Living With Ghosts

by Kari Sperring

  “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 . . .”

  “Don’t you ever leave the hill?” Without meaning to, Iareth took a pace forward. Miraude flinched and looked away. “There is plague in Merafi, Miraude Allandur; and you have carried it under your roof.”

  Miraude said, “But . . .”

  “He spent his last few days in the low city; in the heart of the plague area. He will have contracted it there. And now,” Iareth spread her hands out before her, “he will pass it to you, to your household, and to your friends.”

  “No,” Miraude said. “I don’t believe you.” But her voice was uncertain, and her face gave her the lie.

  Iareth said, “I wish it were otherwise. You must burn his bedding and the bed also, if he should die.” Miraude made to speak. Iareth held up a hand. “How many people have been in contact with him since you brought him here?”

  “I’m not sure. Six. Ten, perhaps.”

  “And how many of them have left the house?” Miraude twisted her fingers together. “Most of them, I think.”

  Iareth cursed. Then she said, “It is too late, then, maybe. Having brought him here, you should have imposed quarantine. You must try and minimize further contacts. And you must issue a warning to those not of your household who have also been in contact with him. If you write to them, I will undertake the delivery.”

  “You,” said Miraude, with a certain satisfaction, “are as much a contact as me, or anyone else here.”

  “I,” said Iareth Yscoithi of Alfial, “am a bastard.” Her head came up, proud. “Do you understand clan-blood, Miraude Allandur?” Miraude shook her head.

  “We breed within our clans, to keep the lines pure and to ensure transmission of the old shapeshifting gifts, where they still survive.”

  “Shapeshifting,” Miraude said, and her eyes were wide. “You mean you . . . ?”

  “No Yscoithi has that gift. Our blood has grown too thin.” She had said it. It had taken her half her lifetime to recognize it, but she had faced and said it at last. “I am not pure Yscoithi. I am bred across-clan, elor-reth. My blood is mixed. Yscoithi and Armenwy.”

  “So?”

  “My sire’s Armenwy blood is strong. He has the old abilities, the old defenses. He could not pass to me his shifting power, but he did transmit other things.” Probably. But Iareth had no intention of voicing any doubt. She held her hands out before her and looked at them. Long hands, light, like the rest of her. Too tall for a true Yscoithi. Too fair. “The old clan-blood confers certain protections. In particular, strengths against such plagues as this one. It is improbable that I will either catch or transmit it. But there are too few here in your city who can say that.” Iareth looked up. “So, Miraude Allandur, command me. You may not have long.”

  19

  THE DAY WORE ON, COLD, OVERCAST. No rain fell, though the air was moist and the ground slippery, as though the dew had never quite risen. The low city lay quiescent, wrapped in mist and the scent of honeysuckle. Intermittent fires burned, but their light was pale and they gave off little heat in comparison with the fever that gripped so many. At army HQ, no questions were asked about the whereabouts of one Joyain Lievrier. There were so many others missing. The river ran high and loud: water began to replace feet on the streets of the new dock and the south Artisans’ quarter. In the Rose Palace, Yvelliane d’Illandre fought to make sense of the demands placed on her time and did not look out of the windows. The queen grew worse: there had been an alarm in the night, The doctors spoke only in low voices and rumor hinted at another heamorrhage. Ambassador Sigeris sent up his kindest sympathies: Yvelliane was hard put not to throw that letter into the fire.

  Joyain was not aware that he was enjoying her hospitality. Fever-caught, he lay senseless, under the frightened eyes of Miraude d’Iscoigne l’Aborderie. One of the footmen had complained of feeling unwell . . . She was cold with Iareth’s warning and unsure what she should do. No word came for her from Maldurel, trying to convince himself that his pounding head and uneasy stomach were merely the result of a disturbed night.

  The west quarter felt too quiet. From Amalie’s windows few people might be seen; and most of those the poorest. The last of her carts was parked outside the door, ready to take her and her possessions out of Merafi before sunset. Returning from his errands, Gracielis confirmed that a steady stream of inhabitants were leaving by the two north gates. He could bring no news of Yvelliane. He had left his missive and taken time to inform Iareth Yscoithi, whom he had encountered in the street outside the Far Blays town house, of Urien’s address. He had hesitated, then told her also of Valdarrien’s untimely rebirth. She had said nothing, only smiled and turned away to pursue errands of her own.

  He had forced himself to come home via the river. Its dark waters repelled him, but he had made himself study them and refused dominion to the fear which might have seized him. Merafi was sinking. Only around the River Temple did the surface still seem clear. The air tasted to him of Quenfrida. The old city was even qu
ieter than the west quarter, and many of the houses were boarded up. He did not venture farther south. He could smell the death there in the wind, as the pyres grew more common.

  He was running out of time. Last night both moons had been close to full. When they met, when they both exerted pull over the river and the estuary . . . He needed Amalie’s help for that, used as she was to working out the movements of the tides. He must find his one moment, when salt and sweet waters both rose, to try to sever Quenfrida’s bindings. There would be no other chance.

  He doubted that this one would be enough. At least Amalie would be away from it. And Thiercelin . . . Gracielis had begun to realize that there were, after all, reasons for which he might kill.

  In Amalie’s house Thiercelin still slept. Beneath the bandages his wounds healed with a speed that surprised everyone but Urien. The Armenwy kept his own counsel, though his eyes watched Valdarrien, or studied the place where scars should have marred Gracielis’ wrists. Healing was no gift of the undarii. But Gracielis had enacted his ritual in disorder and brought life where death should have walked. It was not in Urien’s nature to make too many rules concerning what was, and was not, possible.

  Under the same roof, Valdarrien prowled, restless. Somewhere out in the city, under the same sky, was Iareth Yscoithi.

  They had parted once, and she had said they would not meet again. He had defied death to prove her wrong. Thiercelin had spoken of years elapsed, but Valdarrien could account for only a handful of months. About him, familiar faces gave memory the lie, for there was gray in Thierry’s hair and new lines in Urien’s face. He paid no heed to that, certain that his fate would return Iareth to him, and soon.

  She came with the sunset. He was alone in Amalie’s salon. Gracielis was outside, making his farewells to his mistress, and Urien was with Thiercelin. She closed the door behind her and came to stand in the center of the room. He cursed himself that he had forgotten that her eyes were that precise shade of cool green. She watched him without surprise, and it was everything. Her head tilted, she said, gentle, familiar, “Valdin kai-reth.”