Living With Ghosts (10 page)

Quenfrida or no Quenfrida, nothing in Thiercelin’s past bespoke good blood. And Gracielis had a talent for the past, for the dead. It was Quenfrida’s mystery, after all. He had a scarf of hers, kept safe. She would know, of course, if he meddled.

He needed to know. Fetching the scarf, he spread it out before him and dealt the cards onto it, one hand touching it. Not a full reading, she was too well guarded for that. But a partial one might do; the levin-bolt form that sometimes—sometimes—struck unaware.

He remembered the warmth of her and the taste of her skin. Her hands on him, long ago, before he learned to fear her. Long ago, when he had had her approval and her kindness. He should see in his cards her strengths, her ambitions, his own flawed presence. Placing the last card, he looked down at the whole, to read back up to the present moment. Then he froze.

Quenfrida
undaria
. Mistress. Mentor. Under her guidance, it should show only himself, failed acolyte.

The spread was plain, there under his hands. Not one pupil. Not one, but two.

“It’s the Duke d’Almeide all over again,” Joyain said, dismally. “You can’t begin to imagine. And I thought court service would be exciting.”

“Poor Jean.” Amalie smiled at him. “I suppose another pastry won’t help? No, I didn’t think so.”

“Foreigners,” Joyain said, in a tone of the darkest disgust. And then, “I’m sorry, Tante Amalie. It’s not really that they’re foreign; it’s just Prince Kenan. He’s enough to drive any man to drink.” He sighed again. “And I’m stuck with him for the foreseeable future.”

Amalie took a flask from a rosewood corner cabinet and poured a healthy tot from it into a cup. Joyain watched her gratefully. If he had been a gambling man, he would be keeping as far as humanly possible from the tables, the way his luck was running at present. All right, it made sense that the trouble in the new dock should take precedence over the shepherding of a bunch of (supposedly) friendly Northerners around the city, but it still seemed rather hard that the latter duty should have defaulted onto him. He was feeling very put-upon, and rather sorry for himself, and not even the excellence of his aunt’s pastries was quite enough to make him let go of his self-pity just yet.

She wasn’t really his aunt, of course. She was his mother’s first cousin’s second husband’s sister. However, from their second meeting, they had agreed that aunt was the preferred relationship. “The lax, indulgent kind,” Amalie had said, mildly horrified to find that her distant kinsman had been expecting her to represent the forces of propriety. An indulgent aunt was, it transpired, exactly the kind of relative that a junior officer from an obscure and impoverished family needed in Merafi. Amalie fed him, listened sympathetically to his exploits, and occasionally lent him money. In return, he escorted her to formal guild functions, helped drive off her more persistent suitors, and maintained an obstinate silence in the face of family queries regarding her personal life.

It was an arrangement that suited both of them. Pouring herself a slighter smaller helping of cordial, Amalie sat down again and said, “It’s not all bad, surely? The captain will be pleased with you.”

“If I’m lucky.” He pulled a face. “It does no good at all being diligent if one—just one—of the Lunedithin decides he doesn’t like me.” Amalie was giving him a measuring look. “All right. The captain isn’t quite that unreasonable. One complaint from a troublemaking guest is survivable. But a guest could make several, or just decide to be the biggest nuisance possible.”

“Is that likely?”

Joyain hesitated. It had to be admitted, Kenan Orcandros had so far done nothing worse than be fussy over his choice of room and grumble about the weather. The latter was an activity of which Joyain himself was not wholly guiltless. If he was strictly honest, it was the loss of his free time that galled him most. And if the trouble in the port was as bad as his contact in the city guard made out, chances were he’d be down there up to his knees in mud, if he hadn’t been assigned to assist with the Lunedithin. He caught Amalie’s eye and smiled. “No.”

“Well, then.”

“I know.” He shrugged. “Most of them are quite decent. Even Kenan isn’t too dreadful. He just doesn’t like being here.” Pausing, he looked at Amalie thoughtfully. Like most of the merchant community, she was not averse to the odd political tidbit. “I’m not certain that his presence is entirely popular with our side, either.”

Amalie looked interested. She had already confided to him her anxiety over the current unrest. She was expecting a cargo from the south, and the ship was overdue. Mercantile rumor spoke of interference at sea by Tarnaroqui customs ships. Lunedith, with its sulfur reserves, could seriously upset trade if it elected to deal directly with Tarnaroq, rather than via Merafien middle-men. And, of course, if the arms supply was disrupted, then other commodities were sure to follow. Joyain lacked Amalie’s head for figures, but he grasped the broad outlines of the problem. Putting down his cup, he leaned toward her and said, “I’m due to attend the official presentation of the Lunedithin tonight. It’ll be a big ceremony. The whole of the royal council will be there.”

“Including First Councillor Yvelliane d’Illandre.” Amalie was thoughtful. “She went to Lunedith a few years ago when we drew up the most recent trade agreement. I wonder what she thinks of Kenan Orcandros.”

If she had any sense, she would dislike him. But Joyain did not say that. Rather, “I’ll keep an eye on her and see if she gives anything away.”

“Thank you. Word in the guild is that Kenan is anti-Merafien. He’s hoping to separate Lunedith from dependency on us when he succeeds as ruler there. . . . Jean?”

“Yes?”

“Have any of the Tarnaroqui faction shown an interest in your Lunedithin, yet?”

“No . . . They’ve only just arrived, after all.”

“Well, yes. All the same . . .” Amalie frowned. “I’m not asking you to spy, but if there is such an interest, do you think you might let me know?”

“Of course,” said Joyain, kissing her hand.

Two lines of tall, formal plane trees lined the Grand Aisle through the grounds of the Rose Palace. Torches burned in the scones bound to the trunks of each tree, lighting their branches with amber light. Leaves—autumnal brown in daylight—now showed themselves tinged with warm orange. The aisle was paved in wide gray stone, spread with fresh straw to muffle hoofbeats and the rumble of carriage wheels. In front of the north fascia of the palace, the aisle divided, two sweeping arms framing an oval of grass and a marble fountain before coming together to meet at the foot of the stairs to the Great Entrance. Footmen hovered at its base, to assist courtiers and visitors to descend from their vehicles. Most nights, there were no more than four of them. Tonight, there were twelve, all decked out in crisp new tabards bearing the arms of the queen. Stepping down from the Far Blays coach, Miraude smiled her thanks to the man who had helped her, then waited for Thiercelin to alight. Seven or eight carriages queued behind theirs; light spilled from every window of the palace. “Well,” Miraude said, tucking her arm into Thiercelin’s, “we won’t be short of company tonight.”

“That’s something to look forward to.” Thiercelin’s hand strayed to the ruffles at his neck. “These things itch.”

“But they look lovely. I’m sure Yviane will agree. Come on.” And she towed her reluctant escort up the stairs and into the huge first antechamber of the palace itself.

“I never know what I’m supposed to talk to these people about.” Thiercelin gestured with his chin toward a knot of finely dressed nobility gathered in the doorway of one of the long rooms that lined the ground floor.

“Horses,” suggested Miraude, before turning to bob to a passing friend. “Or you could tell them how lovely they’re looking.”

“And that’s just the men.” Thiercelin bowed in his turn to a distant fourth cousin of his wife’s. “I could almost pity this Kenan Orcandros, having to perform homage in front of this crowd.”

“Nonsense. It’s a mark of honor.” Miraude had succeeded in leading him through the throng to the bottom of the great staircase which led up to the ceremonial rooms on the first floor. “And besides, this lot down here are mostly the minor nobles. It’ll be quieter upstairs.”

“That depends on what you mean,” Thiercelin said gloomily. “There’s going to be chamber music, I daresay. Cremornes, if we’re really lucky.”

“Don’t be awkward. The queen’s Master of the Household has impeccable taste. If there are cremornes, they’ll be the finest of their kind.”

“And they’ll still honk.”

“That’ll be afterward, at the reception. Oh, do come on, Thierry, Yviane will be waiting for us.”

It was midevening. After her discussion with Yvelliane that morning, Miraude had canceled her plans for the day and spent the time instead reading history, while her dressmaker made alterations to the gown she had ordered for this ceremony. Kenan Orcandros would not be an easy man to approach, from what she had heard. She would need to proceed carefully. Tonight, she intended to observe. It would not do, in such circumstances, to attract too much attention to her appearance. Her dressmaker had mourned the suppression of silk ruffles and ribbon knots, but tonight the beautiful Miraude d’Iscoigne l’Aborderie chose to seem serious and respectable. Thiercelin had laughed when he saw her. “Goodness, Mimi, are you going into mourning?”

“Only for your wardrobe. I swear, you and Yviane are as bad as each other.” And she had eyed his brown coat with disfavor. Now, entering the Grand Audience Chamber on his arm, she was grateful for his sobriety.

The chamber occupied two thirds of the front part of this side of the palace. By day, light streamed into it from the long windows set into two of its sides. At night, it was lit by hundreds of wax candles, set into heavy crystal candelabra suspended from the ceiling or mounted on wall brackets. In the third wall were set the entrance doors, three pairs. The fourth wall was covered, floor to ceiling, with a series of large canvases depicting the triumphs of the Illandre dynasty. Here, a king in old-fashioned armor led his troops into battle against the Tarnaroqui. There, another sat enthroned in judgment. Behind the great chair, used by the queen for high ceremonies, hung a portrait of the first Illandre, Yestinn, in full battle array and holding his own standard in front of the waterfall of Saefoss, where he had defeated his rival, Kenan’s ancestor Gaverne Orcandros. Kenan would be unable to forget his status as vassal, standing before that picture. And that, no doubt, was the point. The queen’s chair stood on a dais, with slightly smaller ones to either side for her consort and the crown prince. Below the dais to left and right were set a small number of tambour seats, for the senior ladies of the court. Everyone else, from dukes to ambassadors to councillors, was expected to stand.

The dais was still unoccupied, although several servants stood about it; the queen’s party would enter from the private door set behind it. Nor had the Lunedithin yet arrived. But most of the great nobility were already present and standing in their allocated places. Miraude and Thiercelin took theirs, close to the dais as befitted the family of the queen’s near kin. She would have a clear view of Kenan in profile: that was good. Miraude allowed Thiercelin to hand her onto her tambour and unfurled her fan. The windows were closed and casemented; the brocade curtains had been drawn tight across them. The press of people and the many candles stifled the room. The clash of perfumes and flowers, powders and pomades, served only to thicken the air. She could feel the muslin of her innermost petticoat already beginning to stick to her. This was to be an evening of formal ceremony, not of amusement. Perhaps the heat served as a reminder of that.

The private door opened, and the Second Councillor stepped out onto the dais, flushed and uncomfortable in a coat that was clearly several seasons too tight. He was followed by Yvelliane and then the young crown prince. While the Second Councillor placed himself at the foot of the dais, Yvelliane took a position behind and to the right of the queen’s chair. She nodded and the assembled company rose. Prince Laurens entered and stood by the door to offer his arm to his wife. The queen was laden down with brocade and lace and jewelry. The state crown sat heavily on her hair: beneath it, she looked pinched and gray. As Laurens led her to her chair, the court bowed. Watching under her lashes, Miraude noted that Firomelle held tightly onto Laurens, the veins in her hand too pronounced. As the company rose and resumed their places, she risked a quick glance toward the Ninth Councillor, several yards away. There was one, at least, who was already jockeying for position in anticipation of the queen’s death. Beyond him, the ambassador from Tarnaroq was smooth-faced and serene. As Miraude began to look away, one of his aides caught her eye and gave a creamy smile. Quenfrida d’Ivrinez was another one upon whom she knew Yvelliane kept a close watch. Miraude patted at the lace on her sleeve and pretended to be scanning the room for
fauxpas
in matters of dress. The countess of LaMarche-Retaux was wearing puce with mustard ribbons. Miraude allowed an eyebrow to rise, then turned her attention back to the dais. Yvelliane gazed out over the crowd, frowning. As Miraude watched, she looked briefly at Thiercelin and the frown lifted just slightly. Then the queen coughed, and it returned.

There was a loud knock on the central main door, and all heads turned that way. The chief steward, dressed in full livery and carrying a gilded rod, stood in the doorway and bowed. “Your Majesty, the heir to Lunedith craves admission to your presence.”

“Let him enter.” Despite her frailty, Firomelle’s voice was clear.

The steward bowed again and stood aside. “Your Majesty, Prince Kenan Orcandros of Lunedith. Ambassador Ceretic of Lunedith. Tafarin Morwenedd, deputy commander of the royal
kai-rethin
of Lunedith.” There was a fanfare from the corridor outside, and the Lunedithin party came into the room, Kenan at their head.

He was a slight man, with reddish-brown hair brushed smoothly back from his face and worn in an unfashionable long braid. He wore a simple gray tunic over a pale shirt, and dark trousers; his cloak was likewise gray, but trimmed in scarlet. His sole ornament was the bronze brooch holding the cloak in place. He looked younger than his twenty years: his eyes flickered across the room as though he hunted for someone or something. That was interesting. Miraude followed his glance, again under her lashes. The Tarnaroqui. Very interesting. At his right, Ambassador Ceretic beamed at the company with his usual good humor. The third man, Tafarin, looked awed. Behind her, Thiercelin shuffled his feet, and she gave him a surreptitious poke with her fan.