Living With Ghosts

by Kari Sperring

  “Indeed?” The officer looked incredulous.

  This was getting out of control. Thiercelin sighed. It had been years—six years—since he had been involved in any kind of duel. And as for acting as the principal in one . . . Awkwardly, he removed his signet ring and held it out. “Look, I don’t think . . .”

  “Monsieur is afraid to meet me?”

  “No,” said Thiercelin, “but . . .”

  “I don’t see the need for further conversation.”

  It was hopeless. He was committed to the blasted duel. “River rot it,” said Thiercelin. “You insisted on proof of my identity. Here it is. However, monsieur . . .”

  “Lieutenant Lievrier.”

  “If I’m going to have to fight you, you could at least go and announce me to Iareth Yscoithi.”

  The lieutenant looked him up and down. Then he shrugged. “Very well, monseigneur.”

  He was shown into a small reception room on the first floor. No pictures relieved the dark paneling; the furnishings and rugs were in muted colors. The fire was unlit. He refused refreshments and waited by the window, unwilling to sit, restless.

  It was some fifteen minutes before the door opened to admit Iareth Yscoithi. She was as he recalled her, slight and straight and cold. He bowed to her, and she watched him with dispassionate eyes.

  She said, “Thierry.”

  “Iareth, I . . .” He had expected something, some reaction, anything but this level composure. He said, “You’re well, I hope?”

  “I am. And you?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a small pause. She sat on an armchair. “It is a kindness in you to call. You learned of my presence from Yviane Allandur?”

  “No. That is, I . . .” He hesitated. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Of course. Valdin . . .” Thiercelin was shaking. She watched him without curiosity. “It’s only polite to call.”

  “I see.”

  She had no warmth. She was ignorant of the grief she had caused. Looking at his hands, he said, “I was there, you know. When Valdin was killed.”

  “I had heard so.”

  He said, “Don’t you care?” Stopped, for that had not been at all what he had meant to say. He turned and stared out into the rain, not trusting himself to look at her.

  She said, “It’s past, Thierry. I have my own life to lead.”

  His back still to her, he said, “He loved you so much. You didn’t see . . . you weren’t there. When you left him, it was as if he went away, too. He . . .”

  She said, “I did what I had to do. I had duties elsewhere. I’ve always regretted that I should have caused such pain.”

  “Pain!” Thiercelin whirled round to face her. “He died, Iareth. He bled his life out in a dirty inn yard.” His voice cracked. Looking away, he rubbed a hand across his eyes. “He never stopped thinking about you.”

  He had not heard her move. He started when she laid her hand on his shoulder. He looked down into her eyes. They were dry. She said, “Nor have I ceased to think of him. But time does not stop.”

  He said, “I’m sorry. I had no right.”

  She smiled, a little. “You have every right. You were friends.”

  “Perhaps,” Thiercelin said, “I didn’t come here to apportion blame.”

  “I know.”

  “I came . . .” He paused then lowered his voice. “I came because I’ve seen him, here in Merafi, in the last weeks. Seen him and heard him speak.”

  Something changed, then, beneath her calm. She paled and asked, “What did he say?”

  He put his hands on her shoulders. “He said, ‘Tell Iareth kai-reth she was right.’ Whatever that means.”

  “I had feared it,” said Iareth Yscoithi.

  From the roof of the tower of Merafi’s River Temple, Gracielis gazed north and watched the river flow. His hands, bare, rested on the parapet next to his hat. He could feel the years in the stone he touched. He could sense the movement through it of the dreams of the mason who had shaped it. Beside him, the lieutenant’s ghost stood, half-shredded in the breeze. It was very quiet. Apart from the wind, the only clear sound was the occasional singing of the priests in the rooms below. Beneath gray skies, the city rested, waiting only partly aware for the changes that were promised.

  It was early evening. Weighted with impending rain, clouds extinguished the sun’s color. Handmoon hovered on the horizon, pale and slight. Mothmoon was yet to rise. There was no mist; he could see no weaving of shapes across the surface of the river. It was still asleep, this artery of Merafi’s power, and its dreams were veiled.

  Only at the deepest level could he sense a faint murmur of a threat. Sighing, he shifted to prop his chin on one hand, and let his gaze turn away over the roofs of the city, across the twilight plains, into the horizon, north, and a little west, to where beneath the horizon Lunedith lay, cold within its forested mountains. When footsteps sounded on the leads behind him, he did not turn, but only said, “You will have a cold winter of it, I think.”

  The lieutenant’s ghost wore a leer. It was, for once, not directed at Gracielis. “You call all our winters cold,” the arrival said, coming to stand beside him, leaning on the parapet. “And too long. I’m astonished you’ve never gotten used to them.”

  “My bones are too frail for your east wind.”

  “Yet you’re looking north. You’d be even less comfortable in Lunedith. Their capital’s snowbound half the year.”

  He shivered. “They have my sympathies. That’s barbarous.”

  “They like it that way.”

  He spread a hand out on the parapet, glancing down at his fingers. “Then I’ll try not to go there,” he said, and turned to look at his companion. “Good evening, madame.”

  Yvelliane of the Far Blays lifted her veil and regarded him. “I’m late, I think.” Behind her, the lieutenant’s ghost made a crude gesture.

  “A little, perhaps. But your presence is sufficient recompense for the delay; and the delay itself no more than befits your beauty.” And Gracielis bowed, elegant, selfmocking.

  She smiled a little. “None of that. I need to talk, not flirt.”

  “I hear and obey.” He placed a hand over his heart. The ghost imitated him in large motion.

  She looked quizzical. “Do you? What if I were ask to you to sever your connection with my husband? He’s been writing to you.”

  It was like her to know of that. There was no way to tell how much she knew. He said, “It would depend on how much you paid me. Is that your desire?”

  “I don’t think so. When it ceases to divert him, perhaps, or when it begins to annoy me.”

  She did not know, then, of clinging, unseasonal Valdarrien, or she would not speak of diversion. Her tone had been flippant, but for all that he looked at her sharply. She was frowning. He said, “I’ll remember.”

  “Please do.” She was watching the river. The ghost was pale beside her, working up an irritation she could not sense. She said, “Should I forgive you, I wonder?” Gracielis was silent. “For sleeping with Thierry, I mean.”

  He never discussed one client with another, whatever they sought, however they were connected. Yvelliane was different. Very gently, he said, “I’m not sleeping with Lord Thiercelin.”

  “His loss, then,” she said and sighed.

  She looked tired. Well, she had many reasons for that, lately. The ghost, who disliked her for reasons Gracielis had never discovered, was jubilant. Frowning at it, he said, “You work too hard. It shows on your face.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re unhappy. It’s contagious. You make Lord Thiercelin unhappy also.”

  “Hence his interest in you?”

  “There is no interest.” Not of the kind she meant, but he could not detail that to her. “He’s devoted to you.”

  She said, “You really think he’s unhappy?”

  “Just as you are.”

  “You’re so sure about
me?”

  “I hear things. I see things. That’s why you pay me to inform.”

  “Quite so.” Her tone was dry.

  “He loves you. He worries about you.” He had been her lover, once, long ago. It did not give him the right to interfere, but he might perhaps venture comment.

  “Unfortunately, I don’t pay you to tell me things I already know.”

  “It’s good that you know it,” he said. And then, “Forgive me. This isn’t my business.”

  She sighed again. “Perhaps,” she said, but her face was bleak.

  She was not a person one might touch casually. He turned to look at her. She caught the look. She said, “Shall I cry on your shoulder?”

  “If you wish.”

  She shook her head. “Another day, perhaps. When there’s time.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m always your debtor.”

  “I wonder.” She looked at him. “Who controls you, Gracieux?”

  He shrugged. “Who controls anyone?” The lieutenant’s ghost looked knowing.

  She smiled. “Who knows? It’s clearer in some instances than others.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Did they really let go of you, the undarii?” He made no answer, keeping his face calm. She said, “It’s said they kill their failures. Why didn’t they kill you?”

  “On account of my beautiful eyes, perhaps?” The ghost sneered. “Their ways are mysterious.”

  “Like yours.” He bowed. “You know the answer.” He was silent. “But you’re not going to tell me.”

  He said, “Forgive me.”

  “ ‘It is forbidden’,” she finished for him. “I always ask and that’s always your answer. You’re no small mystery yourself.”

  “That’s my good fortune.”

  She laughed then and shook her head at him. “You trade on it, certainly.” Her expression sobered. “Your kind is forbidden in this city.”

  “I’m sensible of your kindness to me.”

  Yvelliane said, “Tarnaroq has sent us a troublesome ambassador. Sigeris. Do you know him?”

  “I know of him.”

  “If he was undarios, would you know it?” Gracielis was silent. “Him, or one of his retinue. An aide, perhaps?”

  Still he made no answer, looking away from her, out over the city, over the river. They were too well matched, Yvelliane and Quenfrida. Clever Quenfrida, too clever to be caught out, for all Yvelliane’s suspicion. There was a net here, and they would both weave him into it. He shivered and drew his cloak about him. He schooled his features to be expressionless.

  Quietly, Yvelliane said, “Forgive me, but I need to know.”

  It was too dangerous. There were changes, hovering here over this city, which should be opaque to such things. Ghosts walked untimely. Changes were poised in the salt-fresh neutral waters of the river, which should not change. He had no way of knowing what imbalance Quenfrida might have found to exploit to Merafi’s detriment.

  He had agreed to help Thiercelin. He took Yvelliane’s money on a regular basis. He said, “I . . . might.” He was cold with it, with the heresy that might lead him to betray her. Quenfrida was confident enough in her power to come here, into this place whose ambience would not be manipulated by her kind, where her abilities (his abilities) were forbidden. The loving assassins, the perfumed ones, the priests of love and death. His name, spoken in scent about him, should have marked him one of them, had he had the strength. Quenfrida had it. Quenfrida undaria.

  There was sadness in him that had to do with the chiming of silver bells, with bruised magnolia. He turned to Yvelliane and said, “If there is an undarios, they would know me.”

  “And if I asked you to look among the Tarnaroqui delegation?”

  “I might locate him. And die for it.” It was pointless to tell her what they both already knew, that his cautious and infrequent correspondence with her was in itself sufficient to purchase his death. All that stood between him and that end was that Quenfrida had never thought to ask him: Do you still have dealings with Yvelliane of the Far Blays?

  If—when—she asked him, he would tell her every part of it and welcome the gift of death from her hands. Yvelliane did not know that and never would.

  Who controls you?

  Yvelliane was watching him. She said, “You could be given protection.”

  “Forgive me. I was inexact. I would want them to kill me. It can be very . . . sweet.”

  The lieutenant’s ghost grinned, fingering its throat.

  “The right death at the right moment.”

  “Yes.”

  She frowned, looking down at the roof-leads. “If I asked no names, would you tell me simply whether there is an undarios among the embassy?”

  He knew already. Nevertheless, “Perhaps.”

  “It’s a lot to ask.” She hesitated. “I’ve never known: do you mind?”

  He said, “You gave me a home in your city. Protected me from your prohibitions. You pay me well for information.” Momentarily, he looked wicked. “You relieve my days with the balm of your presence.”

  The ghost looked supercilious. Yvelliane, however, merely shook her head at him. “There’s a ‘but,’ isn’t there? I heard it.”

  He met her gaze. “You’ve been my protector. I owe you a great deal. But I am, by birth, Tarnaroqui.”

  “Yes.” Momentarily, she was silent. “I’m not asking you to do this for me yet. But later on, I may have to. In which case . . . ?”

  “I’ll tell you.”

  “Thank you.” She pulled up her veil. He turned back to look at the river. The ghost shadowed him. She said, “Not a lot to see, at this time of year.”

  “No.” He paused. Then, “The river is your lifeblood.”

  “Yes.”

  “If it . . . if it should turn against you, how would you fare?”

  She looked at him sharply. “What do you mean?”

  “I was wondering,” he said, “if you’re prepared for such a thing?”

  She looked toward the river. “It would depend,” she said, slowly. “For a short time, we would survive. But ultimately, I suppose, our kingdom would fall.”

  Iareth Yscoithi of Alfial could see in the dark. It was a small edge, even among her Lunedithin countrymen, who, whatever their strengths, lacked Yscoithi silence, Yscoithi patience. She had long ago assimilated and perfected the arts she required: waiting and quiet and the wisdom to recognize the apposite moment. She had learned, too, to subtract from her actions the wishes of her heart. She had gone that way once and, returning wounded, would not take that risk again. Besides, she was half-breed, and her father—who was not Yscoithi—had gifted her with tenacity.

  It did not occur to her to be afraid as she crossed the hallway on silent feet. She took darkness for her part; she had a kinship with its properties.

  The door to Kenan’s suite opened soundlessly under her fingers. Before leaving her own room, she had heard the hall clock chime midnight. Kenan was at the palace with the ambassador and would be unlikely to return for another hour or more. The servants had all retired. She had time enough. She did not glance behind her before entering Kenan’s rooms. She knew she was alone. She would have heard, had anyone approached.

  The casement had been left open. Like all of his Orcandrin clan, Kenan did not care to feel shut in. Handmoon was near full. Cool light pooled across the floor. Iareth paused to allow her eyes to readjust. The first room was large. She crossed it without interest in its bureaus or any of its cabinets. She had known Kenan too long to look for the obvious. Nor did she trouble with the bedchamber. Kenan was clever enough to know he was watched by his retinue and by the Merafiens alike. He would be ready.

  It pleased his arrogance to believe Iareth suffered simply by being here in Merafi. Merafi, where Valdarrien d’Illandre—her beloved Valdin kai-reth—had died. Kenan was mistaken. She had assimilated the need to live with pain. And besides, it was a species of fo
rtune that Kenan let his spite blind him.

  It would have delighted him to think she hated him. Delighted, and fed his growing power.

  She took care with her masks, lest he learn the truth. She bore him neither hate nor malice nor ill-will. She knew him all too well, had known him since his childhood.

  There was a dressing closet set in the bedchamber, behind a rose-paneled door. It was unlit. She let her eyes adjust before beginning her examination. Servants came and went in this room, as in any other. Anything too obviously hidden would provoke suspicion.

  Iareth’s patience was of the predatory kind. She did not trouble to study subtlety. She looked in front of her eyes. Kenan’s larger bags had been emptied and taken to storage. But his saddlebags were still here, on the highest shelf. She stood on the dressing stool and lifted them down.

  Their weight told her at once that she was right. It was probable that Kenan had not bothered to unpack them but had simply stored them away. Carefully, she carried them into the bedchamber and put them on the window seat. The knots fastening them were complex. She took care to memorize the number and order of loops. Removing the contents, she was similarly careful. They must not look unnecessarily disarranged. If another had asked this task of her, she might well have refused. But she was not in the habit of refusing Urien Armenwy. He was her commanding officer, for one thing. He was the closest friend of Prince Keris, for another. Good reasons enough, by themselves. And then, both Queen Firomelle and Prince Keris were in poor health, making Kenan’s actions all the more important.

  Above all, Urien was her father, for all that their clan names differed. There were too few Yscoithi as it was: he had chosen never to make public the nature of their relationship, and it was known to very few people indeed. To be born half-blood, openly known to be of parents from different clans was even now a stigma in Lunedith. Such children were termed elor-reth, outclan, and found it hard to succeed. Iareth owed her position in the royal kai-rethin as much to Urien’s protection as to her official clan status. And that protection was worth much. Urien was one of the very last of the clansmen whose blood ran pure enough to retain its ancient power. Few indeed in these days could claim as much. Once, before the days of Yestinn Allandur, the clansmen had been shapeshifters, each clan possessed of its own particular animal or bird form. The ability had been closely guarded, maintained by tight interbreeding within each clan. A child born of a cross-clan liaison lost the talent and was despised by all. But over the centuries, endorsed and sheltered by royal approval, more and more children had been born cross-clan. Their animal totems survived only as the symbols on their banners and brooches. Many clans had died out wholly: many of their children had abandoned the clan system altogether, becoming the ancestors of the Merafiens of Gran’ Romagne. In Lunedith, clan names had survived and the habit of at least seeming to maintain intraclan marriage. But the old blood ran diluted almost everywhere. The subject was sensitive and few, now, were directly cross-clan. Once in perhaps three generations heredity would throw out a true shifter, and such were honored highly. Urien would never openly acknowledge Iareth, but he sheltered her, and that was sufficient to keep her status intact.