Living With Ghosts (6 page)

Gracielis said, “Monseigneur, may I ask a question?”

“Probably.”

“You speak of Lord Valdarrien. Have you ever seen another ghost?”

Thiercelin frowned. “No. I’d always assumed they were just a story.”

Gracielis smiled. Thiercelin looked curious. “Such an attitude is very Merafien. But it’s perhaps unwise. Ghosts are no fable.”

“I thought you said they were harmless.”

“Often.” Gracielis took care not to look at the lieutenant’s ghost. “But not always. They can be malicious.”

“You’ve seen that happen?”

“No.” Thiercelin was beginning to look worried. Gracielis smiled at him and squeezed his hand. “It’s rare. It’s unlikely you’re in danger.”

“Unlikely.” Thiercelin sounded sceptical. “Valdin wouldn’t approve. He liked to consider himself very dangerous.”

“So I remember hearing. Tonight, then, if you wish.”

“Thank you.” Thiercelin hesitated, then added, “How do I pay you?”

Traitor’s gold, left by Quenfrida in a rented room. She must have known of the irregularities in this case before giving him her orders, and she would gloat if he came suppliant to her for explanations. Gracielis said, “There will be no charge.”

Thiercelin looked surprised.

“You are buying nothing that I sell.” Their hands were still joined. “However, should there be anything else . . . ?” The glance with which Gracielis accompanied the words was arch.

“There won’t be,” Thiercelin said and took his hand away.

Yvelliane placed a brass paperweight on the top of the tall pile of papers that stood at her left elbow and stretched her shoulders. She said, “I have some new information on the illegal imports of steel from the Allied City States. My sister-in-law Miraude attended the public masquerade earlier this week, and she confirms that the Ninth Councillor is meeting with someone from the customs office. I have another agent checking that out now. But it will be at least ten days before I receive the next report from any of our embassies there.” She looked across the broad oak table at Laurens of Valeranica, Prince Consort to Queen Firomelle and himself a scion of one of the Allied Cities.

“I’ll write to my uncle.” Laurens said. “He’ll probably deny any official knowledge at his end, but he’ll know we’re watching. He might decide that makes it too much trouble.”

“We can hope.” Yvelliane smiled at him. “And meanwhile, I’ll make sure that the Ninth Councillor’s office is very closely monitored.” She stretched again and rubbed the back of her neck.

From her high winged chair beside the fire, Firomelle said, “When did you last sleep, Yviane?”

“Last night.”

“At home in your own bed for a sensible number of hours? Or over your papers at your desk for a couple of hours?”

Yvelliane evaded her cousin’s gaze. “There’s a lot to get through right now, with the formal reception for Prince Kenan tomorrow evening.”

It was early evening. The gray autumn light retreated slowly from the tall windows, drawing lines in shadow across the floorboards. Two fires, one at either end of the long room, offered patches of brightness. The table stood in the center, its surface covered with letters, account books, document cases, and papers. Three silver candelabra marched along its spine, none of them lit. In front of Laurens was an impressive array of ink holders, pens, and seals. Three walls were lined with tapestries in yellow and red, depicting the journey of fire from the
Book of Five Domains
. The lower parts of most of them were invisible behind oak bookcases filled with records in red-bound ledgers and roll cases in blue and green. The fourth was set with three tall casement windows. Small carpets stood before both hearths, edged by two winged chairs and a number of stools. Officially, this was the queen’s smaller withdrawing room. In practice, it was her day-to-day office, where she met with her closest advisers. Laurens and Yvelliane sat at the east end of the table, close to the queen’s chair and the larger of the two fires. Its warm light was kind but could not disguise the hollows in Firomelle’s face, the thinness of her hands, or the way she held her heavy shawl wrapped tightly about her. From time to time she coughed, the sound hard and painful. Every time it happened, Yvelliane and Laurens exchanged a glance and said nothing. There was no point. Firomelle had no intention of sacrificing her duties to her health.

Now, she said, “Ah, yes. The heir to Lunedith. You’ve met him, haven’t you, Yviane? Remind me about him.”

“That was six years ago.” Yvelliane propped her elbows on the table. “He was only fourteen, he may have changed.”
A spoiled boy with too much opinion of himself and too little experience to know he could ever be wrong
. She had spent a few handfuls of weeks only in Lunedith, as Firomelle’s special envoy, accompanied by restless, troublesome Valdarrien. She remembered the chill of stone walls, rooms that stood half empty, furnished only with benches and chests or an old-fashioned, closed-sided bed and lit only by sparse, thin slits of windows or the gutter of rush torches. Valdarrien had at first pronounced the Lunedithin to be as grim as their granite buildings, but Yvelliane had found Prince Keris, Kenan’s grandfather, to be both warm and kind, and Urien Armenwy, his First Councillor, to have a political mind as sharp as her own. Kenan had attended a few of their meetings, thin face set in an expression of disapproval and distrust. He had drawn his circle from the most conservative of the clan-heads and their kin; his comments had hinted at views that were both anti-Merafien and isolationist. She would not have taken him seriously at all had it not been for one anomaly in his behavior. Prejudiced as he was, he had nevertheless shown a surprising friendship for one of the Tarnaroqui envoys also present, the seductive Quenfrida d’Ivrinez. Perhaps it had been no more than a boy’s attraction to an older woman. Yvelliane had never gained proof that it was more than that. Yet she and Valdarrien had been ambushed on their way home with the new treaty, and she had long suspected that both Kenan and Quenfrida had had a hand in that.

Six months ago, Quenfrida had arrived in Merafi to become an aide to the ambassador from Tarnaroq. And now Kenan had come. He was twenty: by law, he had to swear allegiance to Firomelle. But that Quenfrida should also be present . . . It was a coincidence that had had Yvelliane concerned for months. She rested her chin on her hands, and said, “He didn’t like Merafiens back then. But he’s a lot older. He may understand more of the politics.” She was not sure she believed it. She had to give him at least the benefit of the doubt. “He aligned himself with the ultra-traditionalists.”

“The clans who believe in going back as far as possible to their oldest customs,” Firomelle said. “Minimal contact with outsiders and independence from Gran’ Romagne.”

“Is that technically possible?” Laurens asked. “The Gran’ Romagnol dynasty began in Lunedith. They’d have to declare themselves a separate state in law.”

“According to our ambassador there, the technicalities don’t worry them. They just want to cut themselves off,” Yvelliane said.

“In his last few dispatches, he’s said very little about Kenan,” said Firomelle.

“Dispatches aren’t necessarily secure,” Laurens said.

“The usual security arrangements are in place,” Yvelliane said. “But we have to give him the benefit of the doubt.” She glanced over at the queen, who returned the gaze levelly. “We don’t want to provoke an incident, I know.”

“But you don’t trust him.” Firomelle paused and coughed. The other two exchanged glances. “Ask that clever sister-in-law of yours to keep an eye on him, Yviane. Six years ago, you suggested he may have a weakness for a pretty woman.”

“It troubles me that Quenfrida is here too,” Yvelliane admitted.

“So far, she’s behaved impeccably.”

“I know, but . . .”

Firomelle held up a hand. Blue veins showed in it, as if her flesh grew transparent. “You don’t trust the Tarnaroqui, I know. Everyone knows. But we must maintain peace with them. I can’t leave a legacy of war to my son when he comes to the throne as a minor.”

“It won’t come to that,” Yvelliane said to the tabletop. Laurens reached across and patted her hand. She went on, “You can’t say ‘when.’ ”

“I must.” There was a silence. About the table, the shadows had lengthened as the sun set outside. Yvelliane stared at her papers. She could hear Firomelle’s breathing, rough and uncomfortable. For so many months, she had hoped that this would pass, that her cousin would regain her health and strength. But with each of those months, Firomelle had grown weaker, her body thinning, the cough becoming more frequent, more painful. Last month, she had begun to cough up blood, and the solemn doctors had begun to frown. The crown prince was twelve: Laurens would have to hold the kingdom firm and fast for something on the order of eight years, in the face of an aristocracy always hungry for advancement, and neighbors who were always ready to take advantage. Prince Keris in Lunedith was loyal, but he was an old man and also in poor health. The city states would follow whichever path brought them the greatest advantage. And to the southeast, the vast empire of Tarnaroqui waited and watched, ruled by its cloistered emperor and his network of
undarii
, assassin-priests, who were forbidden by ancient law from setting foot in Gran’ Romagne. Yvelliane did not trust the Tarnaroqui, had never been able to trust them, but Firomelle was right: now, above all, they must have peace with Tarnaroq. Laurens had been cultivating the Tarnaroqui ambassador, Sigeris, for most of a year, trying to lay the ground for what must be their future relations. Yvelliane sighed and raised a hand to rub her eyes.

Laurens said, “Sigeris and his entourage will expect to call on Kenan. We’ll raise the level of monitoring, but we can’t do more. There’s no proof that Quenfrida is anything more than she seems. One of my people in their embassy reports on her regularly, and the most he’s found is that she’s carrying on a flirtation with the Vicomte de Guares.” He patted her had again, and Yvelliane looked up. “I’m keeping my eyes on them, Yviane. Stop worrying.”

If only she could . . . Yvelliane made herself smile at him. He was a good man, a kind one, and she trusted him. And he was right: there was little they could do at present except keep a careful watch on their troublesome foreign guests. Firomelle coughed again, this time for longer, and Laurens rose and went to her. Firomelle pressed a hand to her side, fighting to regain her breath.

Yvelliane rose also. “Fielle? Shall I call someone?” She made to move toward the bellrope.

“No,” Firomelle said through a cough. Laurens poured cordial into a glass from the carafe that stood on a side table and handed it to her. She sipped it slowly while they watched. Yvelliane found her hands clenching and put them behind her back. As far back as she could remember, Firomelle had been her closest friend and comforter, dearer to her than anyone in the world save Valdarrien. When she and Valdarrien had lost their parents, Firomelle had brought them to court and raised them almost as younger siblings. After Valdarrien’s death, they had grown even closer. The resemblance between the two women was marked; both were tall and slender and dark-eyed, even though Firomelle’s face was hollow these days and there were gray streaks in her soft brown hair. If she were to die . . . Yvelliane did not want to think of that. She made herself unclench her hands and straighten her spine.
Think about the policies, about now,not the future.Think about what we have to donow
. . . She was very tired suddenly. Despite herself, she frowned.

Firomelle said, “Come here, Yviane.”

The coughing fit was over: the queen held out a hand. Laurens stood beside her, his hand on the back of her chair. Yvelliane sank to the rug at her feet, and Firomelle stroked her hair. Yvelliane caught the hand. “Fielle . . .”

“Hush.”

Yvelliane leaned back. “Listen,” Firomelle said, “you’re tired. You should go home.”

“I still have work . . .”

“You have a husband who wants to see you. He’s a good man. Don’t neglect him.” Yvelliane looked down, hiding her face. Firomelle went on. “He could help you a lot, if you let him. He’s intelligent and he adores you.”

“Politics don’t interest him. He likes to ride and play cards and . . .”

“He’s not Valdin,” Laurens said. “And he’s over thirty.”

“I don’t . . .” Yvelliane said, and stopped. She liked to think of Thiercelin at home, removed and protected from the grind of government work. Unlike Miraude, he had never shown any interest in it. He had been Valdarrien’s friend; he did not belong in her world of papers and gray intrigues. She did not think she wanted him to belong. She had not been able to keep danger away from Valdarrien, and now death reached out for Firomelle. She wanted Thiercelin to be safe. He was her haven: always there, always calm and loving and ready to smile at her. Except that he, too, lately seemed to be hiding something from her . . .

Kenan and Quenfrida in the city. Firomelle dying. Thiercelin perhaps drawing away from her. Yvelliane turned her face into the queen’s skirts and tried not to be afraid.

Gracielis was trying to enjoy himself. The rain had finally stopped, and the night’s chill had yet to penetrate Thiercelin’s carriage. It was drawn up in the shadows at the road’s edge, and showing no lights. Clouds covered both moons. Music rang from the bright windows of the nearby Rose Palace. Gracielis could see the shadowy forms of the upper classes at play. It was all most edifying. He said as much to his companion, voice amused in the darkness.

“Watch the road,” was all Thiercelin said.

It was Gracielis’ private opinion that it mattered little where they kept their vigil. It appeared that Valdarrien’s ghost was drawn to Thiercelin in any place. But Thiercelin was set upon waiting here in the royal aisle. He had wanted to do so on foot, unshielded from the damp and cold. Gracielis had objected. He had no wish to risk his livelihood by an untimely bout of pneumonia. Thiercelin had frowned, muttered, and conceded the point. “Although,” he said, “I see little point in your presence if you’re too wrapped up in blankets to do anything.”