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After an hour, he worked his way back through the various chambers and rooms and closets, to the outer office once more. Though no fire burned on the fourth floor, his clothes were soaked through with sweat, and he itched from the dust coating his skin. He sank into the chair behind Kosenmark’s desk and surveyed the room.
Imagine yourself in the writer’s skin, one of his professors had said. Use their words to see and smell and taste the world they lived in. History is not an abstract. It is blood and passion. It is real.
Gerek tried to imagine being Lord Raul Kosenmark, a man born to wealth and privilege. Someone ambitious enough at fourteen to have himself emasculated, just to retain his family’s position as councillors to the king. Impossible. I cannot imagine it.
He made a second, more perfunctory search of the desk and drawers. Nothing. Either Kosenmark was entirely innocent, or he’d hidden everything in that damned letter box, locked with a spell Gerek could not begin to guess at.
He hauled the letter box onto the desk and began to examine its surface. It was square, its width and height no longer than his forearm. The polished iron surface showed a blurry reflection of Gerek’s face. Much like Kosenmark’s eyes.
He ran his fingers over the surface. There were no obvious signs of magic, but he knew Kosenmark would have protected this box with magic set into the iron itself. Any attempt to break through the sides would trigger an
other set of spells to destroy its contents. Still, for every spell to safeguard a box, there existed another to breach those protections. He was no mage, but he could hire one to do the work. Or he might risk everything and simply carry the box to Duenne. He was calculating how he might smuggle himself and the box from the house when he heard footsteps. He heaved the box off the desk and tried to erase all traces of his activities.
Not soon enough.
The door crashed open. Raul Kosenmark appeared in the gap. He stared at Gerek with a hard unblinking gaze.
“So,” he said. “Maester Hessler. No, let us use your proper name. Lord Haszler. Lord Gerek Haszler. Have you found what you were looking for?”
CHAPTER NINE
GEREK FROZE. ONE hand still gripped the letter box by its handles, the other the edge of the desk. He considered a mad dash for the door. Quashed the urge before he’d done more than make a convulsive movement to stand. A far deeper silence had dropped over the room, and he distinctly heard the sand hissing as it fell from one globe to another in the vast hourglass behind him.
“Don’t bother answering,” Kosenmark said. “I doubt you could just now.”
Blood rushed to Gerek’s cheeks. He released his hold on the letter box and straightened up. “I-I can s-speak, my lord.”
“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?”
