Living With Ghosts (30 page)

Amalie had come to sit beside Gracielis, her thigh against his. He could hear her breathing, gentle and steady. Joyain stood to one side, arms folded, face cynical. Gracielis paused in the reading to smile at him and turned up the next five cards.

The present. Harder, for it was mutable. To left and right, shading into past and future. Stone and steel—for duty—crossed by water-quartered Mothmoon and by a slender figure with level eyes and careful, balancing hands . . .

Gracielis had seen her before, in Thiercelin’s reading. Her nature running counter to her role, her strengths born out of contradiction. He looked into Joyain’s eyes and said softly, “You know Iareth Yscoithi.”

The eyes narrowed. “That’s an easy guess. My aunt has probably mentioned that I’m stationed with the Lunedithin embassy.”

Amalie had, but she had not gone into details. In the spread, Iareth’s card lay shadowed, between fire and water. Gracielis shivered. She lay over the place of the heart. He looked swiftly at Amalie, then back at Joyain, and said, “She is your lover, and will burn you.”

Joyain took a step back. Gracielis added, “Forgive me,” and turned up the next card. Water-hallow, threatening. Death in the air and in the river. Death here, too, in the cards, although perhaps not for Joyain. Stone surrounded by troubles unknown and only half-realized. It bordered on the future and Gracielis could see but poorly. He passed it in silence and turned up another card.

His hand pulled back. He said, “No.” He had been here before, but sky-eyed Quenfrida had been the subject. His second self, his rival, close enough to Joyain to touch him and bound intimately in the reading to the death in water. Gracielis said, “There is a man, a new acquaintance. One who sees.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He has power over water.
Unbidden, the dream-memory rose. Water falling and swan wings and mockery in hostile eyes. Gracielis said quietly, “He has red hair and blue eyes and you dislike him. It’s mutual. He holds your lover under his hand. Do you know him?” Beside him Amalie gasped, but he did not look at her. To Joyain he said, “You’ve been granted to him, unwilling, and your role is ambivalent. Who?”

Joyain said, “I don’t think . . .” And then, “What is this?”

Gracielis held his eyes a moment longer, and turned up two more cards. The first made him smile, obvious as it should have been to him. He said, “Thiercelin of Sannazar,” but its role was near past and there was no danger in it. The other, sword-handed, was expected also, given the pivotal role of Iareth Yscoithi. “And Valdarrien d’Illandre.”

Joyain sat down rather suddenly. He said, “How did you know? Who told you?”

“No one.” Gracielis made his voice gentle. “I have simply seen it.”

“You can’t.” Joyain looked past him at Amalie. “This is a joke, yes?”

She said, “No, I swear.” And then, “Gracielis, does this mean they’re true, the things you told me yesterday?”

Turning to her, Gracielis took her hand and kissed the palm. “Yes, Ladyheart.” She looked down. He turned back to Joyain. “You should try not to care for Iareth Yscoithi.”

“I don’t think that’s any business of yours.”

“Indeed, and I ask your pardon.” Gracielis hesitated. “Will you tell me who this might be?” His hand lay again on the card of the red-haired acolyte. “It touches on more than you.”

“Is Iareth in danger?” Joyain seemed to ask almost against his will.

“I regret I don’t know. This isn’t her reading.”

“I see.” Joyain sighed. “It’s Prince Kenan, I suppose. Kenan Orcandros, the Lunedithin heir. You’re right: I don’t like him.”

“Thank you.” Gracielis hesitated, then turned back to the cards. He knew too little of Quenfrida’s activities during her time in Lunedith. He turned up the last five cards and sighed. The future, and only confusion. Water crossed with stone . . . He made no sense of it. He shrugged and turned away, suddenly tired.

Joyain said, “No sudden wealth or good fortune?”

“No.” Gracielis mingled the cards. “I don’t do the future. I don’t have that sight.”

“Indeed?” Joyain was trying to sound sardonic. It did not quite work.

Amalie drew in a long breath. Then she said, “Why?”

Gracielis looked down. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

“No.” He felt her put an arm about him. She said, “Lie down.”

He obeyed, closing his eyes. He was a little afraid of what he had done. Of the patterns that repeated themselves everywhere. Amalie said, “Could you do that for me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

He opened his eyes. She watched him, worried. He said, “I know you too well, Ladyheart. I wouldn’t be able to see clearly.” It was not quite true, but he could not bear to be more honest. He was too scared he would hurt her. “It would hold little interest for you. I’d see nothing you wouldn’t expect me to know. And I can’t do the future.”

“How unfortunate,” said Joyain, nastily. Gracielis was silent.

Amalie said, “I think we all need a drink. I’ll have Herlève bring wine.”

“That has appeal,” Joyain said.

“I’ll fetch glasses.” Amalie went out. The two men sat in silence, apart from the clock on the mantel. Gracielis stared at the ceiling. He had a name now for his rival and a means of learning more. He might act, save that he lacked strength and training and knowledge. It would be no fair fight, himself against Quenfrida and Kenan. Especially if Kenan was
undarios
. Assuming, of course, that a person with clan background could become
undarios
in its fullest sense.

There was no one else who would help Merafi. He was Tarnaroqui. It was not his problem. It was beyond him. He sighed and closed his eyes. He had made his choice when he sent his message to Yvelliane via her estranged husband. He would have to live with it.

Amalie interrupted his thoughts. She spoke a little too cheerfully, and he knew he had again distressed her. She was saying, “Do go in, monseigneur,” and then, “Do you know my nephew, Lieutenant Joyain Lievrier? Jean, this is Lord Thiercelin duLaurier of Sannazar and the Far Blays.” Gracielis opened his eyes. Thiercelin stood in the center of the room. Joyain, too, was standing. Amalie said, “We were about to have a drink—a little early, I grant you, but—would you care to join us?”

“Thank you,” Thiercelin said, bowing to Joyain. “I already have the honor of knowing the lieutenant.”

“Really?” Amalie steered him to a chair.

Joyain said, “We met through official channels. The embassy.” His voice held a curious edge. He avoided looking at Thiercelin.

“Oh, of course. Madame of the Far Blays is First Councillor,” Amalie said.

The conversation turned on desultory matters for the next half hour or so, mostly between Thiercelin and Amalie. Gracielis found it easier to listen than to participate, and few remarks were directed at him. Joyain, too, was largely silent. At the end of the half hour he rose, kissed Amalie’s cheek, bowed to Thiercelin, and excused himself. Amalie showed him out, then, returning, said, “I believe you have matters to discuss. I’ll be in the shop if you need me.”

Gracielis said, “I can’t steal your room . . .” But she only smiled and shook her head at him as she left.

There was a small silence. Thiercelin broke it. “You look better.”

“Thank you.”

“I delivered your message.”

“You’re kind.” Gracielis hesitated, trying not to fidget. He did not look at Thiercelin. “It was Lieutenant Lievrier with whom you dueled, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” Thiercelin sighed. “Except that it didn’t happen. There was an interruption . . . Valdin . . .”

“Yes, I know.” Gracielis spoke with thinking. He sighed, and looked at Thiercelin.

Thiercelin rose and came to sit on the end of the daybed. “I doubt the lieutenant told you.”

“No.” Gracielis had no intention of elaborating. He said, “Have you seen Iareth Yscoithi again?”

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Thiercelin made himself more comfortable. “I have all day. I’m wholly at your disposal.”

Gracielis let his lashes hide his eyes. “You’re appropriating my line, I think.”

“Hmm,” Thiercelin said. “Tell me, Graelis. Or are you meaning not to?”

“No, I’m prevaricating.” Gracielis smiled. “It’s hard. It touches upon matters which are in some wise . . .”

“Forbidden?”

“Yes.” Gracielis hesitated then switched to Tarnaroqui. “You know what is meant by
undarios
?”

“ ‘Perfumed-death,’ ” Thiercelin translated absently, back into Merafien. “No, I don’t think so.”

“It’s a matter of belief. A species of religious order.”

“The famous assassin-priests?”

“Yes, and more. It’s a discipline. To be
undarios
. . . It’s to possess a certain type of understanding or vision.”

“Seeing ghosts?”

“Amongst other things. One doesn’t have to be
undarios
to have that or other, lesser powers.” He caught Thiercelin’s eye. “Card-reading. Poisoning. The manifold arts of pleasure.”

Thiercelin folded his arms. “Now, why does that sound familiar?” Gracielis looked reproachful. “All right, Graelis, I’ll control my credulity. You’re telling me you have this discipline.”

“I have some of the training.” Gracielis felt some of the old bleakness settle upon him. “I lack certain strengths . . . I have sight, but no power.” He forced himself away from it. “I was taught always that the forces open to my kind may not be awakened in Merafi. Well . . .” He hesitated, looking toward the window. “I was misled.”

Thiercelin’s eyes narrowed. He said, “Explain.”

“Something is awake here, which doesn’t belong and which intends you harm.” Thiercelin’s brows lifted. Gracielis said, “You’ve already seen a forerunner of it.”

“Valdin? He’s alarming, I grant you; but he’s hardly a citywide threat.”

“He no longer belongs here. But he’s come. And where he’s come, others may follow. Will follow. Forgive me.”

“I wasn’t assuming this was your fault.” Thiercelin said. “Is this why you . . . ?”

Gracielis looked at his maltreated hands. It would be easy to lie. He said, “No.” He was cold. He was too close to betrayal. “To be
undarios
, to enter upon that path . . . There are bonds formed. There’s someone in the city I’ve known almost all my life. Three nights ago, when I dreamed, and after, I felt a working, colored by her touch. After you had gone, I . . . summoned her. I can’t tell you how, but the means weren’t permitted to me. I hoped to persuade her to undo what she’d done. I succeeded only in angering her.” He shivered. “She refused.”

Thiercelin said, “And that’s why . . . ?”

“More or less.” It might not be said, even to Thiercelin. It could not be explained. He could not bear to be laid so open. “She rejected me.” He would not break. He would not grant to her that power, not from memory alone. He had no other choice.

In any case, he had been replaced. Kenan stood now where he had in Quenfrida’s regard. Unless he chose to buy that back in blood and treachery. He said, “You must be careful. She isn’t finished. There’ll be sickness and flooding and death.”

“This friend of yours is
undarios
?”

“
Undaria
. Yes, and she has at least one colleague.” Thiercelin looked at his hands. Then he said, “As an informer, shouldn’t you be telling this to Yvelliane? Or didn’t she believe you?” Gracielis was silent. “I’m sorry, Graelis, but this all sounds so . . .”

“Un-Merafien? As it happens, I’ve already taken steps to do that.” He sighed and added, more to himself than Thiercelin, “It will have to suffice, if she grants the time . . .”

“What?” Thiercelin said. And then, receiving no reply, “There is no place, Varnaq. I looked it up on the official maps of your country.” Gracielis looked at him in surprise. “Does it matter?”

“Yes . . . I keep thinking I know you. But you see things, you deal with powers . . . you report to Yvelliane—and no doubt to this countrywoman of yours—Who are you, Graelis? I think I need to know.”

It no longer mattered. His life was counted out in the measure of Quenfrida’s convenience. Gracielis reached out a careful hand to Thiercelin. “I can’t tell you my birth name. I was never told it. But in the temple whose property I am, I’m Gracielis
arin-shae
Quenfrida.” His lips quirked. “Varnaq is one of the minor places of punishment, in Tarnaroqui belief. Reserved for those who cheat at cards and commit crimes against taste.” Thiercelin frowned. “I am, as you have known me, Gracielis de Varnaq, gigolo and spy.” Thiercelin’s hand tightened on his. Gracielis inhaled and changed the subject.

“When you see Iareth Yscoithi, would you ask her about another in addition to Urien Armenwy? Kenan Orcandros?”

“The envoy?”

“Yes.” Gracielis hesitated. “I need to know about him.”

“You could come with me and ask Iareth yourself.”

A memory of water falling and of level green eyes . . . It was not his past, and he would not succumb to it. He said, “No.” And then, more gently, “At present, as you can see . . .” He indicated his abused wrists.

“Later, maybe. Your Madame Viron tells me the injury is minor.”

If Quenfrida allowed him a later. Gracielis smiled a little. “Perhaps.”

Thiercelin looked down at their hands, and his face was strange. But he said only, “I’ll hold you to that.”

Power. Kenan could sense it, feathering across his skin, lighting sparks of recognition. Down there, down in the depths something waited for him, old and strong and valuable. This was what Quenfrida had meant when she sent him here. This was the root of Merafi, waiting for his touch, his blight upon it. He doubted that the scholar who had led him here had the least idea of the significance of the place. The man had walked down the shallow steps and along the passage beyond chatting about sally ports and lower guard chambers. A fool, but a useful one so far. Kenan could already see several ways in which that usefulness could and would be extended. The girl—Miraude—was less useful but potentially interesting. Handled correctly, she might be employed to discover something of the plans of Yvelliane d’Illandre. Following at the rear of their small procession, Kenan watched Miraude almost with approval. Slight and silly and no threat to him. He could, he decided, afford to expend a little more time on her. Besides, he found her body appealing. Ahead of him, she tripped on the uneven floor, and he put a hand under her elbow. She looked back at him in surprise and he smiled thinly. “Be careful.”