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His throat quivered. He swallowed hard, a temporary cure at best. He hated his stutter. The damned thing showed itself whenever he was afraid or uncertain or simply anxious, as he was now. Only his elder brother, his cousin Dedrick, and now his beloved Kathe, had the patience to work through his sometimes tangled speech. Gerek swallowed again and considered several short replies that might satisfy this woman.
“So you are hunting,” Nadine went on. “Like a dog homing to its master—”
“Nadine.”
Kathe appeared in the passageway. She spoke breathlessly, as if she had hurried.
Nadine narrowed her eyes—again reminding Gerek of panthers—but she merely shook her head. “Kathe, my love. I thought you were in the kitchen with your mother, terrifying all the girls and boys.”
Kathe smiled, a deceptively pleasant smile, except for the tips of her teeth that she showed. “My mother does well enough on her own. My business is with you this moment. You do remember what I told you the day Maester Hessler came to us.”
Nadine rolled her eyes and gave a dramatic sigh. “That day? So like any other. The sun rose and set. Josef offended a client, though everyone laughed afterward. And your mother insulted yet another pastry cook because she could not bear to yield her place to you, or anyone else, and simply do what she loves best. But Gerek … Gerek. Ah … yes. Now I remember. That was the day you were eating prunes.”
“No teasing,” Kathe said. “Or you will find raisins in all your biscuits, and prunes in every other dish. I can arrange that.” To Gerek she said, “Lord Kosenmark is with Maester Ault, my love.”
Gerek mumbled a thank-you to Kathe and hurried down the corridor to the drill yard where Lord Kosenmark practiced with his weapons master, Benedikt Ault. Kosenmark’s usual time with Ault was in the early morning. But Kosenmark’s usual schedule had proven a mere fantasy these past two weeks.
He found them engaged in a match with wooden practice swords—one that had lasted quite some time, judging by their appearance. Ault was an older man, wiry and strong, with silvered hair cropped short. Like his weapons master, Kosenmark wore a plain cotton shirt and loose trousers. Both were covered with sweat and dust, and several long strands of hair had escaped his braid.
Gerek waved to catch his attention, but neither man noticed. Ault circled around, grinning, then lunged quickly for Kosenmark, who just managed to parry the blow and sidestep the next attack. A series of quick strikes followed, and both took hits as they went around and around the courtyard. Then Ault lunged again. There was a complicated set of maneuvers with blade and foot, and the match ended with them both disarmed. Ault was laughing. Kosenmark bent over, hands splayed against his thighs as he caught his breath. He was grinning.
Then he glanced toward Gerek. His expression smoothed to a blank. “Tomorrow,” he said to the weapons master. “We’ll fight a longer bout.”
“With pleasure, my lord.”
Kosenmark hung his practice weapon on the rack and wiped the sweat from his face. “Walk with me,” he said to Gerek. “We can talk while I bathe.”
Gerek followed him into the pleasure house, down the winding stairs to the immense and luxurious rooms given over to baths. Once he had hated Kosenmark. He had believed him a traitor to the king and Vereane. He had believed this man responsible for the death of Gerek’s cousin, Lord Dedrick Maszuryn. Then Kosenmark had unexpectedly offered him trust.
Let me tell you my intentions, he had said. 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.
Gerek had listened, watched, and eventually found himself as entangled as all the other followers of this man. There were times Gerek loved him. There were other times he cursed himself for succumbing to the man’s influence, and yet he continued to serve him.
In the bathing chambers, Kosenmark stripped off his sweaty drill clothes and stepped into the waiting pool. For a moment, he floated on his back in the warm waters, seemingly oblivious to his secretary’s presence.
He is not like other men, Dedrick Maszuryn had said, years before when he first told his cousin about his lover, Raul Kosenmark. He chose mutilation. Some said he wanted to spare his brother. Some say he gambled his manhood for a chance to rule beside the old king.
A king who demanded this sacrifice for all his chief councillors.
Then Baerne had died, and his grandson, Armand of Angersee, had dismissed Kosenmark from Duenne. Rumor said Lord Khandarr had offered to restore both Raul Kosenmark’s manhood and his place at court—but in return he had demanded loyalty to Khandarr himself and not the king. Others claimed that Lord Kosenmark had formed a shadow court to work against the king and rule Veraene from a distance.
Both had elements of the truth, but neither was accurate.
Gerek lowered himself to sit by the pool’s edge. Kosenmark sank into the bathwaters with a sigh of pl
easure. When he rose again, he splashed water over his face, then took up a bar of soap. “Tell me the news.”
All the words he rehearsed fled Gerek’s memory. He said, “Leos Dzavek is dead.”
The reaction was nothing more than a brief stillness—invisible unless you knew the man. “You are certain of it?” Kosenmark said.
His fluting voice had sunk to a soft even tone. Gerek’s skin prickled in sudden apprehension. He licked his lips. “I-I have not read the report itself. Benik s-s-set spells on the paper keyed to you alone. But she wrote a message on the out-s-side, and its meaning is clear enough. She wrote in old Immatran,” he added, as if Kosenmark needed this reassurance of his agent’s discretion.
Kosenmark merely smiled. “What did that message say?”
“The mountain has fallen.”
“Hmmmm.” Kosenmark lathered his hands and ran them over his body, scrubbing away the sweat and grime from his sword drill. “So our friend Leos is dead.”
