as she reached the entrance. Too late to back out now. She put a hand on the doorknob, took another fortifying breath to compose herself, and opened the door.
She found herself in a small, pristine room. A few mahogany tables were organised carefully at the back of the room, only one of which had people seated around it. There was a clear path between them, and Katarina could see more tables outside, floating on a sea of green in the rear garden. A small lectern was directly in front of her, currently abandoned, and as Katarina looked to her left she saw a counter running the length the room, facing the rear and broken only by the welcome area where she stood. Nestled against the wall were dozens of small stoves, most of which were in use with an assorted collection of kettles and pots simmering away. She breathed in deeply, spice and cinnamon and honey filling her nostrils. The quiet bustle of the serving staff and the faint smell of home reminded her of the kitchen back in Jhanhar where she had watched her father’s servants, sitting on the counter and nibbling on whatever cakes they had been making that day.
‘You must be Lady val Sharvina.’
She turned at the voice, seeing a tall, elegant woman glide into position behind the lectern. Katarina felt cold, the warmth of the stoves gone in a moment. This was a bad idea.
‘Yes,’ she said.
The woman nodded, her mousy ponytail swishing behind her. ‘Good. If you’ll come with me I’ll show you to your table.’ She turned on her heel, walking swiftly towards the glass doors at the back of the building. Katarina set off after her, taking note of the few ladies seated inside. None seemed to pay her any attention.
The garden was, Katarina had to admit, rather impressive. Perhaps not as beautiful as the gardens of her native Sudalra, but carefully sculpted with the typical Meracian attention to detail. Waist high bushes – fastidiously pruned, with not so much as a leaf out of place – formed perfectly rectangular walls, their foot-wide tops so perfectly flat that a cup of tea filled to the brim might sit without shedding a drop. The hedges separated a variety of tables both round and square, dark mahogany stained deepest umber. The hedges ran in aisles, interspersed with shoulder-high trellises sporting a variety of colourful flowers, affording visitors some modicum of privacy from adjacent tables.
The scent of spring was in the air as Katarina was led deeper and deeper into the garden, following the maze until finally reached the very end and a final trellis just a few feet from the eight-foot high hedge encompassing the property. The woman turned to face Katarina, one hand languidly gesturing beyond the flowery curtain.
‘If you would be so kind as to serve the tea now, child,’ a high, almost falsetto voice asked.
The woman looked to the voice’s owner as Katarina caught up. She gave a slight bow. ‘Of course,’ she said, hurrying past Katarina back towards the distant building.
Katarina covered the last couple of steps, and as she reached the trellis she saw the single figure seated at a small circular table. A woman, clothed in a pale pink, long-sleeved dress more suited for autumn than spring. Her face was hidden behind a sturdy veil, sparkling green eyes peering up at Katarina with ill-restrained curiosity. A wide-brimmed pink hat topped off the outfit, ringlets of long, blonde hair poking out from underneath and resting on her shoulders.
‘Lady val Sharvina,’ she said. ‘I rather thought you might come’. The veil twitched. ‘Answers are a powerful motivat
or for those in our profession, are they not?’
Katarina lowered herself onto the vacant seat, the trellis at her back and an almost overpowering aroma of lavender forcing itself roughly down her throat.
‘I was not aware being a member of the nobility is a profession,’ she replied coolly, studying the woman in front of her. She was plain, best described as solid; broad shoulders poorly disguised by a long-sleeved dress. The same dress did little for the woman’s chest, and a high neckline would leave even the most imaginative letch struggling to guess at the charms below. Katarina had elected for a deep emerald dress for herself, understated and plain, something that would not mark her as one of the wealthier patrons, nor one of the poorest. A light shawl was draped over her shoulders, tassels at each corner, but not even the keenest observer would realise one edge was lined with steel wire to form a rather fetching garrotte.
Katarina adjusted her position, turning slightly to her side so she would catch anyone sneaking towards her; just a shadow in her periphery, but it might give her a moment’s warning. Unless the assassin’s seated at the table behind me. In which case, the first she would know of it would be a rustle of ivy, perhaps a crack of wood, as the dagger’s point speared through the trellis and into her back. Perhaps I should not have come.
‘Come now, child,’ the falsetto trilled, ‘we both know it is your other vocation of which I speak, the darker yet no less noble work of serving kings and dukes and nations.’
Something’s wrong. Katarina’s gaze swept the area, and she abandoned all subtlety, peering back over her shoulder. The walkway between tables was clear, except for a serving girl bearing a tray with a pot of tea and two cups. She turned her attention to the figure before her, eyes unashamedly roving over her body. A couple of seconds was all it took, one glance at the way the veil hung, the slight shadow – an inverted U – curling down over the lips to brush the chin.
‘Be at ease,’ the nasal voice urged, ‘we are alone.’
Katarina forced a smile, twisting to face forward as she heard the rattle of crockery approaching. ‘So we are,’ she said huskily, leaning forward, her sternum against the table. She leaned further forward, her eyes watching carefully as the bright green orbs opposite her darted down almost involuntarily to glance at her cleavage.
Katarina’s hand was already between her legs, skirt hitched up. The stiletto came free as the serving girl arrived and deposited the teapot and cups.
‘Thank you, dear,’ Katarina heard as her arm probed forward underneath the table, point first. The serving girl curtsied and retreated as the dagger found its mark and the figure in front of Katarina hissed in surprise.
‘Who are you and what do you want?’ Katarina demanded. ‘Answer quickly, else be unmanned.’ The dagger twitched in her hand and the man in the dress winced.
He sighed, the falsetto seemingly forgotten. ‘What gave me away?’
16.
‘The fulsome moustache you are sporting beneath that veil,’ Katarina said, ‘that’s what gave you away. What kind of idiot masquerades as a woman but leaves his moustache intact?’
‘The kind of brilliant man who knows he can fool casual observers with his moustache – of which he is very fond – decidedly unshorn.’ The man smiled slightly, keeping his palms carefully on the table. He raised a single finger. ‘The kind of man who can even fool one of the Black Duke’s daughters.’
‘If I hadn’t noticed then perhaps you can explain your current predicament?’ Katarina dug the stiletto in deeper to make her point.
‘But not immediately,’ the man said from beneath his hat. ‘Even one of the illustrious val Sharvina line was fooled by my disguise – however briefly. The duke’s youngest daughter, I would guess. Katarina?’
‘Who are you and what do you want?’ Katarina hissed. ‘I will not ask again.’
‘The Gonk invited you here, and so the Gonk has met you here.’
Katarina hesitated a moment. ‘And does the Gonk always talk about himself like that?’
‘The Gonk does.’
‘Many might call it unwise to use such a name – one known to only a few – as a pseudonym in a letter to someone from Sudalra.’ The dagger twitched in her hand. ‘Very unwise. Perhaps even an insult.’
He laughed, and Katarina nearly stabbed him through the plums in surprise.
‘My true name you already have, Lady Katarina, and few of my countrymen know as much. Thirellius travelled widely, you know, and even visited High Mera.’ He shrugged, wrists bouncing off the table. ‘I had not realised the depth of your nation’s worship, and meant no disrespect.’
‘We do not worship the prophet,’ Katarina said. ‘We revere the man and try to follow his teachings; we have not set him up as an idol. He was just a man.’
The Gonk bowed his head. ‘As you say.’
‘A man who had no children as far as my country’s greatest scholars can fathom. And it is an area of more than casual research.’
His head came up, a wry grin on his face. ‘Then I suppose I must be Thirellius himself.’
Katarina’s face darkened, and she was dimly aware of her left hand tapping out a frantic rhythm on the tabletop. ‘Enough with your nonsense,’ she said. ‘Thirellius lived two hundred years ago, and for all his greatness he was still just a man.’ She quelled her tapping fingers and scowled. ‘You are not him.’
‘And yet we are closely related,’ he replied smoothly, ‘and in revealing my lineage I have parted with valuable information that in the wrong hands could be disastrous.’ The Gonk shook his head. ‘Imagine, hordes of scholars descending on my home and asking silly questions, begging for some trinket once touched by Thirellius.’ He shuddered. ‘Truly frightening.’
Katarina stared at him for a few moments, but she sensed that she would get nothing more useful from the man on who he was. And if I did, could I believe him? No. ‘Why am I here? What do you want?’
‘An interesting question, my dear. What are any of us—’
The stiletto’s twitch cut him off, and Katarina smiled sweetly. ‘It’s such a large blade, and so very heavy. I feel my hand could go into spasm very soon, very soon indeed.’ The smile vanished. ‘Get to the point.’
‘Information. The Gonk requires information, information which you may possess.’ He held up a finger as Katarina opened her mouth, and continued quickly, ‘and in exchange the Gonk will provide you with valuable information in return.’ He grinned, and Katarina felt an overwhelming urge to withdraw the stiletto from its current resting place and bury it in his throat.
Instead, she kept her voice steady. ‘What kind of information?’
‘Put the little knife away, my dear, and the Gonk shall tell all.’
‘One more time,’ she hissed. ‘Call me “my dear” one more time and your moustache will be the only reminder you were once a man.’
‘The Gonk apologises,’ he said, inclining his head slightly. He met Katarina’s gaze for a few moments, finally coughing discreetly. ‘The dagger?’
Katarina held his gaze for a few moments more. If it is a trap, she thought, it is surely the most elaborate one ever – even by Meracian standards. She hesitated a moment, one last quiver of doubt, but reluctantly withdrew the stiletto from its resting place in the man’s groin. She balanced it on her knees, carefully placing her palms on the table and leaning back slightly though every instinct told her this was no time to relax.
‘Tea?’ he suggested, as though nothing more than a casual debate had occurred. Katarina nodded and the blond man picked up the teapot, pouring the dark liquid into each cup with a strangely feminine grace. ‘The Gonk thought it best for refreshments to arrive after yourself,’ he said, returning the teapot to the centre of the table. ‘It may ease any concerns about poison, although you may switch cups if it will alleviate the ingrained paranoia common to those in our profession.’
Katarina had watched him pour carefully, and was certain nothing had been added to either cup. It could already
be in the tea, she supposed. She made no move for a moment, and the man opposite her reached for the nearest tea cup, raising it in a dainty grip and slurping loudly.
Perhaps he has an antidote. Still, that would be a lot of effort to kill her. And a crossbowman popping his head over the top of the wall would be much simpler. Katarina reached for the other cup, and slowly lifted it.
‘The poison could already be in the cup,’ the Gonk said as the cup rose, ‘but you have already considered this.’
The cup stopped its upward journey. ‘Just so.’
‘Bribing the correct servant would be difficult but not impossible.’
‘Definitely possible,’ Katarina agreed.
‘Or perhaps the Gonk has poisoned the water supply used by the tea rooms.’
‘A little excessive, and I don’t hear anyone dying.’
‘A slow-acting poison, naturally.’
‘Ah.’ Katarina lifted the cup to her lips, her eyes riveted on the man opposite her. She opened her mouth and—
‘Yet despite these risks, you will drink anyway?’
Katarina lowered the teacup an inch and smiled. ‘I am thirsty.’ She lifted it in one smooth motion, and took a deep draught. He continued to watch as she lowered the cup to its saucer. ‘Quite passable.’
Angel's Deceit (Angelwar Book 2) Page 11
