Queen's Hunt (15 page)

“Then explain.”

Kosenmark’s voice was high and light. Gerek did not mistake that for fear. Anger. Certainty. An arrogance greater than any king’s. Was there anything that frightened the man?

A moonless midnight in the soul. A shadow over hope.

Words from a poet who lived centuries ago. Strange how they eased the tightness in his chest. He took his time, however, releasing each syllable in order.

“You s-set a trap, my lord. I fell in.”

Kosenmark’s lips parted in silent laughter. “Lies. Though very pretty ones. The trap was yours, Lord Gerek.
You
fashioned it when you wrote me two months ago, inquiring about a position as my secretary.”

He glided into the room. The door swung shut behind him, cutting off all sounds from outside. Kosenmark paced toward the desk and set both hands on its surface. Gerek fell back into the chair. It took an effort of will just to breathe. For the first time, he noticed the weapons Kosenmark wore at his belt. The sheaths at both wrists. The glint of chain mail under his shirt.

He goes nowhere unprotected, not even when he rides with his guards.

That was a clue. He would understand it later—if there was a later.

Meanwhile, Kosenmark was speaking in a soft, quick voice. “I did not guess right away. Your résumé and letters of recommendation proved well constructed, and the further inquiries I sent for confirmation were answered just as one might expect. You must have associates, yes?”

Gerek glanced up and away from that bright, intent gaze. He pressed his lips together.

Kosenmark leaned over the desk until his face was only a few inches away. This close, Gerek could see fine lines radiating from the man’s eyes. Caught the aroma of horse and sweat and leather. The scent of the man himself. He felt a tightening in his groin, in spite of the terror yammering inside his skull. Perhaps he had more in common with Dedrick than he’d thought.

“Do you work for Lord Markus Khandarr?” Kosenmark said.

“No,” Gerek said shortly.

“The king?”

“No.” And then, before he thought better, he added, “Do you?”

He regretted the words at once. Kosenmark made a sound, a growl deep in his throat. “You think I’m a traitor?”

What else should I believe?
But he could not say that. Not when this man could summon a dozen guards. How easily could they dispose of his body? Far too easily, he decided. Dedrick had talked about the fortified household, the men and women chosen for their loyalty. Gerek had assumed the measures were a defense against robbers, not a private army, but now he wasn’t so sure.

“You are thinking too hard,” Kosenmark said. “Truth requires but a moment…”

“Except in the face of deception,” Gerek replied.

And to his surprise, he caught a smile of recognition on Kosenmark’s face. The book of poetry, of course. But then he remembered the slip of paper inside. Any quote from Tanja Duhr would surely call Ilse Zhalina to mind.

Do not mention her name,
Mistress Denk had warned him.

He loves her beyond reason,
Dedrick had said.

Meanwhile, Kosenmark’s smile had faded, and he studied Gerek with a new intensity, as though looking beyond the mask of flesh and into Gerek’s hidden thoughts. There was no sign of amusement, nor mockery, in that handsome face.

“You think I am a traitor?” he repeated. “Is that what Dedrick told you?”

At the mention of Dedrick’s name, Gerek started. “Who told—”

“No one told me. Not outright. Your papers were very good. But you have a slight resemblance to Dedrick, and though Dedrick was no scholar, you both shared certain turns of phrase. Baron Maszuryn was another member of the riding party today, and a few questions told me who you were. So I ask a third time, do you believe I am a traitor to the kingdom? No, a better one. Why did you come here?”

No more lies. No more subterfuge. I cannot stand it.

“I came for the truth,” he said.

“Ah. That.” Kosenmark exhaled and closed his eyes. “Truth is a chancy thing, soft and dangerous, armed with sudden sharp edges.”

He straightened up and turned around. Clasped his hands behind his back in a knot. Bookcases and tapestries lined the opposite wall, but Gerek could tell Kosenmark saw nothing of these, only some vision within.

“I killed him,” Kosenmark said quietly.

Gerek stilled the quiver in his throat.

“Oh, I did not draw the knife myself,” Kosenmark went on. “He came to me several months after we broke off. Offered to observe matters at Duenne’s Court and send those observations to me, by whatever means I thought wise. Though he didn’t admit it, I knew he wanted to revive our friendship. For that reason alone, I nearly refused. But Dedrick was right. I did need a friend at court—a secret one. I told myself that Markus Khandarr would not suspect Dedrick after our very public break. Deception,” he murmured, half to himself. “It was easier to deceive myself than admit I sent Dedrick into danger I dared not face.”

There was a pause. Then, “Do you know how he died?” Kosenmark said. “Did they tell you that much?”

If Gerek had not believed the room empty of air before, he did now. “Only what the king’s letter said, my lord.”

“Do you believe it?”

The official letter from court stated that Lord Dedrick Maszuryn died from a fall while riding in the hills north of Duenne. His companions had reported that he’d been unable to control his mount—a stallion that Dedrick had insisted on buying in spite of its wild character. The horse had been destroyed the same day. Dedrick’s ashes had been returned in a small silver box, fitted with priceless jewels.

He died by order of the king and his councillor. And no one grieved for him. No one. They uttered the most ordinary of platitudes and then continued with their lives, grateful that they were untouched by the scandal.

“No, my lord.”

“Your voice says you guess, however. He died…” Kosenmark drew a shuddering breath. “He died at the hand of Lord Markus Khandarr. It was magic. Lord Khandarr demanded the truth. Dedrick gave it to him, but his answer was not the one Lord Khandarr desired. He wanted proof of my treachery and used magic to force a different confession from Dedrick’s mouth. And so Dedrick, my friend, my once lover, died for his honesty.”

Kosenmark turned around. The brilliance had faded from his complexion. He looked older, and the late-afternoon sunlight, slanting in from the windows by the garden door, threw the lines beside his mouth and eyes into sharper relief than in days past. His cheeks were wet with tears.

“So,” he said, “you have the truth. My truth. What now?”

The question caught Gerek by surprise. “I … do not know.”

The other man smiled. “A fair answer. What do you want, then? What
did
you want?”

“Justice.”

He flinched, expecting laughter, but Kosenmark was nodding. “Justice for the dead. I can understand that. How do you propose to achieve it?”

No explanations. No long tirades to justify himself.

“I don’t know,” Gerek said. “I-I thought— I meant— Dedrick was very trusting, my lord. Too trusting. He loved you.”

There. He’d said it.

“You believe I convinced him to commit treason.”

Gerek dared a soundless
yes
.

Kosenmark blew out a breath. “Words are useless. Mere sound of flesh and air. Yes, the poets were right, as always.” In a softer voice, he said, “I knew someone who felt as you do. She— They argued against my convictions—called me arrogant and— Well, never mind what they said. Their disbelief was good for me, urged me to do better, at least for a time…”

Silence filled the room, except for Gerek’s pulse in his ears. The groan of pulleys, the hissing of sand as the hourglass turned end over end, its luminescent grains spilling through the narrow aperture.
Time, time, time slides away from our fingers, even as we try to grasp the moments and seconds.

“We are at an impasse,” Kosenmark said. “So let me propose a new idea. Let me tell you my intentions. 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.”

He went on to speak of the kingdom, of old Baerne of Angersee, and his son who died of drink and despair. Of the present king, Armand, who desired to outshine his grandfather’s deeds. And how Lord Markus Khandarr fed the young king’s desire for glory, provoking him toward war with Károví without regard for the kingdom’s welfare.

“Armand is not the first king to disagree with his councillors,” Kosenmark said. “Nor is Lord Khandarr the first councillor to use his position to further his own ambitions. However, I would not see thousands die. Nor can I stand silent while another man drives the king toward such a war, so that he might seize the kingdom for himself. If that is treason, then I am a traitor.”

Without another word, he walked to the farther door and onto the rooftop garden. As the door swung shut, a breeze filtered through, carrying the scent of warm air, of green growing things bursting free of the earth. Of the outer world.

Gerek stared at the blank desktop for several long moments. Considered the man Dedrick had spoken of with such admiration. (And love. Let us not forget they loved each other once.) Considered what he’d observed himself over the past eight days. Kosenmark trusted no one. And yet he had offered to open his secrets to Gerek. Was that proof enough of his good intentions?

You came for truth and honor.

I did,
Gerek thought.

He stood. Entered the garden and carefully shut the doors behind him. Twilight had fallen. A dusky violet veil covered the sky, brushed by smoke-black clouds. Light speckled the rising hills; lamplight illuminated the city spreading toward the shore. From there, the seas were only visible as a dark expanse.

Gerek made his way between the rows of budding trees, the beds of newly sprouted flowers. Spring had arrived without his being aware.

Kosenmark sat on a bench at the far end of the garden. His hands were clasped, one within the other. He stared outward to the seas, but his eyes obviously saw nothing of this world.

Gerek stopped and thought through the words he wished to say. He did not want to falter.

“Tell me more,” he said. “So I might do the work properly.”

*   *   *

THEIR CONVERSATION CONTINUED
to midnight, first in the rooftop garden, then in Kosenmark’s private rooms over a supper of bread and cheese and triple-watered wine.

Gerek had known before that Kosenmark allowed him to see only the most unexceptional of his correspondence, but the number of names—the names themselves—left him breathless with astonishment. Lord Iani and Lady Theysson he knew about. Also, Luise Ehrenalt. When he heard the names Eckard, Vieth, and Nicol Joannis, he drew an audible breath. These were all high-ranking members of Veraene’s nobility. Two of these men were regional governors, appointed by the king.

“A shadow court,” he murmured.

Kosenmark’s hands stilled, his expression turned momentarily remote. “Someone else thought that a good name for what I do. I cannot agree entirely. I am not king, and the only true court resides in Duenne. However, the thought behind the name is true. We are nobles and commoners who care deeply about Veraene’s welfare.”

It was after Dedrick’s death that Kosenmark ended his shadow court. Instead, he had begun to approach certain members of Károví’s Court, to negotiate an alliance across both kingdoms to work against the war. So far, he’d had little luck, he told Gerek.

“Their court is smaller, but their factions just as numerous as ours. I had hoped to win Duke Miro Karasek to our side, but friends in Károví tell me King Leos recently sent Duke Karasek on a mission overseas. And other friends told me today of the end to that mission.”

He went on to describe that end. It happened in Osterling Keep, he said, nothing in his expression betraying Ilse Zhalina’s presence there. The king’s patrols had sighted twenty ships heading east. Three returned, only to founder on the shoals off the peninsula. During the skirmish that broke out, Duke Karasek had escaped. So far, he had evaded capture.

From there the conversation turned to the minor nobles in Károví, King Leos’s probable choices for an heir, and the possibility of approaching Ryba Karasek, cousin to that same Miro Karasek. He was only a baron from a minor branch of the family, but if his cousin did not return from his mission, Ryba Karasek might inherit the duchy.

Well after the bells rang midnight, they ended their session. Gerek went off to a restless sleep, crowded with dreams that might have been life dreams, they were so vivid. He woke much later than his usual time. He was overtired, but with excitement bubbling underneath the weariness. Before he left his rooms, however, a note came from Lord Kosenmark, reminding him that today was his weekly holiday.

But I don’t want a holiday. Not yet.

He picked up his pen to protest this interruption, then stopped. Any break in routine would be remarked, especially after Lord Kosenmark’s precipitous departure and return the previous day. He studied the note again. One line that served as a warning, a suggestion, an act of newborn trust, all at once.

Gerek folded the note and dropped it into his private letter box. (Because it was a sign of trust, which he wanted to preserve for the future.) He ate his breakfast without appetite. Spent an unsatisfying hour in the library. Soon his restlessness drove him outside, onto the streets he had not visited since the freight wagon dropped him in front of Kosenmark’s house.

Nine short days. The sky and city had changed in that interval. A green haze covered the trees. He sniffed and smelled the scent of newly blossomed flowers and more, of something born of the sea, as if the oceans themselves had seasons. Above, the cast of winter gray had vanished entirely and the sky was now a soft and vivid blue.

His feet took him to the nearest market square, where he bought a plate of grilled fish and rice from a street vendor, hot tea from another. He ate, then wandered onward, remembering more of the city from those past two visits. There, there was the Little University. There was the old bridge to the tenement district, where he’d lived with his tutor, and the rows of cook shops where he took his meals.