Living With Ghosts Part 12

"I'm sure," Thiercelin said. One of the inn staff was laying bread and plates and cutlery on the table before them. Watching her, he said, "You may be right."

Gracielis sat back down and looked inquiring. "Iareth Yscoithi," Thiercelin said. "I'd thought, I don't know, that I knew her, I suppose. She was here for several months with Valdin. I spent a fair amount of time with them. She was . . ." He was reaching now for long-suppressed memories. Old wounds did not always heal clean. "She was reserved, yes, but not unapproachable. Whereas now . . . Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps I never knew her. She's so cold."

Gracielis said, "She's Lunedithin. It isn't their way to be warm with those not of their blood."

That appalling, calm acceptance, with barely a hint of emotion at the mention of Valdarrien's name . . . Thiercelin said, "She's a stranger. I told her about Valdin. Yviane . . ." He hesitated. "I had to give my name at the emba.s.sy. When Yviane finds out, she . . ."

"Don't," Gracielis said. Thiercelin looked at him. "It doesn't help, hurting yourself."

"No, I suppose not." Thiercelin picked up a spoon and toyed with it. "I don't know what to do for the best."

"Wait, then."

"Yes. But Yviane . . ." Thiercelin shook his head. "I can't tell her about this Valdin business, not at the moment. She's so busy already, and the queen is ill. I can't explain my visit to Iareth without explaining things and giving her even more to worry about." Gracielis watched him in silence. He went on, "I have to deal with this myself. If I take it to her, she'll either think I'm incompetent or that I'm mad."

"I believe she values you more than that." Gracielis said.

"She has enough to deal with," Thiercelin repeated. If he could resolve this, it would be one small thing he could do to help Yvelliane, one small means of protecting her.

Gracielis was silent for a long time. Finally, he said, "As you wish." He paused again, and said, "As to Iareth Yscoithi, it may be difficult for her, being in Merafi." Thiercelin had not really thought about that. He nodded.

Gracielis continued. "It might explain her coldness. It's hard, being a foreigner here." There was an odd note in Gracielis' voice. Looking up, Thiercelin saw that his eyes were fixed again on the middle distance.

In all his thirty-three years, Thiercelin himself had never been more than eighty leagues from Merafi. He said, "Perhaps I should take you to see her. She might prefer to talk to you."

Gracielis shrugged, grace in the slender bones. "If you wish. But I doubt it. The Lunedithin have scant love for those of Tarnaroqui blood. Under their law we're heretics to a man."

"As are Merafiens, as I understand it."

Gracielis shook his head. "By their standards, you're sadly fallen away. You've permitted the blood of many clans to be mixed in your veins, instead of holding to the purity of each line. But that isn't heresy. Whereas the Tarnaroqui . . . Our blood isn't simply that of the clans, however mingled."

"But . . ." said Thiercelin, who knew his history, if rustily. "We're all descended from the clans. Who else . . . ?"

"Who else indeed?" It was growing dark. The landlord moved about the inn, lighting tallow candles. Shadows played across the planes of Gracielis' face, hiding his expression.

Thiercelin said, "I was told the old stories when I was a child. How Queen Firomelle's ancestor Yestinn Allandur broke the purity of the clans and forced them to intermarry. How, before he did that, pure clan blood supposedly gave people the ability to shape-change, each clan to a particular animal form. How . . ." and he swallowed, "in Yestinn's time there were other things, too, not born of the clans. Creatures of fire or air or stone or water, capable of taking on human shape but lacking our nature. But they weren't human. They couldn't interbreed . . ."

"Couldn't," said Gracielis, "or wouldn't?"

"The Tarnaroqui are known to be fey," Thiercelin said, "and to worship death and to make spies out of their priests. But I never heard that they-you-weren't human."

Gracielis smiled. "Fey," he repeated, slowly, "and strange. Ghostseers and prophets. Mystics and a.s.sa.s.sins." The landlord set a candle on the table between them. In its light Gracielis' face was austere, ascetic despite the paint. He looked at Thiercelin. "Impure blood-hated by those who still hold to the old clan ways. But," and the smile grew warm, "I'm not wholly inhuman."

He was beautiful in the candlelight and elegant and utterly to be possessed.

Thiercelin said, "You're shameless. And you know it." Gracielis bowed. "I may make you see Iareth anyway. I told her that Valdin spoke to us. She understood. But she won't tell me what he meant."

"Or can't," said Gracielis.

6.

THE NIGHT SEEMED unnecessarily cold to Joyain, especially after an hour and a half spent crouched in concealment near the east door of the emba.s.sy. He felt foolish, and he was getting stiff. He should never have allowed himself get into this in the first place. If the Lunedithin wanted to spy on one another and break the curfew, that was their business. If he had any sense at all, he'd put a stop to it right now and go home. Not, he suspected, that Iareth Yscoithi would listen to him. And if his captain came to hear that he had left a foreigner to wander alone through Merafi at night, he could kiss any thoughts of comfort good-bye for the next three years at the very least. He would give it another ten minutes, and then he would tell Iareth that the whole thing was a monumental waste of time.

The door opened. Irritable, but mindful of his responsibilities, he drew back into the angle of the wall and held his breath. There was almost no light. Both moons were hidden behind heavy cloud, and the shutters of the emba.s.sy were closed. He could make out only a bare outline-a slight figure, cloaked and hatless. Closing the door, the figure set off at a steady pace toward the river. Joyain hesitated, waiting for some signal from Iareth. In this gloom, likely as not they would lose each other, let alone the man she wanted to follow. He started, as her hand touched his arm, but kept quiet. She squeezed his wrist then pointed toward the figure. Joyain took a step forward. She shook her head. Leaning forward, she whispered, "I will follow. Leave some fifty paces between us, then come after if you wish."

It was, finally, a chance to go home to bed. Unfortunately, his conscience troubled him about leaving a woman alone in the streets, especially with all the trouble there had been in the docks. "Are you sure it's Kenan?" he whispered back. She nodded once and faded back into the gloom.

Joyain counted to fifty and followed her.

He was long accustomed to Merafi after dark. He knew where he might go and where he had better not, how to evade the watch and how to detect evaders. And yet, trailing Iareth, he was aware of a strangeness. Mist had been rising from the river since sunset. It pooled across the roads like floodwater. In this murk even a native might have been excused a modic.u.m of confusion. He counted side-turnings absently and tried to mind his footing (the mist was no help in that department). Ahead of him, Iareth was only the barest hint of a figure.

They were heading west and slightly south, down toward the old walled city. The mist grew thicker as they descended. It was far too late for the Kings' Bridge to be open. Kenan must be intending to cross by the Temple, which was always open for cash. It would be difficult for Iareth and himself to avoid attracting attention, since there would be a toll to pay, and too much delay would lose them their quarry. He wondered if Iareth had the necessary fee and began to rummage in his pockets.

They had come almost to the quayside when Kenan unexpectedly turned north along a narrow and evil-smelling pa.s.sage. Not the old city at all, but the less respectable fringes of Silk Street. For Joyain, it was an area presenting few problems, but for Iareth Yscoithi . . . By default, only the least successful wh.o.r.es would still be plying their trade at this hour. She risked hara.s.sment, or worse. Quickening his pace, he climbed the last few steps and halted at the mouth of the pa.s.sage. He looked right, then left. He could see no sign at all of Iareth. A few yards away, Kenan seemed to be negotiating with a woman. Joyain stepped back hastily and waited, hoping he hadn't been noticed. River bless, it was cold! And damp; the mist was seeping through his cloak. It deadened all sound. He could catch not one syllable of Kenan's interchange with the wh.o.r.e. Surely they hadn't followed him all this way just to witness a cheap liaison? Joyain wished he knew where Iareth had got to. Kenan had finished his conversation, and he and the woman had begun to walk toward a nearby house. Joyain hesitated, looking round, then followed them, hugging the wall. His breathing sounded thunderous in his ears. They were certain to notice him.

He nearly jumped straight out of his skin when a hand closed over his mouth. His own hand went to his sword hilt. He prepared to struggle. Then he recognized Iareth, obscure in the darkness of a shop porch. She held his gaze for long moments before removing her hand. He said, "What . . . ?"

"Ssh."

A door closed nearby, m.u.f.fled in the fog. She hesitated, then whispered, "These dwellings. Is it possible to approach them from the rear?"

"I don't know," Joyain considered. "There might be a way in at the end of the terrace." The house into which Kenan had gone was in darkness. "I could look, if you like. But if he's just buying company . . ."

Despite the mist and the dark, he knew she smiled. "We speak of Kenan Orcandros. It's unlikely."

He decided to take her word for it. He said, "The rear will probably be shuttered, too."

She leaned against the porch. "If we do not look, we will never know."

He said, "Let's go and look, then." He was going to feel very stupid if, Iareth's view to the contrary, Kenan turned out simply to be tucked up for the night with some street-girl. Come to that, he'd feel more than just stupid if this little exploit ever came to the ears of his commanding officer. He decided to worry about that possibility in the morning and turned his attention to finding a route behind the houses.

In the end, it was Iareth who found it, a rickety half-gate set into the wall of the next-to-end house, leading into a tunnel whose level of uncleanliness caused Joyain to think nostalgically of the shantytown opposite the old docks. At least no one was sleeping in the noisome darkness. Even so, he didn't really want to think about what he might be putting his feet into.

They emerged into a line of partially fenced yards. Light showed from a couple of the houses. The sound of voices raised in anger came from the third-locals, from the accent. He looked at Iareth. She gestured to the rear of Kenan's house and began to pick her way fastidiously toward it. Shrugging, Joyain followed, doing his best to be quiet while climbing over barriers and avoiding the detritus of old barrels, sodden pallia.s.ses, and other a.s.sorted rubbish, all half-invisible in the mist.

There was no stair at the back of the house. All the shutters were closed, and no lights showed. "What now?" Joyain whispered.

"Ssh." She hesitated, then ran a hand over the wall. He watched. "The construction. Is it stone?"

He said, "No. Wattle, daub, and wood, mostly. This quarter was built rather hurriedly."

"There's no purchase." She sighed. "I had hoped . . . Of course, there is no guarantee that they are at the rear of the house."

Joyain could have told her that in the street and saved them both a lot of scrambling. However, one (probably) should not make such criticisms to a guest. Instead, he said, "Perhaps one of the shutters is loose."

She looked at him. "Is entering another's house without permission not a crime in Merafi?"

"Well, yes, it is. But I was trying to be helpful."

She smiled again. He was beginning to like her smile. It had possibilities. She said, "Thank you." And then, "Lieutenant, could you lift me? I might gain a handhold upon a lintel."

He looked at her, thoughtfully. She was of medium height but slender with it, and he was rather on the tall side. "I can try."

"So." She pointed. "That ledge."

He nodded, making a stirrup with his hands. She steadied herself on his shoulder, then stepped up and reached over her head. She was lighter than he had expected. The end of her long, fair braid fell in his face. He said, "Can you reach?"

"Yes. Could you lift me a fraction higher?"

Joyain obliged. For a moment, her full weight was on his arms and shoulders, and he swayed. Then it was gone. A little trickle of plaster fell on him. He looked up. Iareth had managed to pull herself up onto a window ledge and was sitting on it, one foot hanging down, hands clutching the edge. She looked, despite the mist, as if she was thinking of laughing. He said, "Be careful!"

She was laughing, soundlessly. Taking one hand from the sill, she began to feel her way along the shutter. "Peace. The Yscoithi do not fall. Usually."

That was very comforting. He was stuck in someone else's filthy backyard, helping a foreign national with a little breaking and entering, and all she could do was laugh and talk about folklore. He withdrew into the shadows and waited.

The room was cramped and low-ceilinged, but its walls had been freshly painted, and the furnishings suggested an owner of a rather more elevated social rank than the average for the district. Kenan Orcandros sat in an overstuffed chair, a gla.s.s of red wine in one hand, and watched Quenfrida unbraid her hair. She took her time over it, separating each strand with care and smoothing it out over her white shoulders. He said, "Are you certain this house is secure?"

"Completely. Its inhabitants are mine, heart and soul." Quenfrida finished with the last braid and reached for a brush. "They see and remember only what I please."

"And you weren't followed?"

"No, my Kenan. I've been at this game for twice your lifetime and more. I am not easy to track or trace."

He frowned into his wine. "Even so . . . Wouldn't it have been safer to meet outside the city, on a hunt or a ride?"

"Thus breaking my reputation for indolence? Our aim is to go unremarked, after all."

"Yes, but . . ."

"Are you so sure you weren't followed yourself?" Lowering the brush, she looked over her shoulder at him. "You worry too much, my Kenan. Drink your wine and calm yourself."

No one had followed him. He was certain of that. He had found duties for the whole of his entourage to occupy them for most of the evening and had made a point of going to bed himself. And he was Orcandrin, sharp of ear and sensitive to changes in the air. He straightened his spine. "I know what I'm doing, Quena. We clansmen have ancient powers."

"Of course." Quenfrida turned her attention back to her mirror. He took a sip of his wine. He would have preferred the strong ale of his homeland, but she would not countenance that. It would be a change in the buying habits of this hidden household of hers, and that she would not permit.

She said, "I trust you took my advice."

"You know I've followed all your instructions at home and on the way here."

"So you have. But that was not what I meant."

He wished she would speak clearly. He disliked her habits of insinuation and indirection. A little gracelessly, he said, "About what, then?"

"The d'Iscoigne l'Aborderie chit. You must go to her salon. She's a silly creature, but she has the most interesting contacts and she loves to be flattered. She could be very useful to you."

"I'll be going with Amba.s.sador Ceretic."

"Good." There was a silence, broken only by the sound of Quenfrida working the comb through her hair.

Kenan said, "When is it going to start?"

"It has already started." Her voice was calm. "Did you not note how your touch affected the queen? You are poison to her. Soon we will spread that poison further. But there are preparations to be made first."

Soon. He had been waiting for this for six years, since he was fourteen, and she had come to his grandfather's court and introduced him to his birthright of ancient magics. His patience felt raw and stretched. He was tired of waiting. He said, "I hoped for something bigger."

"Even the greatest palace must be built one stone at a time." Quenfrida put down the comb and rose. "Think of how much we have already achieved. The power of the d'Illandre dynasty began to unravel from the moment you wounded Valdarrien d'Illandre six years ago at Saefoss." She came to stand behind his chair, resting her hands on his shoulders. "You lured him into that ambush, you fired the arrow that harmed him, you made sure his blood flowed there. Illandre blood on the same stones where Yestinn shed your ancestor's blood to create his binding. We are undoing it knot by knot."

It was so slow. Back then, he had dreamed of rapid glory, of himself at the head of a clan army riding across the great plains of Gran' Romagne to reclaim their ancient rights and liberties. But Quenfrida did not work with armies. Her trade lay in subterfuge and darkness, in poisons and tricks and manipulation. It was still not natural to him, even though he had seen how it could succeed. Her fingers dug into his shoulder muscles and began to knead. She said, "You disposed of that inconvenient captain that the Merafiens sent to escort you. You have clouded your grandfather's mind, day by day. We need not wait much longer. We need only one more thing."

Her hands were warm and strong. She was elor-reth, outclan, and a Tarnaroqui witch to boot. She had taught him to crave her. He pulled away from her and rose, reaching for her over the chair.

She stepped away, shook her head. "Not yet. I have to tell you one more thing. You have one more task to fulfill."

"What?" He folded his arms, frowning.

"We've bound our working to Firomelle via the blood of her kinsman, but we need to bind it to her city, too. We need a piece of it, something that is part of its roots."

He did not understand. He glared at the floor and said nothing. She continued, "Merafi is an old city, my Kenan, if not as old as your Skarholm. Its people have reshaped it many times, but traces of its first form still remain. Find them."

He looked up. "How?"

She smiled. "Go to Miraude d'Iscoigne l'Aborderie's salon." She came round the chair and put her arms about him. "I'll send someone out to fetch us food. The cook at the nearest inn is surprisingly competent. And then, my Kenan . . ."

His hands knotted in her hair as he pulled her to him.

Iareth froze in position. Joyain opened his mouth to speak, and her brows drew together in warning. She was holding her breath.

He waited, listening. He could hear a dog barking a street or so away and water dripping off the neighboring roof. No voices. Iareth sat motionless for a few seconds longer, then pointed downward.

It took him a moment or two to grasp her meaning. Then he heard footsteps approaching the back door of the house. There was no cover in the yard. Even with the mist and the lack of moons' light, he was going to stand out like an obelisk. A bolt began to sc.r.a.pe open.

He dropped to hands and knees, and rolled into the lee of the next-door house. It had a flimsy lean-to kitchen jutting out perhaps two feet. He lay in its shadow and tried not to think about what he might be lying in. The door opened. Candlelight laced the mist, turning it soupy. He could hear a voice-from somewhere indoors, he thought-asking a question. A nearer one answered. Both spoke in a tongue he did not recognize. He held his breath and waited.

No one came out. After several minutes, a shadow cut off the candlelight. Then the door thumped shut and a bolt rattled. Joyain counted to ten, then breathed again. Venturing out on hands and knees, he looked up at Iareth, who hugged close to the windowsill. She held up her free hand, paused, then beckoned him back into the yard.

It had been too close. Frowning, he gestured for her to come down. She looked undecided. He made the gesture more urgent. She sighed, and began to turn herself round. It looked considerably more awkward than the original climbing had been. Joyain hesitated, then went to stand under the window and held his hands up to her. She looked down at him, face uncertain, then back at the narrow sill. She shrugged, and slipped off it, feet first.

He caught her. For the briefest instant, she stood in his arms, eyes meeting his in merriment, and he felt himself beginning to respond. Then she stepped free, and began to pick her way back toward the access tunnel. He brushed himself down belatedly and followed.

They were on the foggy quayside before either of them spoke. She said, "Thank you."