“Rather you than Kenan!”
She smiled. “You may change your mind on that.” She unlaced his cuff and rolled up his shirtsleeve. Then she felt along his arm carefully. It hurt less than he expected. “I think you are bruised only, but I will bind it for you.”
“Thanks.” He sat, while she found bindings; then let her strap his forearm. Her touch was sure and impersonal. After a while he said, “Were you expecting what happened?”
She looked up. “No.”
“But . . .” He sighed. “It isn’t possible, you know. What happened.” No more possible than the details a deck of cards had revealed of his life. “There has to be a rational explanation. That terrible ale . . .”
“You drank almost none of it.”
“Some humor in the air, then.” He was not convincing even himself. He stopped and looked at her. “I don’t like all this.”
“No. I dislike it also.”
He said, “Tell me about Valdarrien d’Illandre.” She raised her brows. “Well, he’s dead, but I saw him. And now we’ve been attacked by something that wasn’t there . . . Perhaps there’s a connection. Even if it’s simply that I’m going mad.”
“Then I am mad also, after tonight.” She hesitated. “Why would you hear of him?”
“I don’t know. I’m trying to understand what I’m mixed up in.”
“So.” She shifted position so that she sat more comfortably, and hugged her knees. “It is hard to define someone in words. Yviane Allandur called him wild. Urien said that he was merely thoughtless. He had a . . . a quality to him, of assurance. He did not think overlong about his actions.” She watched the middle distance, calm, considered. “He had a most ungovernable temper; and yet he also understood pain and honor and loyalty. His death was a great foolishness.”
Joyain could think of nothing to say. It seemed to him that he was the fool for asking the question. She still loved Valdarrien and Joyain Lievrier was in grave danger of making an idiot of himself.
For lack of anything better to say, he said, “I’m sorry.” And then, as she looked up, “It was brave of you, going to The Pineapple.”
“On the contrary, it was cowardice. I should not need to question my past.”
He didn’t understand. He said, “It can’t have been easy.”
“It was an indulgence.”
He said, “Gracieux warned me off you, today.”
“Who?”
“My aunt’s lover. He’s Tarnaroqui, and he tells fortunes. He said you’d hurt me.”
She frowned. “And you think him wrong? You may be misled. You know I can offer you comfort only?”
“Yes.” He looked down, unable to sustain her regard. “But warnings tend to have a bad effect on me.”
She laughed. “That is a poor reason.”
“The worst.”
“When Kenan’s embassy ends, I shall leave Merafi. I have no intention of returning. It is against the laws of my people to form any but a casual liaison outside one’s clan.”
“I know.” He looked at her again. Her face was serious. “I’m prepared for all that.”
“Are you?” She hesitated. “Valdin kai-reth . . . It is true, I was less clear with him than duty required. It is also true that I permitted my . . . my preferences to cloud that duty. But it remains a fact that I must share guilt for his death. I did him an ill service when I became his mistress. It is a mistake I cannot afford to commit again. And then, Urien . . .”
“What?”
She shook her head. “It matters not. I’m concerned simply that you do not expect anything of me that I cannot give.” Still, Joyain was silent. She looked at him, and said, “May I stay, this night?”
“Of course,” he said, and held out his hands. But although her touch was gentle and her body compliant, it was not his name she whispered in the warm candlelight.
“Yviane?” Something tugged at Yvelliane, sending a sharp pain up through her neck and shoulders, “Yviane?” Another tug. She shrugged, trying to ease the pain, and realized she had been asleep. Miraude stood beside the desk, dressed in her nightgown and a heavy brocade overrobe. “Yviane, it’s four in the morning. You should go to bed.”
She had fallen asleep over her papers again. The ache in her neck, the twist in her shoulders bore witness to that. Her eyes felt dry and sore. She sat up cautiously and rubbed them. Miraude handed her a cup of water. She sipped at it, then stretched.
She said, “Four A.M.”
“Yes.”
“And you just got in?”
Miraude nodded. She perched herself on the edge of the desk. “I saw the lamp was lit, and I need to talk to you. But you’re tired. It can wait.”
Yvelliane drained her water. “No, now is fine. What is it?”
“Kenan Orcandros. I told you he came to my salon and he was interested in the archaeological remains at the Old Temple?”
“Yes.”
“We visited them, the day before yesterday. I wanted to tell you earlier, but you’ve hardly been here.”
“Firomelle . . .”
“I understand.” Miraude picked up a pen and toyed with it. “He didn’t seem that interested once we were there. I mean, it was as if he wanted to make it clear how recent everything here is. But there was one thing that was odd. There’s a cavern, maybe an old council room, I think. Just before we went in, something strange happened with Kenan.”
“Oh?” Yvelliane took the pen away.
“It was as if he felt something, was reacting to something that we couldn’t see. It was weird.”
“There’s a cave like that under Skarholm, too. Valdin saw it. It’s used for clan rituals.” Yvelliane frowned. “I wonder . . . I wish I knew more about the undarii and their skills.”
“I could see if there are any books . . .” Miraude sounded doubtful.
Yvelliane shook her head. “There’s someone I need to write to. Thank you, Mimi.”
“I’m due to go to the theater with him later this week. I’ll let you know he if hints at anything.”
“Um.” Yvelliane stared at her papers. Perhaps Kenan had simply been reminded of something, taken by surprise by such a clear link between Merafi and his homeland. It was possible, but she doubted it. She would write to Gracielis and inquire . . .
Gracielis. Her hand went to the back of her neck, rubbing it slowly. Miraude said, “What’s wrong?”
“I’m stiff.”
“Yes.” Miraude slipped off the desk and came to stand behind her. Her small hands closed over Yvelliane’s. “But that’s not it, is it? It’s Thierry.”
“Don’t, Mimi.” Yvelliane did not want to talk about him. She did not even want to think about it. There was not the time, not now. She had Firomelle and Quenfrida and the tales of unrest in the low city to worry over. Thiercelin would have to wait. She could not take more pain.
Miraude said, “What happened?” Yvelliane made no reply. Miraude continued, “He told me there’s nothing between him and that Tarnaroqui. I believe him.”
“I don’t,” Yvelliane said, and pulled away.
“I could go and talk to him.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Yviane, I . . .”
Yvelliane stood up, forcing Miraude to step back. “Not now, Mimi. I’m going to bed.”
Miraude shook her head. “You have to sort this out sometime.”
“Not now,” Yvelliane repeated, and left the room.
Iareth Yscoithi of Alfial to Urien Armenwy, called Swanhame, Councillor and Leader of the Kai-rethin: Greetings.
It hasstarted. Kenan has done something.Creatures rise from the river. They seek harm to all who live here. This night, Lieutenant Lievrier and I were attacked and he took as light wound. They can not be damaged with weapons, but Jean discovered that they retreat from fire. Things go very ill here in Merafi, and I do not know how to stop them, or to whom I should turn. I do not think Yviane Allandur will receive me: she still bears me ill will.
; Father, I need your counsel and your aid. Come here.I beg you, come.
The river continued to rise. By the end of three days the landslip to the south of the estuary was all but submerged, and the south artisans’ quarter was unpleasantly damp. In the low town, well water began to smell rank. People drank it anyway, but some of them boiled it first and complained it tasted sweet. The mood in the shantytown, trapped between the south and main channels, was hostile. Tempers frayed as the inhabitants of the nearby old docks glared out over the remains of the wall and the embankment built by Firomelle’s ancestors.
On the third night, someone set fire to the plank bridge linking the shanty isle to the main city. It burned poorly in the damp, but the insult was sufficient. By dawn, there were twenty dead.
Every morning saw more bodies in the streets of the old city. Garbled reports spoke of masked gangs patrolling after dark. No one seemed to credit anything supernatural. Joyain wrote a careful report of his own experience, then tore it up. He did not want to think about it. He had taken care not to discuss it with anyone, not even Iareth. She was quiet and calm as ever, but she had not sought him out since that night. In fairness, he had made no move to spend time with her, either. She will burn you. He did not know what to think or feel. Perhaps he would be better off away from her, away from all the Lunedithin.
There was sickness in the new dock, in the shanties, in the low overspill. Joyain heard of it from Leladrien on the afternoon of the fifth day. There were barricades in the old docks, erected by the tenants against the threat of the shanty-dwellers. The watch and guards seconded from other regiments had orders to tear those down, but this had no effect. The barriers were simply rebuilt, sometimes by the troopers themselves. By the fifth day, no one tried to cross them. Leladrien’s company had been ordered onto the isle—such of it as was still above water—to investigate. As cavalry, they had been more concerned initially with the inappropriate nature of the job than the actuality. “Until we got there,” said Leladrien, white-faced in the mess. “Ever been in the shanties, Jean?”
“Not lately.”
“Hmm. Well, most of it’s gone. The entire east end is awash. It must’ve been abandoned a couple of days ago. The rest . . .” He gulped the remainder of his drink and said, “Is there any more of that?”
“I expect so.” Joyain fetched a refill and watched as Leladrien drank it straight off.
“Not sure that helps. All the same. . . . The rest of shantytown is empty, too.” Leladrien licked his lips and looked uncomfortable. “Those river-damned barricades! Some people got out, I guess, before the bridge was swamped; or maybe into the old dock in the first day or too. Though where they are now . . . Have you heard of any increase in vagrants?”
“No.”
“Well, you wouldn’t, up there with the aristos.” Leladrien sounded bitter. Joyain looked at him in surprise. “You and Her Majesty both!”
“Lelien!”
“All right, all right. I won’t shout.” Leladrien sighed and helped himself to Joyain’s drink. “I’m sorry, Jean. It’s just this morning . . .”
“You’re trying to tell me the shantytowners are dead?”
“Everyone we found, anyway. Women and children, mostly. They’d tried to bury some of them, but in the end I suppose it was too much work. Pray for a north wind, Jean. We had to burn the lot.” He looked up and smiled unkindly. “It won’t do for the queen’s guests to be disturbed by the smell of burning flesh, will it?”
His animosity was making Joyain uncomfortable. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
“I have to tell someone.” Joyain looked down. Leladrien continued, “I don’t know. . . . How many bodies did the watch pick up this morning?”
“Eighteen, I think. All but four have been identified.”
“Right. Some of the corpses in shantytown had gone that way. Bludgeoned. But the rest . . . There’s been some kind of plague down there. Half of those I saw were rotten with it.” Leladrien rubbed a hand across his mouth. “Probably as contagious as all hell, but the captain’s too scared of a panic to make anything official. And I don’t imagine it would do any good by now anyway. Some shantytowners got out. Even if they did leave their families behind.” Again he smiled, but this time it seemed to be an attempt at self-conviction. “It’s a good thing I’m not sentimental, that’s all. You wouldn’t have stood it, you cry when you have to shoot a horse.” Joyain said nothing. “So, what’s your news? Taken your foreigners to any good parties lately? I hear you’re screwing one of them.” Joyain tried to stare him down.
“Well, what am I supposed to say to you? I spent this morning counting bodies. It’s hardly comparable.”
“I’m sorry,” Joyain said.
“Not your fault, I suppose, although I’ll run you through if I ever hear you bitching about your luck again.” Joyain started to reply. Leladrien cut him off. “I know, you think you should be doing something. Except I don’t think you’d like it if you did.”
“Is that the point?”
“The point?” Leladrien shook his head. Then, horribly, he began to laugh. “Drown it, Jean! There isn’t any point. There never has been. That’s the whole of it.”
People were beginning to look at them. Leladrien’s voice was too loud. Joyain said, “Hush.” And then, “You need to stop thinking about it.”
“Certainly. Any suggestions?” Leladrien said, “I’ve taken two baths, and I can still smell it. That really concentrates the mind.”
“What do want me to do about it?”
“What can you do?” Leladrien was cynical. “As little as ever, I expect.” Joyain winced. “Maybe you could ask your dear friend Thiercelin of Sannazar and the Far Blays to exert some pressure upon his beloved wife, and get us some kind of official guidelines. We’re still operating on standard procedure, because the captain’s a scion of a noble family and has no bloody idea what to do unless he’s been told how. Or perhaps your equally dear friend the heir to Lunedith could raise it with the queen the next time they take chocolate together?”
“Not him,” said Joyain. “It would ruin his chance to gloat.” And then, “You know I didn’t ask to get stuck up there.”
“Yes,” Leladrien said, savagely. “Doesn’t help.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know, I know.” Leladrien put his chin on his hands. “Get me another drink, will you?”
Joyain complied, suppressing misgivings. Returning, he said, “I’ve asked several times for a transfer. The Lunedithin don’t need me. But protocol dictates . . .” He sighed. “And I suppose I hadn’t realized it had gotten this bad. There’s so often trouble and sickness down there.”
“Yes.” Leladrien sipped his drink. He had begun to look less angry than tired. “I thought so, too. Until this morning.” He made a visible effort to pull his mind off the subject. “How’s the north channel?”
“Still low. The drainage is better up there and the cliff helps. Though I did hear that the Lesser Horse Bridge has been damaged.”
“Terrific.” Leladrien’s family lived on the north side. “I haven’t got up there recently, but I . . .” He shook his head. “Forget it.”
“I’m going to ask for that transfer again.”
“Yes.” Leladrien looked at his hands. “You’ll probably get it, too. There’s going to be more trouble—people are going to panic when this shanty business gets out.”
“It’s that bad?”
“Honestly?” Joyain could not return the look Leladrien gave him. Leladrien continued, “I don’t know. I’ve sent a warning to my family . . . But I don’t know. I hope not. I hope I’m overreacting because I’m tired and pissed off. But it might be . . . You should tell that aunt of yours to leave.”
“She’s had a warning.” Joyain hesitated, afraid of disturbing already troubled waters. “Gracieux told her. He knows something. He warned her nearly a week ago. I’m not sure she believed him. He was ill, and . . .”
“Ill?
” Leladrien did not give Joyain time to answer. “He lives off Silk Street, doesn’t he? The plague can’t have got up there already. The surgeon said . . .”
“Shut up,” said Joyain. Leladrien looked astonished, but obeyed. “He’d had some kind of accident. Or maybe the watch captain beat him up; I don’t know.” Leladrien relaxed. “I’ve heard nothing about sickness anywhere in the north or west quarters. Nor in the middle city, for that matter. Only in shantytown, the new dock, and parts of the south overspill.”
“Good.” Leladrien stood. “Pray it stays that way. You won’t like burning bodies in the Old Market.”
“No. Where are you going?”
“Back down. I was given three hours’ furlough four hours ago. See you, Jean.”
“Yes.” Joyain rose and held out a hand. It was ignored. “Go safely.”
“If possible.” Leladrien waved and turned. In the doorway he stopped and looked back. “Jean?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t ask for that transfer.”
“Why not?”
“Just don’t, that’s all.” And he was gone, leaving Joyain to brood.
He stood at the foot of the bed . . . Iareth smiled in the midnight dark and sat up, her hair falling unbound around her. The embassy lay in silence. She inhaled and said, “Give you good even, Valdin kai-reth.”
His eyes were keen upon her. She had forgotten nothing, no line of him, no shade of look or gesture or tone. He moved fractionally, and she saw the tension beneath his scrutiny. She patted the bed. “Will you sit?”
His weightless form made no dent. He was all longing and desperation. Though he did not need to breathe, he wore the air of a man who holds his breath at a wonder.
We are kai-rethin and one and always; that changes not. Thus she had sworn to him six years before, and, on that vow, left him. Within the space of six more months he had died. She had grown accustomed to the loss. But not, and never, to the longing.
Her Yscoithi kin had approved of her action, her sire had not. Urien Armenwy had himself transgressed that law in begetting her. His nature was Armenwy, pure and simple. Like all his clan he chose one mate only, and that for life. Iareth might perhaps have made his choice. But she had been raised Yscoithi, trained Yscoithi; and that clan was dwindling. Caught between Valdarrien’s love and her duty, she had chosen duty.
Living With Ghosts Page 26
