Living With Ghosts Part 26

He could see almost nothing. She rose to a crouch, a knife in either hand. Silence. He exhaled. "What in the . . . ?"

A dim shape grabbed for Iareth. She half-turned and cut upward. He took a step toward her. She followed up with a feint to her right. Her attacker moved to parry and stumbled, as her left hand came in under his rib cage.

Came in, and went right through . . . Joyain shivered. It had to be the light. He had to be wrong. It was not possible. Iareth stepped back, moved into middle guard, and waited.

The figure straightened and reached for her. And divided itself in two.

Joyain swallowed. Half of it looked at him, and it had not even turned round. He had to be dreaming. Or drunk. Or mad. Such things did not happen in Merafi.

A sword that had not been there only moments before cut at him in quarte. He parried and prepared to follow through. It cut back at him from the other side. He wasn't fast enough for this. He parried, then used his cloak-wrapped left arm to block the next blow, protecting his chest. It was going to hurt, even if it didn't get through. The fog hid Iareth from him.

The impact left him breathless. He staggered. His arm was numb, but the pain was dull. No blood, no tear. The sword edge was blunt. Gasping, he twisted away from a flank cut and used the impetus to drive home a thrust into his opponent's thigh.

It met no resistance. His blade cut air. Nothing there . . . He fell back, in low guard, and put the wall behind him. His spurs dragged on the cobbles, striking sparks.

His opponent recoiled.

Joyain nearly lost the advantage, gawping. The thing could not be hit. It could not, presumably, be disarmed. But that brief flash had alarmed it. He reflex-parried, thinking. Creatures out of fog and damp and chill. He hardly had time to waste lighting fires, even if they did fear it.

The alternative, however, did rather look like being bludgeoned to death. He tried to remember the layout of the street. No taverns-private houses, mostly, and tenements-a small temple. A bakehouse . . . He was half-turned around by the mist. He risked a glance at the building against which he was backed. Bare wall and the edge of a door with a lion-head knocker. Where was he? He parried twice and began to move out to his left. Still no sign of Iareth. Wall. More wall. Blows raining on him. His right wrist ached. His left arm was still numb. Still more wall. Another two parries. His breath sobbed in his chest. If only he could see better.

Abruptly there was nothing at his back. He stumbled and cried out as a blow connected with his sword arm. The shock ran up into his shoulder. Already cramped, his grip slipped, and his saber dropped to the cobbles.

Oh, river bless . . . He lacked breath even to curse. He had to choose, now, between retrieving the sword and investigating the gap. Always supposing, of course, that the creature did not simple relocate itself behind him. He glanced rapidly over his shoulder. Faint, yellow-shadowed mist.

Yellow-shadowed. He remembered the aura around the torches of the sentries and gasped in relief. Somewhere in that yard, there was a light. Or a fire. He had only to get to it.

He was unprotected. He fell back, dodging. If only there was no gate . . . He reached back. Nothing. Nothing. Something mingled with the honeysuckle scent of the air.

He was at the side of a bakehouse. The public bakehouse, whose ovens were always lit. He looked briefly at his insubstantial opponent, then turned and ran. The yard was straw-strewn, the footing treacherous. Slipping and stumbling, he ducked round the pump and misjudged the distance. He nearly collided with the wood-pile for the ovens. He had just enough time to grab up a length of wood, to use as a makeshift shield against the blows that pursued him.

He could feel the heat of the ovens, away to his right. They would be banked for the night. He was going to be unpopular. He had no choice. Wishing his gloves were thicker, he found the latch to an oven door and cranked it open.

Firelight spilled out, turning the mist golden. Joyain, his hands stinging, crouched as close as he might, and tried to make out his surroundings. The sudden transition from cold to hot made him shiver. He controlled his breathing and took a pace forward. Nothing. Another. Two more. On the sixth, something struck at him. He recoiled. Not banished, then, only waiting. But the fire kept it at bay.

He might stay here till dawn, and abandon Iareth. Or he might act. Somewhere there had to be something he could use as a torch. His lodgings were no more than three streets away. There he had candles and a good hearth. If he could make it that far . . . He groped around him until he found a bundle of medium staves. The fire would scarcely be hot enough . . . His army issue flask held pure spirit. He fumbled it from a pocket and doused one end of a stave. Thrust into the oven, it spluttered and caught fire.

He held the torch aloft as he made his cautious way toward the street. He could hear nothing, apart from the creaking sign, the leaking gutter. Nothing came near him. He said, quietly, "Iareth?" and tried to hold alarm from his voice. How long had it been? The fog was still thick. He almost lost the torch when he tripped over his discarded saber. The metal was chill as he s.n.a.t.c.hed it up. He called again, "Iareth?"

This time he thought he heard a reply. He advanced, called a third time. From his left her voice said, "Jean?"

"Over here-no, I'll come to you."

She stood on the porch of one of the private houses, panting. He said, "Are you all right?"

"I have bruises . . ." She was pale in the uncertain light. "Nothing worse."

"What were those things?"

She smiled. "I have not the slightest idea."

"Well, whatever they are, they don't like fire." He hesitated. "This torch won't last long. We wouldn't make the bridge. My rooms are nearer . . . I have candles, and I could borrow a lantern to get us up to the emba.s.sy."

"Certainly." Iareth stepped out into the street cautiously. "Let us go."

By mutual consent they ran. The streets were empty. Two candles burned in the sugar merchant's shop. The torch was almost gone. Joyain pa.s.sed it to Iareth and took a candle to light them upstairs.

His hands shook so much that it took him three attempts to light the fire. Iareth, meanwhile, lit all the candles she could find. That would be expensive in the long run, but he could not bring himself to care. He found the small bottle of spirits Amalie had given him on his name-day, and poured two rather large portions.

"Fire inside and outside," Iareth said, gasping at the taste.

Joyain began, painstakingly, to unlace his left sleeve. "It seemed appropriate."

"Indeed." Iareth dropped her cloak on the chest. The gray fabric was torn but she seemed unharmed. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm not sure." He winced, tugging the sleeve free. She put down her cup and came to help him. He said, "Thank you. I used it to block . . . I don't think it's broken."

"Can you move your fingers?" He could. She frowned. "Urien has more skill than I. Or Kenan, for that matter. But in their absence, I must suffice."

"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 a.s.surance. 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 emba.s.sy 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 ha.s.started. 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.