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Up the silent echoing staircase he padded, past the bright-lit windows overlooking the grounds, to the landing outside Kosenmark’s private rooms. With the lord absent, no runner waited in the alcove beside the door. Gerek had prepared an excuse just in case, but he breathed in relief that he didn’t need to explain himself.
The door to Kosenmark’s office was locked. Gerek had expected that. He withdrew a bloodstained handkerchief from his pocket, which he laid against the keyhole.
The idea had come to him six months ago, soon after he learned about Dedrick’s death. He’d been researching the early empire days, and the closer relationship between mages and rulers, when he came across the spell. It involved hiding the user’s identity, their magical signature, behind another. Used without embellishment, it created a blank in place of the signature. Tricky. And not necessarily foolproof. A trained mage could detect its use. But the only mage among Lord Kosenmark’s friends was Lord Iani, and his later investigations confirmed that Lord Iani had not visited the house for months.
There was a second variation of the spell. If you added the physical traces of a second magic worker, the spell would imprint that other person’s signature atop your own. The older accounts spoke of flesh or skin. Gerek had dismissed that as too difficult. But then Kosenmark had come to Gerek’s office with a fresh-bleeding cut from his morning weapons drill. Gerek had offered Kosenmark his own handkerchief, then accepted the cloth back with barely concealed excitement.
Ei rûf ane gôtter. Komen mir de strôm.
The air pulsed, turned thicker and more pungent—a clear sign that he had deflected a portion of magic’s current into the ordinary world. It was a sensation he had grown used to over the past few months. He was no expert magic-worker, of course. But he had a scholar’s stubbornness and the luxury of solitude, which had allowed him to study and to practice until he had achieved success with a handful of spells.
Ei rûf ane gôtter. Ei rûf ane Lir unde Toc.…
Now a strong fresh scent washed over him, like grass crushed underfoot, or the traces of pine carried by the mountain breeze. He breathed it in, sensed a new fluency in his poor lame tongue. There were a thousand descriptions of how magic tasted and smelled. None of them were right, all of them were true. Gerek continued to recite the spell, words of the long-dead Erythandran language, which rolled from his mouth with an ease he’d never experienced before.
Lâzen mir drînnen Lord Raul Anton Maximilian Kosenmark.
His skin rippled, as though he were a metal speck caught halfway between two powerful magnets. Then he felt an inward ping. The current vanished, and the latch gave an audible click of release.
Gerek had to stop himself from laughing out loud. The spell had worked, mangled tongue and all. Then the urgency of his position overtook him. He stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket and pushed the door open.
Eight days. Twice or three times each day, he had entered this room. Today, he saw everything with fresh eyes, and a mind undisturbed by the presence of others.
It was a place of beauty and quiet and light. Polished red tiles lined the floors. Shelves with books and fine rare statuary covered nearly every wall. Here and there were tables with carvings in ivory or gemstones, done in the modern style. Off in the corner stood the sand glass he’d noticed that first day, an expensive contraption built from pulleys and weights, fashioned from rare metals and pure blown glass of enormous size. Through the windows of the opposite wall he glimpsed the rooftop garden—as yet unexplored territory. The scent of sandalwood hung in the air, like a memory of the man who ruled here.
Gerek went immediately to the iron letter box next to Kosenmark’s desk. His key opened the top lid. Inside was a wide slot where Kosenmark had instructed him to insert any letters that arrived during his master’s absence. He laid the handkerchief over the hinges and lock.
Ei rûf ane gôtter. Ei rûf ane Lir unde Toc.
The magic current sighed into existence. Faster now, he recited the words for the spell and spoke Lord Kosenmark’s full name again. The current flickered with a short-lived tension. Disappeared almost before he could register its presence. A long moment passed before he could take that in. Less confident now, he tried the spell for his own letter box, but substituting Kosenmark’s name. Nothing, not even the faintest buzz of magic, as though the current itself recognized the futility of his attempt.
Gerek blew out a breath, disappointed.
Well, and if the first interpretation of an old document yields nothing, we try another theory, another approach.
Or another room.
Two more doors opened from Kosenmark’s office. One led onto the rooftop gardens. Gerek would explore that region later, if necessary. If he had time and opportunity. The second door was the key, he decided. It led into Kosenmark’s inner rooms—to his bedroom, and other secret chambers that Dedrick had mentioned to Gerek alone, and then only briefly, almost reluctantly.
He turned the chosen door handle. It gave way at once—unlocked. Not surprising, he told himself. The man employed dozens of guards to patrol the grounds. Still, his pulse beat faster as Gerek stepped cautiously over the threshold.
It was a dimly lit world of branching corridors that he faced. One lamp burned low in its bracket just inside the door, and farther off, a shaft of light penetrated from a window set in the ceiling, but for the most part, he had to pick his way through darkness. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he took in the details—a miniature reading room off to one side, a closet with rich costumes, another closet with clothing wrapped in herb-scented covers. He passed by these, then paused beside a long narrow corrider, fitted with grills in the floor and along its walls. That had to be the listening room, where Kosenmark could spy on his own courtesans and guests, if he wished. Dust covered the floor, untouched.
The bedroom itself offered more surprises. From Dedrick’s comments, Gerek had expected an unrestrained opulence—a room swathed in silks and pearls, to use the fanciful words of the more romantic poets. Perhaps he had banished the excessive luxury along with Dedrick, because though the room was furnished with items of good quality, it was hardly a sybaritic vision.
He started with the superficial and the obvious—the clothes-presses, the vast trunk in one corner, the closets, and underneath the bed itself. Off in one corner stood a small desk. Gerek lifted the lid to find the usual writing materials, a few half-finished letters about nothing. If those were coded, they were beyond him. Maybe the next time he visited, he could make copies.
He had a momentary burst of excitement when he discovered a series of recessed buttons behind the desk’s main compartment. He pressed one. The bottom of the desk’s interior slid back to reveal a small space. Inside, however, was nothing more than a single book.
Gerek picked up the book. A volume of poems, by Tanja Duhr. An antique, judging by the worn leather cover and old-fashioned lettering. Tucked between the pages was a thin strip of paper, with writing in Kosenmark’s hand.
To Ilse Zhalina. A gift in return for your gift of conscience and truth. Thank you.
Carefully he replaced the book and shut the desk. It took him several moments to recover his outward composure. His inward composure was another matter. Clearly the book was a gift from one lover to another. And she had returned it. Did that mean their break was genuine? If it was, why did he keep the book in a desk by his bed?
Questions and more questions. He’d come for answers.
A further, more careful search revealed no secret compartments in the bedposts, nor any loose planks in the floor. The few other spells he’d mastered revealed nothing.
