“Come with me,” he said.
He led her through the kitchen, already hot and noisy. Scullions were hauling in vast buckets of water from the wells, while kitchen girls and boys stood around several worktables, washing greens, chopping leeks and onions, or stirring sauces. Ghita Fiori, the chief cook, stood in one corner, shouting directions. Alesso waved in her direction, but never paused when she called to him.
Alesso led Ilse through the outer doors and into the maze of narrow lanes behind the pleasure house. They passed a series of miscellaneous shops, whose upper stories were let as single rooms. Three steps led down to a small courtyard. Several rain barrels stood against one wall. Wind-blown trash had lodged in the corners, and the walls were water-stained, giving the place a desolate air. “Here,” he said.
Ilse scanned for open windows or doors. None were visible. A second gate marked a narrow passageway between two houses, but a quick examination showed that it ended in an even smaller courtyard, entirely surrounded by houses. It was private here, more than she would have expected so close to the pleasure house and the very public squares nearby. And their meeting here would only confirm the gossip about last night’s supposed dalliance. Perhaps that was a good thing.
Meanwhile, Alesso had leaned against a wall, his arms folded. Despite his seemingly warm smile, she could tell he had slept no better than she had. Still, his expression was guarded, and seemingly alert enough that she would not find it easy to trap or trick him.
“You have questions,” he said. “Ask them.”
She started with the obvious one. “Tell me who you work for.”
“I work for Ghita the Cook.”
Ilse rolled her eyes. “Oh really. I would never have guessed. You gave me drugged wine. Why?”
“Curiosity at what you might say or do. An unrelenting desire for mischief. What do you think?”
It was a challenge. She took it.
She threw out a string of suppositions, each one more outrageous than the last. Alesso shrugged, indifferent. Ilse paced back and forth in front of him. Clearly he would not succumb to threats. She had to surprise him. She threw out a number of names, some of them true, some entirely invention, but he merely yawned. She nearly admitted her connection to Raul, but that was a trick she would have to save for a last and desperate throw.
“You have an extraordinary imagination,” Alesso said, when she paused.
“Angry,” she replied back. “I dislike being spied upon. You are someone’s minion, however sweetly you smile at me. Perhaps not Lord Khandarr’s, but what about the garrison commanders’? They might keep a watch on strangers to Osterling, especially after the past few days.”
“I would hardly work for the king’s commanders.”
Ilse swung around. “Why do you say that?”
“No reason.”
“You always have a reason,” she said softly. “You pretended friendship, kindness. I almost believed you. How foolish of me.”
His lips curled into a mocking smile. “Oh dear. How terrible of me. My heart bleeds like Brother Toc for Sister Lir. For surely
you
would never lie to me. That would be unforgivable between colleagues.”
Again that word
colleagues
. Was he one of Raul’s spies, then?
Impossible. She and Raul had agreed never to risk any contact. This had to be a ruse. Very carefully she said, “I have never lied to you.”
“Nor have you spoken the truth.” He pushed off the wall and came toward her, with the slow easy grace of a stalking leopard. “You are too much of a coward to admit the truth—that you are as much as spy as I am.”
“I am not a coward.”
He laughed, deep in his throat, and pressed onward until she retreated to the opposite wall of the courtyard. There he pinned her, a hand on either side of her throat, his face inches from hers. Heat shimmered between them. The scent of bergamot and ginger, of the possibility of more than a single kiss, hung in the air. Ilse’s pulse leaped to a faster pace. She considered a dozen tactics to disable Alesso. No doubt he would counter those tactics with his own.
“
Do
you work for Markus Khandarr?” she said.
“No.”
She grasped his wrist and pressed her thumb between the fine bones. His pulse beat as quick and light as hers. Even as she counted the beats, she heard his breath catch as he tried to control himself. So he was not as calm and self-possessed as he wished to appear. That pleased her. She loosened her grip and tilted her chin up. No invitation today. Her mouth was tight and angry. “Then you work for nothing and no one. A child playing games.”
“Is that what you think?”
He bent down to kiss her. Ilse swung both hands up and snapped them to either side. Before he could react, she punched her knuckles into his chest.
He gasped and stumbled backward. Good. She’d meant to hurt him. Swiftly, she sidestepped him and made for the gate. Alesso grabbed her by the wrist and swung her around. He checked her before she could twist under his arm to free herself. “Listen to me.”
“Let go.”
“I will. After you listen.” He glared down at her, his expression so grim, she hardly recognized him. “What I do and who I work for is no business of yours. But for your own sake, you should understand that not everyone is like your Lord Kosenmark. Not all
games
concern the Veraenen king and his court.”
With that he released her and stalked through the open gate.
Ilse stared after him, absently rubbing her wrist. No, he was no spy for Markus Khandarr—of that she felt certain. But definitely a spy. She would have to act even more carefully in front of him, in front of everyone else, from now on. She could only hope her caution did not come too late.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ONLY A WEEK
had gone by since Gerek Hessler came to Lord Kosenmark’s pleasure house. On the surface, his days passed easily enough. He dealt with an abundance of correspondence and invitations. At times, Lord Kosenmark ordered him to research obscure points in history, or to confirm a quotation by a particular poet for a letter. All very ordinary tasks, some more interesting than others.
And yet he felt a curious displacement from his surroundings. Not in his office, where he spent most of his hours. He had made the office into a home of sorts, filled with comfortable, useful things, much like his private quarters in his father’s household. Mistress Denk had assisted Gerek with choosing furniture from the pleasure house’s stores. Lord Kosenmark had offered several antique maps. And Gerek himself had arranged everything to his liking.
But whenever he ventured beyond the narrow confines of his duties, and into the common rooms or public parlors, he felt as though he were a lost soul, barely visible to the more substantial inhabitants of this enormous and mazelike house. Fortunately, Lord Kosenmark kept Gerek too busy to worry about such things.
Today, for example.
An open crate sat on the floor next to Gerek’s desk. Six more waited in the corner, still bound with leather straps, and sealed with locks bearing the insignia of House Valentain. The crates were filled with books, and had arrived the day before from Duke Kosenmark, a gift to increase his son’s already substantial library. Gerek’s task was to record each book by title, author, and probable date of publication, then compare the list against an existing catalog drawn up several years before by the old secretary, Berthold Hax. Any duplicates would return to the ducal estates.
Gerek took the next book and carefully unwrapped the layers of cloth protecting it.
An Account of Morennioù, written by Hêr Commander Dimarus Maszny.
It was the man’s personal memoirs of leading an expedition to annex the island province of Morennioù. Inside, Maszny himself had written an inscription to Duke Andreas Koszenmarc, in memory of their friendship. A truly valuable book, which dated from almost a hundred years before the civil wars.
Resisting the urge to leaf through the delicate pages, Gerek recorded the necessary information. Outside, the bell towers tolled the hour, followed by three quarter hour chimes. Almost noon. Hanne or Dana would come by soon with his dinner.
He laid his pen down and blew upon the paper. Eighteen volumes accomplished. Two hundred more remained. He stretched to ease the ache in his shoulders and arm. It was quiet at this hour. Most of the courtesans were still asleep. Elsewhere, the chambermaids were freshening the private suites and parlors, and making the common room ready for the clients. Lord Kosenmark himself had risen well before sunrise for weapons drill. He had spent the usual two hours with Gerek, going over the week’s schedule and this latest delivery from Valentain. Now he was out riding with Lord Vieth and several other nobles.
With another flick of his attention to the door, Gerek slid a small diary from inside his tunic. Here was where he recorded his observations about Kosenmark and the household. It was a habit left over from his university days, when his professors had recommended the students keep journals for lecture notes, findings in their research, anything to help sift through the detritus of history.
He thumbed through the book, scanning the notes he had accumulated so far.
… House located in an exclusive neighborhood, midway between the merchant district and the governor’s palace. Numerous servants, as you might expect for a man of his station. More guards than the usual complement, however, and nearly all chosen from his father’s private men. Then there are the courtesans. Sixteen. Men and women equally. Two followed him from Duenne. The rest he recruited after his arrival in Tiralien. None openly acknowledge his political connections though they are all aware of the listening devices built into the house …
… Lord Kosenmark rises early for morning weapons drill. Day divided between his own concerns (house, staff, etc.) and visits to other nobles in the city. Note: of the names D. mentioned as especial friends—Lord Benno Iani, Baron Rudolfus Eckard, Lady Emma Theysson (memo: Lady Iani by recent marriage)—none visit the house, not even for the general evening entertainment, nor does he accept invitations from them. What invitations he does accept are of the most unexceptional kind, completely unlike the stories D. told me …
That was not entirely accurate. He had found all the luxury and decadence Dedrick had described. There were the perpetual feasts and games and a pervading air of the sexual. He’d met the famous courtesans: Nadine and Eduard, Josef, Tatiana, and the astonishingly beautiful Adelaide, who had pleasured the old king, Baerne of Angersee, himself.
Adelaide’s name recalled the latest scrap of information—that Adelaide intended to leave the pleasure house for Mistress Luise Ehrenalt’s establishment. Ehrenalt was a high-ranking member of the silk weaver’s guild. She was also a former member of Kosenmark’s shadow court. Gerek wrote that down, too.
He paused, pen hovering over the page as he tried to fit all these disparate clues into a single coherent picture. He had come here to uncover the treasonous actions of a self-indulgent lord. Instead he had found an almost ordinary household. If one could call courtesans and their clients ordinary.
Which reminded him. He blotted his last comment, turned the page, and wrote:
… And there is the cook’s daughter, Kathe Raendl, whose position is higher in the household than I had first estimated. It appears she is her mother’s chief assistant, and more. The girl Hanne tells me Kathe had befriended Ilse Zhalina even before IZ worked in the kitchens. It was she Lord Kosenmark chose to attend the young woman through her illness, and she who trained her in the kitchen. Even after IZ turned secretary then lover, she retained KR as a trusted friend, until her own break with Lord K.…
“Maester Hessler?”
Gerek dropped his pen, spattering ink over his notebook and the desk. Cursing softly, he mopped up the spill with his sleeve. His notebook page was smeared, but the script was clear enough. He could copy it over later. He slid the book inside his jacket. “Yes?”
Kathe Raendl backed into the room with a heavily laden tray. Gerek drew a quick breath at the sight of her face. It was too much of a coincidence, his notes, her arrival moments later. He could almost believe she’d used Kosenmark’s spy holes, except it was so unlike her character.
“I knocked three times,” she said. “And it is after noon.”
“I-I-I—” He stopped. Forced out a breath. “I am sorry,” he said with deliberate slowness. “I was distracted. So much work.”
“Ah, distracted. How often have I heard that explanation? It’s as common as mold and dust. Perhaps I should talk to Lord Kosenmark about airing this office, if not the entire wing.”
Gerek shot a suspicious glance in her direction. She had never teased him before. Unlike Kosenmark, she never finished his sentences for him. She waited until he mastered his wretched tongue, forcing out syllable after painful syllable, then helped him work his way back to simple conversation.
Kathe coughed and nodded at his desk. “Do you wish to take your meal here? Or shall I find a parlor elsewhere in the wing?”
Hurriedly he cleared off a space. Kathe set down the tray and laid out several covered dishes, a carafe of fresh cold water, a second of strong coffee brewed just as he liked. From her demure expression, he might have believed her yet another kitchen girl, but he had seen her name throughout Mistress Denk’s accounts. She had lately taken over reporting the kitchen expenditures. She also shared the responsibility for designing the splendid feasts given in Lord Kosenmark’s pleasure house. Denk had commented that Kathe could command a position in any noble’s household as chief cook. He wondered why she lingered here, as a mere assistant.
His attention on these speculations, he reached for his water cup. His hand accidentally brushed Kathe’s. He felt the brief warmth of contact, heard her intake of breath.
Gerek jerked his hand back. “S-s-s-sssorr— Oh damn it!”
He thrust himself away from the desk with both hands and shut his eyes. He could not bear to see her shocked expression. Because she would be shocked. They always were. They never understood his shame.