Living With Ghosts Part 24

He turned the cards singly, carefully, beginning a commentary. Joyain's had been a simple life, uncomplicated by entanglements or grief. Nothing in the early youth to remark upon. His princ.i.p.al was stone, for dedication and inner stoicism. His gifts were aspected by Handmoon; unapplauded and treated practically by their owner. His family held him in affection and had no difficulty in letting him go. The past was good.

Amalie had come to sit beside Gracielis, her thigh against his. He could hear her breathing, gentle and steady. Joyain stood to one side, arms folded, face cynical. Gracielis paused in the reading to smile at him and turned up the next five cards.

The present. Harder, for it was mutable. To left and right, shading into past and future. Stone and steel-for duty-crossed by water-quartered Mothmoon and by a slender figure with level eyes and careful, balancing hands . . .

Gracielis had seen her before, in Thiercelin's reading. Her nature running counter to her role, her strengths born out of contradiction. He looked into Joyain's eyes and said softly, "You know Iareth Yscoithi."

The eyes narrowed. "That's an easy guess. My aunt has probably mentioned that I'm stationed with the Lunedithin emba.s.sy."

Amalie had, but she had not gone into details. In the spread, Iareth's card lay shadowed, between fire and water. Gracielis s.h.i.+vered. She lay over the place of the heart. He looked swiftly at Amalie, then back at Joyain, and said, "She is your lover, and will burn you."

Joyain took a step back. Gracielis added, "Forgive me," and turned up the next card. Water-hallow, threatening. Death in the air and in the river. Death here, too, in the cards, although perhaps not for Joyain. Stone surrounded by troubles unknown and only half-realized. It bordered on the future and Gracielis could see but poorly. He pa.s.sed it in silence and turned up another card.

His hand pulled back. He said, "No." He had been here before, but sky-eyed Quenfrida had been the subject. His second self, his rival, close enough to Joyain to touch him and bound intimately in the reading to the death in water. Gracielis said, "There is a man, a new acquaintance. One who sees."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

He has power over water. Unbidden, the dream-memory rose. Water falling and swan wings and mockery in hostile eyes. Gracielis said quietly, "He has red hair and blue eyes and you dislike him. It's mutual. He holds your lover under his hand. Do you know him?" Beside him Amalie gasped, but he did not look at her. To Joyain he said, "You've been granted to him, unwilling, and your role is ambivalent. Who?"

Joyain said, "I don't think . . ." And then, "What is this?"

Gracielis held his eyes a moment longer, and turned up two more cards. The first made him smile, obvious as it should have been to him. He said, "Thiercelin of Sannazar," but its role was near past and there was no danger in it. The other, sword-handed, was expected also, given the pivotal role of Iareth Yscoithi. "And Valdarrien d'Illandre."

Joyain sat down rather suddenly. He said, "How did you know? Who told you?"

"No one." Gracielis made his voice gentle. "I have simply seen it."

"You can't." Joyain looked past him at Amalie. "This is a joke, yes?"

She said, "No, I swear." And then, "Gracielis, does this mean they're true, the things you told me yesterday?"

Turning to her, Gracielis took her hand and kissed the palm. "Yes, Ladyheart." She looked down. He turned back to Joyain. "You should try not to care for Iareth Yscoithi."

"I don't think that's any business of yours."

"Indeed, and I ask your pardon." Gracielis hesitated. "Will you tell me who this might be?" His hand lay again on the card of the red-haired acolyte. "It touches on more than you."

"Is Iareth in danger?" Joyain seemed to ask almost against his will.

"I regret I don't know. This isn't her reading."

"I see." Joyain sighed. "It's Prince Kenan, I suppose. Kenan Orcandros, the Lunedithin heir. You're right: I don't like him."

"Thank you." Gracielis hesitated, then turned back to the cards. He knew too little of Quenfrida's activities during her time in Lunedith. He turned up the last five cards and sighed. The future, and only confusion. Water crossed with stone . . . He made no sense of it. He shrugged and turned away, suddenly tired.

Joyain said, "No sudden wealth or good fortune?"

"No." Gracielis mingled the cards. "I don't do the future. I don't have that sight."

"Indeed?" Joyain was trying to sound sardonic. It did not quite work.

Amalie drew in a long breath. Then she said, "Why?"

Gracielis looked down. "You wouldn't believe me."

"No." He felt her put an arm about him. She said, "Lie down."

He obeyed, closing his eyes. He was a little afraid of what he had done. Of the patterns that repeated themselves everywhere. Amalie said, "Could you do that for me?"

"No."

"Why not?"

He opened his eyes. She watched him, worried. He said, "I know you too well, Ladyheart. I wouldn't be able to see clearly." It was not quite true, but he could not bear to be more honest. He was too scared he would hurt her. "It would hold little interest for you. I'd see nothing you wouldn't expect me to know. And I can't do the future."

"How unfortunate," said Joyain, nastily. Gracielis was silent.

Amalie said, "I think we all need a drink. I'll have Herleve bring wine."

"That has appeal," Joyain said.

"I'll fetch gla.s.ses." Amalie went out. The two men sat in silence, apart from the clock on the mantel. Gracielis stared at the ceiling. He had a name now for his rival and a means of learning more. He might act, save that he lacked strength and training and knowledge. It would be no fair fight, himself against Quenfrida and Kenan. Especially if Kenan was undarios. a.s.suming, of course, that a person with clan background could become undarios in its fullest sense.

There was no one else who would help Merafi. He was Tarnaroqui. It was not his problem. It was beyond him. He sighed and closed his eyes. He had made his choice when he sent his message to Yvelliane via her estranged husband. He would have to live with it.

Amalie interrupted his thoughts. She spoke a little too cheerfully, and he knew he had again distressed her. She was saying, "Do go in, monseigneur," and then, "Do you know my nephew, Lieutenant Joyain Lievrier? Jean, this is Lord Thiercelin duLaurier of Sannazar and the Far Blays." Gracielis opened his eyes. Thiercelin stood in the center of the room. Joyain, too, was standing. Amalie said, "We were about to have a drink-a little early, I grant you, but-would you care to join us?"

"Thank you," Thiercelin said, bowing to Joyain. "I already have the honor of knowing the lieutenant."

"Really?" Amalie steered him to a chair.

Joyain said, "We met through official channels. The emba.s.sy." His voice held a curious edge. He avoided looking at Thiercelin.

"Oh, of course. Madame of the Far Blays is First Councillor," Amalie said.

The conversation turned on desultory matters for the next half hour or so, mostly between Thiercelin and Amalie. Gracielis found it easier to listen than to partic.i.p.ate, and few remarks were directed at him. Joyain, too, was largely silent. At the end of the half hour he rose, kissed Amalie's cheek, bowed to Thiercelin, and excused himself. Amalie showed him out, then, returning, said, "I believe you have matters to discuss. I'll be in the shop if you need me."

Gracielis said, "I can't steal your room . . ." But she only smiled and shook her head at him as she left.

There was a small silence. Thiercelin broke it. "You look better."

"Thank you."

"I delivered your message."

"You're kind." Gracielis hesitated, trying not to fidget. He did not look at Thiercelin. "It was Lieutenant Lievrier with whom you dueled, wasn't it?"

"Yes." Thiercelin sighed. "Except that it didn't happen. There was an interruption . . . Valdin . . ."

"Yes, I know." Gracielis spoke with thinking. He sighed, and looked at Thiercelin.

Thiercelin rose and came to sit on the end of the daybed. "I doubt the lieutenant told you."

"No." Gracielis had no intention of elaborating. He said, "Have you seen Iareth Yscoithi again?"

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" Thiercelin made himself more comfortable. "I have all day. I'm wholly at your disposal."

Gracielis let his lashes hide his eyes. "You're appropriating my line, I think."

"Hmm," Thiercelin said. "Tell me, Graelis. Or are you meaning not to?"

"No, I'm prevaricating." Gracielis smiled. "It's hard. It touches upon matters which are in some wise . . ."

"Forbidden?"

"Yes." Gracielis hesitated then switched to Tarnaroqui. "You know what is meant by undarios?"

" 'Perfumed-death,' " Thiercelin translated absently, back into Merafien. "No, I don't think so."

"It's a matter of belief. A species of religious order."

"The famous a.s.sa.s.sin-priests?"

"Yes, and more. It's a discipline. To be undarios . . . It's to possess a certain type of understanding or vision."

"Seeing ghosts?"

"Amongst other things. One doesn't have to be undarios to have that or other, lesser powers." He caught Thiercelin's eye. "Card-reading. Poisoning. The manifold arts of pleasure."

Thiercelin folded his arms. "Now, why does that sound familiar?" Gracielis looked reproachful. "All right, Graelis, I'll control my credulity. You're telling me you have this discipline."

"I have some of the training." Gracielis felt some of the old bleakness settle upon him. "I lack certain strengths . . . I have sight, but no power." He forced himself away from it. "I was taught always that the forces open to my kind may not be awakened in Merafi. Well . . ." He hesitated, looking toward the window. "I was misled."

Thiercelin's eyes narrowed. He said, "Explain."

"Something is awake here, which doesn't belong and which intends you harm." Thiercelin's brows lifted. Gracielis said, "You've already seen a forerunner of it."

"Valdin? He's alarming, I grant you; but he's hardly a citywide threat."

"He no longer belongs here. But he's come. And where he's come, others may follow. Will follow. Forgive me."

"I wasn't a.s.suming this was your fault." Thiercelin said. "Is this why you . . . ?"

Gracielis looked at his maltreated hands. It would be easy to lie. He said, "No." He was cold. He was too close to betrayal. "To be undarios, to enter upon that path . . . There are bonds formed. There's someone in the city I've known almost all my life. Three nights ago, when I dreamed, and after, I felt a working, colored by her touch. After you had gone, I . . . summoned her. I can't tell you how, but the means weren't permitted to me. I hoped to persuade her to undo what she'd done. I succeeded only in angering her." He s.h.i.+vered. "She refused."

Thiercelin said, "And that's why . . . ?"

"More or less." It might not be said, even to Thiercelin. It could not be explained. He could not bear to be laid so open. "She rejected me." He would not break. He would not grant to her that power, not from memory alone. He had no other choice.

In any case, he had been replaced. Kenan stood now where he had in Quenfrida's regard. Unless he chose to buy that back in blood and treachery. He said, "You must be careful. She isn't finished. There'll be sickness and flooding and death."

"This friend of yours is undarios?"

"Undaria. Yes, and she has at least one colleague." Thiercelin looked at his hands. Then he said, "As an informer, shouldn't you be telling this to Yvelliane? Or didn't she believe you?" Gracielis was silent. "I'm sorry, Graelis, but this all sounds so . . ."

"Un-Merafien? As it happens, I've already taken steps to do that." He sighed and added, more to himself than Thiercelin, "It will have to suffice, if she grants the time . . ."

"What?" Thiercelin said. And then, receiving no reply, "There is no place, Varnaq. I looked it up on the official maps of your country." Gracielis looked at him in surprise. "Does it matter?"

"Yes . . . I keep thinking I know you. But you see things, you deal with powers . . . you report to Yvelliane-and no doubt to this countrywoman of yours-Who are you, Graelis? I think I need to know."

It no longer mattered. His life was counted out in the measure of Quenfrida's convenience. Gracielis reached out a careful hand to Thiercelin. "I can't tell you my birth name. I was never told it. But in the temple whose property I am, I'm Gracielis arin-shae Quenfrida." His lips quirked. "Varnaq is one of the minor places of punishment, in Tarnaroqui belief. Reserved for those who cheat at cards and commit crimes against taste." Thiercelin frowned. "I am, as you have known me, Gracielis de Varnaq, gigolo and spy." Thiercelin's hand tightened on his. Gracielis inhaled and changed the subject.

"When you see Iareth Yscoithi, would you ask her about another in addition to Urien Armenwy? Kenan Orcandros?"

"The envoy?"

"Yes." Gracielis hesitated. "I need to know about him."

"You could come with me and ask Iareth yourself."

A memory of water falling and of level green eyes . . . It was not his past, and he would not succ.u.mb to it. He said, "No." And then, more gently, "At present, as you can see . . ." He indicated his abused wrists.

"Later, maybe. Your Madame Viron tells me the injury is minor."

If Quenfrida allowed him a later. Gracielis smiled a little. "Perhaps."

Thiercelin looked down at their hands, and his face was strange. But he said only, "I'll hold you to that."

Power. Kenan could sense it, feathering across his skin, lighting sparks of recognition. Down there, down in the depths something waited for him, old and strong and valuable. This was what Quenfrida had meant when she sent him here. This was the root of Merafi, waiting for his touch, his blight upon it. He doubted that the scholar who had led him here had the least idea of the significance of the place. The man had walked down the shallow steps and along the pa.s.sage beyond chatting about sally ports and lower guard chambers. A fool, but a useful one so far. Kenan could already see several ways in which that usefulness could and would be extended. The girl-Miraude-was less useful but potentially interesting. Handled correctly, she might be employed to discover something of the plans of Yvelliane d'Illandre. Following at the rear of their small procession, Kenan watched Miraude almost with approval. Slight and silly and no threat to him. He could, he decided, afford to expend a little more time on her. Besides, he found her body appealing. Ahead of him, she tripped on the uneven floor, and he put a hand under her elbow. She looked back at him in surprise and he smiled thinly. "Be careful."

"Thank you." She freed herself gently, returning his smile.

The pa.s.sage was cut into the rock, sloping down toward the river, following the line of a low rock spur. There were similar tunnels under the keep at Skarholm, carved out into the crag long before the days of Yestinn Allandur, the breaker of covenants. At the base of those tunnels lay the heart of Skarholm itself, the Chamber of Clans, once the a.s.sembly place of the clan-heads in the time before Yestinn invented kings. Perhaps Yestinn had built this echo of it here as a sop to the weaker clan leaders of his time. The scholar's pool of lantern light reached no more than a handful of feet ahead. Had he the choice, Kenan would have extinguished it. He was Orcandros. His eyes were apt in darkness. His ears were sharper still. They were higher than the river, but he could hear it, distantly, dropping and gurgling along its course, back-noted by the steady slow brush-brush of the tidal estuary. Two waters, one salt, one sweet, and rock, all close, all entwined. This place hallowed Merafi and sealed its opacity to ancient powers. In this place he could enact a working to match what he had begun with Valdarrien's blood six years before.

He would not need Allandurin blood this time: that was already present. He could taste it in the sour air. He just needed to give matters a gentle push.

The pa.s.sage came to an end on a long, smooth ledge. The scholar ushered them onto it and held his lantern up high. The light s.h.i.+vered, rippled out into the gloom. They stood on the side of a long oval cave, carved not by hand but by water, its sides whorled and smooth. Here and there, light struck sparks from crystals of quartz. The floor was muddy: small pools of water glistened in the lowest spots. Diagonally from where they stood, a cleft led on into further darkness. "Obviously," the scholar said, "the cave itself is natural. I speculate that after Yestinn it was used as a cold store of some kind or perhaps a guard point above a water gate, although of course the river has moved its course somewhat since the early period, and the branch that would have come closest to here is heavily silted now. But if you look at the ceiling, you can see that the cave must have been used by Yestinn himself or one of his early heirs." He raised the lantern as high as he might.

Miraude gasped. Kenan hid a smile behind his hand. Across the roof animals were painted in wide bands of faded color. Allandurin eagle, Orcandrin otter, Artovanin bear. Each of the clan signs marched there in appointed order, following each other round in a flattened circle, all save the eagle, who flew in the center.

At home in Skarholm, the animals were carved into the rock, showing proper respect. At home, no creature came ahead of any other. That was as it should be. Kenan intended to ensure that those days would return, for Lunedith, at least.

"You note," the scholar said, "the clan badges. The same creatures appear on the tapestries in the Grand Audience Chamber of Rose Palace and on the wood panels in the Great Hall of the Old Palace. It recalls our joint past, of course." He made Kenan a small bow. "I understand there are similar decorations in Skarholm."

"Indeed."

"Perhaps you might describe them to me some day."