Living With Ghosts (8 page)

One of the scraps of news he had garnered at the Justiciary was that the river was running too high for the ferry. He said, “The bridges will still be open, I think, although those which have tolls . . .”

“I am aware that those close at sunset. Apart from the one owned by the Vintners’ Guild, which closes two hours after.” Again, that amused tone. Iareth sat down on the stairs, hugging her knees, and looked up at him. “Unless there have been changes?”

“No.” Joyain really did not want to go out. “It’s raining again.”

“It has done so for the past several weeks.”

“Yes.”

There was a small silence. Joyain wondered just what it was she wanted to do in the city. He didn’t consider her the type to be interested in taverns, or gambling dens. . . . River rot it. It was his duty. He said, “I suppose I could arrange an escort for you . . .”

She looked at him. There was something odd in her face—a kind of recognition. Then she smiled and shook her head. For a moment, almost, she was pretty. She said, “I am no better than Kenan. You will wish me drowned, also. I have no errand that will not keep for another time.”

“Oh, but,” Joyain began, mindful still of his orders.

“No.” She rose and held out a hand to him. “I thank you. You have been kinder than we have deserved.” Joyain looked down. “You must forgive me. It is the rain that makes me restless. It is a part of being Yscoithi.”

He made no pretense of understanding that. Instead, he said, “It’s nothing.”

“I think not.”

“No, really, I . . .” It would be graceless to speak of duty. To cover his awkwardness, he said, “You’ve been here before?”

“In Merafi? Yes.”

“With another diplomatic party?”

“No, the circumstances were other. I came hence with Valdin
kai-reth
.” That meant nothing to Joyain. Seeing the puzzlement on his face, she added, “That is—to give the titles of your people—Valdarrien d’Illandre of the Far Blays.”

He knew that name. He looked at her with some measure of curiosity. “The famous duelist?”

“Even so.”

“But . . .” Joyain said. And then, “He’s dead.”

“Indeed,” said Iareth Yscoithi.

Iareth Yscoithi of Alfial to Urien Armenwy, called Swanhame, Councillor and Leader of the
Kai-rethin
: Greetings.

We are this afternoon arrived in the city of Merafi, having successfully completed our journey hence in the expected time. The roads these last days have beeningoodrepair,andthecountrysideseemsmost prosperous.Our welcome at the city was all that Prince Keris would consider appropriate.We are to be presented formally to Her Majesty Firomelle Allandur tomorrow, at which time,Kenan
kai-reth
will make his homage to her. Our accommodations are comfortable, if a litte too luxurious for some tastes: the Allandur seems to be determined that we shall receive good treatment here.

We remain accompanied by Lieutenant Lievrier, of whom I have written before. His Lunedithin is far below the standard of that of Captain de Meche, which may besignificant. I remain troubled about the captain’s accident; he seemed to me to be an excellent rider and his fall most uncharacteristic. As yet,however, I have found no evidence suggesting any tampering or foul play. I will continue to observe and to watch over Kenan
kai-reth
asyouhave instructed me.I will write to you again once the homage ceremony has occurred.

I remain your obedient
kai-reth
,

Iareth Yscoithi.

3

“M
IMI, DO YOU HAVE a few minutes?” Seated at her toilette table, Miraude turned. Her maid, engaged upon dressing her hair in low ringlets, stepped back and waited. Yvelliane stood in the doorway, dressed as ever in a serviceable plain gown. Miraude smiled and held out a hand. “Of course. Come in.”

Her rooms occupied the third floor of one wing of the Far Blays townhouse. The building itself dated from the preceding century, but in Miraude’s suite, the oak paneling had been painted in eggshell blue and decorated with scrollwork in greens and yellows. Light streamed in from the long windows, artfully augmented by several well-placed mirrors. The wooden floor had been laid with rugs in pale colors, matching the silk curtains. The furnishings, both here in her bedroom and in her salon next door, were all modern, with slim lines and soft cushions. Her bed was hung with bright brocades; at the crown of each post, carved putti held bouquets of ribbons. On the toilette table stood an impressive array of crystal vials, silver-backed brushes, and porcelain boxes. Everything was airy and dainty and fragile. Miraude took great care to ensure that: her intimates expected it. The beautiful Miraude d’Iscoigne l’Aborderie was one of the ornaments of Merafien society; elegance in person, in dress, in surroundings was required of her. Her approval was sought after, her taste everywhere admired, invitations to her monthly salons coveted by friends and enemies alike.

She rose, now, to embrace Yvelliane and bestow a kiss upon her cheek. “You’re wearing a horrid dress again. You must let me take you to my
modiste
.”

“If I ever have the time.” Yvelliane seated herself on a low chair and glanced across at the maid. “I need to talk to you about family business.”

“Oh. Oh, of course.” Miraude resumed her own seat and smiled at her maid. “Leave me, Coralie. I’ll ring when I want you.” The maid curtsyed and left. Miraude said, “Well? The Ninth Councillor again?”

“No, although the queen is very pleased with your information on that.” Miraude sketched a small bow. Yvelliane continued, “It’s a harder one, I’m afraid. Kenan Orcandros.”

Miraude half-turned, contemplating her reflection in the mirror. She said. “The heir to Lunedith. The amber and sulfur merchants don’t like him. They think, when he’s prince, he’ll raise export duties and make trouble over imports.” She patted a stray curl into place. “He’s unmarried, but unlikely to wed outside Lunedith. Old-fashioned—he’d marry his cousin, if he had a female one older than eight.”

Yvelliane smiled. “You’ve done your homework.”

“I hear things.” Miraude finished with the curl and turned back to face Yvelliane. “And I was rather expecting to be asked, given what’s said about him.” Her intimates would have been surprised that she could sound so serious. Miraude was very careful as to what she let her intimates know. It did not pay, in matters of intrigue, to be profligate with oneself. There were a hundred people at court who would swear they knew every one of her thoughts and secrets. Outside Yvelliane, the queen, and Prince Laurens, there were perhaps two who knew even a part.

She was Yvelliane’s best informer. At sixteen, she had come to live in the Far Blays household, as wife to Valdarrien. Less than three months later, he was dead, having never consummated the marriage. Beautiful, charming, and rich, Miraude had not lacked for suitors or friends. But it had taken her less than six months to find court life shallow, for all that. Yvelliane had provided her with an endless source of interest and excitement, by offering her the chance to spy for the queen. Now, she said, “Am I looking for anything in particular?”

“No . . .” Yvelliane hesitated. “At least, I’m not sure.

Connections to Tarnaroq or to the
undarii
maybe. He used to be friends with Quenfrida d’Ivrinez. There’s some suspicion that he’d like to see Lunedith independent of us. I just . . .”

“He smells wrong?” Miraude suggested. “Figuratively speaking.”

“Yes. He’s unlikely to make it easy for you. He doesn’t like Merafiens.”

“No. But he likes tradition.” Miraude nodded. “I can work with that.”

“Thank you.” Yvelliane rose and started toward the door.

Miraude said, “We missed you the last couple of days.”

“There’s so much to do. And Firomelle.”

“Yes.” Miraude studied her sister-in-law’s face.Today, she looked older than her thirty-four years, lines becoming set in her brow. Lately, it seemed, Yvelliane did nothing beside work and fret. “You have to take care of yourself, too.”

Yvelliane said, “I do.”

Miraude shook her head.

Yvelliane continued, “Laurens was nagging me about that, too. I’ll rest soon, I promise.” She went to the door. In it, she paused and said, “Mimi?”

“Yes?”

“How’s Thierry?”

Miraude rose. There was another piece of information she had gathered only the day before. She looked at the floor. Yvelliane was tired. Now was not the time. She said, “He’s all right, I think.”

“His valet tells me he was out late last night,” Yvelliane said. “I shouldn’t wake him.”

“I don’t think he’d mind.”

But Yvelliane shook her head. “He needs to sleep.” And she left, closing the door behind her.

Miraude stood for a moment, gazing after her. Then she sighed and rang the bell for her maid.

It was late in the day when Gracielis awoke. His head and right shoulder ached abominably. The lieutenant’s ghost hovered over him in unholy delight. He wished briefly for the strength to banish it, then simply turned his eyes away.

The movement was unpleasant. He set his teeth, let his eyes close again in search of comforting darkness. Somewhere, dimly, in the back of his mind, water was falling.

Something cool was laid over his forehead, easing the pain. A hand stroked his hair back from his face. He relaxed and said, in Merafien, “You should’ve gone home.”

The reply was in another tongue entirely. “All that way? That would be a waste, surely?”

He said a word that, on his lips, would have shocked most of his clients. Then he opened his eyes. “I don’t want you, Quena. Go away.”

Quenfrida sat on the edge of the bed, watching him. He wanted to lean against her, let her soothe away the pain and discomfort with her clever hands. She said, “That is scarcely graceful, my Gracielis. I’ve been waiting for you for hours.”

He was not a child. He could do without her comfort. She said, “It took you hard, I think. What happened?”

“Nothing.” He wanted to pull away from her. “I did as you bade me. Nothing more. Please go.”

She took her hands away. The bed rocked as she rose. He listened to her steps as she crossed the room. She poured something into a cup. “Drink this. It may ease you a little.”

“I don’t want . . .”

“Don’t be childish.” Her hands slipped under him, lifting. Without thinking, he recoiled from her, setting his head and stomach churning.

He was not going to be sick in front of her. Fighting nausea, he let himself be guided into a sitting position, and opened his eyes.

She said, “Drink.”

The glass was at his lips; he drank reflexively. There was a moment’s silence as she took the cup away. He watched her covertly, afraid of her presence, afraid of her departure.

She leaned on the table and looked at him. “So. Tell me of this “nothing” that befell you. What did you learn?”

“That other people’s ghosts make me sick,” he said nastily. The lieutenant’s ghost smirked.

She raised her brows. “Very witty.”

“Thank you.” At another time he might have bowed. “I try to amuse.”

“I’m sure you do.”

He felt too ill to fence with her. He sighed, watching the lieutenant’s ghost hovering at the foot of the bed. He had never been quite sure if she could see it or whether she simply sensed its presence. Resigned, he said, “The moons weren’t aligned last night.”

“What of it?”

“This is Merafi.”

“You astonish me.”

“Stop it, Quena. You know what I mean.”

“Do I?” She was determined to play games.

“You taught me. Merafi is a null space. Confluence of salt and fresh water. It’s harder for ghosts to manifest here, there’s no nourishment for them. They need extra force to appear, the combining of the moons.” The lieutenant’s ghost laughed. Gracielis looked at it and added, “Usually.”

“They can be seen at other times if one has the power. Even here.”

“Yes, but . . .” His head ached too much for this. “Who is he?”

On another person, her expression would have been shock. It was not possible. She knew him too well to be surprised by him. She stared at him, almost as at a stranger. He heard the catch in her breath.

She said, “Who do you mean?” There was something deadly in her tone. He did not intend to be afraid, but he shivered.

Dry-mouthed, he said, “The moons were wrong . . . He shouldn’t have been able to see anything, but he did. Thiercelin duLaurier.”

The change in her was like cloud lifting. She smiled and her face was contemptuous. “Thiercelin of Sannazar? He’s nobody.”

“He saw Valdarrien d’Illandre last night. And at other times, too, when the conditions were wrong for it. At the masquerade . . . When I touched him, I could read his memory—and he experienced it with me.”

She shrugged. “Perhaps he simply has a drop of good blood. Forget it. It’s unimportant.”

If it was unimportant, why had she insisted that he go through with it? It was not in him to ask. She was not going to tell him. She knew something . . . Something to do with a ghost seen untimely by eyes that should have been blind to it.

Eyes without
undarii
training, without
undarii
blood.

Quenfrida was using him. As ever. He said, “That’s all, then. I’ve done as you wanted.”

“Have you?” She sounded amused. “You forget yourself. You’ve grown self-willed.”

“I doubt it.” He could smell her perfume, like a noose. “Lord Thiercelin has had what he asked for. There will be no further contact between us.”

“No?” She came closer. “You’re wrong, I think.” She ran a finger along his cheekbone. He swallowed. “Your landlord told me he was here into the small hours. That suggests he’s concerned about you.” She sat down, let her hand stroke his hair. He shuddered. He had no strength for defenses. He doubted he had the strength to do what his body wanted. She continued, “And he’s attracted. You’ll see him again.” She leaned her face against the crown of his head. The softness of her breast pressed against his cheek. She said, “Won’t you?”