Living With Ghosts (45 page)

Valdarrien looked down. “What happened to him?”

“He was attacked. Ambushed.”

Gray eyes watched him, shaded with suspicion. Mist coiled within them and Gracielis shivered. He said, “You can touch him, can’t you?”

Valdarrien looked puzzled. He reached a hand out, questioning. Gracielis held out one of his own. Met warm flesh, solid, real. Not possible . . . Valdarrien said, “What is it? What’s happened to me?”

“I don’t know,” Gracielis said. “Forgive me.” There was a silence; then Valdarrien bent over Thiercelin and lifted him with care. “Is it far?”

“Two streets or so.”

Valdarrien shrugged. “Let’s do it, then.”

They met no one en route. The mist fell back, away from the river. For all that, Gracielis could feel it along his spine. What he had done must have blazed like a beacon, for those who might see. There would be consequences.

Amalie’s house was dark. Gracielis suppressed uncertainty and knocked as loudly as he could.

There was a long silence. Amalie
was
out. They would have to go elsewhere, to his old lodgings or some other inn . . . Gracielis conjured Amalie’s image beneath his long lashes and prayed. It could not end like this.

The door opened fractionally, and a familiar voice said, “We’re closed.”

Gracielis said, “It’s me, Madame Herlève. Forgive me but I need your help. There’s been an . . . accident.”

“Another one?”

“To Monseigneur de Sannazar.”

There was a pause. Then Herlève said, “You take advantage of Madame Viron.”

“I know.”

She had liked Thiercelin despite everything. Gracielis heard her sigh; then the door opened wider. She wore her oldest garments, and her hair was covered. The shop behind her was more than half-empty, contents packed into chests. She sniffed and said, “Dueling, I take it?” She stared at them disapprovingly. “There’s almost no one here. The boys have been sent ahead, and Madame and I are leaving tomorrow, like you wanted. You’ll have to fetch your own doctor. If you can find one willing to come out at this hour, which I doubt.” She spoke briskly but, for all that, she helped them take Thiercelin upstairs and set about cleaning and binding his side. She also found some clothing for Valdarrien. Then she ordered them both back to the kitchen, with instructions not to disturb Amalie.

The kitchen was warm and empty. Gracielis, almost absently, began to make tea. Valdarrien watched him for a few moments, then said, “Thierry needs a doctor.”

“Doubtless,” Gracielis said. “But you heard Madame Herlève, monseigneur. We’ll have to wait until dawn.”

Valdarrien put a hand to his sword hilt. “Not necessarily.”

Gracielis drew a hand through his disordered hair and suppressed a sigh. As mildly as he could, he said, “That would be inadvisable, I think,” and then, as Valdarrien looked disbelieving, “Consider, monseigneur. We’re dependent on the good will of Madame Herlève and her mistress. It would be discourteous to make difficulties for them.”

“Really?” Valdarrien’s tone held all the dismissive arrogance of the born aristocrat.

Gracielis rubbed his eyes. He had washed his face and hands, but he still felt soiled. “Monseigneur, forgive me, but it can’t be done. We don’t have any money. Dead men don’t commonly own property.” Valdarrien frowned. Gracielis added, “Monseigneur de Sannazar is in good hands. In the morning I’ll petition Madame Viron.”

He was very tired. He sat down on a stool and rested his head on his arms. He seemed to be fated to dealings with ghosts.

To living with ghosts. He made himself look up at Valdarrien, into Valdarrien, and heard water falling. Not wholly inhuman . . . Even now, even after what he had done tonight, Gracielis was more human than this creature opposite him. Bound into the present by some past vow, made to the sound of falling water and the beating of swan wings. His skin would be cool, created as he was from mist and pure strength of will. He should not exist.

Instead . . . Gracielis was more than he had ever meant to be; and Valdarrien d’Illandre was back from the dead. He could not understand it. In becoming
undarios
, he should have faced death and driven it away by slaying another. Or else have died himself. He had never heard of an outcome such as this. He watched the swan wings rising in the depths of Valdarrien and looked away. For so long he had been shadowed by this man’s life. He was free now. He did not know if the same was true of Valdarrien.

It should not have happened. It should never have happened. Not in Tarnaroq’s Bell Temple; not in the wild places of Lunedith; not—oh, how assuredly—not and never here in Merafi, where the old powers should not run. It was part of Quenfrida’s weaving, cast up under the stress of her and Kenan’s tampering with what could, and should, not be. He should go to her and tax her with it. He should read her, as he had Valdarrien, and fight to untie whatever bonds she had fabricated.

Except that he was alone and tired and afraid. He put from him her temptations and said to Valdarrien, “What’s your intention now?”

Valdarrien blinked and looked away. “Does that concern you?”

“Certainly. You know who I am.”

“No.” Valdarrien’s thin lips quirked. “I know what you are. I owe you nothing.”

“As you wish.” Gracielis rose and went to the dresser. He took out bread for himself, hesitated, added a portion for Valdarrien. “You are of course under no obligation.” He had had his fill of chains. He had no wish to shape new ones. “But consequences are usually worth a little consideration. What do you remember, monseigneur?”

“Thierry,” Valdarrien said, and stopped. His brows drew together. “It’s confused. I remember an inn, a duel . . . Then he talked to me, at home.” Again he paused and frowned. “There’s a lot missing. As if I’ve been asleep.”

You have been dead.
But Gracielis could not bring himself to say that. After a moment Valdarrien said,

“And I know you. You were with Thierry at my duel and again, somewhere . . .”

“You know me.”

“Thierry cried.” Valdarrien’s hand went to his breast, over his heart. “There was pain.”

“Yes.”

“But I shouldn’t have fought there . . . I’d promised Urien . . .” Valdarrien halted and shivered.

Gracielis put plates onto the table and forced himself to decide. It could be no worse than anything else he had already done.

He said, “You died. You fought a duel with an army officer and were shot. I saw it. So did Thierry.” Valdarrien’s face gave nothing away. Gracielis continued. “Afterward—six years afterward—you’ve come back. A shadow. A haunt.”

Valdarrien said, “Iareth . . . a warning. I don’t understand you.”

“No? No matter. I scarcely understand myself.” Gracielis sat down, and cut the bread.

Valdarrien said, “I saw her, here in Merafi. My Iareth
kai-reth
.”

“She’s here.” Valdarrien half-rose. Gracielis put out a hand. “You can’t go now. Merafi is unsafe at night, even for you.” Valdarrien hesitated. “And Thierry may need you.”

“You,” said Valdarrien, “are very free with that name. For a foreigner.”

“Indubitably. But that’s between me and him. And you,” and Gracielis smiled, “have made free with more than his name. You came close to killing him.”

“I think not.”

“You’d have helped yourself to his life, as you had tried formerly to steal mine. You aren’t what you think you are, monseigneur.”

“Indeed not?” The tone was dangerous. “And you’re expert on this?”

Wind buffeted at the shutters, sudden, harsh. Gracielis dropped the bread knife and turned. There was a chill in the air and some other thing. Again a buffet. Valdarrien rose and went to the window. Before Gracielis could stop him, he threw it open. The wind poured in. No, not wind, but some other thing, driving cold air before it on great white wings. A swan. A vast swan, raising its head to Valdarrien’s, and stretching up and back and out into man-shape, naked against the night. Mist began to form, fringing the window, and Gracielis finally found the power to act. He looked to the window and spoke a soft word. The shutters slammed shut, although he had neither risen nor approached them. Then the bar dropped into its place across them. Party tricks . . . Stone-blessed, for barriers and boundaries. No one looked at him, or noticed what he had done. The man blown out of the night faced the man reborn from it, and said, “You will tell me, Valdin
kai-reth
, by what right you disobeyed my express command that you should live.”

“Firomelle’s asleep, I’m afraid.”

Yvelliane jumped and looked around. She had not heard the door in the paneling open. Papers were strewn across the desk before her; but she would have been hard-pressed to describe the contents of any of them. Her head ached. Nevertheless, she rose and made herself smile.

Laurens returned her smile and shut the door behind him. “You look busy.”

“There’s trouble in the low city.”

“Quite.” He went to the window and stared out into the darkness. Yvelliane remained standing. He said, “The footman brought your message to me. Fielle sleeps so little these days.”

“Yes.” He looked as tired as she felt, his skin sallow. She doubted he had had any sleep since before the soirée. She suppressed an urge to go to him. There was nothing either of them could say or do that would ease Firomelle’s illness.

Laurens took a final look out at the night and turned.

“Such weather.” He sat. “Sit down, Yviane. I need to talk to you.”

She sat and he drew a chair up to the side of her desk and joined her. He said, “This is difficult . . . Regarding Quenfrida d’Ivrinez . . . I’ve seen the documentation you’ve prepared. It’s very thorough. But we can’t go through with it.”

“What? We agreed . . .”

“Yes, I know that. But now isn’t the time to antagonize the Tarnaroqui. We have enough troubles at home.”

“There are always disputes in the low city or the docks.” She leaned forward. “Please . . .”

“Disease,” he said. “Flooding. A quarter of the watch have deserted, and there are two full patrols missing. Parts of the city are abandoned after dark.”

Gracielis had spoken to her of danger. He had warned of deliberate, determined, malicious attack, fueled by his Tarnaroqui mistress. She had taken steps to remove that mistress, to expose her for what she was. Yvelliane said, “I’m aware of Tarnaroqui complicity in our problems. The public exposure of Quenfrida . . .”

Laurens sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Fielle had another hemorrhage this morning. She isn’t strong enough to deal with a diplomatic incident. She probably doesn’t have much longer.”

No.
But she did not say it. Laurens’ face was bleak: he had enough to deal with. She must bear this alone, as she bore the trouble in her marriage. Reaching out, she took his hand. His fingers wrapped about hers tightly. She said, “Is there . . . ?”

He shook his head. “The doctors are just waiting now. There’s nothing left to try. And,” and he released her hand, “that means we must have stability right now. If we offend Tarnaroq, and she dies . . . It’d be just the excuse they’d need to make trouble. They’d see a regency as the ideal opportunity to move in on our borders and interest.”

He was right. That much was undeniable. She had been too slow to act and now it was too late. She longed for Thiercelin, suddenly, calm and kind and always there for her. Always there, until now. She had driven him away with her intransigence. She said, “What can we do, then?”

“I don’t know.” There were tears in his eyes. She looked away. One them must stay calm.

She said “I can keep watching Quenfrida. Kenan, too. If one of them does something overt . . .”

“It won’t save Fielle.”

“It might help Merafi.” She made her voice brisk.

“We have to look after the country for her now.” All her adult life, she had served Firomelle. All her life, she had sought to benefit and protect her country, her city, her people. And it had all come down to this . . . Gracielis would ascribe it to Merafien blindness and arrogance in the face of the irrational, no doubt. Yvelliane did not know what to think. Perhaps there was nothing left to do save wait and hope. Perhaps she should be laying plans to spirit the heir away from Merafi to some distant place of safety. If any such place existed.

Perhaps, if she wrote to him now, at the bottom of her strength, Thiercelin would take pity on her and come.

Perhaps he would not. She said, “I’ll start putting together an emergency strategy.”

“Dear Yviane.” Laurens rested a hand on her shoulder. “We have to support one another now. Firomelle hasn’t the strength any longer.”

There was a long silence. Gracielis sat motionless. Valdarrien looked at the floor, then the window, then, finally, at the newcomer. His expression was something between surprise and outrage. Speaking, his voice held no small amount of indignation. “Is a man of honor simply to take an insult, Urien
kai-reth
?”

“A man of honor will never be insulted. And even if, through some mischance, insult is forced upon him, he will fight competently, Valdin
kai-reth
.”

Valdarrien’s gray eyes narrowed. His right hand worked, as if he barely arrested a move to his sword hilt. He said, “An oversight, I grant you.”

“Quite so.”

Gracielis coughed, and two pairs of eyes turned to look at him. He rose and said, “Good evening.”

“And to you also.” The newcomer had level green eyes like those of Iareth Yscoithi. He had great dignity despite his nakedness. He studied Gracielis for long moments. “I know what you are, I’m certain of that. But as to who . . . ?”

Swan wings. Swan wings across the sky . . . Gracielis bowed. “I am known as Gracielis de Varnaq. And you are Urien Armenwy, called Urien Swanhame, leader of the guard of Prince Keris Orcandros.”

Urien smiled. “You are well informed.”

“I’m clear-sighted.”

“That isn’t a unique ability.” The level gaze lay weighty on Gracielis. He stood firm beneath it. Hours before, it would have made him shiver. Urien said, “
Chai ela
, Gracielis
undarios istin-shae
Quenfrida.” He glanced at Valdarrien. “Your doing, I think?”