Living With Ghosts Part 10

"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 h.e.l.l 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 rea.s.suring, "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 pet.i.t salon."

"But . . ." said Joyain. The girl ignored him.

She said, "Please follow me."

Sighing, Joyain 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 a.s.sures 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 a.s.sure 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 a.s.signed to the Lunedithin emba.s.sy."

"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 emba.s.sy 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 emba.s.sy. 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 pa.s.sed 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.

That went against Merafien nature, just like Valdarrien of the Far Blays, who had no more right than the lieutenant to come back. The marketplace was damp, irritable with chill and mud and worry. Amalie's face looked pinched as she made her purchases, and the wares seemed dulled, spoiled by weather and waiting. She was as dependent upon the goodwill of the river as anyone else, and as likely to suffer should it turn.

As they made their way back to her house, he said, "Your ship isn't back yet." It was not a question.

She looked at him. "Yes. How did you know?"

"You're unhappy, save by odd moments. When you think no one is attending, you worry."

Her house was pleasantly warm. The street door opened straight into the shop. An apprentice was serving a customer at the high counter. Behind it, the journey-man cast up accounts at a lectern. They went through the connecting door at the rear and up into the kitchen. Amalie gestured for Gracielis to put her parcels on the table and sat on a stool to remove her pattens.

The housekeeper began to unpack the parcels. "No fish, madame?"