Living With Ghosts (25 page)

There was nothing there, save mist and garden. He sighed and turned away.

His companions were ready for him. Maldurel coughed and looked serious. Thiercelin raised his brows and waited. Maldurel frowned. “Drown it, Thierry! Some of us are trying to do this properly.”

“Sorry,” said Thiercelin, meekly.

“Bad as Valdin. Worse. Leastways, he usually paid attention when people waited for him.” Thiercelin looked down. “Right, then,” Maldurel’s tone turned formal. “Monseigneur of Sannazar, Lieutenant Lievrier, you are here to answer to one another in a matter of honor. If either of you wishes to reconsider or retract, please do so now.” There was a pause. Thiercelin looked at Joyain, who stood blank-faced. It had been a part of their tacit agreement, long ago, that dueling was Valdarrien’s province and that Thiercelin held it foolish. Yet here he was on the edge of the same abyss. He risked his life. He risked his relationship with Yvelliane. Perhaps he had already damaged the latter beyond repair. Opposite him, Joyain looked down briefly, then raised his head and shook it. Thiercelin paused, then did likewise.

Maldurel looked slightly disappointed. “Oh. Well, then . . .”

The other second said, “The weapons.”

“Of course.” Maldurel held them out for inspection by the principals. “If you gentlemen would care to make your selection? Or should you shake hands first?” Maldurel looked at the other second, who shrugged.

“Shake hands, choose pistols, walk ten paces, turn and fire. Is that so much to remember, Mal?” The voice came from amidst the mist-bound trees. Three of the four men turned toward it, expressions between outrage and confusion. Thiercelin did not dare look. Instead, he glanced at his opponent. Joyain had gone white.

Maldurel said, “That’s nice, coming from you!” And then, as he began to realize what he was seeing, “River bless!”

Thiercelin turned. Against a nearby tree, a slender figure leaned, watching them. Mist swirled about him; he seemed to be smiling. Thiercelin gulped thick air and said, “You can’t do this, Valdin.”

“Clearly, I can.” Valdarrien’s tone was light and a little sarcastic. “Haven’t we discussed that before?” Thiercelin was silent. “But don’t let me interrupt you. You were about to shake hands with this gentleman. What are you fighting about, anyway?”

“None of your drowned business.” Thiercelin realized that he was in effect bickering with a ghost and sighed. He looked across at Joyain. “I’m sorry. This is a fiasco.”

Joyain jumped. His gaze did not leave Valdarrien. He said, “What?”

“I,” said Maldurel, who appeared to be feeling ignored, “have just been insulted by a dead person, and you only call it a fiasco. Thierry, I hardly think . . .”

Joyain tore his eyes away and looked at Thiercelin. He said, “Monseigneur, you may be unaware that this duel is in breach of military regulations. Under the circumstances, perhaps we . . .”

Thiercelin said, “It was my fault. I behaved poorly. I offer you my unreserved apologies.” He bowed. “And I regret this disturbance.” Behind him, he heard Valdarrien snort. Ignoring him, he added, “My cousin is too young to be aware that certain jokes lack taste. I’ll ensure it doesn’t happen again.” Daring Valdarrien to make anything of this, he held a hand out to Joyain. The latter hesitated, took it in an uncertain grip.

Joyain looked back into the trees. Rather shakily, he said, “A joke?”

“Yes,” Thiercelin said, firmly. Then, lowering his voice, “I may need to call again upon Iareth Yscoithi. Will that inconvenience you?”

If anything, Joyain grew even paler. But he merely said, “Of course not,” and saluted. Thiercelin watched as he and his second made their way from the gardens.

Maldurel said, “Never heard you had a cousin in town.”

“He doesn’t,” Valdarrien’s light voice said. “He was being tactful. Covering for me as ever.” He bowed. “My thanks to you, Thierry.”

“I don’t want them,” Thiercelin said. This could not be happening. He needed a drink. He needed help. Maldurel, gawping, was worse than useless. “This can’t happen, Valdin.”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Because . . .” Thiercelin hesitated. “I don’t know why. But it can’t. People just don’t . . .”

“And when,” said the erstwhile Lord of the Far Blays, “did I ever do what ‘people’ do?”

“I don’t know, but . . .”

“Someone’s coming,” Maldurel said. “I heard the gate bang.” And then, “Come to it, Valdin, I’ll thank you to be a little more polite. I’ve stood by your good name these last years, I’ll have you know.”

Valdarrien shrugged. “I owe you, then. How will you collect, Mal?” Something in the tone bespoke malice. Thiercelin laid a restraining hand on Maldurel’s arm. Valdarrien continued, “I don’t think Yviane will let me into the family coffers just now.”

“It’s nothing,” Maldurel said.

Thiercelin added, “Call it habit, Valdin. We all do it, even Mimi.” He paused, inhaled. “We’ll say good-bye, now. We’ve matters to attend to elsewhere.”

“Oh, do you?” Valdarrien sketched a bow. “Later, then.”

He had said that before, two nights since. Thiercelin’s skin was cold. He pulled gently on Maldurel’s arm and said very quietly, “Start walking. I’ll join you.” Maldurel looked at him curiously but didn’t protest. Thiercelin waited until he was a few yards away, then turned back to Valdarrien. He said, “You owe me, too, Valdin.”

“Possibly.”

Thiercelin sighed. “I want you to tell me something. Tell me about Urien Armenwy and a waterfall.”

“Whatever for?” Valdarrien sounded surprised. Thiercelin was silent. “I knew Urien in Lunedith. We were ambushed together. What more do you need to know?”

How these matters are involved in your presence here.
But Thiercelin could not ask that. He said, “The subject came up recently.”

“With Yviane?” Valdarrien seemed to smile. “No, she wouldn’t discuss her diplomatic work with you.” Thiercelin bit his lip. “It was Iareth, then. My Iareth
kai-reth
.” Again, his tone bore menace. “You’d do well to stay clear of her, Thierry.”

“You told me to contact her.”

“I did?” There was brief puzzlement in Valdarrien’s voice. “I don’t remember . . . There’s been a lot happening. Urien, and the waterfall . . . Kenan Orcandros set a trap for us. Alongside the big waterfall . . . Iareth said it was a special place, dangerous. We won, but Urien was badly hurt and I was shot in the shoulder. Iareth saved my life . . .” He looked up. “Forgive me, Thierry. I forget myself.
You
, of course, are to be trusted with her.”

“You’re too kind.” Thiercelin could not quite keep bitterness from his tone. “Is there anything else?”

“Perhaps.” The fog was beginning to lift. Valdarrien’s voice sounded thinner. Looking across at him, Thiercelin could see that his shape had lost some definition. Valdarrien said, “It’s hard to be sure. There’s something. Something I need . . . I can’t remember.” His eyes met Thiercelin’s and he was, for a moment, the old, beloved Valdarrien. “Help me, Thierry.”

How many times had Thiercelin heard that? It was too familiar. It stung, the old grief like acid. He swallowed tears and said roughly, “I don’t know.” This should not be happening. He wanted Yvelliane. “It’s different now. Things have changed.” He could see almost down to the river as the mist cleared. Valdarrien’s shape was all but gone. “I’m sorry, Valdin.”

“Yes.” The voice was a thread. “Later, then.” A few raindrops began to fall. Valdarrien seemed to turn away, toward the water. Then he stopped. Thiercelin was not quite sure he could still see him. Valdarrien’s voice said, very indistinctly, “Iareth’s father. Urien’s her father.” Then he was gone.

Thiercelin stared after him, shaking.

In an inn a few streets away, Joyain sat with his head in his hands and tried to control his shaking. He felt sick. The memory of Iareth Yscoithi—in his room, in his bed, in, river protect him, his arms—swam before him. He could not think. It made no sense. He could not have seen Valdarrien of the Far Blays.

He was alone: leaving the Winter Gardens, he had shed Leladrien, pleading duty. He could not face company. He remained unsure if he could face his duty, either. Not now. Not after . . . It was hardly the kind of thing one might tell a woman, even Iareth;
I have seen your lover, who is dead
. . .

Thiercelin of Sannazar had taken the whole thing in his stride. Perhaps it really had been only a jest. A dishonorable one, to avoid the duel . . . The theory sat poorly with what Joyain knew of Thiercelin’s reputation. All right, not a deliberate ruse, but the thoughtless act of a third party, of the claimed “cousin” . . . Leladrien had believed that tale, certainly, laughing at the idiocies of the aristocracy. Capable of anything, the lords from the hill.

Joyain could choose to believe it, too. Chalk it up to the vagaries of life, ignore it, forget it. Forget, above all, two nights’ since, in his room above the shop of the sugar merchant. Forget Iareth Yscoithi.

He could say nothing in any case. He would only look a fool.

Business as usual, during altercations.

It took several hours before Gracielis could bring himself to open the casement. The mist outside had turned into solid rain. To his eyes, it was heavy with pain. He was fevered, a little, and edgy. He had no desire to leave his room, to expose aching head and seared nerves to whatever lurked outside. His solitude was no protection, although he had sought it deliberately. At his own request, Thiercelin would not return before tomorrow, at the earliest.

He wanted Quenfrida, desperately.

He needed to see the river and the city also to discover the extent of the change he felt. In the end, he wrapped himself in his darkest and warmest clothing and forced himself to go out. The lieutenant’s ghost shadowed him, for once neither mocking nor contemptuous. Gracielis shivered and marveled at the insensitivity of the people crowding the streets. The air was full of immanent danger and yet they remained blind.

The ghost knew. He could see the knowledge in every uncertain line of it. That was no reassurance. He knew he could simply leave Merafi. Yet images of lovers past and present danced through his memory. Lovers to whom he owed, perhaps, the chance to flee. Amalie. Yvelliane. All the others, through nine years. The air tasted foreign, weighted with a power that should not run here. A power whose course would serve all too well the requirements of his Tarnaroqui masters, if not deflected. It was not for Gracielis de Varnaq to gainsay them. He should rejoice at it.

He could neither rejoice nor leave. He had lived too long in Merafi simply to abandon its people to their danger. He had no more desire for death at twenty-six than he had had at seventeen.

He did not want to run away again. He was caught into this, bound almost as surely by the place as by Quenfrida. His charm was perhaps beginning to desert him, his grace to break down and leave him open. He was ceasing to be himself.

If, indeed, he had ever been anyone at all.

He climbed the one hundred and thirty-two steps of the River Temple and went out onto the wet leads. The city lay all around him, mantled in rain. The river was hazy, the south channel all but invisible. The main course, which he had crossed to reach this tower, ran dark and swift. To the west the river ran high. To the east it faded into indistinctness. Clouds hung over the docks and the shantytown. The river felt wrong. It felt ominous, here in the middle of the city it sustained. Death by water, slow, sleepy, almost painless save at the last, when the body labors and panics for breath. The inhabitants of Merafi were drowning in their own complacency, and they would never know.

The voices on the streets had held no hint of concern or trouble. People were accustomed to unrest in the docks, distress in the shantytown. No one cared. He was alone in his perception of despair.

Perhaps he had run a little mad, in the hollow place behind his masks. Perhaps there was nothing in it beyond fear and the natural mists of autumn. He leaned on the parapet. The ghost hovered beside him. Everything was coming apart. Across the rain-swamped river, shapes broke and swirled.

This was beyond him. Too many possibilities, too many threads of need and power and loyalty. Pain throbbed behind his temples. He rubbed them with his left, black-clad hand. Water turning bitter in the city and water falling in a dead man’s eyes.

He took his gaze from the river and looked instead at the lieutenant’s ghost, half-hidden in the rain, a fragment of a man he had barely known. Today there was no contempt in its colorless eyes. “So,” he said to it, “what would you do? Have done?”

It shrugged. He sighed, “It’s your city.” There was no response. He turned again and let a hand cover his eyes. It had been nine years and more since he had allowed himself the luxury of weeping. He would not weep now.

Tell Iareth
kai-reth
she was right
. . . Words with little meaning, little sense save to that same Iareth, who would not decode them.

He might perhaps go to Yvelliane and warn her and watch her fail to understand him. He might go to Thiercelin, who was powerless. Iareth, then, as alien here as Gracielis, and in whose eyes lay madness, to trap him into another man’s past. Gracielis flinched from it, cold, afraid. For all her small treacheries, there remained only Quenfrida. Only and always Quenfrida.

He left the tower, trailed back through the streets to his lodgings at the Jade Rose. His room was empty. He paced it, uncertain. He possessed no sure way of summoning Quenfrida. She only came when it pleased her, and left as lightly. A message would likely meet with silence. He might wait an hour or a week or a year, before she saw fit to seek him out.

No means to bring her, unless . . . He was bound, in his blood and hers, to forbear from certain things. Bonds the severing of which would not go unremarked by her.

It was wholly forbidden. There was no other way.

His painted eyes turned to the lieutenant’s ghost.

In the embassy on the hill, Iareth Yscoithi sat on the wide sill of a first-floor window and let her level gaze fall on the rain. She had sat thus for close to an hour, unmoving. It was not time yet for word from Urien. Her letters could not yet all have reached him. Her body was still, but her thoughts turned, and for the first time she knew regret that half her blood was Yscoithi. Not even for Valdarrien would she compromise it before, yet now with bitter hands she might have spilled it, if the loss could have released the rare power locked in the Armenwy half of her blood.