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“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.
