Living With Ghosts (19 page)

And perhaps this offered her one more chance to see him, to speak with him. Iareth rested her forehead on her hands. If she had been wrong, done wrong six years ago, then perhaps . . .

No.

She sat up brusquely and opened her eyes. She would not go back, she would not regret. The situation at hand required her to focus, to be calm and firm and cold as she had always been. She had her duty. She would cleave to it. Such had always been her practice. And if she was alone, if she yearned for companionship, then there was always the habit of her clan to find comfort from strangers. She inhaled slowly, picking up her pen. Joyain was kind and straightforward and helpful. She liked him well enough. It would do.

That the ambush at Saefoss is key is indicated to me by another thing also. Thiercelin Llawrier, of whom you know,came to visit me . . .

By the time he had made enquiries in the thirteenth cabaret, a worried line was beginning to appear between Gracielis’ brows. The damp air made him shiver, and tension crept along his nerves. The answer he kept receiving did nothing to soothe them.

The night’s fog still had not cleared, even though it was almost noon. It played tricks with his perceptions, turning the familiar inhabitants of the quarter into shadowed mysteries. The lieutenant’s ghost loved it. Its form edged into color as it oozed through the half-drawn world.

Gracielis could taste menace. The mist held a troubling stickiness, a sweet, cloying scent, reminiscent of honeysuckle. His anxiety lent him a pretty air of delicacy, but behind his smooth courtesies he was starting to fracture.

There was something out of joint. He lacked the skill to do more—or less—than be aware of it. He shuddered a little as he turned along the north quay and the mist grew heavier. Pulling his cloak closer helped not at all. He could not avoid thinking of the film of moisture that the motion trapped nearer to his body.

The lieutenant’s ghost was drawn toward the river. Glancing sideways, Gracielis caught upon its face a sort of optimism. By looking through it, he could glimpse—just—less concrete forms hovering close to the river’s surface. This was getting worse. He would have to ask Quenfrida and risk the cost. All around him, Merafiens went about their business, blind to the changes that paced them.

He was beginning to feel queasy. He crossed the street and went into the Royal Repose coffeehouse, less out of any hope of finding his quarry than to put walls between him and the river.

The coffeehouse was only just starting to fill. The hostess was still polishing tables, and only one of the three waiters was on duty. A small knot of guildsmen clustered in an alcove. Two more men leaned on the counter. A lone woman sat close to the fire. Gracielis raised his hat to her and bowed politely. She acknowledged him with a curt nod.

He said, “May I join you?”

“I don’t see why not.” Her tone was graceless. He looked at her sharply. “Well, you’re too early to scare off business.”

“Thank you.” He drew up a stool and dropped his hat and two-colored gloves onto a table. The lieutenant’s ghost took up position leaning on the mantel, turning rose in the firelight. He said, “You’re early yourself, Sylvine.”

“I came in to get warm.” She was dressed skimpily. Her face looked pinched. Even so, she glared. “I don’t need handouts from you, Gracieux.”

“Of course not.” It was harder for girls like her, he knew, who were not especially pretty, illiterate, ill-educated. She depended in large part upon the patronage of troopers, apprentices, and clerks. At this season there would be fewer of them willing to brave the cold and the curfew for a fast and mercenary embrace. He said, “Would it be charity to buy you breakfast? I don’t like eating alone.”

“Save your manners for the gentry.” Sylvine coughed. “I’ll let you pay for me, but I don’t want your airs.”

“As you wish.” He summoned the waiter and ordered for both of them. The lieutenant’s ghost watched with envious eyes as he handed over two silver coins. Catching its expression, he shrugged.

“The rain isn’t hurting your custom, anyway,” Sylvine said a little spitefully.

He looked apologetic. “Regulars.”

“What else?” She coughed again and rubbed her arms. “I wish it’d stop, though. The side streets are turning into swamps.”

And worse. He kept his face neutral. “It’s inconvenient.”

“There’s an understatement!” The food arrived. She broke open a roll and reached for the preserves. “You didn’t say what you wanted in here.”

He looked at her sidelong, eyes limpid. “Breakfast.” The lieutenant’s ghost pulled a disgusted face.

“You can get breakfast at your lodgings.” He said nothing, letting candor write itself across his face. She said, “Besides, I know you. You never come in here unless you’re looking for someone.”

His lashes swept down, playing surprise. “I didn’t realize you made such a study of me.” Looking up, leaning toward her, he added, “I’m flattered.”

She snorted. “Only by yourself. I don’t waste that much time on you.” He drew back a little, hand going to his heart. She said, “You owe me, remember?”

“I remember.” He sat back and looked down at his crossed ankles. “How may I serve you?”

She hesitated, playing with the butter knife. “I don’t want charity.”

“I wasn’t offering it . . .” He looked at her thoughtfully. Over her shoulder, the lieutenant’s ghost made a suggestive gesture. He ignored it. “But you may have another piece of information which I need.”

She smiled. “I hear things. You know that.”

“Yes. And what’s better, you remember them.” He pulled out his purse and took out a coin. “You’re right, of course. I did come in here to look for someone.” Her expression did not alter. He added a second coin. “Chirielle.”

Her shoulders sagged. Disappointment showed on her face. She shook her head. “I haven’t seen her. No one has, for days.”

It was what he had heard everywhere that morning. Even so, he did not put the coins away. He sipped his chocolate in silence for several minutes. Sylvine finished her roll and reached for another. The lieutenant’s ghost folded its arms and sat down on the hearth. Gracielis said, “The trouble in the new dock. Have you heard anything of that?”

She regarded him speculatively. He returned the look with innocent eyes. “I might have,” she said.

“I thought so.” She stared at the coins. He said, “I have a . . . friend with customs troubles. She’s concerned.”

“And you want to soothe her. How charming.”

He bowed, trailing perfume. “I do my humble best.” The lieutenant’s ghost gagged.

She hesitated. Then she said, “I don’t know anything about customs.” She frowned. “I did hear about the rioting, though.”

“Oh?”

She looked at the coins again. He added a third. She said, “I had a client, a couple of nights ago. A trooper. His regiment had been active down there. He said . . .” She stopped, glanced over her shoulder at the knot of guildsmen. Then she leaned forward, lowering her voice. “It wasn’t just the usual kind of trouble. That’s why they’re keeping it so quiet. My trick said . . .” Again, she paused. “He said it centered on the new dock itself. Someone—some people—started firing the jetties. And then . . . oil got poured on the river and lit. He said they were trying to hurt the ships.”

Then why not simply set fire to them?
But Gracielis did not ask that. Burning oil, burning through the mist on the river. Air, water, fire comingled . . . He shivered, and Sylvine looked at him curiously. Clearing his throat, he said, “Is that all?”

“Most of it. There’s been looting, of course, and fighting. My trick did say that some of the rioters were acting funny.”

“Drunk?”

“He didn’t think so. Some of them seemed to be seeing things . . . You’ve heard that there’s a sickness in the shantytown?”

There was always a sickness in the shantytown. However, Gracielis said, “Your client thought it might be connected? A fever with delirium, perhaps?”

“He said his captain thought so.”

“I see.” He pushed the coins toward her, then, hesitating, added a fourth. She took them and slipped them into a pouch at her waist. He said, “Do you think Chirielle became caught up somehow in the riot?”

Sylvine shrugged. “Who knows? Her landlady hasn’t seen her, but all her stuff’s still there, so if she’s flitted, she’s done it with nothing.”

There was little he could add to that. Looking beyond her, at the lieutenant’s ghost, he said, “This trooper. Is he a regular?”

“No. Just a pickup.”

“A pity. I’d be interested to hear more of his experiences.”

“No one gets everything they want. Not even you.”

“True, alas. He didn’t name any of the ships involved?”

“No.”

It was better than nothing, although it would not answer all of Amalie’s questions. He reached for his hat. “Did he say when the area would be reopened?”

“Two to three days, I think.”

“So.” Rising, he pulled on his gloves. The lieutenant’s ghost stood also, looking resigned. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.” He raised her hand to his lips. “If you should happen across Chirielle . . .”

She took her hand away. “I’ll tell her you’re looking. But that’ll be another one you owe me, Gracieux.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” said Gracielis.

Thiercelin was enjoying a late breakfast in bed, and carefully not thinking about his dreams, when there was a tap at his door. Through a mouthful of croissant, he said, “Come in,” and put down a rather tedious epistle from his boot maker.

It was Yvelliane. Coming to sit on the edge of the bed, she pulled off his nightcap and dropped a kiss on the crown of his head. “Good morning, Thierry.”

He looked at her in some surprise. “It must be earlier than I thought.”

“It’s quarter past eleven.”

As far as he could see, she was not dressed to go out. A little worriedly, he said, “There’s nothing wrong, is there?”

“Not so far as I know.” She helped herself to the rest of his croissant. “I’m sure you get better service out of the cook than I do. How do you manage it?”

“My winning smile?” He rescued his morning tea from his wife’s attentions and then, after a moment’s thought, put the whole tray onto the side table. “Haven’t you had your own breakfast? If I’d known you were still in, I’d have gotten up and eaten with you.”

“At seven?” He shuddered. She smiled. “I’d be cruel to expect it. Besides, I like to think of you sleeping peacefully.”

“Glad to oblige. Any time.” He returned the smile. “Tickets for the spectacle are available from my valet, but for you I might just be able to arrange free admission.”

“That would be nice.” She tapped him lightly on the nose with a finger. Catching her hand, he kissed her palm. She said, “When for?”

“It’s a nightly event.” Holding on to the hand, he leaned over to kiss her cheek. “I must say, you’re a nicer sight at this hour than my valet.”

“I should hope so.” Her smile faded and she rested her head on his shoulder. He put his arms around her.

“You’re working too hard.”

“You know why I must.”

“Yes, but . . .” He sighed. “Well, I have you here with me now, anyway.”

She looked up. “What do you mean?” Her expression was suddenly defensive. He put his hands on her shoulders and looked down at her, noting the shadows under her eyes, the fine lines between her brows. If she would only confide in him . . .

He said, “I’m here.” And then, as her eyes filled, “What is it?”

“Nothing.” She bit her lip.

He hugged her. He said, “You can talk to me, Yviane.”

“I don’t want to talk, I don’t even want to think anymore.” She buried her face against him and, after a moment, slid her arms round his waist.

Leaning his cheek against her soft brown hair, he said, “It’s all right. I promise.”

“I wish you could make that real,” she said rather indistinctly.

He tightened his hold on her. “I can do my best.”

“I know. But yesterday . . .”

“What happened? Is Firomelle worse?”

“She’s always worse.” She straightened. “But she tries . . . She’s seeing the city guild masters today. That’s why I’m home. I haven’t been too popular in that quarter since I increased the glass tax.”

“Well, I’m sure she’ll manage without you.”

“So am I. That isn’t what . . .” She shook her head. “I’m just tired and silly.”

“Umm. All that early rising.” He smiled at her and dropped a kiss on her brow. “You could always go back to bed.”

“At this hour? Thierry, I . . .”

He kissed her shoulder, just at the point where the lace of her collar met her skin. “Why not?”

“Well, I . . .” She stopped and shivered as his lips traveled the length of her collarbone. “Thierry, that isn’t fair!”

“It isn’t meant to be.” He halted, raising his head to kiss her mouth. “But since you’ve got nothing better to do and you want to stop thinking . . . I don’t like this dress.”

“What?” She sounded a little breathless. “I’m not saying that isn’t nice, but . . . What’s wrong with my dress?”

“Neckline’s too high.” Reaching round behind her, he began to undo her bodice with careful fingers.

“Oh, honestly!” Despite herself, she was laughing. “Thierry, I wanted to talk to you . . .”

“Am I stopping you?” Pausing in his unlacing, he kissed her neck. “Are you in any great hurry, since Firomelle doesn’t need you today?”

“It’s just not . . .”

“Not what?” The bodice was undone. He began to push down the tops of her sleeves. “Ah. Now, that’s an improvement.”

“Thierry!”

“Yviane?” He had turned his attention to the small buttons on her top petticoat.

“I just wish you’d . . .” She halted, face irresolute. “Oh, you’re hopeless.”

“Hope
ful
,” he amended, rather muffled. She gasped as he bit her gently. For an instant, she hesitated, then slid a hand along his rib cage and began to tickle. He jumped. “Stop that!”

“Make me,” said Yvelliane.

She was safe. Just for this brief instant, she should be safe. Yvelliane lay with her face buried in Thiercelin’s neck, his arms tight about her, his face in her hair, the reassuring scent of him all about her. The line of his collarbone made a familiar pressure against her skin. She was warm, she was held, she ought to feel safe.