Living With Ghosts (42 page)

The swan banked and began to turn, coming in to land. The huge wings tilted, braking, bracing against the impact with the ground. Come at last to stillness, they did not fold. The line of them bisected the twilight, blinding white. An arching, then, through the hollow bones, a reaching, as the head reared back and the wings tried for the horizons. Feathers stirred and shredded. The body narrowed, lengthened, growing upward. The outstretched wings grew into arms, flung out sideways. The proud eyes of the swan held Iareth’s as the neck shortened into human proportions and the head grew out into that of a man. He stood naked before her, a slight-built form with graying hair, and eyes as level as her own.

She opened the saddlebags and held out to him the tunic and trews they contained. He took them and dressed. Then he smiled and said, in Lunedithin, “Report.”

Iareth gestured at the city behind her. “It is as I have written to you; disturbance of their river, worked in spite and ritual witchery. Kenan’s doing and that of the Tarnaroqui Quenfrida d’Ivrinez.”

“I remember her.”

“There is as yet little sense of it among those who dwell here. The Allandur has a wasting sickness. Her council looks too keenly to the future.”

Urien said, “I would not, as yet, have Kenan know I am here. I shall need money for lodgings and further clothing.”

They began to walk down toward her tethered horse. Urien, barefoot, seemed unconcerned by the damp or the harsh, short grass. He said, “And Tafarin?”

Iareth smiled. “Tafarin
kai-reth
has been occupied in researching taverns.” Urien, in turn, looked amused. She said, “What of Prince Keris?”

“He begins to heal, in body, at least. But your news of Kenan has disturbed him greatly.”

“I regret it.”

“Indeed. But better that he knows and is able to protect himself from those whom Kenan has stationed to harm him. They have been removed.”

“I am glad of it.” Iareth untied her horse and offered it to Urien. He shook his head. Leading it, they walked toward the road. Handmoon was rising behind the clouds. Iareth said, “We must make good time. Parts of the city are no longer safe by night.” She hesitated. Then she said, “I have seen Valdin Allandur twice now. And I am not alone in that.” Urien looked, inquiring. “He has spoken to Thierry, who was formerly his friend, and to another, a Tarnaroqui in Thierry’s employ. And Jean—Joyain Lievrier, of whom I wrote to you—has seen him also. He brings warning of the disturbance of old things.” She glanced at Urien, “I do not find myself altered in respect to Valdin Allandur.”

Urien said, “You have long known my mind on that matter.”

“So.” She sighed. “But I am not, by nature, wholly Armenwy. It is laid upon me to roam, where Armenwy are lifelong faithful.” Urien said nothing. A little defiantly, she said, “One may not live between two clans. Choice is necessary.”

“Mayhap.” Urien was neutral. Then he said, “A Tarnaroqui?”

“Yes. I know him but slightly, but he has
undarios
sight, and he has undertaken to aid Thierry. It might be well for you to meet with him. He has knowledge of this Quenfrida.” Urien nodded. She hesitated, reached out a hand to him. It was the first contact between them since his arrival. “It is good that you are here.”

“Let us hope so,” said Urien.

16

“I
THOUGHT,” SAID THIERCELIN in a tone of mild accusation, “that you didn’t usually drink.” Gracielis, at the window, said, “I don’t.” He was dressed negligently, with his hair left to fall straight down his back. He turned to look at Thiercelin and added, “You’re right.”

“There’s a comfort.” Thiercelin was in no very good mood himself. He was mildly hungover and rather depressed; Gracielis’ abnormal behavior was beginning to tell on him. “So it’s my wife’s doing?” Gracielis looked away. “I don’t blame you. Yviane would drive anyone to drink.” And then, “Oh, do stop doing that!”

Gracielis jumped. “Doing what?”

“Drumming your fingers on the sill. You’ve been doing it for the last half hour, and it’s driving me to violence.”

“Forgive me.” Gracielis lifted his hand and looked at it in slight surprise. His sleeve fell back, showing the bandage underneath. “I didn’t realize.”

“Evidently.” Thiercelin’s barb missed its mark. Gracielis merely folded his arms and went back to gazing out of the window. Thiercelin said, “I don’t get it, Graelis, you’ve been staring out there almost all day. What are you doing?”

“Thinking.”

“Helped by the view?” Thiercelin knew he was being petty. Uncomfortable, he added, “I can understand you feeling unwell, after last night, but . . .”

“I’m not hungover.”

“Oh, really?” Rubbing a hand across his eyes and pretending to ignore his own headache, Thiercelin said, “You don’t look very healthy.”

Gracielis rose and turned. Crossing the room, he sank cross-legged at Thiercelin’s feet. He took Thiercelin’s right hand and kissed the fingers. Then he said, “Forgive me, monseigneur—dear monseigneur—I’m selfish.”

Thiercelin glared. “Stop that.” Gracielis looked baffled. “I’m not ill, and I don’t need sympathy.”

“Naturally.”

“And don’t humor me either.”

“Shall I be briskly supportive?”

Thiercelin swore. Then he said, “Do you have to do that? No, don’t tell me. I don’t think I can stand to know. Do you have any idea how much money I lost last night? I’m supposed to be economizing, but . . .”

Gracielis leaned against him. “It wasn’t easy for you.” “I thought you weren’t going to be sympathetic?” Gracielis was silent. “I’m hardly the first man to quarrel with his wife.” Thiercelin sighed. “I turned up, as required. I owe her nothing else, nor she to me . . . Shall we talk about something different?” He did not want to think about it. Yvelliane had barely spoken to him last night. It would drive him to despair if he dwelled on that. He said, “What were you thinking about earlier?”

Gracielis looked at the floor, tracing a knot on a floorboard. He said, “Quenfrida. And you.” He looked up again, and his eyes were wicked. “Pain and paradise.”

“That,” said Thiercelin, “was either excessively insulting, or excessively sentimental. Stop it.”

“Monseigneur will break my heart.”

“Oh, absolutely. Into twenty-three monogrammed pieces! You’re a shocking liar.” Gracielis affected graceful injury. Thiercelin ignored him. “And I don’t see the connection.”

Gracielis gestured at the window. “Her work. You wish it undone.” He hesitated. “Kenan’s work, also. Did I tell you I met him last night?”

“I think you mentioned it when you came in.” Thiercelin considered him. “Am I allowed to ask where you were until dawn?”

“Yes. But I may not answer.”

“I see.” Thiercelin sighed again. “Meaning you were with Yviane?”

“No.” Gracielis rose to his knees and took both of Thiercelin’s hands. “That much I swear.” Thiercelin gazed at him, caught between depression and disbelief. “By any vow you choose.”

“Is there anything you care enough about to hold sacred?”

“Yes.” Gracielis smiled. “And I swear by it. I discussed with her the state of your city, and I signed the papers she required. Nothing more.”

Thiercelin looked away. A log fell in the hearth, scattering sparks. He watched them, bright in the dim room, and said irrelevantly, “We should light the candles.”

“As you wish.” Rising, Gracielis obeyed. The new candlelight found hollows along the lines of his fine bones. He set one branched candelabra on the sideboard, another on the table. Then he closed the casement. He said, “Shall I command the evening meal?”

“If you like.”

“Not if you aren’t hungry.” He hesitated, then sat down again at Thiercelin’s feet. “Does it matter where I was last night?”

Yes
. . . Thiercelin stared at the fire and said, “Of course not. It was Quenfrida, I assume.”

“No. She, for one, is done with me. I was with a client. That’s all.”

“Who?”

Gracielis said, “Shall I tell you why I usually don’t drink?”

“Don’t change the subject.” Gracielis said nothing. Thiercelin studied him. “And don’t play discretion. You feed information to Yviane. Why not to me?”

Gracielis said, “That’s unkind.”

Thiercelin looked away. “You behaved very oddly last night. You made a scene on the dance floor. And you’ve been edgy all today.”

Gracielis hugged his knees. The long hair screened his face. He said, “Oh, Thierry.” Then, turning, “I was with Amalie. I feel safe with her.”

“I’m sorry.” Thiercelin reached down and squeezed Gracielis’ shoulder. “I had no right to ask.”

Gracielis turned and laid a hand against Thiercelin’s cheek. His fingers were cool. He said, “Your wife loves you. She would never betray you with me or any other.”

Thiercelin leaned into his fingers, closing his eyes. He said, “It makes no sense . . . I’m with you, thinking of Yviane. I might as well be back where I started, admiring her through Valdin.”

Gracielis smiled. Thiercelin heard the amusement catch in the slow tide of his breathing. He said, “I can’t tell you. My wares lie in the domains of fever, not of sense.”

Thiercelin said, “River drown it,” and rubbed a hand across his eyes. Opening them, he looked down at Gracielis and said, “We have this backward, somehow. I can’t afford to dwell on it, not now.” The rhythm of his heart, under Gracielis’ cool hand, was in line with the other’s breath. “I don’t even understand why I want you.”

“You do.” Thiercelin looked inquiring. Gracielis circled his own face with a graceful hand then held it out, palm up. “It is as I told you. I’m trained to make others desire me. It’s an aspect of
undarios
power.” He hesitated. “It’s connected to why I don’t usually drink.”

“How?”

“Drinking heightens certain . . . sensitivities. I’m more aware of some matters. The provenance of a fabric or a wood. The quality of an atmosphere. I’ve touched Kenan. I have his measure now, and he’s more than I. He knows it, too.” He looked down. “It might be enough, I don’t know.”

“Enough for what?” Thiercelin watched the remoteness in that narrow face. This was a more serene Gracielis than he was wont to know.

“You asked me to help you. But I’m not
undarios
. I can’t do it easily. Nevertheless . . .” Gracielis shook his head. He gestured at the window. “We’ll see.”

“You’re going to try and stop this?”

“I mean to weaken it, a little, at least.”

“How?” Thiercelin asked.

“As best as I can.” Gracielis turned away. “Don’t worry, monseigneur. It will be well.” His tone did not quite support the words.

“You’re going to try something dangerous.” Thiercelin stood. “Let me help.”

“You cannot. To do this . . . You don’t have the blood or the training. It could only harm you. If I do this, it has to be alone.”

“But . . .”

Gracielis rose in turn, came to stand beside him. “It will help me to know you are here and safe. Go to bed.” He smiled. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Gotobed
. There never was a role for him, not with Yvelliane, not now. Thiercelin stared at his feet. Gracielis stood at his shoulder for a moment longer, then went into the other room, leaving him alone.

Joyain’s head was pounding. He leaned on the tavern wall and tried to review how much he’d had to drink since leaving the chapel. The numbers eluded him. His stomach hurt, too. He swallowed bile and wondered if another drink might help.

There was something he needed to remember. Would remember, soon, once he’d had that drink . . . He fumbled for his purse and found it empty. He’d have to ask for credit, then, or else borrow. No problem. Leladrien was always good for a few livres.

Something to remember, connected with Lelien . . . Swallowing again, he tried to decide if he knew where he was. He had to face it; he was a little drunk. It might be better to head back to the mess. Yes, that was it; he’d start back now, and have that drink with his friends. He looked around him, noticing with interest that it seemed to have grown rather dark.

Misty, too. Drown these city autumns. (There was something about that too, which clutched at him—something to do with mist and night and fire.) He was probably somewhere in the old town. He didn’t immediately recognize the tavern sign, but that meant nothing. Places changed hands so fast these days. In the old town, yes, and near Leladrien’s place, that was it, near that chapel. He’d need to bear left then, and north.

The air was hot and clammy. It tasted unpleasant in his mouth. Ash, or some such. Now that he came to think about it, he felt sick, too. The tavern keeper probably kept bad ale.

Joyain straightened and let go of the wall. His perspective spun. He stumbled, retching. River rot it. He was going to regret this one, he could tell—and where was Lelien, anyway, when he was needed? He vomited into the gutter and stood there gasping. He could feel sweat cold on his skin. He was shaking.

There was something . . . something connected with Leladrien and with the bitter taste of smoke. His inability to remember was beginning to frighten him. He wrapped his arms about himself and fought to clear his head. He felt awful. Even waiting until he’d been sick twice more didn’t help much.

He couldn’t remember . . . Too much to drink. He cursed himself and tried to recall at least why he’d been drinking in the first place. He’d gone to a temple, to a priest . . . Before that, surely he’d been on duty, down on the waterfront . . . ?

Flame reflected in water, and the smell of decomposition in a narrow room.
Jean, shoot your deserters
.

Jean, shoot me
.

Leladrien was dead.

Joyain swayed, gulping. He had put a gun to his best friend’s head and pulled the trigger. He had put a torch to what was left.

Oh, river bless.

He was hot with terror. Alone in the streets after dark, alone with the mist and the horror and the vileness of his own actions.

And he didn’t even know where he was.

There was a point, on the route down from the aristocrats’ quarter, where one might see most of the rest of Merafi spread out between the three arms of the river. Usually, anyway. Looking down at it, Gracielis pulled his cloak tighter about him and sighed, Mist lay everywhere, cut in places by dull hints of fire, painful to his ghost-sight. Even up here, relatively mist-free, the streets were chill and empty. He was conspicuous again, and not solely for his foreignness.