Queen's Hunt

by Beth Bernobich

  THE MAIDS BROUGHT his clothes—brushed and pressed—before he finished his coffee and biscuits. Luckily, none of them offered to help him dress. When he had resumed his clothing, a runner took him through a labyrinth of hallways and galleries, up two flights of stairs, to a wing populated entirely with offices. They were all beautiful and yet utterly businesslike, very unlike the frothy silk-strewn chambers he’d glimpsed below.

  Mistress Eva Denk received him with a perfunctory smile. Her office, he noted as he took his seat, was spacious and neat. There were no windows here, but two lamps hung from the ceiling, and a branch of candles sputtered on the table next to her desk. She was exactly like her letters—forthright and competent. He knew her history from his own investigations. She was born in Duenne, had risen from apprentice to senior clerk for one of the leading merchants of the city. After twenty long years with that same merchant, she had given up her position to work for Kosenmark. It spoke of the man’s persuasion.

  She offered him wine. He politely refused. That brought another smile. Was she testing him?

  “You have an interesting history,” she said.

  Gerek shrugged.

  Denk frowned slightly and let her gaze fall to the papers on her desk. Among them, Gerek recognized his own résumé, plus several letters that ostensibly came from his previous employers, including the letter of introduction from Maester Aereson, a merchant in Ournes Province. Denk would find no fault with any of them. Gerek had written them himself, modeling his career on that of an old tutor. Informal studies at the University at Duenne, regrettably incomplete. Several years at various posts as tutor, scribe, or general factotum. His latest posting had come to an end when Maester Aereson’s sons grew older, and Gerek thought a warmer climate might suit him. An acquaintance had mentioned that Lord Kosenmark needed a new secretary.

  “You understand the terms?” Denk asked.

  “I do.” Short sentences were best. He could manage those.

  “Your pay? Your duties?”

  Again he nodded. He was to handle all correspondence and to keep Lord Kosenmark’s schedule. For that he would receive a monthly sum of ten gold denier, plus his room and board. If his duties required finer clothes, say for a meeting with nobles such as Lord Vieth, Lord Kosenmark would provide them. He would have one rest day every week, plus an afternoon to himself twice a month.

  It was all very easy and pleasant. Too easy. Denk asked him fewer questions than he expected, and her apparent lack of interest in his credentials puzzled Gerek. He once tried to expand on his supposed employment with Maester Aereson. Mistress Denk had waved aside his speech with the comment, “Lord Kosenmark will want to know surely. The decision is his, not mine, to make.”

  It would be, Gerek thought. If everything Dedrick had hinted at were true, this man wanted more than a secretary, he wanted an accomplice.

  An accomplice for treason, Gerek thought. But first I need to find the proof, before I go to the king or any of his people.

  And he would find it here—he knew it—in this house.

  * * *

  “MAESTER HESSLER.”

  Lord Kosenmark studied Gerek over the tips of his fingers.

  “My lord.” Gerek bowed.

  “Sit,” Kosenmark said. “And let us discuss the possibility of your employment here.”

  Gerek sat down, unsettled and nervous and trying not to show it. None of Kosenmark’s letters had promised employment outright, but after his interview with Eva Denk, he had begun to relax. He wondered now if he’d given himself away to her, or to Kathe.

  I am Maester Gerek Hessler. Second-rate scholar. Nothing more.

  The repetition failed to counteract his anxiety. He had taken several great chances in this endeavor. He had used a name nearly like his own, thinking he would remember it better, and trusting that Dedrick would never have mentioned a poor second cousin to this man. He had involved his brother and old tutor to handle any untoward inquiries. At the time, these had seemed like reasonable risks.

  The voices chattered at him, more insistent than before. Fool. Idiot. Useless.

  Kosenmark continued to study him in return. He was as handsome as all the reports claimed—golden-eyed and fair, his pale brown skin almost luminescent against his blue-black hair. Sculptors who followed the classicist school might use him as a model for Toc, the brother-god and consort of Lir, except that Toc was blind, and this man’s eyes were whole, unnervingly bright and direct. The one element, which everyone knew about, but which Gerek still found unexpected, was his voice.

  He speaks like a woman. A woman with a husky voice, but nevertheless not a man, not even a tenor.

  In his latter years, when his mind ran feverishly upon conspiracies, Baerne of Angersee had insisted on a peculiar sacrifice by his nearest councillors. They would be gelded, or they would lose their place, and therefore their influence. Later, when he took the throne, Baerne’s grandson had dismissed these men from Duenne’s Court. Some said it was a way for Armand to establish his own rule, to declare that his famous grandfather would not overshadow his reign. Others said Lord Markus Khandarr had influenced the new king to ensure his own preeminence.

  Most of those unwanted councillors hid themselves away. They had sacrificed their manhood and could not bear it when Armand dismissed them. But this man—he lived. More than that. He had fashioned a network of advisers and colleagues and agents throughout Veraene—a shadow court, through which Kosenmark continued to influence Veraene’s politics from afar.

  Clever, handsome, determined. And only a year or two older than Gerek himself.

  Everything I am not.

  “Do I meet with your approval, Maester Hessler?” Kosenmark said drily.

  Gerek shook himself into attention. “My apologies, my lord. I-I was merely—”

  “Wondering about my sexual habits and how I might satisfy them, in spite of my shortcomings. You need not stutter. The entire world knows.”

  Gerek’s cheeks burned with humiliation. For once, anger kept his tongue under control. “What the world knows is not my concern, my lord. My thoughts are my own. Whether or not you’ve guessed their shape correctly, I will not discuss their finer details.”

  Kosenmark blinked. Then his lips curved into a slow smile. “Harlaef the Younger. Of the late empire, in his letter to the emperor answering certain unfounded charges. So you are a scholar.”

  “Did you doubt me, my lord?”

  “Not exactly. But there are degrees of truth, just as there are degrees of scholarship.”

  He likes to play with words and double meanings. He likes to provoke people.

  “If you doubt me, s-send me away,” Gerek said. “My lord. As you must kn-know from my history, it would not be the first time.”

  Those wide eyes settled on him, and Kosenmark’s expression changed subtly. No longer bland, nor edged with bitter humor. Gerek thought he detected a wincing moment of painful memory, chased by sympathy for Gerek himself.

  “Very well,” Kosenmark said in that disturbingly high voice. “Let us discuss our true business. You seek employment as a secretary or assistant. I have need of one as you undoubtedly heard.”

  Gerek bowed his head. This was the nearest Kosenmark had come to mentioning the woman who had served him as secretary, before she became his lover. Gerek would not make the mistake, however, of betraying how much he knew. Just before their interview ended, Mistress Denk had offered one piece of pointed advice. Whatever you say or do, never mention the name Ilse Zhalina to Lord Kosenmark. He will not forgive that.

  “Your credentials are adequate,” Kosenmark said.

  Again, Gerek nodded. He had worked over those credentials for precisely that impression.

  “I’m curious about your university career. You never formally applied there.”

  A nod would not suffice this time. “N-no, my lord. I-I had not enough—”

  “Not enough money?” Kosenmark waved a hand. “Forgive me. I should not interrupt. Speak as you mus
t.”

  Another double meaning. Gerek drew a long breath and considered his reply. “No money. As well, I could not s-settle on one course of s-study. I wished to explore without cons-straint, my lord.”

  That caught the man’s attention. His eyes narrowed—in humor this time. “Go on.”

  “History, my lord. It is not complete without the literature of those times. The reverse is also true.”

  “What about economics? You studied that as well.”

  “For practical reasons, my lord. Money is an essential element of the world, no matter which century you examine.”

  He finished the sentence, let his breath trickle out in relief that he had uttered the thing complete. Kosenmark must have noticed that small reaction, however, because he leaned forward and fixed Gerek with his gaze. “You have difficulty speaking, but not when you feel strongly about the matter. Tell me what else moves you.”

  Truth, Gerek thought. The bonds of trust and friendship and family.

  He’d known little of them in his life. To say that out loud was more than he could bear—not to this cold, clever young man.

  “You are thinking hard,” Kosenmark observed.

  “The s-subject is n-n-not an easy one, my lord.”

  Kosenmark stared at him a longer moment, but when Gerek said nothing more, he leaned back with a disappointed sigh. “You speak several languages, yes?”

  So they were back to the formal give-and-take of the interview. “Old Veraenen,” Gerek said. “Erythandran. Enough to read texts from the empire days. And s-some Immatran.”

  “Károvín?”

  Gerek suppressed a tremor of excitement. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Fluently?”

  He hesitated. “N-not as well.”

  “But enough to puzzle out a letter or essay.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  A brief silence followed. Kosenmark tapped his fingers against each other. Gerek waited, trying to keep from shifting nervously on the hard wooden chair. Off to one side stood an enormous hourglass, an extraordinary creation with several globes that worked together to measure minutes and hours. Even as he noticed it, the globes revolved slowly around to begin their measuring anew. Outside, bells rang the hour.

  Kosenmark leaned forward again and slapped his hands on the desk, startling Gerek. “You know the salary? Mistress Denk explained that to you, of course. Is that acceptable?”

  Gerek nodded dumbly.

  “Well, then. Consider yourself hired.”

  “M-M—”

  “No need to hesitate, Maester Hessler. You are moderately qualified. I have moderate needs. If you agree, we can begin our work at once. What do you say?”

  Gerek met Kosenmark’s gaze as directly as he dared. He saw nothing but boredom in the man’s expression. He was not fooled. Dedrick had told him once that you could never trust Raul Kosenmark’s outward appearance. It was only by truly listening—by measuring the silences between words, catching the swift tension in his full mouth, the change of brightness in those golden eyes—that you began to understand the hidden man and his moods.

  There was only one means for doing so.

  He bowed his head. “Thank you. I will begin my work at once.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  AT ONCE WAS a relative term in Lord Kosenmark’s household. It could mean that same moment, when a courier arrived with urgent news from his father, or from Duenne’s Court. For other matters, one could interpret the phrase to mean soon enough.

  Raul chose to use the second meaning today. Summoning a runner, he delivered Gerek Hessler into Mistress Denk’s hands for a few hours. Let the man grow accustomed to the house and its inhabitants. Later that afternoon, he could initiate Hessler into his new duties.

  And decide exactly what those duties would encompass.

  The runner took Raul’s new secretary away. Once the door closed, Raul raked his fingers through his hair. He could sense the stiffness melting away from his face. How arrogant had he appeared to that poor man? Very, he suspected. He could tell by Hessler’s increased stammering.

  I was not fair or kind to him. She would have scolded me, and with good cause.

  She, meaning Ilse Zhalina. He laughed silently, thinking of just how Ilse would lecture him. Felt a catch in his chest, just under his ribs, where he thought his heart must lodge. Ilse, Ilse, Ilse. Ever present, like a thorn creeping through his flesh.

  My beloved. I should not have agreed to your scheme.

  Five months and three days since she left. He felt as though he were a grain of sand within his hourglass, and could feel the moments rasping over his skin. He had a sudden vivid memory of standing in deep warm water, the sand ebbing beneath his feet as the tide ran out. It was not from this life. No, this was a waking dream from some previous life, a previous love between him and her.

  … her hand brushing his cheek. The scent of her favorite perfume, of smoke and sandalwood. Her dark eyes pinning him with a gaze that left him breathless. It had been the same throughout the centuries …

  Raul pressed his fingers against his eyelids, weary to his bones from unwanted memories. That last unpleasant interview with Markus Khandarr. His exile from court. The news of Dedrick’s death. The moment when Ilse first proposed a different kind of exile for herself. He would be free of Khandarr’s threats, she had declared. Free to revive his shadow court, to seek an alliance with like-minded nobles in Veraene and other kingdoms. Whatever he chose.

  He had thought himself brave, but Ilse’s courage left him breathless with astonishment. It was very close to treason, what he and she planned. But they had seen no other way to stop Armand of Angersee’s mad plans for war.

  A sharp rap at the door interrupted him—the special pattern used by his runners. Raul shuddered at the break from memory to the present. He ran a hand over his face, took another moment to breathe in a semblance of calm.

  “Enter,” he said.

  It was his senior runner with a large flat packet, wrapped in brown paper, which he laid upon Raul’s desk.

  “Which messenger?” Raul asked.

  “The man Haas in Vlôch District.”

  Haas was a bookseller—one of the few agents from Raul’s old network he still trusted. A few months ago, Raul had arranged for Haas to collect all his letters from sources outside Tiralien. Haas delivered them once a week to Lord Kosenmark’s pleasure house, along with selected antique volumes for his review. The latest delivery would be waiting below. What would it be this time? Popular novels from the late empire? Historical tracts? Raul ought to have the new secretary inspect the volumes and give his opinion of their value. It would be a good test of the man’s judgment.

  “Does he expect a reply?” Raul asked.

  “No, my lord.”

  “Ah. Then that will be all.”

  He waited until his runner withdrew, then took a knife from his desk and cut away the outer covering. Inside were three envelopes, all of them addressed in very different scripts. One was a square of ordinary paper, folded over several times and sealed with yellow wax. Very plain. No magic. The only writing was Haas’s own name, and a few curious marks along one edge. Without unfolding the letter, Raul knew at once that it came from Danusa Benik, his best agent in Károví’s closed and often dangerous court.

  She will have important news. She never dares to write otherwise.

  Not yet, he told himself. He was too distracted to give her report proper attention.

  Am I? Or am I making excuses?

  Let us pretend I have good reason. There is time enough tomorrow to criticize my motives.

  He scanned the other two envelopes, which were markedly similar except for the handwriting. Both had outer sheets of expensive parchment. But unlike Benik’s, these were sealed with wax and magic. One came from a minor noble in Veraene’s capital, an old friend of Raul’s who often sent him the latest gossip from Duenne’s Court. He set that aside for later.

  The second was addressed in a foreign style, witho
ut any of the usual signals or marks he associated with his own spies. For a moment he stared at the paper. His name, written in brushstrokes with several flourishes, said that the writer was more accustomed to a different script, and different language.

  Karasek. He has answered me.

  He snatched up the envelope and felt the buzz of magic over its surface. During his years in Duenne, Raul had studied all manner of spells useful for a court obsessed with intrigue—spells to make and unmake locks, spells to seal a room against intruders, even spells to detect the presence of poison. He was no great mage, but he could sense the layers and protections Karasek had employed. It was an interesting combination. If he read the signs correctly, the spells did not prevent anyone from breaking the seal, but they would leave traces if someone had.

  There were no traces of any such attempt. Raul ran a finger along the letter’s edge. Magic and wax cracked, and the sheet fell open.

  Lord Kosenmark. I thank you for your invitation to your estates. Alas, my duties require me elsewhere.

  The letter was signed Duke Miro Karasek and dated six weeks before.

  Raul laid the sheet on his desk and stared at it while he tried to work out the implications of this short, blunt reply.

  Miro Karasek belonged to one of the six most influential families in Károví. More important, he and Duke Feliks Markov served as King Leos’s senior generals. Markov held more influence at court, according to Benik’s reports, where his conservative views were popular. Karasek himself had come to his title only seven years ago, and from all reports, he concerned himself with the kingdom’s army, not its politics. His father, however, had advised the king to negotiate less restrictive treaties with Veraene, and to make ties with other kingdoms. Raul had chosen to approach Karasek, hoping he privately shared his father’s views.

  Apparently he did not. But such an abrupt rejection.

  He blew out a breath. This was a public letter, he reminded himself. Karasek had not set any spells to burn the paper, nor to change the letter’s contents. His magic would only signal if anyone else had broken the seal. So he had expected spies to intercept the message.