Living With Ghosts (22 page)

“I see.” Thiercelin sighed.

“It does not help you, knowing.”

“No, not really.” Thiercelin looked at the fire. “And even if she was . . . if you and she still . . . It wouldn’t be my business, would it?”

Carefully, Gracielis said, “Have you been faithful to her?”

“Yes. Does it surprise you?”

“No. You love her.”

“Oh, that.” Thiercelin waved a hand through the lieutenant’s ghost. It snarled at him. “It’s what I do. I love Yviane. I always did, even before . . . It doesn’t change anything.”

It was Gracielis’ opinion that it changed a goodly number of things. He said, “Does she know that?”

“It wouldn’t make any difference.”

Gracielis said, “She isn’t given to thinking of herself as lovable. Just as useful. She doesn’t make such things easy.”

“She makes it impossible.” Thiercelin rubbed his eyes. “I can’t make her hear me, I can’t reach her, and I’ve tried for so long. And now . . . this business of Valdin and Iareth Yscoithi. I can’t burden her with all that.” He covered his face. “I’m a mess, Graelis. There’s more.” Gracielis was silent, waiting. To the floor, Thiercelin said, “There’s you.” He looked up. “Can I stay, tonight? I don’t want to go home.”

“You should, nevertheless.”

“I can’t, not yet.”

“If you wish, then.”

“I don’t mean . . . That is, I want the company, but I don’t . . .”

Gracielis smiled. “There is,” he said, “no obligation.”

“Thank you,” Thiercelin said. And then, “You’re making a habit of this, aren’t you? Being kind to me.” Gracielis looked away, discomforted. Thiercelin said, “That night, when Valdin was killed . . .”

“It was nothing.”

“It was a great deal. And the other things more recently, to do with him.” He paused. “I saw him again . . . He spoke, this time. He seemed so real . . . It’s no problem of yours.”

Gracielis looked at the lieutenant’s ghost. His share of the burden left by careless Valdarrien. However much he might wish to avoid it, he was bound into this, even without Quenfrida’s schemes and temptations. He did not pretend to understand. Because he had been silent a little too long, and Thiercelin was watching him, he smiled, and said, “One likes to keep in practice. Such opportunities aren’t common, here in Merafi.” The ghost grinned.

“Or anywhere, I’d have thought.”

“Merafi especially.” Gracielis spoke without thinking. Thiercelin looked inquiring. “You know the old tales? Regarding places where . . . things not wholly human might more easily manifest?”

“There’s something about it in the legend of Yestinn Allandur. His rival, Gaverne Orcandros, had a . . .” Thiercelin seemed to be searching for a word. “He was supposed to have found a woman who had no clan blood, or some such. Is that what you mean? The creatures born out of flame or stone?”

“Something of the kind. The stronghold of the Orcandrin was at one of those vulnerable places. That’s how he was able to find his . . . his lover.”

“I never heard any tales of that kind regarding Merafi.”

“No indeed. Merafi is an opposed place.” Gracielis hesitated and then added, “Legendarily. It is supposed to have a property—a kind of opacity—to such creatures.”

“Ghosts,” put in Thiercelin.

Gracielis looked at the lieutenant’s ghost, and nodded. “Ghosts, for instance. It’s said that some quality of this city—the mingling of salt and fresh water, perhaps—produces that opacity. That’s why Yestinn is supposed to have chosen the site to build his capital. His old stronghold wasn’t opaque. And he’d attracted negative attention from . . . inhuman things.”

“Do you believe it?” Thiercelin’s tone was hard to read. He sounded almost anxious.

Gracielis hesitated. After a moment, he said, “Well, I am Tarnaroqui . . .”

The disclaimer had the desired effect. Thiercelin relaxed and smiled.

All over Merafi, curfew rang. In the Lunedithin residence, high on the northwest side, Iareth Yscoithi of Alfial made her preparations for bed. On the floor below, Tafarin Morwenedd opened a second bottle and raised a glass to absent friends. Joyain declined to join him, and wondered how long it would be before he would be relieved of this duty. Kenan had gone out before lunch and once again not returned. This would be the second night he had been absent.

Kenan was no child, no prisoner, and no fool. It was his business, if he elected to spend a night in foreign arms (whatever Iareth might say about his proclivities). And it was not—could not be—Joyain’s fault, if he lacked the same unconcern demonstrated by the Lunedithin charges. It was not part of his orders to know their exact whereabouts at all times.

It had, above all, nothing to do with any lingering sense of guilt Joyain might have regarding his own behavior. Valdarrien of the Far Blays was dead. If his friend Thiercelin was to fight Joyain tomorrow, it still had nothing to do with Joyain’s congress with Iareth Yscoithi. Everyone involved was an independent adult.

He had no intention of indulging in guilt. He had nothing to feel guilty about. Kenan was guaranteed to turn up safe and sound, probably at the most inconvenient moment possible and full of unreasonable demands for attention. Everything was perfectly in order.

He hoped that Leladrien had managed to make proper arrangements regarding guns. He hoped that Thiercelin’s second would remember enough about military law to bribe the park keepers to look the other way tomorrow morning. Otherwise . . .

His spurs clicked as he turned and started back down the room. It was fine. He was not worrying. He had nothing to worry about.

He could not help it, all the same.

Beside the fire, Tafarin poured more wine and smiled. Upstairs, Iareth put out her candle and opened the casement.

A few streets away, Yvelliane of the Far Blays sat in the dark, pretending to herself that she was not waiting for Thiercelin to return. Maldurel of South Marr, in his lodgings, put the finishing touches to his toilette, thinking of nothing in particular. Miraude sat up in bed, head bent over a volume on the early history of Gran’ Romagne.

The night was clear. Two moons, out of phase, lit the city. In the new dock, the last of the fires were nearly extinguished, the last rioters almost subdued. The river flowed on, thick with mud and fallen leaves. The air smelled of coal and autumn. No ghost rode the starlit aisle to the Rose Palace. Down in the shantytown, the sinkholes ran saltless for the first time in a week. In Amalie’s salon, the master of the Haberdashers’ Guild sipped sweet wine. Word from the coast guard spoke of ships finally expected home now that the weather had improved.

In Quenfrida’s house in the old city, Kenan Orcandros smiled.

Thiercelin could not sleep. It was, he was aware, nobody’s fault but his own, yet for all that he could not escape a vague sense of resentment. He lay in Gracielis’ bed and wriggled, staring into the gloom. The room was lit only by the dying fire. Before it, Gracielis stretched out. He had his back to Thiercelin and his blanket pulled up to his chin. Probably, he was asleep. Thiercelin turned over again and suppressed a sigh. Think of nothing. Think of something neutral . . . Not of tomorrow’s duel, not of Yvelliane. Remember Valdin, that time in the Old Palace, fighting in a gallery. How he cursed the polish on the floors! Of course, it was different with swords; such duels took longer. A pistol shot . . .
Don’t think about it.
His opponent—what was his name?—Lievrier was a cavalryman. Had to be a fair shot, then. Maybe better used to muskets . . . Thiercelin should not have drunk so much today, risked a hangover. River bless that Gracielis had made him eat. One thing Yvelliane would not have to reproach herself with. . . . Don’t think about it.

It was much too warm. Thiercelin wondered if Gracielis would mind if he opened a shutter. The fire was going out, of course, but . . . He wriggled some more and tried to get comfortable. He could smell Gracielis’ scent on the pillows and sheets. He lay in the very place where Gracielis himself must usually lie, hair tangling with the memory of auburn curls.
Don’t think about that, either.
Had Yvelliane ever felt this same confusion? Not since Valdin died, Gracielis had said, but Thiercelin could picture it anyway, Yviane here in this room, in Gracielis’ arms. He shivered with a jealousy that was part pleasure.

Gracielis had not lived here six years ago, prompted the rational side of his mind. Remember, he roomed down by the old docks, in that inn where Valdin . . .

It could only hurt so much, a gun wound. Only last so long. How short a time, between the shot and Valdin’s death . . .
Don’t think about it.
This bed was too soft. Typical of Gracielis. How old was he? How old had he been, when Yvelliane . . .
Don’t think about that, however tempting.

However erotic. Thiercelin buried his face in the pillow and managed not to groan. Gracielis’ perfume folded about him like a shroud.

There was movement in the room. Then Gracielis said, “Monseigneur?”

“Thierry,” said Thiercelin, into the pillow. His pulse was racing . . . this was the worst kind of foolishness. He was, rot it, married. He loved Yvelliane. Gracielis could be no more to him than a passing temptation. He could master it. He had to. “What is it?”

“Is something wrong?”

Thiercelin was not going to turn round. He was, above all, not going to look at Gracielis lying half-naked in the firelight.
Think of Yvelliane.

That hurt. He could only see the anger on her face, the bitterness as she accused him. She would never understand, and he was failing her. He could not think of a way out of the tangle. He had never meant to hurt her, only to solve this problem of Valdarrien. He was unfit to do anything by himself.

He could not take it to her, not now. He could only go on and hope for the best. Perhaps it would all turn out well and she would forgive him. Perhaps two moons would become one. He said, “I can’t sleep. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“I wasn’t asleep. Do you want to talk?”

“Not particularly.” It would serve no purpose, not now. Perhaps tomorrow Lieutenant Lievrier would kill him and he’d be out of the whole mess. He tightened a hand into the sheet.

“Very well.” Thiercelin heard Gracielis lie back down. There was a silence.

It was still too hot. That was something safe to focus on. Thiercelin pushed at his covers. “Graelis?”

“Yes?”

“Do you have something against fresh air?”

There was a pause. Then Gracielis said, “Your Merafien winters . . .”

“It isn’t winter yet.”

“No, I suppose not.” There was almost a hint of resignation in Gracielis’ voice. “I’ll open the window.”

“Not if you don’t want to.” Thiercelin halted and sighed. First he had to quarrel with Yvelliane, and now this . . .

Gracielis said, “It’s no trouble.”

Thiercelin turned over to look at him. Gracielis was propped on one elbow, silhouetted by the fire. His auburn hair hung loose over his shoulders. His blanket had slipped down. The slim frame was better built than Thiercelin had expected. Yvelliane could have told him, no doubt, but he was not going to think about that. Gracielis stood, wrapping a sheet around him, and went to the window. His skin was very fair, far paler than Thiercelin’s. Thiercelin caught himself wondering how it would feel, touching that skin; whether it would taste as exotic as its perfume. He set his teeth and averted his eyes. This was no time, no place . . .

Gracielis opened the shutter and looked out. He seemed almost surprised. He said, “It still isn’t raining.”

“Why should it be?”

“No reason, I suppose. I just . . .” Gracielis shook his head. “You’re right, of course.”

“Oh, thank you.” Thiercelin stopped, then added, “I’m sorry.”

Gracielis sat down in the armchair. “You’re troubled.”

“No.” Thiercelin pulled himself part upright. “All right. Yes. But it’s not important.” Only a duel and a quarrel and now this new confusion. “How old are you, Graelis?”

Gracielis looked at him sidelong. “How old do you want me to be?” Thiercelin looked away. Gracielis said, “I’m twenty-six.”

A year older than Valdarrien had been when he died. Thiercelin buried his face in his hands. He said, “I’ve a duel, tomorrow, with some cavalry officer. It’s stupid, but I can’t stop thinking about what happened to Valdin. Or about Yviane or about you.”

“In which order?” Gracielis asked.

Thiercelin looked up. “What?” Gracielis smiled, teasing, beautiful. Thiercelin said, “Explain.”

“Well . . .” Gracielis said. Then he stopped, and began to laugh. Thiercelin stared at him. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . In my experience, people staying in my rooms don’t usually think of me in association with duels. Or with their wives.”

“Considering the circumstances of our first meeting,” Thiercelin began. Then he caught Gracielis’ eye. “It isn’t funny.”

“No. Not at all.” Gracielis looked down. “Merely unflattering.”

“I hardly think . . .” Thiercelin said, then he gave up. “You did that on purpose.”

“Worry was stopping you from sleeping.”

“I’m still not asleep,” Thiercelin said. Gracielis was silent. “Any remedies for that?”

“Several. But you’ve forbidden me to mention most of them.”

It was going to be a mistake. He was going to feel dreadful come morning. It was the only way left to him of forgetting, if only for an hour or two. Thiercelin leaned back against Gracielis’ pillows, amid Gracielis’ scent, and said, “Come here.”

Gracielis hesitated a moment. Then he rose, and came to the bedside. “Are you sure?”

To his eternal shame, Thiercelin blushed. He said, “I think so.” Gracielis did not smile. Rather, he reached down and brushed back Thiercelin’s hair.

He said, “Revenge is a poor motive.” He did not quite look at Thiercelin.

“Who mentioned revenge?” There was no answer. “Are you saying no to me?”

Gracielis said, “I think so. It’s better that way.”

Some of the tension was beginning to ease. Thiercelin inhaled. He said, “Is that sound business practice?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Yes?”

“Indeed.” Gracielis put his head to one side. “Consider. In the first place, you’re more likely to come back for more, if the thought of me doesn’t make you feel guilty. And in the second, the strength of desire is seldom harmed by a little frustration.”