Living With Ghosts Part 6

"Not really." Thiercelin stirred his soup. The royal aisle. Valdarrien's ghost and the message he did not understand. Tell Iareth Yscoithi she was right. Perhaps Yvelliane would know what that meant. He could not tell her, not now when she was so anxious.

There was a silence. Only Miraude was eating. Thiercelin said, "And tonight?"

"It's the reception for the heir to Lunedith, remember? I told you last week."

He had forgotten, somehow. It would be a chance, perhaps, to speak with Iareth Yscoithi. Did Yvelliane know she was back in Merafi? He did not know if he could risk asking. Yvelliane went on, "You don't have to come, if you like. It'll be very formal."

It would be an evening with Yvelliane. And if she did not know about Iareth, then he would be there to support her. He said, "Of course I'm coming. I want to see you in your party dress. And Mimi, too, of course."

"Yviane's intending to wear that dark gray thing again." Miraude sounded disapproving. "I tried to make her get a new one, but she kept being too busy."

"You have enough new dresses for both of us," Yvelliane said, a smile in her voice. Thiercelin looked up, just to catch it on her lips. She went on, "Besides, I don't want to stand out. Kenan Orcandros and I have met before. He disapproves of me."

"He has bad taste, then." Thiercelin said, hoping to keep her smiling.

He failed. "No, he just has bad politics," Yvelliane said, and sighed. "Firomelle needs me there. She . . ." Her voice died.

He looked at her. "Is she worse?"

Yvelliane looked at Miraude before replying. Then she said, "I can't tell." She rose. "I'm sorry, Thierry; I don't feel like talking. Later, perhaps?"

Later. When she was weary from work and wanted only to sleep. There would be no time at the reception. She looked tired and sad. This was no time to speak to her of her brother or of Iareth Yscoithi. Rising, he held the door open for her. She smiled at him in pa.s.sing, but her eyes betrayed that her thoughts were elsewhere. He sighed as he sat down again, and Miraude looked at him curiously.

Later. He was losing his faith in later.

Miraude said, "Thierry, is something wrong?"

She was watching him with a certain caution. He said, "No, I don't think so."

"It's just . . ." Her tone was thoughtful.

He put down his spoon and stared at her. "What?" She evaded his eyes. "It's just something I heard yesterday, from Mal."

"From Mal?" He was baffled. "My so-called friend Mal? As in Maldurel of South Marr? The one with the big mouth and the small brain?"

"You know another one?"

"River forfend! Are you going to tell me what he said?"

"Well . . ." She fidgeted with a knife. "Apparently one of Mal's sisters is supposed to have seen you in a coffeehouse with one of the professional kind. The beautiful Gracieux-Gracielis de Varnaq. And you've been preoccupied lately, and I just wondered . . ."

"If I'd taken a lover?" Thiercelin was torn between outrage and a species of bitter amus.e.m.e.nt. Dead for six years, Valdarrien, it seemed, was still nevertheless capable of getting him into trouble. He said, "Well, I haven't and so you may tell Mal!"

She considered him. "Mal said he was holding your hand."

"It was nothing like that." For the thousandth time, Thiercelin found himself regretting having ever introduced Miraude to Maldurel. "I love Yviane; you know that." Miraude continued to stare at him. "Do you want me to swear on a holy book or something?"

"No, I don't think so. Men aren't your thing. And I believe you wouldn't hurt Yviane. It's just Mal . . ."

"Mal talks too much.Valdin always said so."

"Oh, Valdin," said Valdarrien's widow dismissively.

Thiercelin was still dealing with his outrage. "If he's going to be telling everyone, I'll . . ."

"Oh, he won't. I convinced him it was nonsense. And anyway, he always said that his sister had too much imagination." Miraude had charming dimples. They appeared now, as she smiled and leaned forward. "So: tell me about Gracieux. You doknow him? He's supposed to be absolutely fabulous."

"Well, he's fairly unlikely, anyway," Thiercelin said. Miraude pulled a face. "I don't know him well. My connection with him is just . . ." He hesitated, unsure of what to say. "He does translations."

She raised her brows. "You're interested in Tarnaroqi literature?"

"No, but . . . it's for my younger brother." Miraude still looked disbelieving. "I swear it, Mimi, I'm not having an affair with him. Or with anyone else, for that matter. And so you may tell Mal!"

"All right, I'm sorry." She leaned over and kissed his cheek. "I didn't mean anything. I was just worrying."

He looked at her, "You, too? Is something wrong?"

"Not really. I suppose I'm concerned for you and Yviane. And this weather!" She gestured at the window. "All this rain. It makes me restless."

"Like Valdin."

She looked interested. "How?"

"He hated to be bored. Weather like this . . ." He shrugged. "He was always more . . . excitable at such times." Her expression suggested that she had noticed the euphemism. He looked apologetic. "More violent, then. He had an abominable habit of fighting duels in the rain. Very unpleasant for the seconds."

"Poor Thierry."

Thierry, forgive . . . Abruptly, Thiercelin said, "It was worth it. It has to be." He had to face Iareth Yscoithi, tonight, if he got the chance, and without Yvelliane knowing of it. He could hardly burden Yvelliane with his present problems.

"What is it?" Miraude sounded concerned. "Are you sure you're all right?"

I could tell her, Thiercelin thought, looking into her wide eyes. She was Valdin's wife,she's young, she might understand. It would be easier, shared. Then he remembered Iareth, who had abandoned Valdarrien when she had learned that he had a wife. Iareth Yscoithi, and a chill autumn night, and slim fingers holding his. He shook his head. "It's nothing, Mimi. I'm just . . . I'm just worried about Yviane."

It appalled him that this was, in the end, a lie.

It was late afternoon before Quenfrida left. Her potions and caresses had eased his discomfort, but Gracielis found no peace. The lieutenant's ghost mocked him, and he flinched from it, afraid of shared comprehension.

She was planning something. She was using him to some purpose that he did not understand. He liked it not at all. Dressing with uncertain fingers, he went over it in his mind. Good blood . . . He had never studied the pedigrees of the lesser n.o.bility of Gran' Romagne. He did not remember hearing that Thiercelin's duLaurier line shared Gracielis' own kind of blood. That was the kind of thing he was schooled to know and to recognize. But his out-of-practice eyes had seen no such traces in Thiercelin.

A ghost out of time. Out of order. (A glance, there, for the lieutenant's ghost, watching him as he drew black lines below his lashes.) In addition, it was raining too much, unseasonally. There was something wrong. Something in Merafi's air bespoke change.

It was not his concern. He was Tarnaroqui, bred to beauty and artifice. There should be no place in him for compa.s.sion, for Thiercelin or for dead, murderous Valdarrien. It was nothing to him, what Quenfrida schemed.

Except when she reminded him too sharply of his dependencies. He stroked color along his cheekbones. It was folly, this compa.s.sion, in either of his professions. He was merchandise, no more. In him, attacks of conscience tasted only of sophistry. What right had one who lived through the sale of his body to any dominion over his soul? He could not afford the luxury of integrity.

He was, after all, no better than the rest. The lieutenant's ghost watched him, its face expressionless, as if it distrusted this sudden bitterness. Well, and so he did himself. He was better accustomed to fear and dissimulation. They had honed him to be a weapon, the priests of his people, and cast him aside when he failed. Cast aside, but not lost, as long as Quenfrida lived to bind him. The gift and the burden of the undarii, the perfumed ones, servants of love and death. They were bearers of the other blood, the true blood that was feared in Merafi, bound together in heritage.

He ran a comb through his disordered hair, and caught the eye of the ghost in the mirror. It took no part in his life, save in its self-appointed role of mockery. Whatever it knew of the changes, it would not share.

No more than Gracielis might share any of his own suspicions with Thiercelin of Sannazar.

And yet . . . There was more to all this than Quenfrida revealed. He did not doubt that she sought to harm Yvelliane, but her course was oblique. There was something else here.

He laid down the comb, and turned to face the ghost. "So," he said to it, to himself, "you have a recommendation?" It made an obscene gesture. "Quite. But that is sadly impossible, given your noncorporeal condition." He spread out his hands. "I must forgo your advice, I think."

He hesitated before opening the chest that stood at the foot of his bed and taking out a small box. It was folly to seek to outguess Quenfrida, especially by these means. And then, his physical condition was weak.

He had no other recourse. The box was not locked. From it, he took a small deck of cards and began to shuffle. Quenfrida had left cups on the table. He had to pause to clear it. Then he looked across at the ghost and began to deal. "I hope you're paying attention. You won't often see me do this." It began to drift nearer, affecting scorn. Gracielis smiled. "So. You never know, you might even learn something."

Privately, he doubted it. He used this method seldom, finding the symbols imprecise. It was too easy to reach generalized conclusions, unless one possessed the necessary mastery, which, frankly, he lacked. He had never been good with cards. As a ghostseer, he was better at reading the past than the future.

Well, it was the present he must try to see now. That was often the hardest of all. It would not stand still. Inexperienced as he was, the reading was made harder in that he lacked both Thiercelin's presence and any possession of his to facilitate contact. He laid the cards out Mothmoonwise, in the spread that divines character, and stared down at them, frowning. The lieutenant's ghost peered over his shoulder, disarranging his lace with its insubstantial breath.

"Opinion?" he said to it. It sneered. "Ah. Too much privilege, you think? Were you a leveler?" The ghost made a gesture of distaste. Gracielis shrugged. "Perhaps not." Anyway, there was little here of privilege, if wealth was meant by that word. Thiercelin's fortunes had lain in friendship, and in his own reserves, not so much in worldly things. The past was clear on that. The future was confused. Even to himself, Gracielis could admit that the disarray lay in more than his own shortcomings as a seer. Change, quadranted in water and earth. No obvious line of continuity. And as to the present . . .

There was a shadow on that. Too many cards of mixed meaning. He could make no sense of them. A slow turning, a journey without forward motion. A joining; a meeting with an enabling stranger . . .

He pulled a face. This was too glib. As ever, he was blinding himself by viewing only the expected. Shaking his head, he pa.s.sed a hand across the cards and jumbled them. The ghost watched, impa.s.sive. He was too remote from his subject. There were too many variables.

Quenfrida or no Quenfrida, nothing in Thiercelin's past bespoke good blood. And Gracielis had a talent for the past, for the dead. It was Quenfrida's mystery, after all. He had a scarf of hers, kept safe. She would know, of course, if he meddled.

He needed to know. Fetching the scarf, he spread it out before him and dealt the cards onto it, one hand touching it. Not a full reading, she was too well guarded for that. But a partial one might do; the levin-bolt form that sometimes-sometimes-struck unaware.

He remembered the warmth of her and the taste of her skin. Her hands on him, long ago, before he learned to fear her. Long ago, when he had had her approval and her kindness. He should see in his cards her strengths, her ambitions, his own flawed presence. Placing the last card, he looked down at the whole, to read back up to the present moment. Then he froze.

Quenfrida undaria. Mistress. Mentor. Under her guidance, it should show only himself, failed acolyte.

The spread was plain, there under his hands. Not one pupil. Not one, but two.

"It's the Duke d'Almeide all over again," Joyain said, dismally. "You can't begin to imagine. And I thought court service would be exciting."

"Poor Jean." Amalie smiled at him. "I suppose another pastry won't help? No, I didn't think so."

"Foreigners," Joyain said, in a tone of the darkest disgust. And then, "I'm sorry, Tante Amalie. It's not really that they're foreign; it's just Prince Kenan. He's enough to drive any man to drink." He sighed again. "And I'm stuck with him for the foreseeable future."

Amalie took a flask from a rosewood corner cabinet and poured a healthy tot from it into a cup. Joyain watched her gratefully. If he had been a gambling man, he would be keeping as far as humanly possible from the tables, the way his luck was running at present. All right, it made sense that the trouble in the new dock should take precedence over the shepherding of a bunch of (supposedly) friendly Northerners around the city, but it still seemed rather hard that the latter duty should have defaulted onto him. He was feeling very put-upon, and rather sorry for himself, and not even the excellence of his aunt's pastries was quite enough to make him let go of his self-pity just yet.

She wasn't really his aunt, of course. She was his mother's first cousin's second husband's sister. However, from their second meeting, they had agreed that aunt was the preferred relationship. "The lax, indulgent kind," Amalie had said, mildly horrified to find that her distant kinsman had been expecting her to represent the forces of propriety. An indulgent aunt was, it transpired, exactly the kind of relative that a junior officer from an obscure and impoverished family needed in Merafi. Amalie fed him, listened sympathetically to his exploits, and occasionally lent him money. In return, he escorted her to formal guild functions, helped drive off her more persistent suitors, and maintained an obstinate silence in the face of family queries regarding her personal life.

It was an arrangement that suited both of them. Pouring herself a slighter smaller helping of cordial, Amalie sat down again and said, "It's not all bad, surely? The captain will be pleased with you."

"If I'm lucky." He pulled a face. "It does no good at all being diligent if one-just one-of the Lunedithin decides he doesn't like me." Amalie was giving him a measuring look. "All right. The captain isn't quite that unreasonable. One complaint from a troublemaking guest is survivable. But a guest could make several, or just decide to be the biggest nuisance possible."

"Is that likely?"

Joyain hesitated. It had to be admitted, Kenan Orcandros had so far done nothing worse than be fussy over his choice of room and grumble about the weather. The latter was an activity of which Joyain himself was not wholly guiltless. If he was strictly honest, it was the loss of his free time that galled him most. And if the trouble in the port was as bad as his contact in the city guard made out, chances were he'd be down there up to his knees in mud, if he hadn't been a.s.signed to a.s.sist with the Lunedithin. He caught Amalie's eye and smiled. "No."

"Well, then."

"I know." He shrugged. "Most of them are quite decent. Even Kenan isn't too dreadful. He just doesn't like being here." Pausing, he looked at Amalie thoughtfully. Like most of the merchant community, she was not averse to the odd political tidbit. "I'm not certain that his presence is entirely popular with our side, either."

Amalie looked interested. She had already confided to him her anxiety over the current unrest. She was expecting a cargo from the south, and the ship was overdue. Mercantile rumor spoke of interference at sea by Tarnaroqui customs ships. Lunedith, with its sulfur reserves, could seriously upset trade if it elected to deal directly with Tarnaroq, rather than via Merafien middle-men. And, of course, if the arms supply was disrupted, then other commodities were sure to follow. Joyain lacked Amalie's head for figures, but he grasped the broad outlines of the problem. Putting down his cup, he leaned toward her and said, "I'm due to attend the official presentation of the Lunedithin tonight. It'll be a big ceremony. The whole of the royal council will be there."

"Including First Councillor Yvelliane d'Illandre." Amalie was thoughtful. "She went to Lunedith a few years ago when we drew up the most recent trade agreement. I wonder what she thinks of Kenan Orcandros."

If she had any sense, she would dislike him. But Joyain did not say that. Rather, "I'll keep an eye on her and see if she gives anything away."

"Thank you. Word in the guild is that Kenan is anti-Merafien. He's hoping to separate Lunedith from dependency on us when he succeeds as ruler there. . . . Jean?"

"Yes?"

"Have any of the Tarnaroqui faction shown an interest in your Lunedithin, yet?"

"No . . . They've only just arrived, after all."

"Well, yes. All the same . . ." Amalie frowned. "I'm not asking you to spy, but if there is such an interest, do you think you might let me know?"

"Of course," said Joyain, kissing her hand.

Two lines of tall, formal plane trees lined the Grand Aisle through the grounds of the Rose Palace. Torches burned in the scones bound to the trunks of each tree, lighting their branches with amber light. Leaves-autumnal brown in daylight-now showed themselves tinged with warm orange. The aisle was paved in wide gray stone, spread with fresh straw to m.u.f.fle hoofbeats and the rumble of carriage wheels. In front of the north fascia of the palace, the aisle divided, two sweeping arms framing an oval of gra.s.s and a marble fountain before coming together to meet at the foot of the stairs to the Great Entrance. Footmen hovered at its base, to a.s.sist courtiers and visitors to descend from their vehicles. Most nights, there were no more than four of them. Tonight, there were twelve, all decked out in crisp new tabards bearing the arms of the queen. Stepping down from the Far Blays coach, Miraude smiled her thanks to the man who had helped her, then waited for Thiercelin to alight. Seven or eight carriages queued behind theirs; light spilled from every window of the palace. "Well," Miraude said, tucking her arm into Thiercelin's, "we won't be short of company tonight."

"That's something to look forward to." Thiercelin's hand strayed to the ruffles at his neck. "These things itch."

"But they look lovely. I'm sure Yviane will agree. Come on." And she towed her reluctant escort up the stairs and into the huge first antechamber of the palace itself.

"I never know what I'm supposed to talk to these people about." Thiercelin gestured with his chin toward a knot of finely dressed n.o.bility gathered in the doorway of one of the long rooms that lined the ground floor.

"Horses," suggested Miraude, before turning to bob to a pa.s.sing friend. "Or you could tell them how lovely they're looking."

"And that's just the men." Thiercelin bowed in his turn to a distant fourth cousin of his wife's. "I could almost pity this Kenan Orcandros, having to perform homage in front of this crowd."

"Nonsense. It's a mark of honor." Miraude had succeeded in leading him through the throng to the bottom of the great staircase which led up to the ceremonial rooms on the first floor. "And besides, this lot down here are mostly the minor n.o.bles. It'll be quieter upstairs."

"That depends on what you mean," Thiercelin said gloomily. "There's going to be chamber music, I daresay. Cremornes, if we're really lucky."

"Don't be awkward. The queen's Master of the Household has impeccable taste. If there are cremornes, they'll be the finest of their kind."

"And they'll still honk."

"That'll be afterward, at the reception. Oh, do come on, Thierry, Yviane will be waiting for us."

It was midevening. After her discussion with Yvelliane that morning, Miraude had canceled her plans for the day and spent the time instead reading history, while her dressmaker made alterations to the gown she had ordered for this ceremony. Kenan Orcandros would not be an easy man to approach, from what she had heard. She would need to proceed carefully. Tonight, she intended to observe. It would not do, in such circ.u.mstances, to attract too much attention to her appearance. Her dressmaker had mourned the suppression of silk ruffles and ribbon knots, but tonight the beautiful Miraude d'Iscoigne l'Aborderie chose to seem serious and respectable. Thiercelin had laughed when he saw her. "Goodness, Mimi, are you going into mourning?"

"Only for your wardrobe. I swear, you and Yviane are as bad as each other." And she had eyed his brown coat with disfavor. Now, entering the Grand Audience Chamber on his arm, she was grateful for his sobriety.

The chamber occupied two thirds of the front part of this side of the palace. By day, light streamed into it from the long windows set into two of its sides. At night, it was lit by hundreds of wax candles, set into heavy crystal candelabra suspended from the ceiling or mounted on wall brackets. In the third wall were set the entrance doors, three pairs. The fourth wall was covered, floor to ceiling, with a series of large canvases depicting the triumphs of the Illandre dynasty. Here, a king in old-fashioned armor led his troops into battle against the Tarnaroqui. There, another sat enthroned in judgment. Behind the great chair, used by the queen for high ceremonies, hung a portrait of the first Illandre, Yestinn, in full battle array and holding his own standard in front of the waterfall of Saefoss, where he had defeated his rival, Kenan's ancestor Gaverne Orcandros. Kenan would be unable to forget his status as va.s.sal, standing before that picture. And that, no doubt, was the point. The queen's chair stood on a dais, with slightly smaller ones to either side for her consort and the crown prince. Below the dais to left and right were set a small number of tambour seats, for the senior ladies of the court. Everyone else, from dukes to amba.s.sadors to councillors, was expected to stand.

The dais was still unoccupied, although several servants stood about it; the queen's party would enter from the private door set behind it. Nor had the Lunedithin yet arrived. But most of the great n.o.bility were already present and standing in their allocated places. Miraude and Thiercelin took theirs, close to the dais as befitted the family of the queen's near kin. She would have a clear view of Kenan in profile: that was good. Miraude allowed Thiercelin to hand her onto her tambour and unfurled her fan. The windows were closed and cas.e.m.e.nted; the brocade curtains had been drawn tight across them. The press of people and the many candles stifled the room. The clash of perfumes and flowers, powders and pomades, served only to thicken the air. She could feel the muslin of her innermost petticoat already beginning to stick to her. This was to be an evening of formal ceremony, not of amus.e.m.e.nt. Perhaps the heat served as a reminder of that.