Living With Ghosts (17 page)

“I don’t know,” Joyain considered. “There might be a way in at the end of the terrace.” The house into which Kenan had gone was in darkness. “I could look, if you like. But if he’s just buying company . . .”

Despite the mist and the dark, he knew she smiled. “We speak of Kenan Orcandros. It’s unlikely.”

He decided to take her word for it. He said, “The rear will probably be shuttered, too.”

She leaned against the porch. “If we do not look, we will never know.”

He said, “Let’s go and look, then.” He was going to feel very stupid if, Iareth’s view to the contrary, Kenan turned out simply to be tucked up for the night with some street-girl. Come to that, he’d feel more than just stupid if this little exploit ever came to the ears of his commanding officer. He decided to worry about that possibility in the morning and turned his attention to finding a route behind the houses.

In the end, it was Iareth who found it, a rickety half-gate set into the wall of the next-to-end house, leading into a tunnel whose level of uncleanliness caused Joyain to think nostalgically of the shantytown opposite the old docks. At least no one was sleeping in the noisome darkness. Even so, he didn’t really want to think about what he might be putting his feet into.

They emerged into a line of partially fenced yards. Light showed from a couple of the houses. The sound of voices raised in anger came from the third—locals, from the accent. He looked at Iareth. She gestured to the rear of Kenan’s house and began to pick her way fastidiously toward it. Shrugging, Joyain followed, doing his best to be quiet while climbing over barriers and avoiding the detritus of old barrels, sodden palliasses, and other assorted rubbish, all half-invisible in the mist.

There was no stair at the back of the house. All the shutters were closed, and no lights showed. “What now?” Joyain whispered.

“Ssh.” She hesitated, then ran a hand over the wall. He watched. “The construction. Is it stone?”

He said, “No. Wattle, daub, and wood, mostly. This quarter was built rather hurriedly.”

“There’s no purchase.” She sighed. “I had hoped . . . Of course, there is no guarantee that they are at the rear of the house.”

Joyain could have told her that in the street and saved them both a lot of scrambling. However, one (probably) should not make such criticisms to a guest. Instead, he said, “Perhaps one of the shutters is loose.”

She looked at him. “Is entering another’s house without permission not a crime in Merafi?”

“Well, yes, it is. But I was trying to be helpful.”

She smiled again. He was beginning to like her smile. It had possibilities. She said, “Thank you.” And then, “Lieutenant, could you lift me? I might gain a handhold upon a lintel.”

He looked at her, thoughtfully. She was of medium height but slender with it, and he was rather on the tall side. “I can try.”

“So.” She pointed. “That ledge.”

He nodded, making a stirrup with his hands. She steadied herself on his shoulder, then stepped up and reached over her head. She was lighter than he had expected. The end of her long, fair braid fell in his face. He said, “Can you reach?”

“Yes. Could you lift me a fraction higher?”

Joyain obliged. For a moment, her full weight was on his arms and shoulders, and he swayed. Then it was gone. A little trickle of plaster fell on him. He looked up. Iareth had managed to pull herself up onto a window ledge and was sitting on it, one foot hanging down, hands clutching the edge. She looked, despite the mist, as if she was thinking of laughing. He said, “Be careful!”

She
was
laughing, soundlessly. Taking one hand from the sill, she began to feel her way along the shutter. “Peace. The Yscoithi do not fall. Usually.”

That was very comforting. He was stuck in someone else’s filthy backyard, helping a foreign national with a little breaking and entering, and all she could do was laugh and talk about folklore. He withdrew into the shadows and waited.

The room was cramped and low-ceilinged, but its walls had been freshly painted, and the furnishings suggested an owner of a rather more elevated social rank than the average for the district. Kenan Orcandros sat in an overstuffed chair, a glass of red wine in one hand, and watched Quenfrida unbraid her hair. She took her time over it, separating each strand with care and smoothing it out over her white shoulders. He said, “Are you certain this house is secure?”

“Completely. Its inhabitants are mine, heart and soul.” Quenfrida finished with the last braid and reached for a brush. “They see and remember only what I please.”

“And you weren’t followed?”

“No, my Kenan. I’ve been at this game for twice your lifetime and more. I am not easy to track or trace.”

He frowned into his wine. “Even so . . . Wouldn’t it have been safer to meet outside the city, on a hunt or a ride?”

“Thus breaking my reputation for indolence? Our aim is to go unremarked, after all.”

“Yes, but . . .”

“Are you so sure you weren’t followed yourself?” Lowering the brush, she looked over her shoulder at him. “You worry too much, my Kenan. Drink your wine and calm yourself.”

No one had followed him. He was certain of that. He had found duties for the whole of his entourage to occupy them for most of the evening and had made a point of going to bed himself. And he was Orcandrin, sharp of ear and sensitive to changes in the air. He straightened his spine. “I know what I’m doing, Quena. We clansmen have ancient powers.”

“Of course.” Quenfrida turned her attention back to her mirror. He took a sip of his wine. He would have preferred the strong ale of his homeland, but she would not countenance that. It would be a change in the buying habits of this hidden household of hers, and that she would not permit.

She said, “I trust you took my advice.”

“You know I’ve followed all your instructions at home and on the way here.”

“So you have. But that was not what I meant.”

He wished she would speak clearly. He disliked her habits of insinuation and indirection. A little gracelessly, he said, “About what, then?”

“The d’Iscoigne l’Aborderie chit. You must go to her salon. She’s a silly creature, but she has the most interesting contacts and she loves to be flattered. She could be very useful to you.”

“I’ll be going with Ambassador Ceretic.”

“Good.” There was a silence, broken only by the sound of Quenfrida working the comb through her hair.

Kenan said, “When is it going to start?”

“It has already started.” Her voice was calm. “Did you not note how your touch affected the queen? You are poison to her. Soon we will spread that poison further. But there are preparations to be made first.”

Soon. He had been waiting for this for six years, since he was fourteen, and she had come to his grandfather’s court and introduced him to his birthright of ancient magics. His patience felt raw and stretched. He was tired of waiting. He said, “I hoped for something bigger.”

“Even the greatest palace must be built one stone at a time.” Quenfrida put down the comb and rose. “Think of how much we have already achieved. The power of the d’Illandre dynasty began to unravel from the moment you wounded Valdarrien d’Illandre six years ago at Saefoss.” She came to stand behind his chair, resting her hands on his shoulders. “You lured him into that ambush, you fired the arrow that harmed him, you made sure his blood flowed there. Illandre blood on the same stones where Yestinn shed your ancestor’s blood to create his binding. We are undoing it knot by knot.”

It was so slow. Back then, he had dreamed of rapid glory, of himself at the head of a clan army riding across the great plains of Gran’ Romagne to reclaim their ancient rights and liberties. But Quenfrida did not work with armies. Her trade lay in subterfuge and darkness, in poisons and tricks and manipulation. It was still not natural to him, even though he had seen how it could succeed. Her fingers dug into his shoulder muscles and began to knead. She said, “You disposed of that inconvenient captain that the Merafiens sent to escort you. You have clouded your grandfather’s mind, day by day. We need not wait much longer. We need only one more thing.”

Her hands were warm and strong. She was
elor-reth
, outclan, and a Tarnaroqui witch to boot. She had taught him to crave her. He pulled away from her and rose, reaching for her over the chair.

She stepped away, shook her head. “Not yet. I have to tell you one more thing. You have one more task to fulfill.”

“What?” He folded his arms, frowning.

“We’ve bound our working to Firomelle via the blood of her kinsman, but we need to bind it to her city, too. We need a piece of it, something that is part of its roots.”

He did not understand. He glared at the floor and said nothing. She continued, “Merafi is an old city, my Kenan, if not as old as your Skarholm. Its people have reshaped it many times, but traces of its first form still remain. Find them.”

He looked up. “How?”

She smiled. “Go to Miraude d’Iscoigne l’Aborderie’s salon.” She came round the chair and put her arms about him. “I’ll send someone out to fetch us food. The cook at the nearest inn is surprisingly competent. And then, my Kenan . . .”

His hands knotted in her hair as he pulled her to him.

Iareth froze in position. Joyain opened his mouth to speak, and her brows drew together in warning. She was holding her breath.

He waited, listening. He could hear a dog barking a street or so away and water dripping off the neighboring roof. No voices. Iareth sat motionless for a few seconds longer, then pointed downward.

It took him a moment or two to grasp her meaning. Then he heard footsteps approaching the back door of the house. There was no cover in the yard. Even with the mist and the lack of moons’ light, he was going to stand out like an obelisk. A bolt began to scrape open.

He dropped to hands and knees, and rolled into the lee of the next-door house. It had a flimsy lean-to kitchen jutting out perhaps two feet. He lay in its shadow and tried not to think about what he might be lying in. The door opened. Candlelight laced the mist, turning it soupy. He could hear a voice—from somewhere indoors, he thought—asking a question. A nearer one answered. Both spoke in a tongue he did not recognize. He held his breath and waited.

No one came out. After several minutes, a shadow cut off the candlelight. Then the door thumped shut and a bolt rattled. Joyain counted to ten, then breathed again. Venturing out on hands and knees, he looked up at Iareth, who hugged close to the windowsill. She held up her free hand, paused, then beckoned him back into the yard.

It had been too close. Frowning, he gestured for her to come down. She looked undecided. He made the gesture more urgent. She sighed, and began to turn herself round. It looked considerably more awkward than the original climbing had been. Joyain hesitated, then went to stand under the window and held his hands up to her. She looked down at him, face uncertain, then back at the narrow sill. She shrugged, and slipped off it, feet first.

He caught her. For the briefest instant, she stood in his arms, eyes meeting his in merriment, and he felt himself beginning to respond. Then she stepped free, and began to pick her way back toward the access tunnel. He brushed himself down belatedly and followed.

They were on the foggy quayside before either of them spoke. She said, “Thank you.”

“My duty.” Joyain shrugged. And then, “It was fun, sort of.” She looked up at him, quizzically. “Why are we doing this?”

She said, “Your duty?”

“Yes, well . . . I suppose I meant: Why are you doing this?”

“Ah.” Iareth sounded thoughtful. “I am Lunedithin.” She did not seem to be intending to add anything to that.

Joyain waited long enough to be sure, then said, “Meaning I should mind my own business?”

“That would be a discourtesy.” They had come to a junction. Iareth paused. “But it is not solely my secret.”

He looked up the street to his left, toward the nobles’ quarter and the embassy. Higher than the rest of Merafi, it was less misty. He could see lights shining from the mullioned windows of hillside houses. Somewhere, a clock struck three. He said, “Do you want to get straight back? I could use a drink.”

“I see no urgency.” She smiled. “Will anywhere be open at this hour?”

“Several places. Although,” and he paused, “they may not be suitable for a lady. Some of them are rough. The nobility go there to gamble, and fights break out.” Too late, he remembered her connection with the duelist Valdarrien, and stopped. “I’m sorry.”

Her expression was neutral. She said, “Do you know an inn named The Pineapple?”

“In the old docks?” She was silent. He said “Slightly. It’s an infantry place. Cavalry don’t go there.”

“Would it be open?”

“Probably.” That inn was in a bad area, between the old customhouse and the shantytown. It was a fair distance from where they were now. He said, “I wouldn’t recommend it. Especially for a . . .”

“A lady?” Iareth looked at him thoughtfully. “You have served how long in the Queen’s Own Cavalry?”

“Eight years. Since I was sixteen.”

“Consider, then. I was thirteen when I was first made
kai-reth
to Prince Keris. I have now some twenty-eight years. For all but three of the fifteen intervening, I have served as messenger and guard.”

Joyain was still having trouble with Lunedithin terminology. He said rather slowly, “
Kai-reth
is guard, not kinsman?”

“It is both. Kin by blood and kin by vow.”

“I see.” She was four years his senior. She had served in an army over half as long again as he had. He said, “We could go to The Pineapple if you like, but . . .”

“Cavalry are not welcome?”

“No. And I’m not in the mood for brawling.”

“Another time, then. Can you recommend some other tavern?”

He could think of one or two, although he still had reservations about taking a foreign envoy—a female foreign envoy—into any of them. He hesitated, then took his nerve in both hands. “I was thinking we might go to my lodgings. They’re just over the river, and I have a couple of bottles put by.” She looked at him. “I don’t mean anything by it . . . that is, a drink, not . . . I mean . . .” Uncomfortable, he looked down. “It’s a stupid idea, anyway.” He was probably out of his mind.
Remember Valdarrien d’ Illandre. The very dangerous (if deceased) Valdarrien d’ Illandre.
“I’m sorry.”