Living With Ghosts

by Kari Sperring

  Yvelliane watched him, noting the effort that was restoring composure. He was stronger than his airs suggested. She said, “I’ll arrange it. But there’s another I’d have you meet first.”

  He wound the lovelock about a finger and smiled at her, his old, polished smile. “Why not?” he said.

  No one was watching Iareth Yscoithi. No one noticed when she made her way from the hot room onto the terrace outside. It was raining. The terrace was empty. She stood on the stone, with her head tipped back, and let the rain soak into her hair and gown. The stars were hidden from her. To the west she could just make out a fragment of Mothmoon, disk near-covered by cloud. Handmoon was a faint, unshaped nimbus. She raised her hands to the sky, restless with heat and tension, and from the shadows at the terrace-edge a voice said, “Iareth kai-reth.”

  She had half-expected him. She turned, green eyes adapting to the dim light, and said, “Valdin Allandur.”

  He stood with his back to the torchlight. His tall figure was cloaked in darkness. His eyes were very clear. He said, “Rain becomes you.”

  “I thank you.”

  He stepped forward, dressed in black, hair tied back, diamonds bright in his ears. He said softly, “Dance with me?”

  They could not touch. But she did not say that. She looked up into his eyes and smiled. Music spilled from the building behind her. His face held a need that spoke louder than any word. She hesitated, then said, “Certainly.”

  He bowed, and his insubstantial hand reached out. She held hers over it, not quite touching. There was an instant of stillness, then the measure took hold. Two steps, and turn; two more, and bow. They might not make the lifts, the quick, joint-dependent swings. She circled him on silent feet and heard that he made even less noise than she. He leaned over her and cast no shadow. She moved under his arm and shivered as the end of her braid went through him. He seemed not to notice. Light patterned them from the windows. He was almost gone, stepping into it. Then he emerged in stronger color from the other side. They danced on, unspeaking, untouching, and she was serene in the damp night.

  The music stopped. She had her back to him, arrested part way into a measure. She looked back, suddenly afraid, and his gray eyes smiled at her. He said quietly, “I shall always be waiting for you.” She found she could not speak. He smiled at her and said, “We’ll be together again. I swear it.”

  The door banged behind them. He leaned toward her, as if he would leave her with a kiss. She said, “Valdin kai-reth . . .” and saw him warm to her.

  He said, “Soon,” and he was gone.

  Perhaps it was only the wind that brushed her cheek.

  Yvelliane had left him alone for a few minutes. Gracielis was grateful, mindful of his need to reacquire his self-control. He sat in silence, teaching his breathing to become slow once again and sipping at the wine she had left him. His hands were not quite still. He was not quite safe. If he ever had been.

  Quenfrida had known, of course; she had always known. She had doubtless rejoiced at the charade. He sought to put from him the memory of mocking, sky-blue eyes.

  It hardly mattered. It was already too late. Even his death would lack meaning.

  It was not that which frightened him, though he had hinted such to Yvelliane. What truly alarmed him was that he had no memory of how he had come to be in the corridor where Yvelliane had found him. An image of Quenfrida, smiling at him coldly, choosing the next weapon with which to assail him. And then . . . glass cold against his brow, body shaking, half-governed; and in his mouth an aftertaste of anger, lacking any words to trace it.

  A few minutes only. But enough for a man to lose himself. There was no mirror in the room, but the curtains were open, and he could see his reflection in the window. He stared at it for long moments, then shook his head. Stern black, severe, reminiscent not of his own taste, but of that of lost Valdarrien. He smiled and said, “Well played,” to himself, or perhaps to another. “But not quite well enough.” The earring was paste. He reached back and untied the velvet bow, shook his hair forward. He rubbed one marred wrist. It seemed, after all, that it was not death that he feared.

  So. He poured himself a third glass of wine and considered it. For now at least he must live, mad or sane. He owed that to Thiercelin. He was stronger now than he had been at scared and homeless seventeen. It was what he was bred to, this game of watchfulness and silken deceit. He was unlikely to win it; but he could try to do what he had promised.

  When Yvelliane returned to fetch him, he favored her with a smile of devastating sweetness and offered her his arm. She looked skeptical but accepted the arm. She said, “Better now?”

  “I’m much restored by your kindness.”

  She laughed. “Not by my wine?”

  “What vintage can compare with your presence?”

  “Several, to my certain knowledge. It’s a subject you might discuss with Thierry.”

  “I might not. It would hurt him.”

  She looked down. There was short silence. At she said, “We should go.” She led him to a door at the end of a corridor. She knocked, awaited a response then opened it. Taking her hand from Gracielis’ arm, she said, “Go in. I’ll wait for you.”

  It was not a large chamber; nor was it richly furnished. Dark curtains were drawn across the windows. Light came from two candelabra standing on a long sideboard. The face of the woman who sat at one end in a high-backed chair was hidden in shadow.

  There had been no cause in his nine years in Merafi for Gracielis to be presented to its queen. Making his living from her gentry and nobility, he moved far beneath her ambit. Nevertheless, he did not at once make obeisance, born of another race, subject to another dynasty. For long moments they regarded one another. Then a draught set the candles a-flicker and he caught sight of her face.

  One might not feel pity for a queen, however tired, however ill. But one might perhaps feel a brief instant of recognition of a burden shouldered and held unflinching. The oak-paneled room was alive with it. He could feel the echo of her past pain beneath his fingers, even through his gloves. As the candles burned down, he knelt, as he would to the emperor of Tarnaroq.

  Firomelle looked at him. “Gracielis de Varnaq?” She had not given him permission to stand. To the floor, he said, “Yes, madame.”

  “You may rise.” He stood and waited before her. She said, “Yvelliane d’Illandre tells me you will do us a service.”

  “Yes, madame.” In the dim light, one might make out the kinship between Yvelliane and Firomelle.

  She said, “Yvelliane would have you write and sign a sworn statement regarding the woman Quenfrida d’Ivrinez.”

  He said again, “Yes, madame.”

  “You are willing?”

  It was pointless. The expulsion of Quenfrida could not save Merafi, not now. It was too late. It could not turn the river back, or halt the rain. He could say none of that to Firomelle, face-to-face with the extent of her pain. She had as little time as her city. He looked at the floor and said, “I am willing, madame.”

  “Thank you,” Firomelle said. “I’ve taken the liberty of having the papers prepared. You’ll find them in that bureau.” She pointed. “It isn’t locked. There’s pen and ink, so that you may amend it, if you wish.”

  He opened the bureau and took out the papers. Whoever had readied them had a beautiful hand, as neat and clear as his. He hesitated, then removed a glove and let his naked palm touch the paper, smelling fresh ink and sand, hearing the regular scratching of the pen. Local paper, made fine and heavy. He felt the secretary’s anxiety, hurrying to meet Yvelliane’s deadlines, and only half-conscious of what he—no, she—copied. She might have shared the secret of his dual nature, had not duty come between transcription and comprehension. He was glad of that.

  He put the glove back on and concentrated on the words. Behind him, Firomelle called a servant to fetch the witnesses. They were both strangers to Gracielis. Making his bows to them, he kept his eyes downcast. An informer and a whor
e had scant honor in his own house, let alone that of another. They watched as he added a line or two to the statement, confirming that Quenfrida was undaria and naming Kenan as her accomplice. Below that, he signed all his names in full, lest at some future time his identity be questioned. Firomelle signed next, then the witnesses. Looking up, Gracielis found Yvelliane watching him. She must have come in during the signing. She smiled at him.

  Firomelle thanked and dismissed the cosignatories. Then, to Gracielis, she said, “Thank you.”

  He bowed. She held out a hand. The rings she wore seemed too large, too heavy for it; her long sleeves were almost as much a disguise as his. Her bones were beautiful. He could see the sickness that gnawed them. He knew he should tell her of the danger to Merafi. He could not. She bore too much already. He had warned Yvelliane, and that would have to suffice. He said, “Good night, madame.”

  She smiled. “Good night, Monsieur de Varnaq. Fortune attend you.”

  “And you also, madame,” said Gracielis. He wished he had the power to make it come true.

  Kenan sat on the edge of the dance floor and considered. It was only duty that had brought him here tonight. Tafarin might find such parties amusing, but he did not. He would have left an hour since had it not been for the chance that had alerted him to the presence of his rival. Quenfrida had given him no warning, and he had been less ready than he might have been. A measure of his inability, of the defect in him—in his clan-blood—which left him blind where he should see.

  Quenfrida’s shuttered face had given him the clue his newer senses had failed to provide. At last he had identified the other, the rival, the supplanted acolyte, Gracielis. Kenan watched the side door through which Gracielis had gone with Yvelliane d’Illandre an hour since. Gracielis was said to be a whore. No surprise, then, in finding Yvelliane consorting with him. He could make use of his acquaintance with her to meet Gracielis and see for himself what manner of weakling he had replaced.

  Tafarin arrived beside him, breathing wine fumes. Kenan looked at him in distaste. Tafarin slapped his shoulder. “You miss all the fun, Kenan kai-reth.”

  “So?”

  “The loss is yours, of course; yet I would persuade you otherwise. You might learn something, even.”

  He stood between Kenan and his view of that side door. Smiling with an effort, Kenan said “Peace, Tafarin kai-reth. You know well my pleasures lie in different directions. Enjoy this night on my behalf, as well as your own.”

  “As you please.” Tafarin made him a salute and swirled off into the throng. Kenan sighed and looked back at the door.

  It was open. Typically, those he sought had returned while his attention was elsewhere. He forbore to curse. Instead he rose and attempted to scan the room. Almost impossible, of course, in the crowd.

  He was unable to repress a start when a familiar voice spoke at his elbow. “Ah, Kenan. We haven’t yet said good evening, I think?”

  Yvelliane. She could not know, of course, that he had been looking for her, but he could not help mild irritation. Turning to her, he did not trouble to disguise this, neglecting to salute or bow. “Good evening, Yviane Allandur. Since the greeting is necessary.”

  She looked at him without liking. She said, “I have someone here who wants to meet you.” Her tone suggested that she found the desire inexplicable. Kenan followed her gesturing hand, and came up short.

  Auburn curls and fair skin. A scent blended at pulse points, to speak to those who might hear in it the syllables of a name. Kenan stood motionless. He did not look at Yvelliane, who surely had no knowledge of what she had just done. He was not himself conventional within undarii bonds. He did not choose to proclaim his identity to the knowing world in tones of perfume. His Lunedithin blood protected him from suspicion. This painted toy of a man could not know him for who—or what—he was.

  He smiled. Yvelliane said, “Kenan Orcandros, may I present Gracielis de Varnaq, a Tarnaroqui . . . entrepreneur.”

  The eyes of Gracielis de Varnaq laughed deliciously, glancing sidelong at Yvelliane. Kenan nodded and said with conscious politeness, “An honor, sir.”

  “For me, also, monseigneur.” Gracielis had more of an accent than Quenfrida. He smiled, showing white, even teeth.

  Yvelliane said, “I need to speak to the prince consort, so I’ll leave you, messieurs. Good night.” Kenan acknowledged her departure with no more than a glance. Gracielis bowed elaborately over her hand.

  Kenan said, “You are not a member of the Tarnaroqui delegation, I believe?”

  “No. I reside in Merafi.”

  “So? You have abandoned your homeland? I am not myself overwhelmed by the opulence of Gran’ Romagne.”

  The corners of the carmined lips twitched. Gracielis said, “Choice isn’t given to every man. You’re fortunate, monseigneur.”

  “Doubtless.”

  “For myself . . .” Another overstated gesture, trailing scent. “I’m sure you’re sufficiently acquainted with my history.” His hand was abruptly over Kenan’s. His eyes were immense with delight. His fingers crooked in the sparse lace at Kenan’s wrist. “Chai ela, Kenan istin-shae Quenfrida.”

  There was something shadowing him . . . Through that touch, skin to skin, Kenan felt the unformed ability chained in the other’s alien blood, bound, asleep in all but small ways. Something crossed it, some fleeting taste, almost familiar, which did not quite belong. Keeping face and voice neutral, Kenan said, “That knowledge is mine, I concede. And I know also what you are not. I am proof against your abilities, Gracielis arin-shae Quenfrida.”

  “Naturally.” Taking his hand away, Gracielis looked down, cloaking his too-readable eyes. “I would expect no less.”

  Kenan in turn looked down at the small tear in his cuff. Then he laughed. Gracielis was still, silent. “You will not drink with me, I assume?” Kenan asked.

  “Why should I not?” The beautiful eyes swept up. “We are, after all, almost brothers.”

  15

  WHEN THE INFANTRYMAN finally forced open the door, Joyain was unable to stop himself taking a step back. Then, swallowing, he said, “What is that?” A heavy, sweet smell wafted out toward them, sticky with decay. Like rotting flowers . . . rotting honeysuckle. The air inside the temporary guardhouse was hazy, even though the nearby river was relatively clear.

  The soldier said, “I don’t think there’s anyone here, sir.” He choked, coughed, and began to back off. “Perhaps they didn’t get down here?”

  “Then where are they now?” Joyain asked, finding shelter for his own uncertainty in sarcasm. “Not a single member of that patrol has been seen in eighteen hours.”

  “Maybe their relief . . .”

  “The relief patrol was diverted to help deal with the fire in the Artisans’ quarter.” Joyain sighed and pushed back his hair. He was sweating, and his palms felt sticky. “Well, let’s get on with it, since we’re here.”

  It was nothing like a proper guard station. After the desolation of the shantytown and the illegal, desperate severing of the half-rotten bridge that had connected it to the main city, this nearby old warehouse had been hastily turned over to military use. The official reasoning, passed down from high command, was to put down any further trouble in the area around the new dock. In the barracks and in the officers’ mess whispers hinted at a different cause.

  Leladrien had said that there were no more people left alive in the sodden ashes of the shantytown. Rumor suggested that someone in headquarters meant to make sure of that.

  From the stone steps of the warehouse, greasy with soot, Joyain could see nothing to hearten him. The remains of the shantytown steamed and smoked on the opposite bank, already partially underwater. The piles of the bridge were gone, either covered or swept away. The water was evil with mud and refuse. The remnants of the floating dock tugged and splintered at their moorings. Beyond it, the wide artificial basin created for the use of shallow-draft boats was an empty swirl of scum and foul vegetation. The debatable land between t
hat and the raised road to the southeast gate was also vacant, not even a stray dog nuzzling amongst its mud and wrack. The river ran high. To Joyain’s left, the confluence of the middle and northern channels was a pounding rush of filthy water, swollen by too many days of rain. Scant wonder no ship had tried to moor. The landslip below the north cliff was gone, underneath those tumbling waters. High above it, some lights still shone. Distant images of torches hung in pleasure gardens and avenues used by the nobility. Still dancing and playing, as the city sank into decay around them.

  The burned-out shell of The Pineapple was only a few hundred yards away. Joyain did not look at it. Two days and a night in a Merafi deluged in rain and mist and panic had left him remote in feeling from the Lunedithin embassy and Iareth Yscoithi.

  It had been a cold gray going. He was desperate for sleep. His hair and clothes smelled of sweat and ash. By rights—as if he, or any other common-born officer, had rights!—he should have gone off duty eight hours ago. But the fire had broken out anew in the Artisans’ quarter, despite the river-cursed rain; and Joyain’s exhausted, resentful unit of mixed watch and infantry had had to man their post until it was extinguished again.

  After that, the rank and file had been allowed to go to their beds. The laughing fates had not, however, forgotten Joyain Lievrier. Tired as he was, his recompense had been a short interchange with his captain, and the charge of coming down here and checking up on the progress of this scratch garrison. “I haven’t time to go myself,” the captain had said, “and besides, I suspect you’ll get better results. DuResne has charge there, and he was in no very cooperative mood when I sent him.”

  “Leladrien wouldn’t mutiny, sir,” Joyain had said, stiffly. “I’m sure he has a good reason for his silence.”

  “Doubtless.” But the captain’s tone had given lie to the word. “And a reason too, I’m sure, for why it is that no one in or around that area has seen him, or any of his men, for twelve hours.” Joyain, lacking permission to speak, had maintained a resentful silence. “Well, he’s a friend of yours. Get down there and sort him out for me. There’s a unit seconded from the Garde-Rouge outside. Take them with you.”