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“Maester Galt,” Khandarr said drily. “You keep late hours for a visit.”
Galt hesitated only briefly, then swept into a bow. “My lord. I came as soon as I heard.”
Easy enough to guess what Galt meant. So the man had spies in the palace. That was useful information. He also expected Khandarr to welcome an ally. Galt had a great deal to learn in that case. A test, then, to see how the man responded.
He smiled bitterly. “What have you heard?”
Galt’s expression turned wary. “About Lord Kosenmark. And the king’s wish for a public trial.”
Very nicely spoken. He implied nothing, accused no one.
“I wished to consult with you tonight,” Galt went on. “No, that is too presumptuous. I wished to ask your advice about a related matter, but I see you are ill and weary. May I send my own physician?”
Khandarr narrowed his eyes to slits, felt the ache of mere bodily discomfort ebb in the face of this new puzzle. So many assumptions in those seemingly innocuous statements, and delivered with such obvious desire to please. He did not want to owe this man a debt, but … It might serve a purpose to let him believe this was the case.
“No physician. Stay here. Tell me what you know.”
He allowed Galt to follow him into his rooms, to his bedchamber. There, his servants waited to undress him, to remove the tight stockings he wore to steady his legs. They bathed him with hot cloths, soaked in strong herbs, which eased the trembling. Then they dressed him in layers of soft woolen robes, built up the fire, and helped him into his bed.
Galt waited until they departed before he spoke. To Khandarr’s disappointment—and his relief—the man knew nothing truly dangerous. He had learned of Kosenmark’s arrest through various easily bribed guards. (Khandarr asked for, and received, their names.) He knew about Duke Kosenmark’s interview, and deduced its outcome based on shrewd guesses and bits of conversation he had overheard from other courtiers. The only new piece of information was the presence of the duke’s daughters in Duenne. The family had its own house in the city, but one daughter had been invited by the queen to stay in the palace. A tidbit, no more, but an interesting one.
He learned more about Galt himself than the man suspected. Galt cared too much and too passionately about Lord Kosenmark’s fate. It confirmed much of what Khandarr’s own informants had reported on the man when he first arrived. Young for his position as master of the shipping guild, with enough enemies and allies for a man double his years. He had attempted marriage twice, the first contract broken off with numerous ugly rumors. The second, not even a contract this time, came to nothing when the girl ran away. The identity of the second girl, and her history after fleeing from Melnek, was well known. Therez Zhalina, who renamed herself Ilse Zhalina. Raul Kosenmark’s lover, now presumed dead, though Khandarr doubted those reports. He let Galt ramble on about his desire to serve the king and his councillors to the best of his abilities. He wanted, he claimed, nothing more than the king and his ministers to remember him when they next discussed matters of taxation.
A man clever at his own trade, Khandarr thought, staring upward at the ceiling. But a fool with matters he does not understand.
“Enough,” he said abruptly. “Tell me what you want. Do not lie. Do not flatter.”
“I want…” Galt sucked in a breath. Here was the moment of truth and passion. “I want Kosenmark dead,” he said. “I want his lover shamed. I know she’s alive. I’ve heard rumors. For that, my lord, I would do anything.”
He was honest, at least. Too honest to survive in Duenne’s Court. But Khandarr only wanted a few months of the man’s service.
Meanwhile Galt waited in obvious anxiety for Khandarr’s reply.
“I want … your allegiance,” he whispered.
“You have it, my lord.”
“Good. Now … my orders. Listen to your spies. Bring me reports. Everything. Everything,” he repeated. “Promise.”
It was a temporary assignment, meant only to bind Galt to him. He thought Galt appeared disappointed, but at least the man had the wit to bow and smile. “Whatever you command, my lord.”
A soft rapping sounded at the bedchamber doors. One of Khandarr’s servants spoke with the intruder. “My lord. The girl you ordered.”
He had not ordered a girl. A glance at Galt told him the answer.
“I will send her away if you prefer,” Galt said.
“No. I want … to see.”
He signaled to the servant. The girl slithered inside. She was young, scarcely old enough to sign the contract for her duties, though that might be a trick of her mannerisms. She was dressed in a translucent web of honey gold lace, edged with silk ribbons, the airy confection gathered around her waist with a thin sash of the same material. Her costume was hitched back with more ribbons, and her sex was shaved clean.
Khandarr took in her dark slim form, her full breasts, the way her eyes canted over her high cheekbones. It was too, too predictable. Galt was an idiot to let his urges be known so completely.
“I do not need her,” he said. Then as Galt made to dismiss the girl, he lifted a hand. “Keep her. And you. Stay.”
Galt paused, clearly uncertain. “My lord?”
“Use her. Here. I will watch. Then we talk … about how you can please me.”
