Queen's Hunt (32 page)

A loud knock at the door startled him. Gerek hastily covered the ship’s paperwork with some blank sheets of paper. “Come in.”

He had hoped it would be Kathe. He expected a runner, or one of the kitchen girls to fetch away his tray. Instead the door opened on Nadine.

She wore her finest courtesan’s costume—a silk gown of dark apricot that flowed like a waterfall over her slim body. Her dark hair swept back from her narrow face and made a second shadow waterfall, which hung over her bare shoulder.

Nadine remained at the door. Her expression was one of curiosity and faint impatience.

“Yes,” he said at last.

She arched one delicate eyebrow. “I came,” she said softly, “because I am a friend. Also, one day I would like to turn messenger for idiots and fools. I have so much practice in this household. Do not stare so blankly,” she went on, “or I shall be moved to violence. The message is not from another. It comes from you, Maester Gerek Hessler. Or rather, it should.”

Gerek swallowed to calm his throat muscles. “Who—”

“That would spoil the surprise,” Nadine said. “Go to the spider room this instant. Never mind about those papers on your desk. Go. Give your message. You will understand once you have.”

She gave a magnificent flourish with one hand—the gesture clearly meant as mockery—and dropped into deep bow. Before Gerek could react, Nadine withdrew from his office with a dancer’s grace.

Gerek stared at the closed door. It had to be a prank. What else? Nadine and Eduard were famous for them. But until today, they had ignored Gerek. He had supposed, at first, that his position safeguarded him, but conversations with Kathe soon corrected that belief. Nadine teased and tormented everyone, from Mistress Denk and Mistress Raendl to the newest stable boys, without regard for rank. She had teased Ilse Zhalina and Maester Hax in their days, too. So then he had assumed she found him too ordinary to bother with. Was this sudden change a part of the strange mood infesting the house?

Or was it something else?

Cursing himself for a fool, he put aside his papers. He checked all the locked boxes and set the bolts and spells on his office. If they wanted to make him into a fool, he was used to that, but he would not neglect Lord Kosenmark’s orders about discretion, even inside the pleasure house.

The spider room was on the second floor in the east wing. He had passed by its door several times, but had never ventured inside. It was a luxurious room—almost too luxurious. Kosenmark once called it his finest extravagance. Courtesans used the room for special clients. Gerek hurried down the stairs. He noted no one waiting about as if watching for him. He crossed over to the east wing, which was equally empty in the early afternoon.

Pulsing thrumming in his ears, he entered the spider room.

A web of lace fluttered at his entrance. He started, thinking at first someone else had disturbed those hangings. But the lace floated downward into stillness, and the scent of rose petals whirled around him in the empty room.

Gerek released a long breath.
I should be used to this. My sisters. My cousins.

Behind him sounded a flight of quick light footsteps on the tile floor. He spun around to see the door flung open and Kathe hurrying into the room. At the sight of him, she checked herself. “Nadine said a messenger came for me.”

Gerek opened his mouth, but his tongue refused to work. Kathe turned to go. With an effort, he pressed down the trembling in his throat. “Kathe. Please.”

She paused, her face turned away from his, only the outline of her cheek, and the clear tense line of her jaw visible in the lamplight. Nadine was right, he thought. He had only one chance to deliver this message. And quickly.

“I— It’s about the book,” he managed to say.

Her mouth curved into a pensive smile. “Yes, thank you. It was a thoughtful gift.”

It was more than a gift, he wanted to say. It was a curiosity, a moment of pleasure, a thank-you for the kindness she had shown him. It was all the words he could not, dared not utter out loud. Ah, but he had to speak—now. If he did not, she would vanish into the kitchen. And he would never have such a chance again.

“I-I lied to you,” he said.

Kathe spun around. “You
lied
?”

Those were not the words he meant to say, but having said them, he realized they were the truth. He gulped down a breath and prayed to Lir to keep his tongue under control. “Yes. My name. My n-name is Gerek Haszler. Dedrick Maszuryn was my cousin.”

The dark flush along her cheeks faded. Her eyes widened in surprise. “Lord Dedrick. He was your
cousin
?”

He could not tell if that were a good or a bad thing. He stumbled on, keeping to the truth. It was all he had to offer now. “Yes. He was. I-I came because. Because he … died.”

Murdered. Executed by the king’s order, or at least with his consent. From the twitch of Kathe’s lips, she knew the truth behind Dedrick’s death, too. “Does Lord Kosenmark know this?” she said. “He does,” she went on, before he could answer. “That is what happened that day. When he told us all he meant to stay at Lord Demeyer’s country estates. Then he came back for no reason at all. The day you and he talked until almost morning.” Then her gaze veered up to his. “You are Lord Gerek, aren’t you?”

He did not trust that anxious tone in her voice. “Yes. But it-it doesn’t matter. I—”
Hurry. Before my tongue fails me. Before she turns away.
“I wish you would consider me, Kathe. I-I am n-not rich. I am a plain man. Very plain. But I— I would be true.”

A long silence followed. Kathe stood motionless, her gaze carefully averted from his. Gerek could not breathe. He wished he could see her face, her eyes. He wanted to say more, but the wisest part of him knew he’d said everything that was important. His heart paused, it seemed, waiting for her answer.

“I must go,” she said softly.

She slipped through the door and was gone.

Gerek released his long-held breath.
Nadine was wrong. I spoke too soon.

Or not. There might be a chance if he could only explain …

He rushed through the door, only to run into Kosenmark’s senior runner. “Maester Hessler. A message came for you just a moment ago.”

The man thrust a letter at him. Gerek muttered a curse in old Erythandran. He saw Kathe at the far end of the corridor, just rounding the corner into one of the servants’ passageways.

The runner jabbered at him, insistent. Gerek growled back, but it was no use. He would have to seek Kathe out later. With a curse, he fumbled open the letter, barely noticing the magic that prickled at his fingertips. Someone who knew him. Yes, yes. He was not surprised. It came from the first agent for the ship. The man had written in the house code even.

Then he read the words again. Someone had suborned one of the agents in their chain. The man could not tell which one. He wanted to consult with Maester Hessler himself, to determine what action they could take to repair the damage.

For a moment, he pretended he could ignore this information another hour. But no. Kosenmark trusted him too much. With a last curse for that trust, Gerek jogged to his office and slammed the door shut. He tried to scribble a letter to Kathe, asking her for just a few moments … No, that was no good. He crumpled the paper. He could not write what he felt. He needed to speak directly with her, to watch her face, to read the subtle alterations in her expression, some of which he had learned to decipher these past few weeks. He wanted to learn more of them.

In the end, he left word with Mistress Denk that he had errands to run and would return by evening.

He had not lost all sense of discretion, however. He took a guard with him, one particularly recommended by Ivvanus Bek. He and the guard rode to a square within a half mile of the harbor district. From there, they made their way on foot to their destination. He had worked out several meeting places with the agent, in case of emergencies. The first was a wine shop in an alley bordering the wharf district. Gerek stepped into the shadows. His guard moved past him, knife held ready as the man scouted the perimeter of the room. It was impossible to see anything after the brilliant sunlight outside. He could smell the shop. Sour wine. The reek of fish and tar. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could make out a few rough tables and stools, scattered about. Ahead was a plank that served as the counter. No sign of the agent, but Gerek would wait a few moments before he tried the next meeting place.

He ventured forward to the nearest table.

Several things happened at once. The door swung shut. Several tables crashed end over end. Gerek turned in time to see his guard grappling with three men. He spun around and ran into another. Gerek swung a fist and downed the man. He had just reached the door and was clawing it open when he caught a glimpse of a club arcing toward his head.

*   *   *

GEREK WOKE TO
darkness and a ferocious throbbing in his skull. He sprawled on his stomach, as if someone had tossed him there. The ground felt cold and damp. Dirt, not plank or stone. The air stank of mud and saltwater and his own vomit.
Where am I? What happened?

Vaguely he remembered entering the wine shop. Oh, yes. Someone attacked him. His head throbbed too hard for him to think clearly, but he remembered a skirmish and a sickening smell he thought might be blood.

He drew one arm close. First clue: no ropes or chains. Either his abductors had forgotten to tie him up, or they didn’t think it was necessary. The second, he decided. Not a good sign.

Very slowly, cautiously, he levered himself to sitting. Breathed through his nose until the nausea subsided. When he was certain he would not vomit, he opened his eyes to slits. Dark, dark, dark, but as his eyes adjusted, he could make out gray shapes towering over him. Farther off, a thin bright line marked a rectangle. Door, he translated for the rectangle. And … and barrels?

Barrels. Laughter overtook him. Stupid, cursed barrels. He would never be free of them, even when taken prisoner by enemies unknown. He gulped down the laughter. Hiccuped. Then nearly wept. It was too absurd. Too terrifying.

Gerek bit down on his cheek. Pain revived him. Helped him to think more clearly. So. Taken prisoner near the wharves. His abductors had not removed him from that district, however. Belatedly, he remembered his guard. He called the man’s name softly.

Without warning, the door crashed open. A flood of sunlight attacked Gerek’s eyes. He flung up a hand to cover his eyes. Another crash, and the door closed. Gerek blinked, but sparks and specks danced across his vision. Dimly, he made out a monstrous figure approaching, blotting out the sunlight. Another blink, and the monstrous figure divided into three. Two smaller monsters. One leaner, taller figure that stumped toward him in a strange up-and-down gait.

The lean figure stopped. Mumbled a command. Light flared from a lamp, which one of the others hung from a hook on the low ceiling. Gerek blinked several times, took in more details. Directly in front of him stood a tall man who leaned heavily upon a thick walking stick. Thin white hair drawn back tight from a thin face, deeply scored with lines. Pale brown eyes, almost yellow.

With a jerky motion, the man pointed at Gerek. A second man, the largest of the three, strode forward and slapped Gerek across the face. “Tell me about the ship. Where is it bound?”

No need to ask which ship. A dozen different possibilities occurred to Gerek. The agent discovered. Ralf and Udo dead. The house runner taking a bribe to betray Kosenmark. His own mistakes. He shook his head. “I-I don’t kn-kn-know.”

The man slid a knife from his belt. “You should wish you did.”

He slashed Gerek across the chest. Gerek bit back a cry. The man flipped the knife around and sent the hilt crashing into Gerek’s cheek. Red washed over Gerek’s vision. He screamed, unable to stop himself.

“Now you understand,” the man said. “Tell me.”

Gerek spat blood from his mouth. The teeth on that side were loose. But there were no broken bones. He could still talk. The man had judged the blow well.

“I-I have n-n-nothing to say.”

The man slapped him hard—the same place where he’d struck him with the knife hilt. “Tell me, or you die in the most unpleasant way possible.”

It was not hard to feign terror. He was shivering. Blood trickled from the gash on his chest. He swallowed and tasted more blood. His stomach heaved against his ribs, but he willed himself not to vomit again. “I have nothing to say.”

The man shrugged and turned aside. Now the lean figure approached, limping heavily and leaning upon his stick.

“I am Lord Markus Khandarr,” he said. “I would know the truth from you.”

Khandarr. Gerek nearly fainted. This was the man who killed Dedrick. The king’s own mage councillor. But the man’s voice was strange—the speech garbled, as if he had an impediment like Gerek’s. Then he remembered Alesso Valturri’s report, and how the king’s mage had suffered injury from his confrontation with the Morennioùen queen.

Injured or not, Khandarr went on to question Gerek closely, though he often needed several attempts to speak. Which agents had Gerek used? Where and when did Kosenmark intend to meet the ship? What was his destination?

“I-I do not know,” Gerek said.

Khandarr gave an inarticulate cry. Choked. The guards stepped forward to intervene, but Khandarr rounded on them, furious, and gestured for them to keep their distance.

He turned back to Gerek. Mumbled a few words in Erythandran. The air turned cool and crisp, like the mountains above the Gallenz Valley. “Where is Lord Kosenmark? He has a ship. Which one? Where do they meet?

Gerek shook his head.

“Where?” Khandarr struck him with his staff. “Answer.”

Then he spoke—a stuttering string of Old Erythandran. The philosophers always said that spoken words were only one medium for magic. If you imprinted the discipline on your mind, you did not need the words. Khandarr proved the theories true, because the air drew tight around them, a thick green cloud that almost suffocated Gerek even as it loosened his tongue.