Her fingers were careful, laying out Kenan’s secrets on the window ledge. No letters. Unfortunate, but not unexpected. A number of items of obvious significance to Kenan—his clan-brooch, his ring. A small pine casket, dyed blue and fastened with a bronze clip. A leather bottle. A sky-blue silk scarf. A deck of cards. A knife, small and wickedly sharp, sheathed in padded silk and hafted in old ivory. A copy of the one of the Booksof Marcellan, the second, which dealt with the five domains of earth, fire, air, water, and darkness.
She frowned a little as she lifted the casket. It made no sound. Opening it, she discovered why. The contents—six small vials—were carefully wadded. Unstoppering one, her frown deepened. A smell of honeysuckle. Perfume. She had expected, dramatically, something else. The other five vials were differently scented, but also appeared to be perfumes. She replaced them and turned her attention to the cards.
They were not the standard Lunedithin animal deck, nor the five-suited deck used in Gran’ Romagne for gambling. These were something other, a fortune-teller’s deck, thirty-six cards in all. A card for each of the elemental domains, by the sun and both moons. A totem suit, from Allandurin eagle to Heliadrin serpent. A single run of court cards; clan-head, sword, diviner, mother, oblate. Her breath caught as she turned over the last, and despite all her hard-won control she was chilled.
The painted face of the oblate, gazing back up at her, was that of her dead lover, Valdarrien of the Far Blays.
Sky-eyed Quenfrida rolled over onto her back and stretched in one smooth motion. The thick toffee-gold hair spilled across her shoulders and breasts; she pushed it back with a hand. Lying beside her, his head pillowed on his arm, Gracielis watched with languid, darkened eyes. Too soon, yet, to feel the humiliation of what she could do to him. He was wrapped in repletion. Her perfume soaked him to the very bone. She reached across and ran her fingers idly along his side; smiled as he shivered under her touch. Her hand halted against his cheek. She looked at him. “So,” she said, “you don’t hate me today?”
His mind was a jumble of sensation and image; her mouth on his, her arms about him, hands provoking, bodies entwined. It was hard to capture any emotion save languor. He said, “I don’t remember.”
She laughed. “As I recall, you’ve always been better at love than hate.” Her gentleness confused him. She had been waiting in his room when he returned from his assignation with Yvelliane. He had not stood a chance.
Release had left him weak. No other woman. Fragile under her touch, he said, “You know why. You know what happened.”
She laid a finger across his mouth. “That is done with. The path remains.”
His eyes widened fractionally. With his free hand he lifted hers away from him. The pulse in her wrist was swift. She might almost have been vulnerable. He said, “I failed, Quena. They closed the gate for me.”
“The path remains,” she repeated. “You might yet become undarios. There are sometimes those who linger a while by the wayside. You failed by omission, not commission.”
“The seventh test . . .”
“You never attempted the seventh test. You fled.”
Fled . . . Through the sacred garden, away from the gate of brass. Past the perfumed fountains, to the music of the bells. Petals of magnolia underfoot, falling like a benediction . . . Gracielis shivered. The lieutenant’s ghost drifted into his line of sight like a lure. He said, “There’s no going back.”
“There is going forward.” Quenfrida reached out to stroke his chest with careful fingers. Under the sheet, her leg rubbed against his. The first tendrils of reborn desire stirred within him, confused with the remembered bell-song and the scent of her. She moved closer, lips finding the sensitive place on the side of his throat. Her perfumed hair tangled across his face and shoulders. He groaned; felt rather than heard her laughter. His arms slid about her, caressing. She lifted herself on an elbow and looked down at him, smiling. She said, “There is yet time.”
Her touch traced delicious pathways over his skin. He shivered again, eyes closing. Through the veil of her hair, he said, “I . . . don’t know.”
She kissed him. It was very disturbing. “Think about it.”
Shortly thereafter, thinking became well-nigh impossible.
Early the next morning, Joyain looked up at the facade of the Far Blays townhouse and sighed. If only he had managed to curb his irritation. If only he had not let his prolonged service to Kenan get to him so. One of these days he was going to learn the art of thinking before speaking and stop getting himself into these ridiculous situations.
One of these days. Always assuming he got them. He gave his doublet a surreptitious tug, straightened his collar, tweaked at his hat, and raised a hand to the door knocker. Then he dropped it again and said, “Should we use the side entrance?”
His companion, a lieutenant like himself, sighed in turn. “Don’t be daft. Are we tradesmen?”
“No, but . . .”
“Don’t be so bourgeois.” Elbowing Joyain to one side, Leladrien DuResne rapped smartly on the door and waited.
It was opened remarkably promptly by a very pretty maid. Leladrien smiled at her. “Lieutenants Lievrier and DuResne to see Monseigneur de Sannazar.”
They were neither of them in uniform. It had not seemed politic. The girl looked at them. “Is monseigneur expecting you?”
Joyain opened his mouth to explain. Leladrien glared at him and said, “Of course,” in his best charming tone.
She did not look especially charmed. However, she unbent enough to open the door. “Come in, then, messieurs. I’ll inquire.”
The hall was wide and beautifully appointed. Sinking into a chair, Leladrien looked about in satisfaction and said, “Well, at least you’ll be killed by an aristocrat with taste, Jean.”
“Shut up,” said Joyain.
“Even if his method of arranging duels is a bit irregular. Properly speaking, I should be calling on his second.”
“I told you, Lelien, he didn’t name one.”
“That’s what I meant.” Leladrien stretched his legs out in front of him, and looked at his boots. “I could get to like this lifestyle. Do you think there’s a chance either of us will catch the eye of the famous widow?”
“No,” said Joyain.
“Poor Jean. You were a fool to let yourself in for this.”
“Oh, I know.” Joyain said, with feeling. “And you don’t have to remind me. I feel quite stupid enough already.” Leladrien looked innocent. “I daresay it wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t let Kenan Orcandros annoy me so much in the first place. He’d given me one hell of a morning. By the time Thiercelin of Sannazar showed up, I was ready to shoot my mother.”
“You don’t have to go through with it, you know,” Leladrien said. “You’ve got a perfectly good excuse. Aristocrats are off-limits to us mere officers.”
“A moment ago you were predicting he would kill me.”
“Well, I like to look at both sides. And anyway,” and Leladrien looked reassuring, “I never heard that Thiercelin of Sannazar was so much of a duelist.”
“His friend Valdarrien d’Illandre was. And this Thiercelin’s said to be a good shot.”
“Valdarrien d’Illandre’s dead. And shooting a target’s totally different from shooting a man.” Leladrien paused, and frowned. “Usually.”
“You’re a great comfort.”
“I try.” Leladrien glanced at him. “Will you back out?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s your funeral . . . No, I didn’t mean it that way! Shall I press for swords or pistols?”
“I . . .” Joyain began, but footsteps interrupted him.
The maid was back. “I’m afraid monseigneur is out, messieurs.”
“Oh, well, in that case . . .”
“However, madame will see you both in the petit salon.”
“But . . .” said Joyain. The girl ignored him.
She said, “Please follow me.”
Sighing, Joyai
n followed. Leladrien, standing up, caught his eyes and said, “Which madame, do you think? I hope it’s the young one.”
“Ssh.”
“They say she’s . . .” Leladrien shut up, as the maid opened a door and gestured for them to enter.
“Lieutenants Lievrier and DuResne, madame,” the girl said, and left.
The woman sitting in the large chair by the window was not the famous widow Miraude d’Iscoigne l’Aborderie. Clear brown eyes studied Joyain and Leladrien rather too sharply, as they made their bows. “Good morning, gentlemen.” Yvelliane d’Illandre gestured for them to sit. Her tone bespoke polite interest. “How can I help you?”
Joyain sat. “Good day, madame. My business is with Monseigneur de Sannazar . . .”
“Yes, so I gather. You’ve just missed him. He’s gone riding.”
“Perhaps I should come back later . . .” Joyain began.
Leladrien interrupted him. “The fact is, madame, our business is rather delicate.”
“Indeed?” Yvelliane arched a brow.
“I’m sure Lord Thiercelin would wish . . .”
“Well,” said Yvelliane, briskly, “it can’t be that delicate. I’m certain he hasn’t dishonored either of your sisters, since he assures me that he has no mistress, and he’s usually very truthful.”
Joyain winced. “Please, madame . . .”
“And it’s been a good six years since he was last so short of funds that he had difficulty meeting a gambling debt.”
“Madame, I assure you . . .”
“So,” Yvelliane said, “I can only conclude that he’s decided to fight one or the other of you.” Joyain looked down. “Please don’t scruple to tell me. I have plenty of experience with matters of this type. My brother was renowned for it. Which of you is it?”
Very quietly, Joyain said, “Me, madame.”
“I see.” She rose and went to the mantel. “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? You’re with the guard assigned to the Lunedithin embassy.”
“Yes, madame.”
She picked up a figurine, toyed with it. “I won’t insult your honor by asking why you’re fighting Thierry. However,” and she paused, “I do question the wisdom of it. Your position attached to that embassy is sensitive. And dueling is impolitic.”
Joyain said, “I’m aware of that, madame.”
“Yes, I suppose you are, Lieutenant—Lievrier?” Joyain nodded. “However, as First Councillor . . .” Her sentence trailed off. She looked at him.
“I am entirely at your disposal, madame,” Joyain said, wishing she would stop baiting him.
Her eyes were very keen. Quite unexpectedly, she smiled. “I don’t want to cause any resentment,” she said. “I do understand these affairs. But I’d be obliged if you didn’t kill Thierry.”
“I wasn’t intending to, madame.”
“No, I don’t suppose you were.” Again, a measuring look. “I won’t interfere, but I suggest you arrange all this with his friend Maldurel. The Lord of South Marr.”
It seemed to be some kind of dismissal. Rising, Joyain and Leladrien bowed. It was only as they were at the door that she spoke again. “Lieutenant Lievrier?”
“Madame?”
“One thing regarding my husband’s visit to the Lunedithin embassy. I take it he was seeking Iareth Yscoithi of Alfial?” Joyain looked startled. Yvelliane nodded. “I thought so. Thank you. Good day, gentlemen.”
5
THE SILK WAS TARNAROQUI. Under Gracielis’ fingers there was a dust memory of warm air and clear skies. The loom rattle echoed through the weave with the sound of cicadas and the perfumes of summer. It was fine enough for a veil, or a shroud. The lieutenant’s ghost hovered over it. Glancing up at it, Gracielis raised his brows and put the bolt back on the counter. The apprentice cloth merchant looked disappointed.
Amalie was studying two lengths of woolen stuff spread out on a table before her. Looking up, she said, “Which do you like, love, the brown or the blue?”
“Who can say?” Gracielis looked at the cloth, considering. “What hope can a mere color have beside your beauty?” The apprentice regarded him with an unfriendly air. The lieutenant’s ghost pulled a face.
“Very pretty,” Amalie said. “But even beauty needs to be dressed.”
“Adorned.” Gracielis smiled. “Sometimes.”
She shook her head at him. “And you have no opinion on these colors?”
The apprentice fidgeted. Happily, Gracielis said, “Let’s consider the nature of adornment. Is it a question of what is most becoming or what costs the most?” The apprentice began to look more hopeful. “Or is the premise false? Does a high price reduce the value of an object by virtue of the attempt to possess it?” He inhaled, intending to continue.
The apprentice said, “Perhaps madame would care to see some other fabrics? We have some fine brocades.”
“No, it’s wool I want.” Amalie looked again at the two samples. The apprentice sighed.
Gracielis said, “Which do you prefer?”
“Brown is more serviceable . . .” She sounded doubtful. Gracielis wrinkled his nose at her.
“It’s excellent value and very hard wearing,” the apprentice put in.
“Adornment,” Gracielis said, “shouldn’t bore you, Ladyheart.”
“But . . .” Amalie sighed, “it’s to be a day dress. For work. Brown would be more sensible.”
“And would depress you,” Gracielis said. “Do you like the blue? You could have a brighter shade, or something with a pattern.”
“In the shop?” Amalie laughed. To the apprentice, she said. “I’ll have the blue. And a length of that cream silk for monsieur.” The apprentice bowed and began to measure the cloth.
Gracielis said, “I don’t need it.” The ghost looked faintly sickened, as it often did when it came to matters of payment.
“No,” Amalie said, “but should not beauty be adorned?” Gracielis bowed. “ I like to give you presents. And you wanted that silk.”
He took her hand and kissed it. “Where would I be without you? I’m always your debtor.”
“Naturally,” she said, laughing. She turned to pay the apprentice. “Have the parcels sent to my house on Bright Moon Street, please; and here’s a little something for yourself.”
“Thank you, madame.”
The shop door swung shut behind them. Amalie slipped her arm through his. “You teased that poor boy. Was that nice?”
“He was insufficiently respectful to you.”
“You nearly upset my bargaining.”
“I’m desolated. I will make amends forthwith.” Gracielis said. The lieutenant’s ghost spat. “Command me.”
“Later, perhaps.”
“For you,” he said, guiding her round a puddle, “anything. I’ll kill dragons.”
“Plural dragons?” She raised her eyebrows at him, eyes merry.
“Of course.” His dyed lashes swept down. He looked at her sidelong. “So long as they’re the stuffed theatrical kind.”
“Very gallant!”
“Alas, I’m no hero.” He sighed, elegant, melodramatic. The ghost made a gesture of contemptuous agreement. Gracielis made in return the slightest of bows. “On the other hand, I’ve never understood heroes. It is my belief that roses are a more appropriate gift than slices of dead dragon.”
“Perhaps.” Amalie feigned to consider. “Dead boar can be cooked and eaten, of course, but dead dragon would seem to have little purpose other than to stain my floors and force me to resand them.”
“Dragons, therefore, are not a fitting gift.” Gracielis smiled. “Perhaps I should slay snapdragons for you?”
She laughed. “I liked the roses better.”
“Then it shall be roses.” He looked wicked. “Sixteen dozen.”
Amalie thumped him.
Three days had passed since they had walked by the river. Cold days, for the most part, with wet and misty nights to follow them. Gracielis had watched with eyes grown cautious, skin
flinching from the ghost-touch of change. The air tasted to him of honeysuckle. He had not dared to speak of it to Quenfrida, lest he inform where he sought to be informed. He was afraid to do more than hint at what he sensed—rumors spreading everywhere of problems in the old docks, of the queen’s failing health, of disturbances and discontent.
He was beginning to be alarmed. He was in danger of becoming involved; he who should be indifferent to Merafi’s fate. And Quenfrida suspected it.
You were ever better at love than hate . . . Hate had built the shapes in the mist and on the river. That and the heavy falling of water. By rights, he should have questioned Quenfrida when he had had the chance, resisted the silken enticement of her. He did not like what he was seeing and hearing.
The road underfoot was muddy. Amalie held up her skirts and teetered a little on her pattens. He made as clear a path for her as he might and conversed without full attention. There was something coming, something waiting in the mist and the infuriating rain. Even the lieutenant’s ghost was grown wise to it, petulant with static, mist-laden. There were as yet several more shops and stalls to be visited. Amalie, despite her wealth, preferred to do her own marketing. Gracielis obediently carried parcels, inspected fruit, and smiled at vendors. The ghost paced him, marching maliciously through those who lacked the blood to see it. Visible, here in Merafi, against nature, by day, and without two moons’ light.
Living With Ghosts Page 11
