Living With Ghosts Part 3

"That is so, Kenan kai-reth. Tafarin is right. When I was in Merafi before, the climate seemed temperate." The speaker was another of Kenan's bodyguard, a quiet woman called Iareth. Joyain shot her a grateful glance and could have sworn she answered it with a glimmer of a smile.

Tafarin smiled and said, "You of the otter clan should favor the rain, Kenan kai-reth. Especially if our feline Iareth Yscoithi can bring herself to endure it."

Iareth pulled a face. Kenan looked as if he would like to snap, then shook his head and laughed instead. "Very respectful, Tafarin kai-reth."

"Indeed. It is one of my virtues."

"Fox's virtue!" Kenan said and made a dismissive gesture. Then he looked at Joyain. "Lieutenant, you have my apologies. I dislike this rain, but my kai-rethinare determined that I may not blame that on your city."

"Thank you, monseigneur." Joyain bowed from the saddle and thought longingly of sentry duty. Outside the debtors' prison. In the snow. "Hopefully, the rain will stop soon."

"Hope is a virtue also," said Kenan.

Gracielis found Thiercelin of Sannazar waiting for him in one of the smaller parlors of the fashionable coffeehouse called Philosophy. The room was relatively empty; the scowling Thiercelin made an uncomfortable companion for the would-be poets and playwrights who frequented the place. Nevertheless, it took Gracielis several minutes to join him, since he had first to run the gamut of several patrons. When finally he arrived at Thiercelin's table and made his bow, Thiercelin glared at him and said, "Is there no one who doesn't know you?"

He had not issued an invitation to sit. Standing, therefore, Gracielis considered. His hair was beginning to dry, curling from the damp. "That," he said, "depends upon where I am. I never know anyone anywhere that would embarra.s.s them."

"Yes, I suppose you wouldn't," Thiercelin said.

Gracielis smiled.

"Don't hover like that; you're making me nervous."

Gracielis sat, limbs composing themselves into ready elegance. The lieutenant's ghost leaned on the chair back, sardonic.

Thiercelin said, "I have something of yours." He reached under his chair and lifted out a small chocolate pot. He put it onto the table beside him. "I try to honor my bargains."

Gracielis made another small bow.

Thiercelin said, "I wasn't sure you'd come."

Bitter orange and musk . . . Within perfumed memory, Gracielis hesitated. Chai ela, Quenfrida. It might not be said, and yet . . . "I try to honor my word."

"Indeed?" For all his indolence, Thiercelin was no fool. Gracielis kept his face candid, watching him. Thiercelin frowned, then turned to pour the chocolate. In profile he looked tired, so that when the cup was pa.s.sed, Gracielis let his fingers rest against the other's.

It was possible that Thiercelin did not yet know that Iareth Yscoithi was back in Merafi.

I have seen Valdin . . . Gracielis sipped his chocolate, then set it down on the chair arm, through the misty hand of the lieutenant's ghost. "So," he said, "what do you wish?"

Thiercelin did not answer the question. Instead, he said, "He always hated this place. Valdin, I mean. Said the very thought of it made him yawn. That's why I . . ," He sighed. "He wouldn't come here."

"Is that important?"

"He was in my home," Thiercelin said. "His former home, two nights ago. I think . . . And then at the masquerade, it almost seemed like . . ." He paused. "I think I'm afraid." He looked down again, withdrawing from the confidence of the admission. The lieutenant's ghost made a gesture of dismissal.

It was a shadow only, a poor, spiteful thing. Eyes on it, Gracielis said, "That's understandable."

"Two nights ago, at the masquerade . . ." Thiercelin fidgeted with his cup. "That was more than just Valdin, wasn't it?"

Something in the rain, some hint of changes . . . Thiercelin had been standing in water and the light of both moons. Had they both been full, it might have made some sense. Whatever it was that had its hands on him-on them both-was powerful. Gracielis said gently, "Memories can sometimes be stronger than we want." Then he shivered at the memory of a memory that was not his own. "I think you should know," he heard himself say, "that Iareth Yscoithi is back in Merafi."

"Iareth . . . ?" Thiercelin echoed, then stopped. His hand tightened on the chair arm. "Yviane told me that the young heir was due to visit, but she didn't mention Iareth."

"She may not have known," Gracielis said.

There was a silence. Thiercelin seemed to be drawing himself together. Then he said, "I don't go to court often. I don't imagine I'll have to see much of her." He was drinking wine. Refilling his gla.s.s, he gestured to the chocolate pot and said, "I commend your moderation."

Gracielis gestured, graceful, dismissive. "Wine is ruinous. And my face and my form are my fortune."

The look Thiercelin gave him was on the very edge of appraising. Gracielis smiled at him. "Very pretty," Thiercelin said, "But it's your mind I need, not your body."

"As it pleases you." Gracielis twined his rose-colored lovelock absently around a finger. "How may I serve?"

"You might," said Thiercelin, "sit in that chair, rather than reclining in it."

Gracielis straightened his spine, let his hands fold in his lap, deliciously coy. "Like this?"

Thiercelin growled. "It is," he said, "a great wonder to me that no one has as yet strangled you."

It was restored between them, the ritual bond of patron and servant. The dangerous moment of closeness had fled. Safe from the clutching hands of this man's past, Gracielis relaxed.

Thiercelin said, "Is it true, what Yviane said? Do you see ghosts?"

"Yes."

"Always?" Thiercelin looked about the room, straight through the hovering form of the lieutenant's ghost.

Gracielis arched his brows at the ghost. "Only when there's something to be seen."

"I don't believe in them," Thiercelin said. The lieutenant's ghost laughed. "I mean, I didn't, until . . ."

"They're mostly unreal." Gracielis waved a hand through the ghost. Then he paused, choosing his words. "Their creation is a question of . . . of strength of heart and strength of place. When something or someone, is drawn powerfully by an event or a location, it can happen that a trace lingers. And then sometimes the dead will cling to someone, or be conjured back by a need." Iareth Yscoithi, Valdarrien's Iareth, newly returned to this city, which had seen Valdarrien's death. "They're mostly not harmful. Not very harmful, anyway." The lieutenant's ghost glowered. Gracielis ignored it.

Thiercelin looked at his hands. "I miss Valdin."

"Yes." Again, Gracielis reached out to him in comfort. This time Thiercelin's hand lingered in his.

"If he's really . . . Could you see him?"

"Perhaps. And . . ." Bonds may be loosened. Gracielis said, "I may be able to find out what binds him."

"Can you break it?"

There was a cloud about Gracielis, composed of Quenfrida's perfume, and other things. The memory of bruised magnolia and the sound of silver bells in the garden of his Tarnaroqui home. A s.n.a.t.c.h of his own voice, long ago, and Quenfrida's, sharp with rage. Banishing ghosts lay within the domain of priesthood. Very carefully, he said, "That's harder. I don't know yet." He drank chocolate to banish the taste of blood from his mouth.

"I see." Thiercelin looked beyond Gracielis and across the room, through the lieutenant's ghost. After a moment he said, "Will you meet me tonight, in the royal aisle?"

"Moon-double is better for seeing ghosts."

"The moons were in separate phases when I saw Valdin two nights ago. And Handmoon was dark the first time I saw him." Thiercelin sounded defensive. He lowered his voice. The lieutenant's ghost stood smirking beside him.

It had been a long time since Gracielis had kept proper account of the moons' positions. Folding his two-colored gloves in his hand, he tried to remember how they had stood the night before. Handmoon had risen early in the east quadrant and shone near full, although he could not remember if it had been waxing or waning. Mothmoon . . . Crescent only, he thought, but he was unsure. Most people-most Merafiens-could not see ghosts at all, or, if they did, saw them only when both moons were aligned and the night clear. That should have been his first question to Thiercelin: how stood the moons when you saw the ghost? He cursed himself inwardly. Quenfrida would have seen this difficulty at once. It was so like her to know more than she told. He would look foolish if he sought her advice now. He raised his eyes. Thiercelin was watching him.

Gracielis said, "Monseigneur, may I ask a question?"

"Probably."

"You speak of Lord Valdarrien. Have you ever seen another ghost?"

Thiercelin frowned. "No. I'd always a.s.sumed they were just a story."

Gracielis smiled. Thiercelin looked curious. "Such an att.i.tude is very Merafien. But it's perhaps unwise. Ghosts are no fable."

"I thought you said they were harmless."

"Often." Gracielis took care not to look at the lieutenant's ghost. "But not always. They can be malicious."

"You've seen that happen?"

"No." Thiercelin was beginning to look worried. Gracielis smiled at him and squeezed his hand. "It's rare. It's unlikely you're in danger."

"Unlikely." Thiercelin sounded sceptical. "Valdin wouldn't approve. He liked to consider himself very dangerous."

"So I remember hearing. Tonight, then, if you wish."

"Thank you." Thiercelin hesitated, then added, "How do I pay you?"

Traitor's gold, left by Quenfrida in a rented room. She must have known of the irregularities in this case before giving him her orders, and she would gloat if he came suppliant to her for explanations. Gracielis said, "There will be no charge."

Thiercelin looked surprised.

"You are buying nothing that I sell." Their hands were still joined. "However, should there be anything else . . . ?" The glance with which Gracielis accompanied the words was arch.

"There won't be," Thiercelin said and took his hand away.

Yvelliane placed a bra.s.s paperweight on the top of the tall pile of papers that stood at her left elbow and stretched her shoulders. She said, "I have some new information on the illegal imports of steel from the Allied City States. My sister-in-law Miraude attended the public masquerade earlier this week, and she confirms that the Ninth Councillor is meeting with someone from the customs office. I have another agent checking that out now. But it will be at least ten days before I receive the next report from any of our emba.s.sies there." She looked across the broad oak table at Laurens of Valeranica, Prince Consort to Queen Firomelle and himself a scion of one of the Allied Cities.

"I'll write to my uncle." Laurens said. "He'll probably deny any official knowledge at his end, but he'll know we're watching. He might decide that makes it too much trouble."

"We can hope." Yvelliane smiled at him. "And meanwhile, I'll make sure that the Ninth Councillor's office is very closely monitored." She stretched again and rubbed the back of her neck.

From her high winged chair beside the fire, Firomelle said, "When did you last sleep, Yviane?"

"Last night."

"At home in your own bed for a sensible number of hours? Or over your papers at your desk for a couple of hours?"

Yvelliane evaded her cousin's gaze. "There's a lot to get through right now, with the formal reception for Prince Kenan tomorrow evening."

It was early evening. The gray autumn light retreated slowly from the tall windows, drawing lines in shadow across the floorboards. Two fires, one at either end of the long room, offered patches of brightness. The table stood in the center, its surface covered with letters, account books, doc.u.ment cases, and papers. Three silver candelabra marched along its spine, none of them lit. In front of Laurens was an impressive array of ink holders, pens, and seals. Three walls were lined with tapestries in yellow and red, depicting the journey of fire from the Book of Five Domains. The lower parts of most of them were invisible behind oak bookcases filled with records in red-bound ledgers and roll cases in blue and green. The fourth was set with three tall cas.e.m.e.nt windows. Small carpets stood before both hearths, edged by two winged chairs and a number of stools. Officially, this was the queen's smaller withdrawing room. In practice, it was her day-to-day office, where she met with her closest advisers. Laurens and Yvelliane sat at the east end of the table, close to the queen's chair and the larger of the two fires. Its warm light was kind but could not disguise the hollows in Firomelle's face, the thinness of her hands, or the way she held her heavy shawl wrapped tightly about her. From time to time she coughed, the sound hard and painful. Every time it happened, Yvelliane and Laurens exchanged a glance and said nothing. There was no point. Firomelle had no intention of sacrificing her duties to her health.

Now, she said, "Ah, yes. The heir to Lunedith. You've met him, haven't you, Yviane? Remind me about him."

"That was six years ago." Yvelliane propped her elbows on the table. "He was only fourteen, he may have changed." A spoiled boy with too much opinion of himself and too little experience to know he could ever be wrong. She had spent a few handfuls of weeks only in Lunedith, as Firomelle's special envoy, accompanied by restless, troublesome Valdarrien. She remembered the chill of stone walls, rooms that stood half empty, furnished only with benches and chests or an old-fashioned, closed-sided bed and lit only by spa.r.s.e, thin slits of windows or the gutter of rush torches. Valdarrien had at first p.r.o.nounced the Lunedithin to be as grim as their granite buildings, but Yvelliane had found Prince Keris, Kenan's grandfather, to be both warm and kind, and Urien Armenwy, his First Councillor, to have a political mind as sharp as her own. Kenan had attended a few of their meetings, thin face set in an expression of disapproval and distrust. He had drawn his circle from the most conservative of the clan-heads and their kin; his comments had hinted at views that were both anti-Merafien and isolationist. She would not have taken him seriously at all had it not been for one anomaly in his behavior. Prejudiced as he was, he had nevertheless shown a surprising friendship for one of the Tarnaroqui envoys also present, the seductive Quenfrida d'Ivrinez. Perhaps it had been no more than a boy's attraction to an older woman. Yvelliane had never gained proof that it was more than that. Yet she and Valdarrien had been ambushed on their way home with the new treaty, and she had long suspected that both Kenan and Quenfrida had had a hand in that.

Six months ago, Quenfrida had arrived in Merafi to become an aide to the amba.s.sador from Tarnaroq. And now Kenan had come. He was twenty: by law, he had to swear allegiance to Firomelle. But that Quenfrida should also be present . . . It was a coincidence that had had Yvelliane concerned for months. She rested her chin on her hands, and said, "He didn't like Merafiens back then. But he's a lot older. He may understand more of the politics." She was not sure she believed it. She had to give him at least the benefit of the doubt. "He aligned himself with the ultra-traditionalists."

"The clans who believe in going back as far as possible to their oldest customs," Firomelle said. "Minimal contact with outsiders and independence from Gran' Romagne."

"Is that technically possible?" Laurens asked. "The Gran' Romagnol dynasty began in Lunedith. They'd have to declare themselves a separate state in law."

"According to our amba.s.sador there, the technicalities don't worry them. They just want to cut themselves off," Yvelliane said.

"In his last few dispatches, he's said very little about Kenan," said Firomelle.

"Dispatches aren't necessarily secure," Laurens said.

"The usual security arrangements are in place," Yvelliane said. "But we have to give him the benefit of the doubt." She glanced over at the queen, who returned the gaze levelly. "We don't want to provoke an incident, I know."

"But you don't trust him." Firomelle paused and coughed. The other two exchanged glances. "Ask that clever sister-in-law of yours to keep an eye on him, Yviane. Six years ago, you suggested he may have a weakness for a pretty woman."

"It troubles me that Quenfrida is here too," Yvelliane admitted.

"So far, she's behaved impeccably."

"I know, but . . ."

Firomelle held up a hand. Blue veins showed in it, as if her flesh grew transparent. "You don't trust the Tarnaroqui, I know. Everyone knows. But we must maintain peace with them. I can't leave a legacy of war to my son when he comes to the throne as a minor."

"It won't come to that," Yvelliane said to the tabletop. Laurens reached across and patted her hand. She went on, "You can't say 'when.' "

"I must." There was a silence. About the table, the shadows had lengthened as the sun set outside. Yvelliane stared at her papers. She could hear Firomelle's breathing, rough and uncomfortable. For so many months, she had hoped that this would pa.s.s, that her cousin would regain her health and strength. But with each of those months, Firomelle had grown weaker, her body thinning, the cough becoming more frequent, more painful. Last month, she had begun to cough up blood, and the solemn doctors had begun to frown. The crown prince was twelve: Laurens would have to hold the kingdom firm and fast for something on the order of eight years, in the face of an aristocracy always hungry for advancement, and neighbors who were always ready to take advantage. Prince Keris in Lunedith was loyal, but he was an old man and also in poor health. The city states would follow whichever path brought them the greatest advantage. And to the southeast, the vast empire of Tarnaroqui waited and watched, ruled by its cloistered emperor and his network of undarii, a.s.sa.s.sin-priests, who were forbidden by ancient law from setting foot in Gran' Romagne. Yvelliane did not trust the Tarnaroqui, had never been able to trust them, but Firomelle was right: now, above all, they must have peace with Tarnaroq. Laurens had been cultivating the Tarnaroqui amba.s.sador, Sigeris, for most of a year, trying to lay the ground for what must be their future relations. Yvelliane sighed and raised a hand to rub her eyes.

Laurens said, "Sigeris and his entourage will expect to call on Kenan. We'll raise the level of monitoring, but we can't do more. There's no proof that Quenfrida is anything more than she seems. One of my people in their emba.s.sy reports on her regularly, and the most he's found is that she's carrying on a flirtation with the Vicomte de Guares." He patted her had again, and Yvelliane looked up. "I'm keeping my eyes on them, Yviane. Stop worrying."

If only she could . . . Yvelliane made herself smile at him. He was a good man, a kind one, and she trusted him. And he was right: there was little they could do at present except keep a careful watch on their troublesome foreign guests. Firomelle coughed again, this time for longer, and Laurens rose and went to her. Firomelle pressed a hand to her side, fighting to regain her breath.

Yvelliane rose also. "Fielle? Shall I call someone?" She made to move toward the bellrope.

"No," Firomelle said through a cough. Laurens poured cordial into a gla.s.s from the carafe that stood on a side table and handed it to her. She sipped it slowly while they watched. Yvelliane found her hands clenching and put them behind her back. As far back as she could remember, Firomelle had been her closest friend and comforter, dearer to her than anyone in the world save Valdarrien. When she and Valdarrien had lost their parents, Firomelle had brought them to court and raised them almost as younger siblings. After Valdarrien's death, they had grown even closer. The resemblance between the two women was marked; both were tall and slender and dark-eyed, even though Firomelle's face was hollow these days and there were gray streaks in her soft brown hair. If she were to die . . . Yvelliane did not want to think of that. She made herself unclench her hands and straighten her spine. Think about the policies, about now,not the future.Think about what we have to donow . . . She was very tired suddenly. Despite herself, she frowned.

Firomelle said, "Come here, Yviane."

The coughing fit was over: the queen held out a hand. Laurens stood beside her, his hand on the back of her chair. Yvelliane sank to the rug at her feet, and Firomelle stroked her hair. Yvelliane caught the hand. "Fielle . . ."

"Hush."

Yvelliane leaned back. "Listen," Firomelle said, "you're tired. You should go home."