Living With Ghosts (18 page)

Iareth frowned a little. Her eyes assessed him. Then she said, “It is thus. Prince Keris and his chief adviser, Urien Armenwy, do not wholly trust Kenan. Prince Keris is in favor of remaining on friendly terms with your country. Kenan is not. He has formed close links with a Tarnaroqui who was for a time envoy to my homeland. She is now here in Merafi. Prince Keris and the Armenwy have asked me to keep watch upon Kenan and to notify them if he resumed his connection with her. Hence my wish to follow him.”

It was a statement of trust. He said, “I wasn’t making a pass. Well, not just a pass.” Looking up, he saw that she was smiling. “Thank you,” he said. She shrugged. He continued, “I’m not entirely disinterested myself. I have an aunt, a haberdashery merchant. She asked me to keep an eye out for Tarnaroqui interest in your party.” Then: “Did you learn anything tonight?”

“A little.” She took his arm. “Am I invited to share your wine?” He looked at her. She said, “Without any hidden meaning.”

“Yes, if you like.”

“I do not like overmuch to talk in the street. And it is a cold night.”

He smiled then, and they began walking down toward the Temple toll bridge. Their talk was of desultory matters. It was not until they reached his lodgings over the shop of a minor sugar factor that she returned to the subject of Kenan.

“Do you speak Tarnaroqui?” Iareth asked. His room was tidy enough but sparsely furnished. There was only one chair. Iareth, rather to his surprise, elected to sit on his flat-topped tiring chest, and pulled up her legs tailor-fashion.

He lit the fire, then fetched mugs and a bottle from the cupboards. He said, “Not really, no. I can ask for bread, and ale. Oh, and I know the words for ‘My subaltern’s horse has cast a shoe.’ ” Iareth laughed. “Not desperately useful. Do you?”

She said, “A little.”

“Was that the language they were speaking, the people in that house?”

“I think not, although one of them had the accent.” Joyain handed her a cup. She took a sip before continuing. “You recognized the speakers?”

“No.” Fog and distance had rendered them indistinct. “Maybe Kenan’s whore has a protector.”

“I think not.” Iareth hesitated. “I had not before heard the voice of the one who opened the door. He may indeed be a servant, but not, I think, to a courtesan.”

Joyain sat down and put the bottle on the floor beside him. He did not bother to ask if she was sure. Instead, he said, “Why not a courtesan?”

She smiled. “Two reasons. First, I know Kenan. He has strong views concerning intimate relations with
elor-rethin
—with those born outside his clan. And second, I recognized the lady. She was for some time resident at the Lunedithin court. She became friendly with Kenan, although he was still a boy at the time.”

“That woman who came to see him with the Tarnaroqui ambassador?” It made sense to Joyain. If Kenan had had some kind of
affaire
with her six years ago, he might well wish to renew it. It could be that. Or something more. Perhaps Amalie would understand better than he did. With the queen ill, it was only to be expected that Merafi’s rivals would seek each other out.

“Quenfrida d’Ivrinez, aide to Ambassador Sigeris,” Iareth said. They were both silent for several long moments. Then she said, “The Pineapple . . . Might we visit it on some other night?”

He did not understand. He said, “Of course. But . . .” She seemed to realize what was puzzling him. She said, “Yviane Allandur told me of it.”

“Yviane Allan . . . ? Oh, Yvelliane d’Illandre?” She nodded. “But . . .” Quite suddenly, understanding hit him. Coloring, he said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. That was the inn where . . .”

“Where Valdin Allandur was killed, yes.” Iareth’s voice was flat; reflective even. “I’m not offended. Curiosity is understandable.”

He stared at his feet. His boots were going to need considerable work in the morning. And as for the marks on his breeches . . . Very carefully, he said, “Is it a good idea to go there?”

“I know not. That is why I thought of it.” Still in that thoughtful tone. Looking up, he saw that her expression was equally pensive. She said, “Although it would may-hap be better to go alone.”

“I don’t think so.” She turned to look at him. “It really isn’t a good place for a woman—even if she’s also a trained soldier.” He hesitated. “I’ll take you, if you really want to go, but . . .”

She smiled faintly. “I think it most improbable that I would expose you to a fit of the vapors.”

“No. That wasn’t quite what I meant . . . Wouldn’t you simply be upsetting yourself?”

“As I have said, I know not.”

“Well, anyway, if you want to go . . .”

“I thank you, Lieutenant.”

“Joyain. Or Jean, if you like.”

“If you cease to call me ‘mademoiselle.’ ”

“My duty . . .” Iareth gave him an amused look. He smiled. “On duty, that’s the only way I’m allowed to address you. Otherwise . . .”

She nodded. “So. But it is Jean off duty? And you are now off duty?”

Well, he was drinking, even if his original reasons for accompanying her had been connected with his responsibilities to the embassy. He said, “It does rather look like it.” Somewhere outside, a bell tolled the hour. Five. “Although I haven’t yet completed it. I have to escort you home.”

She was silent, looking at him speculatively with her cool green eyes. Then she twitched her braid forward over one shoulder and began to unplait it. “Might you not do that in the morning?”

He hesitated, then crossed the room and kissed her.

Halfway across Merafi, Thiercelin of Sannazar awoke with the sensation of being watched. He was alone. Yvelliane had presumably retired to her own room, if she had returned from the palace. Rubbing his eyes sleepily, he raised himself on an elbow. The chamber was in darkness. He could see nothing. Could hear nothing, except his own breathing and the steady patter of rain against the window. It was too early for his valet.

There could be no one else in the room. And yet, he felt watched . . . As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, shapes began to emerge around him, half-familiar, half-alien. The bed hangings were heavy with the possibilities of cloaked observers. The curtains cast a shadow across one chair, which might almost be the form of a man. Thiercelin’s sleep-fogged eyes filled in the remaining details. A patch of reflected moonlight made the planes of a face. A cluster of paleness (his own discarded shirt, perhaps) suggested the fall of lace over a slim hand. Brightness reflected off the polished chair arm, cold in the autumn night, nearly drawing the picture of light on a blade. Memory colored the rest. One booted foot on the floor, the other (across which the naked rapier lay) pulled up to rest on the opposite knee, arms resting along the sides of the chair, right hand with its lace toying with the sword hilt. Hatless—a darkness on the floor where the hat was dropped. Hair half-hiding the face, further shadowed by several days’ growth of beard. The fingers of the left hand drumming silently on the armrest. Body slouched, indolent, bored. A faint glimmer of light, where an ear was pierced with gold . . . Thiercelin smiled in the dark and said, in a voice which mocked itself even as it spoke, “Will you never learn to knock, Valdin?”

In the night, in the darkness, the figure that was not there turned its head and looked at Thiercelin. “I do not,” said Valdarrien d’Illandre of the Far Blays, “intend to submit myself to the tortured rituals of your conventionality, Thierry.”

Thiercelin counted very slowly to ten. Then he sat up. “And just what,” he demanded, “do you think you’re doing?”

“At present?” Valdarrien lifted a hand and looked at it. “I appear to be talking to you.”

“But . . .” said Thiercelin.

“I beg your pardon. Talking
at
you.”

“You,” said Thiercelin, “are unspeakable.”

“Quite.” Valdarrien seemed satisfied with his inspection of his hand. He lowered it again.

“River drown it, Valdin, just what . . .”

“It was rather my impression that we’d already discussed that. Honestly, Thierry, you might pay attention.”

“What for?” said Thiercelin, stung. “You’re not even really here!”

“Your eyesight,” said Valdarrien, “appears to be failing.”

“Valdin!”

“Thierry?” It was a tone of sweet reason. Exasperated, Thiercelin thumped his pillows. He did not need night sight to see Valdarrien’s amused lift of a brow.

Slowly, carefully, he looked at the impossible mirage of his friend and said, “Valdin, you’re dead.”

“Hmm.” Valdarrien inspected his other hand. “Oh, that. A touch inconvenient, I grant you.”

“A touch inconvenient . . . !” Thiercelin realized he was spluttering, and shut up.

“But I’m working on that aspect.” Valdarrien straightened in his chair. “Certain things are a little hazy . . . Did you tell me why you’re sleeping in one of my guest rooms?”

“No, I didn’t,” Thiercelin said. And then, “As it happens, I’m not.. This is my room.”

“So?” Valdarrien seemed to think about that. “I must remember to offer Yvelliane my congratulations. Or are you debauching my sister?”

“No, I am not,” Thiercelin said. “Honestly, Valdin, you simply cannot be dead for six years and then wander in and start demanding explanations.”

“Why not?”

There was no obvious answer to that. Thiercelin did not try for very long to think of one. Instead, he said, “I told her. Iareth Yscoithi, I mean.”

“Iareth
kai-reth
.” There was a smile in Valdarrien’s voice, as though he spoke the name purely for the pleasure of saying it. “Yes. My thanks.” He moved again, putting both feet to the floor, swinging the rapier to rest against the chair. “She understands, I think.” He rose, gathering, impossibly, the shadow of a hat. “I’ll bid you goodnight, then. See you later, Thierry.”

“Yes,” Thiercelin said, on a stupid reflex. And then: “Valdin, wait, I . . .”

But no one was there.

7

I
ARETH YSCOITHI OF ALFIAL to Urien Armenwy, called Swanhame, Councillor and Leader of the
Kai-rethin
: Greetings.

I send this by the swiftest means available, in the hope that it will reach you as soon as is possible. Yesterday, Kenan had a rendezvous with Quenfrida d’ Ivrinez at a house in the oldest part of the city. With the assistance of Lieutenant Lievrier, I was able to follow him unremarked and to witness some part of their conversation. Watch over Prince Keris: they mean him ill, for all he does not wish to credit his heir with such behavior. They may also seek to harm the Allandur: I would most gratefully receive your advice as to how you would have me proceed.

Lieutenant Lievrier has been most helpful to me in pursuance of my observations. Hedidnot, however, overhear the conversation between Quenfrida and Kenan, which was in Lunedithin, perhaps to avoid easy comprehension by such Merafien servants as may have been presentin thehouse. As yet, I have told him only that it was with Quenfrida that Kenan met, and not the content of their conversation.

Father, I . . .

Iareth hesitated, pen in hand, and stared down at the paper.
Father, I . . .
Thiercelin duLaurier had come to the residence with word of ghosts. Of one ghost: Valdarrien d’Illandre, her beloved Valdin
kai-reth
. Quenfrida, too, had spoken of Valdarrien, there in her hidden house in the city. Allandurin blood to work ill against the Allandurin city.
Father, I...
She struck out the last words and recommenced.

Quenfrida and Kenan seek to unmake the pact between this world and that of ancient things. It appears that the ambush at Saefoss, of which you know, was a part of that working.
Again, she halted, staring sightlessly at the wall. Urien had been there at the sacred waterfall when Kenan’s partisans had attacked herself and Valdarrien. It had been her hand that saved Valdarrien from death, but Urien had been sorely wounded. Urien Swanhame, shapeshifter, master of old ways, old powers. Did Quenfrida know that? Kenan certainly did. But six years ago, aged only fourteen, could he have grasped its significance? Iareth did not know. She did not know herself what meaning it might hold. Urien’s swan-clan, the Armenwy, had had no part in Yestinn Allandur’s ritual all those centuries before. Urien might have no influence over this new working. He would know. This last year or so, he had been increasingly restless, speaking to her of changes imminent in the taste of the air, the scent of the waters. That was one of the reasons why Iareth had been chosen to journey south with Kenan, to be her father’s eyes.

She had not been reluctant. A city, after all, was only stone and brick. It have never been her nature to evade her duties. What was past remained past and might not be changed. What was here and now must be faced. It was simple. She did not fear Merafi, nor did she welcome it. She was here, that was all. She was here and Valdarrien was not.

Except . . . She began to play, absently, with the end of her braid. Urien had never approved her decision to leave Valdarrien and return to Lunedith. Urien was Armenwy: it was his nature to love deeply and but once. The Yscoithi were not made so. They moved from lover to lover without regret. If she had loved Valdarrien, if she loved him to this day . . .

She closed her eyes. She was Lunedithin. To have abandoned her clan, her people for that reckless, wild, passionate young man . . . Her duty had forbidden it, and she had done her duty. It was over and done and that was it. Valdarrien had asked her to stay, and she had answered him, “I cannot,” and made herself believe it. It was only later, under Urien’s reproving gaze, that she had understood. “Not
cannot
, Iareth
kai-reth
,” said Urien, “but
will
not.”

Well, it was done. Except . . . Thiercelin had spoken to her of ghosts, of Valdarrien walking this city as a shadow. Lunedithin to her core, Iareth did not think to disbelieve him. Ghosts were a part of the world she was lessoned to know, subjects of the domain of the Masters of Darkness. This, too, was news that Urien should know, if only in outline.
Tell Iareth kai-reth she was right
. Whatever it was that Kenan and Quenfrida had done, Valdarrien was as intimate a part of it as they.