Outside in the street it was cold. A hint of mist crept in from the direction of the river. Climbing into her carriage, Yvelliane leaned back against the seat. Her maid said, “Madame?”
“I’m all right. I’m tired.”
The girl fell silent. Yvelliane closed her eyes as the carriage began its swaying way up the street. She had handled it all wrong again, she had mishandled Thiercelin just as she had always mishandled Valdarrien before him. No wonder he had left her, no wonder he had turned to Gracielis, faced with a wife who did nothing but snap and demand. She did not know what else to do.
He said he loved her.
If he loved her, why had he not come home?
She could not make him. She could do nothing save continue on her set course. She tried to take comfort in that, found it dry and hard and stale. But, said the weasel voice in the back of her head, he wanted to talk to you . . .
There was no time. She had to be back for the evening council.
He wanted you to listen . . .
If he came home, he’d find plenty of opportunities.
But you’re hardly ever there . . . The voice choked her. If he’s gone, whose fault is it, Yviane?
Who killed Valdarrien?
Will I never learn?
11
IN THE DARK OF THE LOST HALL beyond the undercroft, Kenan sat with his eyes closed and counted down the seconds to sunset. Awareness of light and dark, sun and moons ran through his clan-blood. Quenfrida’s teaching had shown him how to awaken it, dilute as it was. He would never have the otter shape of his ancestors, but somewhat of their other skills lived on in him. He sat cross-legged on the floor, upper body naked, hair drawn back into a tight braid, hands resting loosely upon his knees, his breathing regular and slow. The priests had no idea he was here: he had slipped in from the scholar’s private entrance in the shop owner’s cellar. The shop owner would never again remember that entrance. Quenfrida’s instructions had included the art of clouding minds. And the scholar . . . He would never know anything again. As the last light slid below the horizon, Kenan stirred and opened his eyes. It was time.
His tools were laid out before him. A handful of earth from the temple grounds, a glass bottle filled with water from the river, a tallow candle, a stick of red pastel, a bundle of hairs—his own, his grandfather’s, and strands from various of his kai-rethin—and his thin bone-handled knife. He had not Quenfrida’s art of lighting candles with a look: for that he must use flint. In its flickering light, he drew a rough circle on the floor around himself with the pastel and placed the candle carefully beside him. Then he sprinkled the earth in front of him, shaping it into a small mound. The city, stronghold of Firomelle and her line, heart of Gran’ Romagne, which held his homeland in thrall. He held his hand over it, describing it in Lunedithin, first of tongues. Merafi, in small, for him to work his will upon. With the tip of the knife, he scratched a shallow trench around it, digging into the dirt of the cave floor. He untied the hair bundle and wrapped the strands about the base of the mound. Then he uncorked the bottle. All around him, the eyes of the painted creatures watched him. He saluted them and dripped seven drops slowly onto the mound. “River water, mother of the city, vein of its life-blood, hear me.” Another seven drops. “River water, born of the mountains, born of the sea, sweet and salt, to shelter the city and keep it secure.” Seven more drops, “River water, taken by me and summoned by me, be mingled in blood and break your bindings.” He set the bottle aside and picked up his knife. The edge shone slick and cold in the candlelight. He held his left wrist out over the mound and put the knife to it. “Blood of my body, clan-blood, old blood, enact my will on this river and city.” He looked up at the paintings and nodded, once. “Clans of my fathers be my witness.” And drew the knife along his vein.
Blood dripped down. Kenan held still, his breathing steady, counting his heartbeats from one to ten. And then . . .
The mound shivered, quivered. Water began to seep from its sides. Kenan lowered the knife and with his bleeding hand extinguished the candle in the heart of the soil. There was a moment of stillness.
A bear growled, low and angry. Wings beat, lifted, stirred into life. Hoofbeats tapped over the ground. The call of an owl answered the bark of a fox, the cry of a wolf. The hall floor shivered as thin red lines spread out across it, overlaying the natural patterns of earth and water. In the darkness, Kenan smiled. They had heard him, the totems of his past, and they concurred. Clan-blood had spoken. It was time for Merafi to fall.
This was not a good idea. No, being brutally honest, it was a stupid idea and a fitting end to a humiliating and unsatisfactory day. Joyain scowled as he wended his way down toward the old docks. That had its advantages. At least it caused people to get out of his way.
He was not in uniform, but that was no guarantee. Someone in The Pineapple might still recognize him.
The very last thing he needed was a fight.
She will burn you . . . Joyain put no faith in fortune-telling. Gracieux was a meddler and a charlatan, nothing more. What Joyain chose to do was no one’s business but his own. And if he chose to accompany Iareth Yscoithi on some bizarre pilgrimage into the disreputable part of the old dock, well, then . . . He was off duty. He could do as he pleased.
It was morbid. What he really wanted to know was why she couldn’t simply pay a visit to the Far Blays family mausoleum like anyone else?
It was not a question one might ask, not without seeming even more graceless than he felt already. He risked a quick glance at her. Her face was impassive.
The streets grew narrower as they neared the south channel of the river. They were rougher too, and none too clean. In the dim evening light it was sometimes hard to pick a course across the dirty cobbles. The houses lining them had a hunched quality, united against intruders. A sour smell blew off the river.
He turned right just before the quay and followed the dim alley under the edge of the old wall. The torches of the sentries made occasional flashes of light as they patrolled, throwing weird shadows over the roofs. Joyain felt uncomfortable.
The Pineapple was set against the angle of the wall, with a wide yard between it and its neighbors, and a high rounded arch. Once, it would have accommodated travelers arriving by the nearby East Gate. Now most of the livery buildings were derelict, along with the top two floors of the inn itself. The taproom was vast, crowded, and smoky.
The ale was famously awful.
If Joyain had been Valdarrien of the Far Blays, he would have picked a better place to die in. He hesitated outside and said, “Are you sure about this?”
Iareth had been gazing upward, watching the slow-pacing torches. She said, almost absently, “No,” and then unexpectedly smiled at him.
“We don’t have to go in. . . . It was out here that he . . . That the duel took place.”
“So.” She held out a hand to him. “But I would enter, even so.”
Joyain shrugged, taking her hand. He had to duck under the low lintel and nearly came to grief on the uneven step down. He had managed to forget about that, of course. The place was busy, loud, and wholly without merit.
He found them a corner table, looked suspiciously at the bench, dusted it down, then sat with his back to the wall. The clientele was mainly infantry, half still in uniform. There were very few women and none of them respectable.
All in all, it was a very unsuitable place to be.
A servant made his way toward them. Iareth raised a questioning brow. “The ale’s bad,” Joyain said, “but the wine’s worse.”
“Ale, then.”
He ordered for both of them and tried not to look at it too hard when it came. Iareth tasted hers and her eyes met his. Her expression altered not one jot, but her opinion was plain in every line of her. Joyain smiled. He said, “You were warned.”
“Even so.” Her clear eyes laughed. He was aware of a sudden disastrous warmth for her.
She will burn you . . . He looked away and sipped his
ale. It tasted worse than he remembered. He shuddered and pushed it away. Beside him, Iareth dipped a finger into hers and stirred it. When he risked looking at her again, she was oblivious. He found himself moving a little farther from her, a little farther from that calm self-control.
Another woman might have wept. Iareth was not like the other women he knew. She was herself only; and seeing that, he was aware also of the memory of Valdarrien of the Far Blays. The chance remained that she was even now the same woman for whom his erratic lordship had lived and died.
Well, Joyain wasn’t intending to die for her or anyone else. And he had no sympathy to spare for dead Valdarrien. Whatever else the interrupted duel with Thiercelin had been, it had most assuredly been a sad breach of manners.
It fitted admirably the reputation of the late Lord of the Far Blays.
Beside him, Iareth rose. He looked up at her. She said, “Let’s leave.”
“Of course.” He gathered his belongings and joined her. She wore a curious air of severity. Some of the infantrymen looked as she passed and, to a man, turned away as though discomfited.
Outside it had grown foggy. The light from the tavern gave the night a curious quality, like walking through smoke. It was cold. He drew his cloak about him. The thick air bore a faint sweet smell, like overripe fruit. Or honeysuckle.
They passed a handful of people in the alleys, but once they turned toward Change Street, they were alone. Iareth said, “No, I have no understanding.” She spoke more to herself than him. “I had hoped . . . It is a lesson, I suppose. One cannot always learn as much as one wishes.”
Joyain could think of no sensible reply to that. She hesitated, then added, “Forgive me. I had hoped to reach understanding of the choice made by Valdin Allandur. But there is nothing for me in that place.”
Or for anyone. “You might ask Monseigneur de Sannazar,” Joyain said. “He was present.”
“So. He has told me a little.”
He did not want to discuss this. He stared into the fog and said, “Are you cold?”
“No.”
Conversation died. They followed the length of Change Street, turned left, and made for the Glass Bridge, named not for its materials, but for the guild that had paid for it.
He walked into her without meaning to. In the fog he had failed to register that she had stopped. He said, “Whoops,” and staggered a little.
“Hush.” She held up a hand. He could barely make out the gesture.
He could hear nothing out of the ordinary. The creaking of a shop sign. The trickle of water off the eaves. A woman’s voice, singing somewhere. “I don’t . . .”
She put her right hand on his arm. Her left rested on her knife. Joyain looked over his shoulder down the street. Nothing, only fog.
Iareth shoved him. He stumbled and went down, breaking his fall by reflex. Iareth dived to her right, rolled. Something whistled through the space where they had stood and thudded into a wall. Joyain swung to his feet and drew his sword.
He could see almost nothing. She rose to a crouch, a knife in either hand. Silence. He exhaled. “What in the . . . ?”
A dim shape grabbed for Iareth. She half-turned and cut upward. He took a step toward her. She followed up with a feint to her right. Her attacker moved to parry and stumbled, as her left hand came in under his rib cage.
Came in, and went right through . . . Joyain shivered. It had to be the light. He had to be wrong. It was not possible. Iareth stepped back, moved into middle guard, and waited.
The figure straightened and reached for her. And divided itself in two.
Joyain swallowed. Half of it looked at him, and it had not even turned round. He had to be dreaming. Or drunk. Or mad. Such things did not happen in Merafi.
A sword that had not been there only moments before cut at him in quarte. He parried and prepared to follow through. It cut back at him from the other side. He wasn’t fast enough for this. He parried, then used his cloak-wrapped left arm to block the next blow, protecting his chest. It was going to hurt, even if it didn’t get through. The fog hid Iareth from him.
The impact left him breathless. He staggered. His arm was numb, but the pain was dull. No blood, no tear. The sword edge was blunt. Gasping, he twisted away from a flank cut and used the impetus to drive home a thrust into his opponent’s thigh.
It met no resistance. His blade cut air. Nothing there . . . He fell back, in low guard, and put the wall behind him. His spurs dragged on the cobbles, striking sparks.
His opponent recoiled.
Joyain nearly lost the advantage, gawping. The thing could not be hit. It could not, presumably, be disarmed. But that brief flash had alarmed it. He reflex-parried, thinking. Creatures out of fog and damp and chill. He hardly had time to waste lighting fires, even if they did fear it.
The alternative, however, did rather look like being bludgeoned to death. He tried to remember the layout of the street. No taverns—private houses, mostly, and tenements—a small temple. A bakehouse . . . He was half-turned around by the mist. He risked a glance at the building against which he was backed. Bare wall and the edge of a door with a lion-head knocker. Where was he? He parried twice and began to move out to his left. Still no sign of Iareth. Wall. More wall. Blows raining on him. His right wrist ached. His left arm was still numb. Still more wall. Another two parries. His breath sobbed in his chest. If only he could see better.
Abruptly there was nothing at his back. He stumbled and cried out as a blow connected with his sword arm. The shock ran up into his shoulder. Already cramped, his grip slipped, and his saber dropped to the cobbles.
Oh, river bless . . . He lacked breath even to curse. He had to choose, now, between retrieving the sword and investigating the gap. Always supposing, of course, that the creature did not simple relocate itself behind him. He glanced rapidly over his shoulder. Faint, yellow-shadowed mist.
Yellow-shadowed. He remembered the aura around the torches of the sentries and gasped in relief. Somewhere in that yard, there was a light. Or a fire. He had only to get to it.
He was unprotected. He fell back, dodging. If only there was no gate . . . He reached back. Nothing. Nothing. Something mingled with the honeysuckle scent of the air.
He was at the side of a bakehouse. The public bakehouse, whose ovens were always lit. He looked briefly at his insubstantial opponent, then turned and ran. The yard was straw-strewn, the footing treacherous. Slipping and stumbling, he ducked round the pump and misjudged the distance. He nearly collided with the wood-pile for the ovens. He had just enough time to grab up a length of wood, to use as a makeshift shield against the blows that pursued him.
He could feel the heat of the ovens, away to his right. They would be banked for the night. He was going to be unpopular. He had no choice. Wishing his gloves were thicker, he found the latch to an oven door and cranked it open.
Firelight spilled out, turning the mist golden. Joyain, his hands stinging, crouched as close as he might, and tried to make out his surroundings. The sudden transition from cold to hot made him shiver. He controlled his breathing and took a pace forward. Nothing. Another. Two more. On the sixth, something struck at him. He recoiled. Not banished, then, only waiting. But the fire kept it at bay.
He might stay here till dawn, and abandon Iareth. Or he might act. Somewhere there had to be something he could use as a torch. His lodgings were no more than three streets away. There he had candles and a good hearth. If he could make it that far . . . He groped around him until he found a bundle of medium staves. The fire would scarcely be hot enough . . . His army issue flask held pure spirit. He fumbled it from a pocket and doused one end of a stave. Thrust into the oven, it spluttered and caught fire.
He held the torch aloft as he made his cautious way toward the street. He could hear nothing, apart from the creaking sign, the leaking gutter. Nothing came near him. He said, quietly, “Iareth?” and tried to hold alarm from his voice. How long had it been? The fog was still thick. He almost lost the
torch when he tripped over his discarded saber. The metal was chill as he snatched it up. He called again, “Iareth?”
This time he thought he heard a reply. He advanced, called a third time. From his left her voice said, “Jean?”
“Over here—no, I’ll come to you.”
She stood on the porch of one of the private houses, panting. He said, “Are you all right?”
“I have bruises . . .” She was pale in the uncertain light. “Nothing worse.”
“What were those things?”
She smiled. “I have not the slightest idea.”
“Well, whatever they are, they don’t like fire.” He hesitated. “This torch won’t last long. We wouldn’t make the bridge. My rooms are nearer . . . I have candles, and I could borrow a lantern to get us up to the embassy.”
“Certainly.” Iareth stepped out into the street cautiously. “Let us go.”
By mutual consent they ran. The streets were empty. Two candles burned in the sugar merchant’s shop. The torch was almost gone. Joyain passed it to Iareth and took a candle to light them upstairs.
His hands shook so much that it took him three attempts to light the fire. Iareth, meanwhile, lit all the candles she could find. That would be expensive in the long run, but he could not bring himself to care. He found the small bottle of spirits Amalie had given him on his name-day, and poured two rather large portions.
“Fire inside and outside,” Iareth said, gasping at the taste.
Joyain began, painstakingly, to unlace his left sleeve. “It seemed appropriate.”
“Indeed.” Iareth dropped her cloak on the chest. The gray fabric was torn but she seemed unharmed. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m not sure.” He winced, tugging the sleeve free. She put down her cup and came to help him. He said, “Thank you. I used it to block . . . I don’t think it’s broken.”
“Can you move your fingers?” He could. She frowned. “Urien has more skill than I. Or Kenan, for that matter. But in their absence, I must suffice.”
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