Living With Ghosts (7 page)

“I can see clearly,” Gracielis said. “And I’ll ensure I have freedom of movement. It will be well.”

“I suppose I have to believe that.”

Wisely, Gracielis was silent. It was very dark. Little of the moons’ light penetrated the cloud cover or filtered through the thick overhang of trees. The lieutenant’s ghost was a spiteful blur. The night felt still, as if Merafi, having stirred in its long indolence, had again subsided. He wondered what she made of it, sky-eyed Quenfrida, out somewhere beneath these same clouds. Once he might have dared to ask her and sat at her feet for her reply.

Once is not always.

In self-defense he pulled away from the thought and looked instead at Thiercelin. A man who loved his wife; one might go to the guillotine for that truth. Yet he had chosen not to share this new burden with her. One might wonder why. Yvelliane d’Illandre was not a woman to require protection. Gracielis, who knew her better than he would ever let Thiercelin know, was sure of that. There was some trouble here. It was said on the streets that Prince Laurens was much seen with the Tarnaroqui ambassador these days. It was also rumored that not all of the royal council were content with that, readying themselves for the struggle for influence which must surely follow the death of the queen. And Quenfrida had set him this task, which touched upon Yvelliane, the First Councillor.

He gazed at the shadowy form of Thiercelin, whose trust was bought and sold, and no longer wanted even to try to enjoy himself.

Thiercelin was not looking at him, but peering into the darkness outside. His face was set. Palely, he said, “Look . . .”

They were no longer alone in the aisle. Silent over the hard road, a horseman came cantering. His head was high. His cloak stirred with a wind that was not blowing. He was hatless; the hair that streamed behind him was longer than fashion required. His clothing was dark; he had neither braid nor bright buttons. The faint moons’ light glinted off the pommel of his sword. His face was in shadow. There was a careless defiance to him, lined in posture, in the very angle of that bare head.

Into the silence, Gracielis heard Thiercelin whisper, “Oh, Valdin.”

Gracielis leaned forward in the gloom. He said, “I see him.”

“What do we do?”

“We wait.”

Mothmoon broke through the clouds, illuminating the road. The rider cast no shadow. He had more substance than the lieutenant’s ghost, drawn in contrasts rather than pastels. He was closer now. In a few moments he would pass by them or perhaps through them, as though they were the creatures of mist and memory.

His face was unmistakable. A little drawn, a little malcontent. High cheekbones, dark brows. He was bearded, like the most typical street bravo. The hooves of his mount did not quite touch the ground.

There was no more time. Gracielis opened the carriage door and stepped down into the road. He was straight in the path of the rider. For once, the lieutenant’s ghost did not follow him. He inhaled and sought control. Remembered the words, the ritual from the
Second Book of Marcellan
. There were three chains, three paths which could bind the dead: love and death and the force beneath the world. Three bindings that he must seek, trace, perhaps break. He looked into the eyes of the late Valdarrien of the Far Blays, and spoke the word which compelled a halt.

Valdarrien could see him; that was certain. There was a grimness on his face; a flash of defiance which set the horse to a gallop. Gracielis raised a hand and made himself reach out with his ghost-sight.

There was a roaring in his ears and veins and mind, like thunder, driving out thought. He was falling into it, or through it, soaked in its force. Pain lanced through his right shoulder. Swan wings beat across his vision, through an iron curtain of water. He gasped for breath, fighting to hold his gaze locked onto eyes that were filled with the violence of the water.

It was the key. He fought vertigo and found his voice. Into the thunder, he spoke, softly, carefully. “Water comes to rest. Douses flame, cools heat, lays dust.” The language he used was not Merafien, but Valdarrien seemed to understand. Gracielis held on through the words, beneath the insubstantial, flailing hooves of the horse. He was drowning in the fragments of another’s memory. Disordered images flapped about him. Swan wings, and the hint of the scent of lemon, and eyes that were green and cool as jade, cool as “The river,” said Gracielis and found it there in another man’s last, lost hunger. In the memory of a green-eyed stillness that was a woman named Iareth Yscoithi.

All around him the thunder and the violence calmed, slowed, died away. He was Gracielis
arin-shae
Quenfrida, called Gracieux on the streets and in the salons of Merafi. He stood in the aisle that led to Merafi’s Rose Palace and faced down the past. He felt ready to fall. Instead, he looked at Valdarrien and said, as reasonably as he might, “Monseigneur, you must give some explanation for this. You are frightening Lord Thiercelin.”

The lieutenant’s ghost had never spoken to him, never made any sound of any kind. Valdarrien of the Far Blays looked back at him, then beyond at Thiercelin. His expression was sardonic, a little disdainful. His voice, when finally he spoke, was quite clear, only very remote, as if he must talk from some immense distance. “Tell my Iareth
kai-reth
,” he said, “that she was right.” And then, more gently, “Thierry, forgive.” Raising a hand in valediction, he turned his horse’s head about and rode away down the aisle.

Gracielis made it to the edge of the road before he passed out.

“How do you feel?” Thiercelin asked.

Lying on the bed, Gracielis opened one extremely cautious eye and looked at the ceiling. “Mostly dead,” he said. “Some small token would be appreciated at the funeral. Flowers. But not yellow. Yellow doesn’t suit my coloring at all.”

“That,” said Thiercelin, “is somewhat debatable.”

“Please don’t,” Gracielis said. And then, “I trust I haven’t been too irritating?”

“No.”

“Good.” Gracielis had closed the eye again. “My sincerest regrets . . . for the trouble.”

“It would have made considerably more trouble if I’d left you in the road. Why didn’t you tell me it would do this to you?”

“It doesn’t, always,” Gracielis said. “My apologies.”

“Your apologies?” Thiercelin was mildly appalled. “No wonder you refused me.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Gracielis said. “You might consider it a hazard of the job.”

“But . . .” Thiercelin said, then shut up. There was a silence. This had not, after all, been a job, but a favor. Thiercelin had once been taught a little about Tarnaroqui ways, and his mind was busy disinterring those lessons. Gracielis de Varnaq saw ghosts. It was so like Yvelliane to possess herself of such information and to release it in fragments, unexplained. Honesty forced him to admit that it was equally like himself not to have asked.

It was too late to ask now without having to involve himself in turn in explanations.

He did not know. He did not remember. The Tarnaroqui worship their dead, said the voice of one of his brothers, long ago. But no—only death itself, said another voice in answer. They shape themselves to see mysteries, and phantasms, and ghosts. There were tales woven into that drawn from the
Books of Marcellan
and elsewhere, tales of ritual suicide and other darker things. Not the kind of stories to which a sophisticated man, a rational man, should lend credence: tales with no more value than the folklore of men turning into animals, of rocks turning into men.

Yet Gracielis de Varnaq saw ghosts, and so did Thiercelin of Sannazar, who was, after all, a rational man.

He could make no sense of it. He said, “Do you need anything?”

Gracielis managed a faint smile, then winced. “A new head? Don’t worry. This will pass. Like hangovers.”

“Ah,” said Thiercelin, remembering some of his own. “Should I go?”

“Only if you wish to.”

“If you want to sleep . . .”

“Not yet.” Gracielis hesitated. “I find company . . . comforting.”

“I’ll stay, then.”

“Thank you.”

Again, there was a silence. Thiercelin settled himself more comfortably in his chair. After a while, Gracielis said, “It isn’t you.”

“What?” said Thiercelin.

“It isn’t you that binds Lord Valdarrien.”

Thiercelin did think to ask how Gracielis knew that. Instead he said, “Who, then?” A name hovered before him, unsaid, expected.

But Gracielis said. “Water.” Thiercelin reached for a cup. “Water binds him.” Thiercelin sat back, feeling rather foolish. “I don’t understand why.”

Water. Thiercelin shook his head. “I don’t think I know, either. Yviane might know, I suppose, but . . .” He swallowed. “Yviane, or . . .” Another pause as he marshalled himself to say it. “Or Iareth Yscoithi.”

“Yes,” Gracielis said. “You heard—he spoke of her?”

“Yes.”

“ ‘Tell Iareth she was right.’ I’ve no idea what that means.”

“Why should you? None of this is your problem.”

To Thiercelin’s surprise, Gracielis laughed. His eyes were open, watching some point in the middle distance. He rubbed at his right shoulder, and said, “You might be surprised.”

“You were kind to me, the night Valdin died.”

“Consider it repaid,” Gracielis said, “and more than repaid, tonight.”

Impulsively Thiercelin rose and went to the bed. “This—my being here—is very little. After all, I . . .”

Gracielis interrupted him. “Will you do it?” he asked.

“Do what?”

“Will you tell Iareth Yscoithi?”

Tell Iareth
kai-reth . . . And then, as ever,
Thierry, forgive
.

Thierry, forgive. “I must,” said Thiercelin.

According to the proper procedures, Joyain should have been free of the Lunedithin upon arrival at the Old Justiciary. The commander of the queen’s household troop and the Lunedithin ambassador had been there to welcome them and to take charge of Kenan’s party, and conduct them to their lodgings. Joyain should have been off duty, at home, or in the mess, looking forward to a well-deserved furlough.

He was beginning to lose his faith in the military “should have.” Granted, the disquiet in the dock quarter of Merafi was unlooked for. Granted, too, that pacifying that must take precedence over more formal duties. It was equally true that Joyain had been with the Lunedithin now for some time and was familiar to them. But he had hoped that someone would have been found to replace the captain as their military aide. It appeared that this had not happened. At the Justiciary, they had been given wine and cakes, and Joyain had been handed orders to remain with the delegation for the foreseeable future.

Joyain was beginning to wish that he’d gone into the navy. Or the River Temple. Anything but the army.

At least the quarters for the Lunedithin were properly organized. An entire house in the aristocrats’ quarter had been made over for them, and staffed from her majesty’s own household, many of whom were probably not spies. A suite for the heir, and luxurious rooms for his escort. Hot food. Hot baths. All the heart might desire, for everyone except Joyain.

And except for His Highness Prince Kenan Orcandros. His complaints had been loud enough to be witnessed by most of the staff. His Highness was displeased by the furnishings; opulence was not gentlemanly. His Highness was surprised that the Allandur—your pardon, the “Queen”—did not intend to greet him until the next day. His Highness’ bath was too small, too hot, too scented . . . Trying to get his own men settled in to the quarters allocated to them, Joyain had done his level best to ignore the fuss. It had proved almost impossible. Kenan had changed rooms five times, ending up in a gloomy suite looking out onto a dense line of pines that ran to the west side of the house. Each time he moved, at least half the household had had to move also. By the time he settled, Joyain’s soldiers were on their third billet.

Coming back into the main house to locate his own office, Joyain saw several maids struggling upstairs with water for yet another attempt at the royal bath. He was unable to refrain from muttering, “And I hope you drown in it, monseigneur.”

“Improbable, I think,” came a voice in reply. “Like all of the Orcandrin, Kenan swims rather well.”

Joyain jumped, turned, and banged his elbow on the curved newel post of the stair. He said, “Drown it!” And then, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so rude.”

It was the fair-haired woman from the bodyguard, Iareth Yscoithi. Even after six weeks, Joyain still had not properly worked out the ranks of most of the Lunedithin. Kenan was the leader, of course; but Tafarin made the military decisions and spoke to Kenan as to an equal. So did all the rest of the escort, come to that. Their habit of referring to one another indiscriminately as
kai-reth
(which Joyain had thought was a word meaning a kinsman) set the seal on his confusion. She had not been among the most talkative of Kenan’s party on the journey, but she had always been courteous. Now he made her a small bow and looked at his feet with rather poor grace.

She said, “It is Kenan who is impolite. He chooses to forget that to be a guest entails as much duty as pleasure.” She sounded amused. Looking up, however, Joyain could see no trace of a smile.

He said, “Can I help you, mademoiselle?”

“Iareth. In Lunedith, only the clan-heads take titles.” Her voice was soft, its accent rather less marked than that of some of her companions. “I was wondering, is it permitted for us to leave this building, and go out into the city before our official presentation?”

That would be a serious breach of diplomatic etiquette. The consequences could be disastrous. He did not know if he had the authority to forbid her. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I can’t recommend it. There’s been some disturbances in some parts of the city—not near here—but should you become lost or . . .”

There was a curious twist at the corner of her mouth. “You are kind. But there is no call for you to fear that. I am not unacquainted with Merafi.”

Another thing he could do without was this Lunedithin insistence on using nineteen words where two would do. It had been too long a day. He had just about worked his way through the double negative, when she added, “The night ferry still runs, does it not? And there is no curfew upon the bridges?”