Queen's Hunt Part 11

Her cheeks dimpled in a pensive smile. "You aren't. But I was curious about you. And you remind me of someone I knew before."

Unsure what to say, he fixed his attention on the harbor and the seas. The fleet or convoy was already much farther north, heading between a scattering of islands. The pattern of ships and boats in the harbor had shifted, too. It was like a secret code, transparent to those familiar with waves and tides and water craft, but to strangers such as him, the language remained opaque, unsettling.

"You are angry with me," Kathe said.

"No. I am n-n-not used to people watching me."

"You aren't?" A pause. "They should. I don't know you very well, but I see much to admire."

He made a quick gesture of denial.

"I do," she insisted. "You work hard. You are clever with words. No matter what you think," she said, overriding his second and more vocal objection. "Words are not just sounds, spoken prettily. They are shapes on the page and in our hearts. I've always thought-" She broke off and shook her head. "I'm sorry. I'm babbling again."

I like your babbling. But he didn't dare say that out loud.

They lapsed into another silence, an easier one this time. Gerek pretended to be absorbed in an altercation in the marketplace below-a man driving pigs through the square had lost control over his animals. The pigs were dashing between carts and stalls, upsetting wares. Others were screeching at the hapless swineherd.

Kathe's unfinished sentence teased at him. He wanted to ask what she thought about words. He wanted to ask what she'd meant the day before, about not needing to apologize. But words were more than flesh and air, no matter what Kosenmark claimed. If he spoke, he might disturb the easy silence between them. It should be enough, he thought, to sit companionably with a friend.

Down below, the swineherd drove his pigs from the marketplace. A few shrill grunts floated up on the breeze, then the noise died off, leaving just the dull, indistinct roar from the crowds. Kathe touched his arm. "I must go back to the house. Will you come back for supper? Or shall I tell them to expect you later?"

Several different answers hovered on his tongue. In spite of what he thought earlier, he had the impression of a rare chance offered. Gerek swallowed and made a silent prayer to Lir. "Would you- Would you like me to carry your basket for you?"

There was just the briefest hesitation from Kathe. The pause lasted long enough that Gerek cursed his impulse. But then she smiled. "That would be kind of you. Thank you."

Gerek slung the larger basket over one arm and made certain its contents were secure. He took the second from Kathe's hands. They felt as light as a bundle of cotton. I am an ox, he thought, recalling his mother's words.

His mother had always used the name with affection. Even so, Gerek hated how it made him feel-large and awkward, a lumpish beast. But today the sky was bright, the breeze clean and brisk. And there was Kathe, holding out her hand.

CHAPTER TEN.

WHEN SHE FIRST arrived in Osterling Keep in winter, Ilse Zhalina thought she had unraveled the days and miles to a summer's day in Melnek, where she had lived as a child. The sky was the color of pale blue ink suspended in water. Dusty green trees fringed the cliffs above the city, and only at night did she sometimes light a brazier to warm her bedroom.

As the season turned into spring, the seas glittered beneath the sun, and fishermen spoke of the coming summer storms. Fleets of merchant ships hurried down from the northern ports to complete their pa.s.sage before those same calm seas turned rough and wild. Those with a few hours of leave visited the pleasure house, and Ilse worked into the night to keep the house well supplied.

Still, for all the orderly, ordinary succession of her days, she had the impression of a smothering weight over the city. Riders had taken word of the battle and the escaped officer to garrisons along the coast, and Lord Joannis had sent word to Duenne by ship and land. The effects were immediate-more guards in the harbor and around the city garrison. Rumor also talked about an influx of reinforcements due from Konstanzien, up the coast.

Ilse herself stopped using magic entirely. Be cautious, Nicol Joannis had warned her, in his oblique fashion. No more journeys to Anderswar. No more searching for Lir's jewels. She even stopped using the ordinary spells for lighting candles.

Nor did she meet with Alesso again.

That, however, was not her doing. Two days after their confrontation, Alesso transferred to the late-night shift. Ilse learned about that from the kitchen maids. Interesting, she thought. If he had frightened her out of complacency, perhaps she had done the same with him.

This day and hour, however, her attention was wholly on the pleasure house and its books, not the far-off doings of armies or kings. She sat with the chief cook in the woman's office, reviewing the monthly accounts. It was midafternoon. The sunlight was white and unforgiving, and the room echoed with activity from the kitchen next door.

The cook, used to the noise, pitched her voice louder. "Fish," she said.

Fish, hook, net, snare. The old game of word links came effortlessly to Ilse's mind. She smiled to herself. Ghita Fiori was an utterly plain woman, unimaginative except when it came to her cookery. She would not appreciate a game about words.

"Fish," Ilse repeated. "I never knew how many kinds of fish lived in the sea, until I came here."

Ghita snorted. "We only care about the edible ones. Speaking of which, fish needs salt, and the king has raised the salt tax again."

Taxes. Ilse sighed. "How much?"

"Thirty copper denier for a hundredweight."

A small sum, except when you considered how much fish and meat the customers consumed in one year. Ilse calculated the probable increase in expenses and sighed again. "That means higher taxes for freight and shipping. Mistress Andeliess might have to increase her prices, too."

"That is her business, not ours."

"True. But she'll want the numbers from me. So, then. We require fish, bought fresh from the wharves, in all varieties that you have so helpfully noted in your expenses and projections. Three hundred silver denier for the past month, including taxes. Next is beef ... Yes, Rina?"

It was one of the house runners-Mistress Andeliess's grandniece, recently hired to begin her internship in the family business. The girl bounced on her toes. Her eyes were shiny with excitement. "I came for Mistress Ilse," she said. "You have a visitor. In your rooms."

Ilse frowned. "You took them to my rooms?"

"It wasn't me." The girl's voice squeaked high. "Fredo took them up. But come. You'll see he had no choice."

Fredo was the house's senior runner, old and trusted and wise in discretion. If he had elected to bring this unnamed visitor directly to Ilse's rooms without notifying her first, it argued for someone both important and well-known to Fredo.

Lord Joannis. He was the only person who could produce that kind of reaction. But why would he come to her? Perhaps he'd sent word to Raul in spite of his own warning to her.

She blotted the page with shaking hands, all too aware how Ghita and the runner watched her. "We can work together later," she said. "Tomorrow morning is best for me. That gives me a chance to speak with Mistress Andeliess about the salt tax. Will that suit?"

Ghita answered, but Ilse hardly heard the woman. She gathered up her books and writing case. Murmured a reply that surely made no sense, but all she cared about was the visitor and what news he might bring.

She sped to the stairs at the back of the house. By the time she reached the second-floor landing, she was out of breath. She paused at the door to smooth her hair and recover her poise. If her visitor was Lord Joannis, she would have to act her part in case anyone overheard them. Then she rounded the corner from the landing into the hall.

Her first warning was the sight of two armed soldiers outside her door.

Both men glanced in her direction. Light from an open door beyond cast their faces in shadows. Then one man rested his hand on his sword. The movement sent a ripple of sunlight over the metal studs of his leather glove.

Ilse continued forward, her heart skipping to a faster beat as she took in more details. Royal insignias. Full armor despite the heat. Someone important, then. Given a few moments, she could probably guess the ident.i.ty of her visitor. She laid a hand on the latch to her door, felt the warmth of recent magic, the hint of a signature she almost recognized.

Inside, a tall man dressed in a dusty drab cloak stood behind her desk. He held a paper in one hand. A dozen more were scattered over the floor, as if he'd tossed them to one side. A wide-brimmed hat shaded his face, but Ilse felt a stir of fear. Something about his height, the dismissive manner with which he flicked aside the paper and took up another.

Markus Khandarr, King's Mage and chief councillor, glanced up. "Mistress Ilse Zhalina. Formerly Mistress Therez of Melnek. Good day."

Her mouth went dry. "Lord Khandarr. I remember you."

Oh yes, she did. She had met him only once, for a few terrifying moments, two years ago. He had infiltrated a secret meeting between Raul Kosenmark and his shadow court. Or rather, he had intended to. Suspecting a spy, Raul had arranged a false meeting, with only those a.s.sociates already known to the king.

"I am glad you do," Khandarr said. "That will make our interview easier. Lord Kosenmark tells me you've broken off all connection with him."

A lie. Raul would tell this man nothing. With an ease that she did not feel, Ilse turned toward the sideboard and indicated the waiting carafes. "Would my lord care for wine? Or I might send for coffee."

Khandarr smiled faintly. "No, thank you. A few answers are all that I require. Tell me what you remember about the Karovin ships-the ones that foundered offsh.o.r.e last month. What did you see that day?"

"Nothing," she said. Too quickly, because Khandarr's smile deepened.

"Nothing at all?" he said.

She made a show of considering her answer this time. "Nothing, my lord. You might know that Captain Spenglar allows me to drill with his wing. That day I came late, so I was outside the yard when the alarm bells rang. The wings and files marched out. I waited until they pa.s.sed, then returned here to my work."

"You were not curious?"

"Very curious. And frightened. There were rumors of pirates, you see."

"But they were not pirates."

"No, my lord. They were not. I learned that later."

Khandarr regarded her for several moments. It was hard to read his expression-he'd placed himself between her and the window, and shadows covered his face-but she had the distinct impression of strong emotions running just beneath the surface. Disappointment. Fury. A mixture of the two. She wished she knew more about current doings in the royal court.

"Tell me what magic you know," Khandarr said.

Ilse suppressed a flinch. "I know very little magic, my lord."

"False," Khandarr whispered. "Your first mistake."

"But my lord-"

"Shut up, you miserable girl. You know magic. Kosenmark taught you. Your own books betray you." He dropped the papers onto her desk and curled his fingers into a fist. The magic current stirred, drawing her skin tight. "I'm glad to see you have not forgotten me," he said. "Consider what you know. What Kosenmark told you. How Lord Dedrick died. Because tomorrow we shall talk again."

He brushed past her on his way out the door. Ilse held still. She counted to ten after the door closed, then moved swiftly to the sideboard and poured herself a generous cup of wine.

He came to interrogate the Karovin prisoners, of course. That was the meat of Nicol Joannis's warning. She had misunderstood him. She had expected the king to send a military officer. The incident was a military matter, after all. But it was the short interval since that warning that frightened her the most. Only a month had pa.s.sed since the governor sent word to Duenne. How many horses had Lord Khandarr and the courier killed between them?

Her thoughts veered back to her other encounters with Markus Khandarr, the reports from trusted agents, even Lord Iani's own account of Dedrick's death.

Khandarr raised a hand. Ilse's skin pulled tight across her forehead. Her throat clamped shut, and her vision went dark ...

... he shouted and the air turned bright and heavy. Then came a wind. Then a burst of fire. Then I saw the soldiers along the perimeter wall burning, burning, and yet they did not die ...

... Khandarr was furious, Iani told them. He called up magic so thick that I could hardly breathe. Dedrick fought hard against it. G.o.ds, I thought his throat would burst. And then ... And then it did....

Her stomach heaved at the memories.

I should have sent word to Raul myself, she thought. Alesso might have helped, if she offered him enough money.

What if. Might have. Ought to.

All those second guesses were worthless.

She heard a soft scratching at her door. Ghita the cook? One of the runners? Her pulse gave a start when she heard Alesso's voice instead. Interesting that he would be awake at this hour. Except that true spies never slept.

She drank off the wine and went into her bedroom.

The signs of Lord Khandarr's search were few but telling-the bed quilt rumpled, her bookcase with several volumes pulled out, one trunk with its lid propped open, the scent and texture of his magical signature heavy in the air. He had not rifled through all her books, however. The books of poetry and history remained as she had left them. She removed one thick volume of Tanja Duhr's poetry and let her breath trickle out in relief.

He had not discovered her most secret weapon, then.

Ilse took out the scroll from its hiding place. It had come from Lord Iani, from her last few months in Tiralien. He had not liked her request, but he had given in to her insistence. He was right to be reluctant. With these spells, she might erase her mind completely. She could lock her memory against all probing, sealing her thoughts away forever, or locking them with a particular key.

For a long while, Ilse considered the spell and its implications. Once invoked, she would forget Raul Kosenmark and everything between them. His shadow court would be safe. She ... she would be a mindless puppet. She could use the variation with a key. The right person with the right key could recover her self. But then she risked the key being lost or misunderstood.

Or understood by the wrong person altogether.

Not yet. Better to wait and see what Khandarr does next.

VALARA BAUSSAY LAY on her back, staring at the ceiling. A spider had begun a web in one corner, near the window. The web shook from an unseen breeze, a breeze so weak it did nothing to relieve the suffocating heat inside the prison. Nor the smell. The guards were late emptying the slop buckets today, and the air smelled ranker than usual.

In the weeks since her capture, she had come to know every detail of her cell. It measured four feet by five-an enormous, luxurious s.p.a.ce. Other prisoners slept two or three together, their straw pallets crammed close along one wall, as far away from the slop buckets as possible. And hers had an actual window-just a foot-square opening, blocked with iron bars, but through it, Valara could see a patch of sky. If she stretched onto her toes, she could even make out a thumb-sized smidge of wall from some other part of the garrison. Once the summer storms came, the guards told her, she would get a bit of tarpaulin to keep out the rains.

Summer. She could hardly imagine a season hotter than this one.

In Morenniou, on the island Enzeloc, the lilies and orchids in the castle gardens would be ripe with new blooms. Outside the grounds, the trees in Louvain's orchards would be shedding their blossoms. She loved riding with Jhen Aubevil through the blizzard of petals.

Not this year. This year, soldiers burned those orchards.

Her chest squeezed tight in grief and anger. She remembered-could not forget-that terrible first day of spring. The alarm bells, her running to find her father and his chief mage. Her confession about the jewel. Their panicked attempts to conceal Lir's emerald, only to have the emerald awaken and change itself with its own magic. Valara absently rubbed the wooden ring on her finger and felt a dull p.r.i.c.kle of the current, uninspired and nearly imperceptible. Once she had imagined the jewel spoke to her. Or was that a memory from old lives? An image from ordinary dreams from long ago?

The hour bells rang out, followed by a softer quarter bell.

Valara stirred, restless and hungry. It was two hours past the usual time for supper, but no guard had come with her meal. She heard one of the Karovin complaining to his cell mates. She understood them much better, six weeks later. At times, she practiced Karovin and Veraenen, whispering the words to herself. The languages had changed in the past three hundred years, but not beyond recognition. She had spoken both fluently in previous lives. She could do so in this one.

A loud crash brought her alert and to her feet. Six guards marched through the outer doors and down the corridor. One of them unlocked Valara's cell door and seized the overflowing slop bucket, cursing at the mess. Another tossed her straw pallet to a companion. "What are you doing?" Valara demanded. Fear made her reckless. For a moment, she forgot she was only a prisoner and grabbed the guard's arm. "What is happening?"

The guard shook her off. Before she could fling herself after him, another guard carrying a bucket of soapy water shoved her into a corner. He pinned her against the wall with one arm and scrubbed her face with a rag. "Finish yourself," he said, dropping the bucket at her side. "And hurry."

He slammed the door shut. Valara choked and spat out a mouthful of soap. All down the corridor the other prisoners shouted curses. The guards ignored them and continued to work at a feverish pace. Torches lit. Pallets and blankets taken away. A hasty scouring of the floors and prisoners. Something very strange was afoot. A visitor?

My message to the king. They finally delivered it.

She s.n.a.t.c.hed up the rag from the floor and washed her hands, her neck, behind her ears. She wore the same threadbare clothes as the other prisoners. It was not how she wished to appear before a king or his representative, but she could make herself presentable at least.

The senior guard marched past the cells to make one last inspection. Once he completed his circuit, he shouted an order. Immediately a squad of soldiers poured inside. Half of them peeled off to line the corridor, the rest marched down, almost to Valara's cell and swung about, blocking her view. The din was unbearable-boots ringing off the stones, the clatter from several dozen swords drawn in unison, a great shout like a panther's coughing roar.

The guard captain barked an order, bringing an instant hush.