Part 17 (1/2)
”I'll remember that.” They smiled at each other. ”And Yviane?”
”I don't know. Does she play the spinet?”
”That wasn't what I meant.”
”I feared not.” Gracielis drew in a long breath. ”I'm not her lover now.”
”Not 'now'?”
”Not . . . Not since the death of Lord Valdarrien. Before that, yes, for some two and a half years.”
”I see.” Thiercelin sighed.
”It does not help you, knowing.”
”No, not really.” Thiercelin looked at the fire. ”And even if she was . . . if you and she still . . . It wouldn't be my business, would it?”
Carefully, Gracielis said, ”Have you been faithful to her?”
”Yes. Does it surprise you?”
”No. You love her.”
”Oh, that.” Thiercelin waved a hand through the lieutenant's ghost. It snarled at him. ”It's what I do. I love Yviane. I always did, even before . . . It doesn't change anything.”
It was Gracielis' opinion that it changed a goodly number of things. He said, ”Does she know that?”
”It wouldn't make any difference.”
Gracielis said, ”She isn't given to thinking of herself as lovable. Just as useful. She doesn't make such things easy.”
”She makes it impossible.” Thiercelin rubbed his eyes. ”I can't make her hear me, I can't reach her, and I've tried for so long. And now . . . this business of Valdin and Iareth Yscoithi. I can't burden her with all that.” He covered his face. ”I'm a mess, Graelis. There's more.” Gracielis was silent, waiting. To the floor, Thiercelin said, ”There's you.” He looked up. ”Can I stay, tonight? I don't want to go home.”
”You should, nevertheless.”
”I can't, not yet.”
”If you wish, then.”
”I don't mean . . . That is, I want the company, but I don't . . .”
Gracielis smiled. ”There is,” he said, ”no obligation.”
”Thank you,” Thiercelin said. And then, ”You're making a habit of this, aren't you? Being kind to me.” Gracielis looked away, discomforted. Thiercelin said, ”That night, when Valdin was killed . . .”
”It was nothing.”
”It was a great deal. And the other things more recently, to do with him.” He paused. ”I saw him again . . . He spoke, this time. He seemed so real . . . It's no problem of yours.”
Gracielis looked at the lieutenant's ghost. His share of the burden left by careless Valdarrien. However much he might wish to avoid it, he was bound into this, even without Quenfrida's schemes and temptations. He did not pretend to understand. Because he had been silent a little too long, and Thiercelin was watching him, he smiled, and said, ”One likes to keep in practice. Such opportunities aren't common, here in Merafi.” The ghost grinned.
”Or anywhere, I'd have thought.”
”Merafi especially.” Gracielis spoke without thinking. Thiercelin looked inquiring. ”You know the old tales? Regarding places where . . . things not wholly human might more easily manifest?”
”There's something about it in the legend of Yestinn Allandur. His rival, Gaverne Orcandros, had a . . .” Thiercelin seemed to be searching for a word. ”He was supposed to have found a woman who had no clan blood, or some such. Is that what you mean? The creatures born out of flame or stone?”
”Something of the kind. The stronghold of the Orcandrin was at one of those vulnerable places. That's how he was able to find his . . . his lover.”
”I never heard any tales of that kind regarding Merafi.”
”No indeed. Merafi is an opposed place.” Gracielis hesitated and then added, ”Legendarily. It is supposed to have a property-a kind of opacity-to such creatures.”
”Ghosts,” put in Thiercelin.
Gracielis looked at the lieutenant's ghost, and nodded. ”Ghosts, for instance. It's said that some quality of this city-the mingling of salt and fresh water, perhaps-produces that opacity. That's why Yestinn is supposed to have chosen the site to build his capital. His old stronghold wasn't opaque. And he'd attracted negative attention from . . . inhuman things.”
”Do you believe it?” Thiercelin's tone was hard to read. He sounded almost anxious.
Gracielis hesitated. After a moment, he said, ”Well, I am Tarnaroqui . . .”
The disclaimer had the desired effect. Thiercelin relaxed and smiled.
All over Merafi, curfew rang. In the Lunedithin residence, high on the northwest side, Iareth Yscoithi of Alfial made her preparations for bed. On the floor below, Tafarin Morwenedd opened a second bottle and raised a gla.s.s to absent friends. Joyain declined to join him, and wondered how long it would be before he would be relieved of this duty. Kenan had gone out before lunch and once again not returned. This would be the second night he had been absent.
Kenan was no child, no prisoner, and no fool. It was his business, if he elected to spend a night in foreign arms (whatever Iareth might say about his proclivities). And it was not-could not be-Joyain's fault, if he lacked the same unconcern demonstrated by the Lunedithin charges. It was not part of his orders to know their exact whereabouts at all times.
It had, above all, nothing to do with any lingering sense of guilt Joyain might have regarding his own behavior. Valdarrien of the Far Blays was dead. If his friend Thiercelin was to fight Joyain tomorrow, it still had nothing to do with Joyain's congress with Iareth Yscoithi. Everyone involved was an independent adult.
He had no intention of indulging in guilt. He had nothing to feel guilty about. Kenan was guaranteed to turn up safe and sound, probably at the most inconvenient moment possible and full of unreasonable demands for attention. Everything was perfectly in order.
He hoped that Leladrien had managed to make proper arrangements regarding guns. He hoped that Thiercelin's second would remember enough about military law to bribe the park keepers to look the other way tomorrow morning. Otherwise . . .
His spurs clicked as he turned and started back down the room. It was fine. He was not worrying. He had nothing to worry about.
He could not help it, all the same.
Beside the fire, Tafarin poured more wine and smiled. Upstairs, Iareth put out her candle and opened the cas.e.m.e.nt.
A few streets away, Yvelliane of the Far Blays sat in the dark, pretending to herself that she was not waiting for Thiercelin to return. Maldurel of South Marr, in his lodgings, put the finis.h.i.+ng touches to his toilette, thinking of nothing in particular. Miraude sat up in bed, head bent over a volume on the early history of Gran' Romagne.
The night was clear. Two moons, out of phase, lit the city. In the new dock, the last of the fires were nearly extinguished, the last rioters almost subdued. The river flowed on, thick with mud and fallen leaves. The air smelled of coal and autumn. No ghost rode the starlit aisle to the Rose Palace. Down in the shantytown, the sinkholes ran saltless for the first time in a week. In Amalie's salon, the master of the Haberdashers' Guild sipped sweet wine. Word from the coast guard spoke of s.h.i.+ps finally expected home now that the weather had improved.
In Quenfrida's house in the old city, Kenan Orcandros smiled.
Thiercelin could not sleep. It was, he was aware, n.o.body's fault but his own, yet for all that he could not escape a vague sense of resentment. He lay in Gracielis' bed and wriggled, staring into the gloom. The room was lit only by the dying fire. Before it, Gracielis stretched out. He had his back to Thiercelin and his blanket pulled up to his chin. Probably, he was asleep. Thiercelin turned over again and suppressed a sigh. Think of nothing. Think of something neutral . . . Not of tomorrow's duel, not of Yvelliane. Remember Valdin, that time in the Old Palace, fighting in a gallery. How he cursed the polish on the floors! Of course, it was different with swords; such duels took longer. A pistol shot . . . Don't think about it.His opponent-what was his name?-Lievrier was a cavalryman. Had to be a fair shot, then. Maybe better used to muskets . . . Thiercelin should not have drunk so much today, risked a hangover. River bless that Gracielis had made him eat. One thing Yvelliane would not have to reproach herself with. . . . Don't think about it.
It was much too warm. Thiercelin wondered if Gracielis would mind if he opened a shutter. The fire was going out, of course, but . . . He wriggled some more and tried to get comfortable. He could smell Gracielis' scent on the pillows and sheets. He lay in the very place where Gracielis himself must usually lie, hair tangling with the memory of auburn curls. Don't think about that, either. Had Yvelliane ever felt this same confusion? Not since Valdin died, Gracielis had said, but Thiercelin could picture it anyway, Yviane here in this room, in Gracielis' arms. He s.h.i.+vered with a jealousy that was part pleasure.
Gracielis had not lived here six years ago, prompted the rational side of his mind. Remember, he roomed down by the old docks, in that inn where Valdin . . .