Living With Ghosts (48 page)

Tafarin looked round, waved, and went back to his conversation. He held something in his left hand; a piece of paper . . . Kenan glared at his back, then stalked across the yard. “Tafarin
kai-reth
, you have disturbed me.”

Tafarin turned. “My regrets, Kenan
kai-reth
.” He did not sound especially sincere: having made his apology, he again looked away.

It was not to be borne. Kenan drew in a breath and turned to Tafarin’s companion, intending to dismiss him. Young, dressed simply, hair drawn off a narrow face in a Lunedithin-style braid . . . It took Kenan several shameful moments to recognize who it was. No paint. No silken artifice. But the devastating eyes were the same and there was a perfume on the air, speaking the syllables of a name. Gracielis de Varnaq looked back at him and bowed, too shallowly for courtesy. He said softly, “Good day, monseigneur.”

Kenan gave Gracielis a curt nod, and said nothing. He shivered, a little, and realized that it was cold. That it was not raining, although the ground was damp.

Tafarin said, “Go in, Kenan
kai-reth
. There is no need for you to freeze out here.”

“But I know Monsieur de Varnaq.” Kenan said. “We met at the palace.” Tafarin looked politely blank. “Perhaps he would care to break his fast with us?”

Gracielis looked at Kenan’s hands. Then he said, “I thank you, but no. I have errands to run.”

“For your mistress?” Kenan asked, nastily.

Gracielis smiled. Gently, he said, “Better, I think, for mine than for yours.” He turned to Tafarin. “Good day to you, and my thanks.”

“You are most welcome. I will inform Iareth
kai-reth
.” Tafarin smiled in turn, and Gracielis bowed to him. Then he walked away down the street.

He looked perfectly healthy. Better, indeed, than he had when Kenan had met him at the palace. And there was something else, something Kenan could not quite identify, some quality . . .

He had been cheated in the creation of his bindings. He had handed power to sly Quenfrida, and still achieved only gleanings for himself. Kenan glared at Tafarin and said, “You will have no further dealings with that individual. I expressly forbid it.”

Oh, do you...
But Tafarin did not say that, for all that it was written over him. He said, quietly, “Good morning, Kenan
kai-reth
,” and began to walk away.

Kenan’s grandsire, Prince Keris, was too tolerant. It was the influence of foreigners and of the meddler Urien Armenwy. The Armenwy was too deep in the prince’s counsel. When Kenan became prince, that would change . . . His grandsire and Urien had saddled him with companions of their choice. Insubordinate Tafarin Morwenedd, too long Urien’s deputy. Cold Iareth Yscoithi, twice a traitor to her own kind, by virtue of her half-breed blood and her ill-fated liaison with Valdarrien of the Far Blays.

Valdarrien’s Allandurin blood had been shed on Kenan’s behalf, to buy his power. He would no longer brook these checks, these spies. He caught up with Tafarin and said, “What did he want?”

“Gracielis?” Tafarin said. Kenan nodded, holding grimly to his patience. “I know not. He brought a letter for Iareth.”

Iareth Yscoithi should not be receiving letters from inhabitants of Merafi . . . Kenan swallowed and said, “Where is she?”

“I do not know. She went out.”

Nor should she leave without first informing Kenan. He held out his hand and said, “Give it to me.” Tafarin was silent, studying him. “I will ensure she receives it.”

“It’s private,” Tafarin said, mildly.

“So she has taken another of these out-clan Merafiens to her bed?” Again, no answer. “That does not accord well with our laws, Tafarin
kai-reth
. Give that letter to me.”

“I think not, Kenan
kai-reth
.”

“I remind you, then, of clan ranking. I am Orcandrin-born. When my grandsire dies, I will be the Orcandros, ruler not only of my clan, but of our land in its entirety, by the old right of the otter-clan. You are Morweneddin. The fox does not run ahead of the otter. By blood- and birthright, I command you, Tafarin Morwenedd. Do my bidding.”

Quenfrida had taught him something of the craft of commanding. Kenan let her dictums settle on him, speaking slowly, calmly; holding his gaze mild and level. Tafarin shuffled and tried to look away. Kenan put out a hand, and looked expectant. There was a pause, then Tafarin put the letter into it.

It was a small triumph. Tafarin was his elder and no respecter of customs which happened not to suit him. An unsuitable person to co-lead the royal
kai-rethin
guard. Kenan would change that when he was prince. He smiled now and said gently, “Thank you, Tafarin
kai-reth
.”

Six hundred years of hot clan-blood looked back at him out of Tafarin’s eyes. Tafarin snapped, “You are
not
welcome,” and turned to go. Kenan went right on smiling.

He opened the letter in the privacy of his suite. Two lines, no more. No address. But it was sufficient. Iareth Yscoithi of Alfial would learn better than to go behind his back. Iareth Yscoithi of Alfial would discover what it meant to cross him.

The handwriting was that of Urien Armenwy. He was here, in Merafi, in defiance of Kenan. It could only be Iareth who had summoned him. It was only the generosity of Kenan’s grandsire which had conferred on Iareth the rank and privilege of
kai-reth
. Her bastard breeding should have withheld it from her, out-clan,
elor-reth
.

There were rules, and rules. One set for the clan-bred, the
kai-rethin
. Another, wholly separate, for the bastard
elor-rethin
.

And Iareth
elor-reth
, called Iareth Yscoithi of Alfial, was about to discover the depths of the difference.

A few streets away, Iareth Yscoithi had other things on her mind than what Kenan might think of her. She had been at her morning sword practice when a liveried footman arrived and handed her a letter. She had excused herself to her sparring partner, then opened it, frowning. The writing was unknown to her. The seal was not. The Far Blays.

It was a short note, to the point and frostily polite. Lieutenant Joyain Lievrier had been taken ill. He was under the protection of the d’Illandre family. He had asked for Iareth; the writer would be obliged if she would visit, although equally the writer would understand any reluctance she might feel to enter that house. It was signed “Miraude d’Iscoigne l’Aborderie.”

Valdarrien’s wife. Valdarrien’s widow, whom he once had offered to put aside for Iareth’s sake. But Iareth had refused him and returned to her kin, leaving him in turn to this Miraude. And Valdarrien had died.

Iareth had come back to Merafi, but she had had no intention of returning to Valdarrien’s home. Not even Urien might compel her so far. But this . . . She could not imagine how Joyain might have come to be under Miraude’s protection, but it was there in black and white. Ill, and asking for her . . . She had heard the rumors of sickness in the city, seen the fires. With Joyain, she had fought in the mist. She had not missed the joy that Kenan found in Merafi’s misfortunes. She owed Joyain this much at least.

She did not want to enter that house. It was her duty, nevertheless, to do so. Having once decided, she permitted herself no hesitation. It lay within easy walking distance of the embassy and it took a matter of minutes to reach it. She knocked upon its door and stated her name and purpose to the footman. He was strange to her. He ushered her in, took her cloak, and showed her into a room she remembered, to wait for Miraude.

A morning room, neat and bright, facing the garden. She had sat here with Valdarrien. She put the memory from her and sat with her back to the view. When the door opened, she neither started nor rose. It was Miraude who looked nervous, here on her own ground. She did not sit and she said, “You’re Iareth Yscoithi. Thank you for coming.”

“I understand that Lieutenant Lievrier has asked for me.”

“Yes.” Miraude began to play with one of her ribbons. “He’s ill . . . It’s good of you to come, after . . .”

Iareth said, “A house is only stone. I have no reason to fear it.”

“No, I suppose not.” Miraude sat. “But I thought you mightn’t want to come. Because of Valdin.” Her voice stumbled on the last word and she looked down.

“I came for Lieutenant Lievrier.”

“I saw you the other evening. At the palace.” Miraude said. “I wanted to talk to you then, but I couldn’t.” Her fingers pleated her gown. “Valdin missed you terribly, you know.”

It sounded like a reproach. Probably it was a reproach. Miraude had no reason to love her. Iareth said, “That is regrettable.” It was her business, how she felt about Valdarrien’s death and why she had left him.

Miraude said, “You seem to be rather good at it. Being on the minds of men in pain.”

“My connection with Lieutenant Lievrier is purely professional,” Iareth said. And then, a little more kindly,

“It is good of you to take him in.”

“I could hardly leave someone lying in the road.” Miraude rose. “Do you want to see him now?”

“Certainly.” Iareth also rose.

Miraude went to the door, hesitated. “May I ask you something?”

Iareth made no reply.

“About Valdin . . . Why did you leave him?”

The matter was between Iareth and lost Valdarrien. Except Miraude was Valdarrien’s widow. She had the right of any kinsman to show concern. Iareth drew herself up to her full height and said, “Duty.”

“Duty?” Miraude frowned. “I don’t see . . .”

“I am Lunedithin. I owe the greater part of myself to my kin. They had need of me. I returned to them. Valdin Allandur was my
kai-reth
by courtesy alone. His claim on me was lesser.”

“You’re very cold,” Miraude said. “Someone will conduct you to the lieutenant.” She opened the door and beckoned a servant.

Iareth followed the girl in silence, feeling Miraude watching her.
You’re very cold
. It was possible. She had made her choices; she had learned to live within them. They went up the wide stair she remembered, into the gallery and into a chamber she did not recall, one floor down from where she had lain with Valdarrien.

Another maid sat beside the bed, watching over Joyain. She rose and curtsyed as Iareth entered; then both servants left the room. Iareth sat on the stool and looked at Joyain. There was a scent in the air that Iareth recognized: honeysuckle and death. The scent she remembered from the fight in the mist. She laid a hand over one of his and said softly, “Jean?”

No answer. He shifted and turned, flesh burning. There was water beside the bed. She touched a little of it to his lips and repeated his name. This time, his lids fluttered and opened.

His voice was indistinct. He said a name she did not know. It sounded like “Lelien,”

“It is Iareth Yscoithi.”

Joyain said, “No,” and his hand pulled out from hers. He gasped as though the movement pained him. His face contorted. She hesitated, then put her hand against it. His skin was damp. He had, at some point, asked for her, but he did not know her now. He had wanted her for some reason. She bit her lip and said, “Miraude Allandur says that you wanted me.” A pause. “I have come.”

He repeated, “No.” His eyes opened. He looked at her. She sat motionless, although fear at last had her, and waited. He said, on a note of wonder, “Iareth?”

“So.”

“I saw . . .” He licked dry lips. “He’s dead.” Another pause. “Shoot your deserters . . . The city will fall.”

It meant nothing to her, but her hand stroked his hair, and she made herself smile. Joyain lifted a hand and tried to reach hers. He lacked the control to complete the motion. Iareth took it in her spare one. She said, “Do you want anything?”

He did not seem to hear her. He was looking past her now, and his eyes were unfocused. He said, “Too late,” and then, “Iareth.”

“Yes?”

“Not dead . . . I saw him, with Lord Thiercelin . . . He’ll kill me.”

“Who?”

He looked back at her, and for a short moment his eyes were clear. His hand clung to hers. He said, “Iareth . . .”

“Yes?”

“I saw your . . . Valdarrien.”

He had mentioned it before. He was not the only one. Iareth put that from her. She was in no case to be burdened with the problems of the city. She said, “It was a dream only. A product of the fever.”

“No . . . He’s not the only thing . . . Lelien saw. And we did.”

She was silent. He seemed to forget her, gaze wandering away. Under her hands she could feel the heat that consumed him. And he was young and strong. Shoot your deserters? It made a certain amount of sense to her. He had left the embassy for duties in the low city, where the sickness was. Deserters would carry that same sickness throughout Merafi.

As Joyain himself had done. He was part of Kenan’s silent war. He shifted again and looked at her. His hand clenched on hers. “Iareth,” he said. “Iareth. The city is drowning.”

He did not know her again after that, although he spoke from time to time. Iareth sat with him a further half hour; then she rose and went in search of Miraude.

She found her in a withdrawing room, picking out tunes on a harpsichord. As Iareth entered, Miraude looked up and frowned.

Without gilding, Iareth said, “He might die. You should not have brought him under your roof.”

Miraude said, “Not your business, I think.”

“No.”

“Shouldn’t you be leaving?”

“Indubitably,” Iareth said, and yearned for Urien’s calm good sense. “Where is Yviane Allandur?”

“At the palace. She doesn’t spend much time here. Her messages are forwarded every day or so. I very much doubt she’ll receive you.”

“You are right. I have wronged you.” Iareth spoke quickly, cold, hard. The Yscoithi had not, over the years, forgotten their claws. “You have every reason for your disdain. Yet it would go better if you listen to me.”

“I’d be surprised,” Miraude said, “if your homespun wisdom surpasses the medical knowledge of my doctor.” Iareth said nothing. “He has a fever, but . . .”