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Gerek entered the room with some trepidation. He found Raul Kosenmark kneeling by t
he fireplace, which blazed far too bright and hot, despite the close summer night. Papers were spread around him. The letter box—that cursed magic-spelled letter box where Kosenmark stored his most private documents—stood open with all its secret contents exposed, and Kosenmark was feeding the pages one by one into the flames. At Gerek’s entrance, he glanced up with a fey smile.
“I have a gift for you,” he said.
Gerek paused, unable to think of a suitable reply. Or a safe one.
“Under ordinary circumstances, you would thank me,” Raul continued. He stood up and went to his desk, where he sorted through a smaller stack of papers. “But you have had little reason to.”
“My lord—”
“My Lord Haszler, do not pretend gratitude where none is deserved.”
“I-I-” Gerek stopped again at the mention of his true name. He had to force himself to breathe steadily. He noted, as from a distance, that Kosenmark waited patiently.
“I do n-not pretend anything,” he said. “If I am grateful, I-I am. If you dislike that, you should send me away.”
That brought a surprised laugh from Kosenmark. “Very well. No pretense, not from either of us. So. The gift.” He picked out a few pages, heavy parchment covered in small close script. Raul laid them out and touched each one, as if reassuring himself of their existence. His expression had gone pensive, though a stranger might not have noticed the change. “I am offering you this house,” he said, “and everything inside, except for the contents of my private chambers. Those I will send for in a few weeks.”
“The courtesans as well?” Gerek asked.
“You have a need for them?” Raul said drily.
“N-n-no, my lord.”
“Good. I would hate to think you tired of Kathe so easily.”
Never, Gerek thought. Not for a hundred years. Not for a hundred lives.
To Raul, he only bowed his head.
“I regret I cannot attend your wedding,” Raul went on. “I leave for Duenne at first light.”
Another surprise, another exclamation swallowed.
“I have business with the king,” Raul added. “You do not need to know more. I hope…” And here his voice lost its faintly amused tone. “I hope this sudden break will protect you and yours from Lord Khandarr’s attentions. If it does not, send word to Lord Vieth. Do not use the usual channels. Send word directly to Vieth or to Lord Benno Iani.”
He handed over the sheets of parchment, all of them witnessed and stamped with the magical and wax seals of the various offices in Tiralien. Kosenmark had signed over the house itself to Lord Gerek Haszler, favorite cousin of his once lover, Lord Dedrik Maszuryn. He had also allocated a substantial sum to Kathe Raendl, and a second, lesser amount for the house expenses until Lord Gerek took formal possession. Gerek wondered what Kathe’s mother would make of these gifts. He wondered what Kathe herself would think.
The next few hours were spent arranging for contingencies and various fallbacks. If Gerek and Kathe wished to keep the house, he might consider retaining the guards. If they chose to sell, the guards and staff could find employment with the duke at Valentain. And if they in turn chose to go elsewhere …
On and on, each permutation laid out in that fluting voice. It was much like their discussions for other, equally complicated plans, except this one carried with it an air of finality.
At last they were done. Runners carried a few saddlebags below. Others went to work in the long-concealed private chambers, packing clothing, books, and other belongings into crates for later. Dawn was approaching, but Gerek had no inclination to sleep. He watched as Kosenmark gathered a few papers together and wrapped them in waxed sheets. He noted the man did not order him away. Perhaps he was human after all.
At last Kosenmark stood and glanced around the room. His gaze met Gerek’s and he smiled, a genuine one at last. “Your beloved has missed you, undoubtedly.”
As does yours, Gerek thought.
He said nothing, however. He still retained some sense of self-preservation.
Kosenmark’s lips curled into a sardonic smile, as if he guessed Gerek’s thoughts. “Come. Walk with me, please.”
It was a request, not a command—an acknowledgment that Kosenmark was no longer master and lord.
They descended the stairs, but at the second landing, Kosenmark turned into the corridors. Gerek followed. A dog to the last, he thought. But it was true, his earlier impression. Kosenmark was bidding this house farewell. They—he—wandered through the corridors and galleries, through rooms empty of clients, and down another level to the main floor, where they took a circuitous route among the parlors and sitting rooms, the common room, and then, by a twist and a quirk, into a small library, seldom used, that overlooked the gardens below, now little more than shadows in the early morning light.
Kosenmark stared out the window a long quarter hour. Then, with dawn seeping through the trees, he turned away with an audible sigh. He and Gerek paced the last length of halls side by side, until they came to the front entryway where two servants waited.
