‘The Gonk is impressed.’
Katarina sighed. ‘Has anyone told you how annoying it is talking about yourself in the third person?’
‘The Gonk has heard it said once or twice.’
‘Only once or twice?’
He smiled, and there was no warmth in it. ‘The Gonk did not count those who are no longer with us.’
Probably best not to irritate someone who didn’t bat an eyelid at poisoning a whole tea room just to kill one person, Katarina thought. ‘You said you have information for me. What do you know that could possibly interest me?’
‘What has been happening to your country’s spies. It is why you are here, is it not?’
Katarina took in a slow breath, trying to calm herself. ‘The Sudalrese ambassador may be interested,’ she said carefully, ‘I could relay anything pertinent. What would you want in exchange for this information?’
The spy picked up his teacup carefully, gently swishing the liquid around. ‘Like for like,’ he said. He took a dainty sip. ‘Perhaps a small favour.’ He held up a hand to forestall Katarina. ‘Nothing that would compromise you or your homeland.’
She met his eyes as he set the teacup down. ‘You ask much.’
‘True, yet our nations are not enemies. In this, I think, we may share a common cause.’ He watched her from under the brim of his hat, but Katarina held her tongue. She waited, the pair of them frozen like sculptures, neither willing to break the silence.
After several seconds the Meracian nodded slowly. ‘There have been a number of deaths and disappearances these last two weeks. One by one, foreign agents have been found dead in alleyways or simply disappeared in the night. Alongside this, a number of local folk have come to unsavoury ends; the poor, mostly, though one or two of the city’s notables joined them.’ He frowned. ‘To most, it would seem like a killer haunts the streets, his victims random.’
‘But you think otherwise?’
He nodded, slender fingers wrapping themselves around the teacup. ‘Felene was the first, the most poorly hidden spy in all of Sudalra. Made to look like a robbery, but although her purse was emptied her necklace was untouched, the sapphire gleaming in the night.’ The Gonk shrugged. ‘The blacksmith followed soon after, though his body has still not been found. People say he left his homeland in a hurry, though he never spoke of what occurred.’ He took a careful sip of tea, peering over the lip at Katarina. ‘Yet he never spoke ill of Sudalra.’ He laid the teacup down silently. ‘That is probably what got him killed.’ The spy smiled. ‘Then his killers used him to catch whoever followed, and you walked straight into their trap.’
Katarina stiffened. ‘You were there?’
‘A trusted friend watched the smith’s house,’ he said quickly, raising his hands in supplication. ‘The Gonk had nothing to do with the attempt on your life.’ He lowered his hands to the table with exaggerated deliberation. ‘Admirable, to go charging in like that, but once they realise the man they left is dead, they’ll start looking for you.’
‘And just who are they?’ Katarina asked sharply.
‘Other immigrants of questionable provenance have also come to untimely ends since then,’ he said, ignoring her question. ‘A mere day later, a Norvek carpenter disappeared, leaving a half-finished table with an unusual red-brown varnish. The day after that, a Vrondi merchant was found dead, his purse stolen. Of his bodyguard, however, there was no sign.’ The Gonk raised a finger. ‘You see the pattern? Every spy in the city is being hunted down.’
Katarina scowled. ‘By whom?’
He lowered his eyes, apparently fascinated with the contents of his teacup. ‘In two weeks, nine known or suspected spies have all died or disappeared,’ he said. ‘Two members of Meracian Intelligence also had “accidents”, the reasonably talented Briasallis among them.’
Katarina sighed. ‘And should I know who that was?’
‘Meracia’s second greatest spy.’ The Gonk looked up from his cup and smiled. ‘The Gonk’s greatest feat was to remain in the shadows, and leave Briasallis thinking he was, in fact, Meracia’s greatest spy.’ He sighed heavily, picking up his cup and gently rocking it, watching as the tea slopped over the lip onto the saucer. ‘It is perhaps why the Gonk still lives, and acts unhindered.’
Great, Katarina thought, I find myself listening to an insane egomaniac whose sense of self-importance is only eclipsed by his belief in his own abilities. There was something about him, though, a faint air of sadness that even the foolish disguise could not completely hide, and as Katarina stared into his eyes she saw the incandescent anger that boiled beneath the thin veneer of cultured manners. Then again… the foppish exterior and narcissistic arrogance may itself be a disguise. And that, Katarina realised, would make him very dangerous indeed, a man committed to serving his country even if he must first betray it to do so. She had realised even before his admission that he was a Meracian spy; he knew far too much of events to be anything other. Yet to risk charges of treason by consorting with a foreign spy was something no man would do without good cause, especially a man who knew how the Meracians treated traitors. ‘It’s your own people, isn’t it?’
He nodded, a sour expression on his face. ‘The King’s Spymaster himself.’
Katarina cursed softly. ‘Then I suspect Lord Kelfinniaré may soon find himself in unpleasant circumstances.’
His head shot up. ‘You don’t know?’ The spy deflated. ‘The former spymaster was the other Meracian to perish; nearly two weeks ago, and from a supposed heart attack.’
He had Katarina’s full attention now. ‘Foul play?’
‘He was strong as an ox.’ The Gonk shrugged. ‘There was also a faint bluish tinge to his fingernails of the sort one often sees with certain poisons.’
‘And who has replaced Kelfinniaré?’
‘Who is insignificant, the Gonk is concerned with why; remove the tool and another will replace it, but render the task redundant and no tools are required.’
‘I imagine my father would still very much like to know the who in this case. He takes a dim view of people murdering Sudalrese citizens – whether at home or abroad.’
‘Kelfinniaré’s replacement has not been announced. The new spymaster’s identity has been kept secret.’ The Gonk smiled. ‘The Gonk shall learn his name this night. Perhaps the Black Duke might find such a name of interest?’
‘Perhaps,’ Katarina allowed. ‘As you chase the who of it, do you already know the why?’
He lowered the teacup to the saucer with a rattle. ‘Suspicions only. Such machinations are too elaborate for a mere lord’s power play.’ He leaned forward and whispered across the table, ‘Such underhand intrigues hint towards a threat to the royal house.’
Katarina nodded slowly. ‘Although the timing is strange,’ she said.
The Gonk was suddenly very still. ‘How so?’
She shrugged as casually as she could. ‘A plot surfaces as Meracia prepares to send its soldiers to war… Could the two be related?’ She sighed softly. ‘It is probably nothing, of course, but I have heard rumours that many of the lords have still not despatched their regiments to the Spur, and if the Spur falls…’
‘Meracia is wide open,’ he finished. The Gonk pondered this for a moment. ‘No,’ he said finally with a firm shake of his head, ‘the lords may play their games for influence and power, but no true Meracian would betray his nation to the savages.’
‘And if the lords were offered power, above what they could usually achieve? What then?’
‘Then Meracia could fall,’ he muttered darkly, staring down into his cup. He sat there for a moment, immobile. His head twitched in a shake then shot up, eyes blazing as his hand snapped forward and grabbed Katarina’s wrist. ‘What do you know?’
His bony fingers dug into her wrist, and Katarina winced. ‘Nothing for certain,’ she said, ‘just suspicions.’ She glanced down at the fingers and briefly toyed with the idea of stabbing him through the hand. Not after listening to all this, she decided. ‘I am
sure the Norvek people were equally convinced that nobody would ever turn traitor, and yet more than one was revealed in their midst. More than one,’ she repeated, ‘and Norve is far from the Gurdal’s home. What, then, might they have accomplished already in Meracia? A single spy within your ranks, or more? I have heard whispers that many lords have still not despatched their troops to the Spur, and by all accounts the war is almost upon you.’
The clawed fingers slowly uncurled, leaving a white print across Katarina’s burnished skin. She flexed her fingers as the spy stared morosely across the table.
‘It makes a terrible kind of sense,’ he said after a few moments. ‘There has been more resistance than might be expected to the king’s call to arms.’ He straightened up. ‘But I think a more mundane plot more likely. Yes.’
‘And if you are wrong?’
The Gonk chewed his lip thoughtfully. ‘The answer lies with the spymaster. Whether traditional plot or high treason, he holds the answer.’ He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘The timing is indeed suspicious. The day after tomorrow the king has called the Lords’ Council to session and has forced them to a final vote upon the Gurdal threat – all shall march, or none shall march.’
Katarina snorted. ‘And if the vote goes ill?’
‘Then we shall all burn.’ He smiled. ‘Whatever the nature of the plot it must be brought to light before the meeting. Tonight the Gonk will break into the spymaster’s office and learn the truth. Tomorrow, however, the Gonk may require assistance; even he cannot reach the king easily.’ The spy chuckled mirthlessly. ‘Not without regrettable casualties.’
And here it comes, Katarina thought. ‘What do you need from me?’
The Gonk smiled. ‘The Sudalrese ambassador might easily gain audience with the king, and bring proof of the conspiracy.’
‘He might, but why would he take such a risk? Although our nations are not enemies, neither are we allies.’
‘So the Black Duke might have the spymaster’s name, to use however he chooses. And,’ the Gonk smiled, ‘as you well know, should Meracia fall, the other lands will soon follow. Sudalra will not be spared simply because you stood aside.’
Katarina nodded, suppressing a smile of her own. ‘As you say. The name first, and your evidence will be delivered – you have my word.’
‘The Gonk shall deliver it at noon tomorrow, simply name the place and the Gonk shall appear like smoke in the night.’ He shuffled in his seat as Katarina named another tavern run by Sudalrese expatriates. ‘There is another small matter,’ he said with what Katarina felt sure was false discomfort.
‘Ah, yes; the second favour you mentioned.’
‘The deaths of foreign spies are most likely a preventative measure, but there is a chance that one may have stumbled onto those behind the conspiracy. The Gonk needs to know if any Sudalrese travellers still live in High Mera.’
‘You ask much. And offer little.’
‘The Gonk asks only as he needs,’ he replied primly. ‘He knows that a servant fell from a high room in the palace some days ago.’
‘I am sure that is not unheard of.’
‘A quiet young man,’ the Gonk continued, unperturbed. ‘By all accounts – specifically the office of the Royal Spymaster – the boy’s father was a sailor, his mother a seamstress. The only detail missing from the account was his father’s particular trade, namely delivering Sudalrese brandy along the Meracian coast.’ His lips quirked in a smile. ‘One of yours, the Gonk assumes?’
Katarina nodded. Another one accounted for.
‘Likewise, a long-serving butler of the former spymaster disappeared shortly after his master’s unfortunate death.’ He shook his head with a wry grin. ‘A fine accomplishment of your father’s that particular one, but he spoke in his sleep. In Sudalrese,’ he added. ‘Do any more remain?’
Katarina straightened her dress and rose. ‘The Lady Katarina will find out. She will not, however, wait tomorrow; do not be late.’
The Gonk made a fumbling attempt to bow from his seat. ‘The Gonk delivers.’
She shrugged, unable to resist one last barb. ‘Your country,’ she said. She smiled, and turned to leave. ‘One of your breasts has slipped,’ she called over her shoulder, gliding away before he could get the last word in.
*
Stetch materialised next to her five streets away, the busy lunchtime throng parting before his scowling mug. So he does have his uses.
‘Did anyone follow?’
He snorted loudly, conveying an excess of disdain. ‘Where now?’
‘I will return to the inn,’ Katarina told him. ‘You, however, are going to pay our dear ambassador a visit and deliver a message.’ She glanced across at him and smiled sweetly. ‘Try to make sure nobody follows you on the way back.’ She relayed a brief message and ignored the displeasure shining brightly on her companion. ‘And try not to fall into too many alehouses on your way,’ she added. That ought to give the ambassador something to think about, she thought as Stetch stalked off towards his destination. I suspect he is not going to have a pleasant meeting. But then, she wasn’t sure any meeting with Stetch could be called pleasant.
17.
The Skull Inn was perched on the edge of High Mera’s western district, its rear garden overlooking the River Khah as it arrowed through the city towards the bay, neatly separating the nobles’ district from the rest of the city even as its twin, the River Shal, served as guardian of the district’s eastern boundary.
The sun was past its zenith as Tol sat at one of the tables closest to the riverbank, staring out over the water at the huge edifices lining the far side. Most of the other tables were occupied, and the inn seemed to do a brisk lunch-time trade. The staff, Tol had noticed, seemed to be almost entirely Sudalrese, and he found himself wondering whether all of the taverns in the city were run by immigrants. And if so, is it just Sudalrese, or are people of other nations getting in on it? They had a reputation as a close-knit community, and it was well-known that Sudalra’s spy network was larger than that of any other nation: more extensive, better informed. Is it coincidence that so many of their people choose to ply their trade overseas? Tol wondered. If it wasn’t coincidence then it would be a unique achievement, an entire nation travelling the world and sending scraps of information back to the homeland. Truly staggeri—
A tankard thumped onto the table, amber liquid sloshing over the rim.
‘I didn’t order another,’ Tol said as he turned his gaze away from the river.
A hooded figure slipped onto the bench opposite him.
‘It seems a poor way to thank the man who saved my life.’ Delicate hands gripped the cloak’s hood and lowered it, revealing a fragile face framed by night-black hair.
‘Suranna.’ She looked different by daylight, and there was no darkness to hide the slight – but distinct – curves of her figure. She was slender, to be sure, but Tol couldn’t think how he could have mistaken her for a man.
She greeted him with a lopsided smile. ‘I had not thought to see you again so soon. Isn’t this a coincidence?’
Tol sighed, his fingers creeping around the tankard’s girth. ‘How many taverns did you search before this one?’
‘Four or five.’ She shrugged. ‘You’re a difficult man to find.’
‘That was the general idea,’ Tol said. He picked up the tankard and inclined his head. ‘Why are you here?’
Suranna shrugged again. ‘I wanted to thank you for saving my life. Twice,’ she added. ‘First you took on two of the duellists, and then you lied to the Watch to spare me Lord Drayken’s wrath.’
‘You’re welcome.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘You are not making this easy for me.’
Tol shrugged. ‘It’s done. What more is there to say?’ He raised the tankard to his lips and sipped at the ale, his eyes wandering away from Suranna’s face to survey the mansions across the river.
The noblewoman was quiet for a moment, staring at Tol as he drank. ‘I had to
get out,’ she said, her voice gentle. ‘Visitors have plagued me all morning, asking about last night. Asking about you.’
Tol froze. ‘And what did you tell them?’
Her face twisted briefly in distaste, like she’d just swallowed a fly. ‘I told them we were engaged in a friendly duel – no honour at stake, just a test of skill.’
Tol lowered his tankard. ‘That was kind of you.’
The same pained expression returned to her face. ‘Those few who I deigned to speak with – friends rather than simpering gossips – I… I told them we were interrupted before the contest was decided.’
Now that is a surprise. Tol couldn’t imagine someone as proud as Suranna appeared to be ever passing up the opportunity to crow about how she had bested the Knight of Angels. Even if it was by a trick. ‘Why would you do that?’
She looked at him like he was the biggest fool ever to walk the world. ‘You are the church’s champion, chosen by an angel. People need to believe you are everything a hero should be.’ Suranna smiled sadly. ‘Heroes do not lose duels to women, even women who are peerless duellists.’ She fidgeted on the bench. ‘I wanted to tell everyone I won, I wanted more than anything for people to know, but I have faith in the Maker and his angels. An average duellist you may be, Sir Tol, but you were chosen by the angel who holds the watch over Korte. Who am I to question her choice?’
Tol laughed. ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t be the first.’ He grew serious again. ‘But I thank you for what you did, I know it must have been hard for you.’
Suranna gave a gracious nod. ‘So why are you really here?’
‘Pardon?’
‘I first looked for you at the church barracks, but nobody had seen you, which I thought was odd as you arrived yesterday. Why would you pay for lodgings when the church would put you up for free?’
‘I will join the Reve soon enough, but I have some errands to run first.’
‘I see,’ she said. ‘And do any of these errands have anything to do with those southerners you were following down the street last night? Friends of yours, are they?’
Angel's Deceit (Angelwar Book 2) Page 12
