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?”
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 obedientkai-reth,
Iareth Yscoithi.
3
“MIMI, 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 undariimaybe. 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 unple
asant. 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.”
Living With Ghosts Page 6
