Living With Ghosts (54 page)

“Kenan Orcandros.”

No reply. He waited, then spoke it again. He seemed to be wholly alone in this rotted part of the city; even the garrison had withdrawn. He hesitated and spoke the name a third time. This time there was a response. Below him the waters stirred and shivered, beginning to mist. From behind him came a footfall.

Valdarrien turned. Kenan, clad in bloody clothing, stood some twenty feet away, on the steps of what had once been a sugar merchant’s store. His face showed no surprise. He was older than Valdarrien remembered, taller, broader. That did not matter in the slightest. He said, “Valdin Allandur. Ill met.”

Valdarrien bowed. “For you, perhaps.”

“I thank you. You have some cause for troubling me?”

“You know that I do.” Valdarrien took a step toward him. The blood on that tunic might be hers. He longed to strike Kenan down with a word.

He longed to kill him by slow inches and make mockery of his pleas for mercy. He drew his sword and said, shaking, “I shall kill you.”

“For Iareth
elor-reth
? I doubt it.” Kenan stood motionless, hands on his hips. “You are illusion, Valdin Allandur. You have no power over me. Not now. Neither you nor the Armenwy can harm me. I have taken her blood to ensure that.”

“Don’t bet on it.” Valdarrien took another step. “Defend yourself.”

Kenan shrugged. “As you wish.” His voice was amused. He gestured at the river and spoke a word in some foreign tongue.

Mist rose. Valdarrien felt it as a chill in his veins. Water thundered in his ears. He drew before him the image of Iareth and took another step forward. Kenan spoke again. Another step. Perplexity began to show on Kenan’s face. Valdarrien smiled and quickened his pace. The mist was all about him. He moved through it and felt it slide in turn through him. No longer quite human, no longer quite real. Gracielis de Varnaq had diagnosed him and shivered. Now Kenan shivered in his turn, and Valdarrien laughed. Creature of water, he could take no harm from the water Kenan sought to use against him.

He came to the foot of the steps. He looked up at Kenan, and said,
“Engarde.”

Kenan drew.

They were much of a height, although the steps gave Kenan an advantage. Valdarrien studied him in silence for a few moments. A little broader than himself, perhaps overconfident. To stack against that, Kenan was armed Lunedithin style, hand-and-a-half sword, weighted to cut and slash, slower than Valdarrien’s rapier, but heavier, heavier. Then, too, Kenan had known a lifetime of drill under the calm eye and expert counsel of Urien Armenwy. Not easy. Not very easy.

Valdarrien lunged, aiming for the thigh. Kenan’s blade shifted sideways from his low guard, deflecting. Valdarrien stepped back and waited.

Kenan smiled, holding position. His eyes were measuring. He could simply go on standing there. Valdarrien exhaled and attacked again; a beat, a beat, then a disengage under Kenan’s blade, striking upward.

Cloth tore. Kenan twisted and jumped off the step, landing on the other side. He still smiled. Valdarrien circled toward him, and Kenan switched guard, using both hands. Mist drifted and swirled between them.

Broader, and probably slower . . . The long pauses were a feint, that was all, designed to wear down Valdarrien’s nerves and play upon his frustrated anger. Valdarrien continued to circle, hand tight on his sword hilt, courting calm.
Don’t think about I areth, now; don’t dwell on the loss of her
. Think now only of the moment, of the man before him.

Kenan cut at him in
quarte
. Valdarrien remembered in time not to block the blow and ducked away from it, coming up a little to one side. The tip of his blade circled under Kenan’s arm, probing for the flank. Kenan had to step back to avoid it. Valdarrien pursued the advantage, feinting right, then flicking in under Kenan’s guard. Kenan drew back with a curse. Blood dripped from his forearm. This time, Valdarrien smiled.

That proved to be a mistake. Kenan broke rhythm and cut to his side. Valdarrien, wasting time gloating, tried to twist away and had to step back, losing ground. He cursed and struck back.

Kenan parried, struck in turn, was parried. His face was intent, passionless. His breathing was quite regular. Valdarrien caught himself starting to hyperventilate; controlled it. So Kenan was good. So what. Valdarrien had fought better and won. He risked a head cut, trying to get Kenan to raise his guard, and succeeded in tearing another hole in his opponent’s tunic with the follow-through. Kenan dropped back and looked at him.

“I was wondering, Valdin Allandur,” he said pleasantly, “if we play or fight?”

“Iareth Yscoithi,” Valdarrien said.

Kenan shrugged. “I regret I do not see the cause. By the law of my people there is no vengeance due for her kind.”

“I’m not subject to your laws.”

“Indeed? Nor to those of your homeland, I think. Is it not forbidden to fight in the public street in Merafi?”

“I’m dead,” Valdarrien said and enjoyed it. “Dead men have no laws.” He looked at Kenan. “You’ll no doubt discover that when I’ve killed you.”

“If,”
said Kenan, reprovingly. “I dislike finding myself dismissed so certainly.”

“My heart bleeds.”

“Pray that you do not have the gift of prophecy.”

Valdarrien attacked in
seconde
, evaded Kenan’s block, and slashed upward. Kenan twisted free and struck. Valdarrien longed for an off-hand weapon, as he parried and sidestepped. The air was still and a little sticky; the mist wrapped them in the odors of burning and decay. Perhaps it troubled Kenan. Valdarrien paid it no heed.

He feinted, drew back, feinted again on the other side, and succeeded in wrong-footing Kenan. The mistake left his opponent off-balance and with his right side open. Valdarrien lunged straight into the gap and felt the impact jar down his arm as his sword tip met bone. Kenan gasped and pulled away. Valdarrien pressed the advantage, driving blows against the other’s guard. That cut on the forearm must be beginning to tell on Kenan by now. Valdarrien dropped his own guard momentarily, then leaped aside and used Kenan’s attempt at a hit to bring in a blow to the same forearm.

Kenan shifted his sword to a single-hand grip. He was beginning to pant a little, and his look of concentration was sliding. His injured arm hung by his side. Valdarrien paused to check his own footing, then advanced and struck.

A high blow, a
flêche
, blade snake-sudden. Kenan was still recovering. His guard was not solid. He tried to parry, fumbling, and left himself open. The tip of Valdarrien’s sword slid past his wavering blade and came in at the base of his throat between the bones, where the veins lay. Kenan looked up into Valdarrien’s eyes, and his face spoke disbelief.

The late Lord of the Far Blays smiled at him, and drove the sword home.

22

H
IS HEAD DIDN’T HURT. This was so unexpected that it took Joyain a minute or so to register the fact. He opened a very cautious eye, swallowed (his mouth tasted foul), and waited for reaction to set in. Nothing. He felt weak, yes, and tired, but beyond that . . . no headache, no nausea, and blessedly no fever. He was alone in a wide bed in a room he dimly remembered as belonging to the young noblewoman with the pretty smile. Miraude, that was it. The one Leladrien had called the famous widow.

He’d dreamed about Lelien, bitter-colored dreams. He didn’t want to think about that or about the realities preceding them. He tried to sit up and discovered that he could do so without anything beyond a mild dizziness. He was very thirsty. The pitcher by the bed contained a liquid he identified as watered milk. He drank, pulling a face at the taste. Then he looked around him. It was day. Light filtered through the half-closed casements. The fire in the grate had gone out. There were no candles. The house was quiet. He hesitated, then decided to risk getting out of bed.

The process proved slow, but far less distressing than the last occasion. He couldn’t find a robe. He wrapped a sheet around himself and, in careful stages, went out into the corridor.

The house was in semidarkness. It smelled musty, un-tended, and beneath that there was the sour stench of illness, the bitterness of ash. How contagious was this plague? Joyain pushed the thought away. Kindness deserved a better reparation than this. He wondered how many days had elapsed since he first woke up here. Room after room was deserted. The hearths were cold. None of the clocks seemed to be running. Several of the beds had been used, but all were empty now.

At the bottom of the back stairs he finally heard a sound. He hesitated, then climbed in cautious stages. His breath caught. He needed to use both hands on the banister. At the head he stopped and listened again. Then he called out, “Hello?”

There was a gasp, a silence. From a room to his right he heard a chair scrape over floorboards. He hesitated again, then tapped lightly on the door, and went in.

A small room under the eaves. The casement was shut tight, the fire was out. The air smelled vile. A still form lay in the bed, another stood in the middle of the room, blinking in the low light from the hall. The beautiful Miraude d’Iscoigne l’Aborderie. Her skin was gray with fatigue, her hair uncombed and lifeless. Her bright gown was torn and stained. She looked at Joyain with dulled eyes and swayed as she stood. She was silent.

He said awkwardly, “Mademoiselle?”

She gulped, not really looking at him. Then she said, “She’s dead. Coralie. And the others have died or run away.”

Joyain remembered what he had seen in the cellar of Leladrien’s garrison. He did not want to look too closely at the woman on the bed. He could smell gathering decomposition. To Miraude he said, “You should come downstairs,” and then, when she did not move, “Here.”

He held out his arm. She rubbed her eyes, then looked at him properly. She said, “I thought you were dead, too.” Her voice was uncertain. He could hear panic awakening within it. “You can’t be alive . . . you brought it here.”

“I’m sorry,” Joyain said, and stopped.

A little unsteadily she said, “This is too absurd.” Her hand knotted in her disordered hair. “You’re apologizing for living?” He was silent. She began to laugh unevenly. After a moment, this turned into sobbing.

“Oh, don’t,” Joyain said, horrified. He felt so tired. He wasn’t up to this. She stood there with her hand pressed to her mouth. He had to do something. She couldn’t stay here. “Please don’t.” She didn’t seem to hear him. He took hold of her arm and led her out of the room. The one next to it was clean and empty. He virtually pulled her into it. There was a chair and an unmade bed. He sank onto the latter, exhausted, and looked at her. She stood a moment, shivering, then she sat down beside him. She was still crying. He hesitated, then put an arm about her. She turned her head into his shoulder. He said again, “I’m sorry.”

“Not . . . your fault,” she said. She paused, then seemed to gather her energy, lifting her head and wiping her eyes. “I don’t know what to do. I’ve tried to keep a quarantine, but . . .”

He said, “How long have I been here?”

“Three days . . . People got ill so quickly. Iareth told me to shut the house and wait till the plague burned itself out, but I don’t know how long that is . . .” She seemed to be fighting further tears. Joyain tightened his hold on her. He felt horribly guilty.

He said, “How do you feel?”

“Oh, I’m fine.” Miraude was bitter. “Everyone else was taken ill, but I’m just tired . . . The doctor took the bodies yesterday, but today he didn’t come, and Coralie . . .”

“Don’t think about it,” Joyain said.

She said, “
You
recovered.”

“Yes.” He couldn’t explain that. He said, “It’ll be all right,” unsure whether or not he believed it. And then: “Iareth told you?”

“You asked for her.”

“Oh.” He didn’t remember. He said, “You’ve been very kind to me . . . I’ve repaid you poorly.”

She ignored that. Instead she said, “But what do we do now?”

“I don’t know.” Joyain looked at her. “We wait, I suppose.”

“I heard voices,” Thiercelin said. “Is Urien back?”

“Not yet.” Gracielis finished rearranging the pillows and began to fidget with the objects on the occasional table. “Do you have any pain?”

“I don’t think so.” Thiercelin leaned back and tried to analyze his physical condition. His side ached but his head was clear. “I think it’s healing.”

“So Urien says.”

“Yes. I owe him for that. And you, Graelis.” Gracielis glanced at him sidelong. “I am, of course, wholly at your service.”

“Of course.” Thiercelin pulled a face. To his surprise, Gracielis neither smiled nor played up to him. “Is something wrong?”

“What would be wrong?”

“Plenty, on current progress. Has the river risen?”

“Probably.”

Gracielis turned his back and went to the fireplace. Thiercelin said, “Talk to me, Graelis. Is it Yviane?”

“No.” Gracielis stared into the mirror over the mantelpiece. The angle was too steep to permit Thiercelin to see his reflection. “Urien went to see her. You’ll have news of her later.”

“There’s something to look forward to.” Thiercelin said. Gracielis turned to look at him. Thiercelin hesitated, then raised a cautious hand. “Come over here.”

“If you wish.” Gracielis came and sat on the bed.

Thiercelin possessed himself of one of his companion’s hands and turned it palm up. The wrists were unmarked. Thiercelin ran a finger along the line of a tendon. “Even the scar has gone.”

“Yes. The
undarii
heal quickly.”

“So, how’s the plan for world domination?”

Gracielis looked startled. “Urien’s or Quenfrida’s?” “Urien’s, of course.”

Gracielis started to play with the ends of his hair. “We should be able to act shortly . . .”

“I’m sorry,” Thiercelin said. “You don’t need me to remind you of that.”

Gracielis looked up. “I shall always need you, monseigneur. Even in that capacity.”