Living With Ghosts (12 page)

The night of the reception, Gracielis had awoken chill and disturbed from fitful sleep. Ever since, it seemed to him that a mood drifted over the city, invisible, cold, malevolent. Two days after that evening, he walked one of the paths alongside the northern arm of the river. It was not raining, but he shivered despite his heavy cloak and fur-lined two-colored gloves. Something waited. Something he did not wish to feel. To one side, the lieutenant’s ghost paced him, hazy with moisture. To the other, Amalie walked, holding his arm.

He could not imagine why she wanted to promenade here, in this weather. In any weather, for that matter. But it was not for him to question her. There were rules to this, as to any job. Besides, it pleased him to please her. And then, he had to eat.

She said, “You’re very quiet.”

“Your beauty silences me.” She snorted. He said, “I’ll talk, then, if it pleases you.”

“You know it does. You practice.” She squeezed his arm. “Everything about you pleases me, love.”

“I’m glad. It’s my greatest fear, that I’ll cease to please you.”

She laughed. “I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you.” The ghost sneered at him. He ignored it. “And are you pleased by this scenery?”

“Do you have that in your power as well?” She shook her head at him. “I don’t deserve your talents.”

“Not so. My talents are inadequate.” He smiled. “Is there something you’d have me change?”

“I wish!”

The river was high, heavy with mud and debris. The towpaths were all but deserted, and they had seen only one barge. The day was very still. He was again aware of a quality of waiting, caught in the air.

Amalie said, “I wanted to look at the river, but . . .”

“I was in the old town last night. The south channel is very high. I believe ships can still pass, though.”

“Are you sure?”

“No, but I can ask.”

“Thank you.” But she sighed.

Gracielis looked at her. “Has your ship arrived?”

“Not yet.” She sighed again. Gently, he lifted her hand to his lips.

He said, “It will be well.”

“Yes, I suppose so. And I can sustain the loss, if necessary. But with this news of the queen in addition . . . My trading partners in the Allied Cities won’t like it. They’re sure to want to charge me more and pay less for my goods. My guild is unhappy.”

“They say that she appeared quite well at the temple.”

“Yes, I know. But all the same . . .”

She was worrying, it was clear. Stopping, he placed his hands on her shoulders and looked down into her eyes. Carefully, kindly, he said, “Ladyheart. Do not.”

“Don’t what?”

“Frown.” He circled her face with a finger. “It makes wrinkles.”

“That would be a calamity.”

“Assuredly.” Over her shoulder, he could see the river, hazy beyond the lieutenant’s ghost. It looked as if a mist might be rising. He asked, “Are you cold?”

“Not especially. Are you?”

“A little. Your Merafien climate . . .”

“No resilience.” But she slipped her arms around him and rested her cheek on his shoulder. He began to wrap his cloak about them both, then paused as the ghost moved, improving his view of the river. That moved brown and slow, blurred with the mist, which was beginning to seep into the streets and alleys and gardens. There were shapes in the mist, and beneath the surface of the river, moving against the current, adopting forms they should not take. They uncoiled with lazy confidence, less substantial than the lieutenant’s malicious ghost. Under them Gracielis could sense something more, a heavy immanence of water, falling in thunder and spray.

He inhaled sharply. Amalie stared up at him in consternation. “What is it, love?”

She was blind to it, he could tell. Blind as Thiercelin had not been . . . Gracielis controlled his breathing and found a smile for her. “Nothing, Ladyheart. Only the cold.”

“I knew it. Let’s go back.”

He wanted nothing more. He drew her against him, and her arm slid around him again as they began to retrace their steps. After a while, she said, “You’re too thin, you know.”

“That’s my nature.” The lieutenant’s ghost glowered at him. Rain was starting to fall. Gracielis pulled his cloak more securely closed.

He did not look back to where the river bore its cargo of restless changes to breathe across the waiting city.

The same day, Thiercelin presented himself at the Lunedithin residence. It had proved harder than he had anticipated to bring himself to this point. Some part of him shivered from the idea of Yvelliane learning he had had dealings of any kind with Iareth Yscoithi. She had enough troubles. After Firomelle had been taken ill, he had hovered near Yvelliane’s offices in the Rose Palace for most of the night, in case she should want him. She had not: Around daybreak, one of her secretaries had come to order him home. Yvelliane herself remained behind and had not responded to his messages. Nor had he been able to see her. He had waited at home until Miraude accused him of moping. He was, and it helped no one. If he saw Iareth, perhaps he might learn something that could be of help to Yvelliane, if he did it properly. He was not sure he could. He was very nervous. When the door was opened by a liveried footman, he drew himself up to his full height and endeavored to look forbidding.

The man bowed, and said, “Good day, monseigneur.”

Thiercelin said, “I’m here to see mademoiselle Iareth Yscoithi.”

“Very good, monseigneur. Please come in.” He ushered Thiercelin into a well-appointed chamber off the hall. “What name am I to announce?”

“I’m an old friend . . ,” Thiercelin began. “I’m sure she’ll be happy to receive me.”

“Of course, monseigneur. However . . .” The footman hesitated. “Perhaps you have an appointment?”

Thiercelin had never been a very good liar. Looking at his feet, he said, “The fact is, I . . . Not precisely, no.”

“I see.” The footman seemed to be making a mental assessment of him. “I will make inquiries.”

“Thank you.”

It took less time than he had expected. After about five minutes, the door opened. Thiercelin looked up, hoping to see Iareth.

It was a young officer in the uniform of the Queen’s Own Cavalry. He bowed to Thiercelin and shut the door. “Good day, monseigneur. I’m the liaison officer for the heir’s party. Perhaps I can assist you?”

“I hope so,” Thiercelin said cordially. “I’d like to see Iareth Yscoithi.”

“Yes, monseigneur, so the footman tells me.” The officer had curiously deep-set eyes, lending a serious cast to his countenance. “However, there seems to be a problem with identification.” Thiercelin was silent. “I’m sure, monseigneur, that you can appreciate that it isn’t good policy to admit unknown persons.”

“It does seem reasonable,” Thiercelin admitted. He was beginning to wish he had never tried this. He should have sent a note. “But my situation’s rather delicate. I’d rather not have to give my name.”

“In that case, monseigneur, I regret that you won’t be able to obtain an appointment.”

“Evidently,” Thiercelin said. And then, “Drown it!” The officer was perfectly pleasant, but he might as well have been a stone wall. Thiercelin sighed. “I don’t suppose you could see your way to . . .” The officer made no response. Uncomfortably, Thiercelin continued, “I’m not without resources.”

“I’m happy for you.”

Thiercelin looked at his feet. Bribery went right against his grain. He said, “Perhaps we could come to some arrangement?”

The officer’s eyes narrowed. “I doubt it.”

“What I meant was . . .”

“I know what you meant,” the officer said. “Attempting to bribe one of Her Majesty’s officers is an offense, monseigneur. I suggest you leave.”

“I need to see Iareth,” Thiercelin said, aware that he had succeeded only in giving offense. “My business is quite important.”

“As are my duties,” said the officer. “Good day to you . . . monseigneur.” The pause was just long enough to be insulting. Valdarrien would have challenged him for that.

Thiercelin was not Valdarrien. Controlling his irritation with himself and the situation, he said, “I’d be very grateful . . .”

“I do not,” said the officer, “take bribes.” He glared at Thiercelin. “So why don’t you just leave?”

Thiercelin’s irritation peaked. He said, “Are you dismissing me?”

“Yes,” said the officer, and turned his back.

“As a gentleman . . .” Thiercelin began.

“I wasn’t aware that I was dealing with one.”

Thiercelin forgot himself. He stood up straight, “Enough, monsieur. I am Thiercelin duLaurier of Sannazar and the Far Blays, and I need to see Iareth Yscoithi.”

“Really?” The officer looked around.

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“Let’s say I find it rather odd that the First Councillor’s husband would come here and refuse to identify himself.”

“I just did,” said Thiercelin, stung. The officer said nothing. “And I’ll be quite happy to prove it to you. Shall we say the Winter Gardens?”

“Very good. When?”

“Your discretion. I’ll expect your second at the Far Blays townhouse.”

“Indeed?” The officer looked incredulous.

This was getting out of control. Thiercelin sighed. It had been years—six years—since he had been involved in any kind of duel. And as for acting as the principal in one . . . Awkwardly, he removed his signet ring and held it out. “Look, I don’t think . . .”

“Monsieur is afraid to meet me?”

“No,” said Thiercelin, “but . . .”

“I don’t see the need for further conversation.”

It was hopeless. He was committed to the blasted duel. “River rot it,” said Thiercelin. “You insisted on proof of my identity. Here it is. However, monsieur . . .”

“Lieutenant Lievrier.”

“If I’m going to have to fight you, you could at least go and announce me to Iareth Yscoithi.”

The lieutenant looked him up and down. Then he shrugged. “Very well, monseigneur.”

He was shown into a small reception room on the first floor. No pictures relieved the dark paneling; the furnishings and rugs were in muted colors. The fire was unlit. He refused refreshments and waited by the window, unwilling to sit, restless.

It was some fifteen minutes before the door opened to admit Iareth Yscoithi. She was as he recalled her, slight and straight and cold. He bowed to her, and she watched him with dispassionate eyes.

She said, “Thierry.”

“Iareth, I . . .” He had expected something, some reaction, anything but this level composure. He said, “You’re well, I hope?”

“I am. And you?”

“Yes.”

There was a small pause. She sat on an armchair. “It is a kindness in you to call. You learned of my presence from Yviane Allandur?”

“No. That is, I . . .” He hesitated. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Indeed?”

“Of course. Valdin . . .” Thiercelin was shaking. She watched him without curiosity. “It’s only polite to call.”

“I see.”

She had no warmth. She was ignorant of the grief she had caused. Looking at his hands, he said, “I was there, you know. When Valdin was killed.”

“I had heard so.”

He said, “Don’t you care?” Stopped, for that had not been at all what he had meant to say. He turned and stared out into the rain, not trusting himself to look at her.

She said, “It’s past, Thierry. I have my own life to lead.”

His back still to her, he said, “He loved you so much. You didn’t see . . . you weren’t there. When you left him, it was as if he went away, too. He . . .”

She said, “I did what I had to do. I had duties elsewhere. I’ve always regretted that I should have caused such pain.”

“Pain!” Thiercelin whirled round to face her. “He died, Iareth. He bled his life out in a dirty inn yard.” His voice cracked. Looking away, he rubbed a hand across his eyes. “He never stopped thinking about you.”

He had not heard her move. He started when she laid her hand on his shoulder. He looked down into her eyes. They were dry. She said, “Nor have I ceased to think of him. But time does not stop.”

He said, “I’m sorry. I had no right.”

She smiled, a little. “You have every right. You were friends.”

“Perhaps,” Thiercelin said, “I didn’t come here to apportion blame.”

“I know.”

“I came . . .” He paused then lowered his voice. “I came because I’ve seen him, here in Merafi, in the last weeks. Seen him and heard him speak.”

Something changed, then, beneath her calm. She paled and asked, “What did he say?”

He put his hands on her shoulders. “He said, ‘Tell Iareth
kai-reth
she was right.’ Whatever that means.”

“I had feared it,” said Iareth Yscoithi.

From the roof of the tower of Merafi’s River Temple, Gracielis gazed north and watched the river flow. His hands, bare, rested on the parapet next to his hat. He could feel the years in the stone he touched. He could sense the movement through it of the dreams of the mason who had shaped it. Beside him, the lieutenant’s ghost stood, half-shredded in the breeze. It was very quiet. Apart from the wind, the only clear sound was the occasional singing of the priests in the rooms below. Beneath gray skies, the city rested, waiting only partly aware for the changes that were promised.

It was early evening. Weighted with impending rain, clouds extinguished the sun’s color. Handmoon hovered on the horizon, pale and slight. Mothmoon was yet to rise. There was no mist; he could see no weaving of shapes across the surface of the river. It was still asleep, this artery of Merafi’s power, and its dreams were veiled.

Only at the deepest level could he sense a faint murmur of a threat. Sighing, he shifted to prop his chin on one hand, and let his gaze turn away over the roofs of the city, across the twilight plains, into the horizon, north, and a little west, to where beneath the horizon Lunedith lay, cold within its forested mountains. When footsteps sounded on the leads behind him, he did not turn, but only said, “You will have a cold winter of it, I think.”

The lieutenant’s ghost wore a leer. It was, for once, not directed at Gracielis. “You call all our winters cold,” the arrival said, coming to stand beside him, leaning on the parapet. “And too long. I’m astonished you’ve never gotten used to them.”