Living With Ghosts (24 page)

Gracielis held a hand out to him. “I don’t read minds.” “Not even the minds of the dead? Valdin and Urien . . . were close.” Thiercelin took the hand and held it. “Iareth, too, I think.”

Iareth Yscoithi. The archer of his dream, who had saved Valdarrien’s life beside a waterfall, in the presence of swan-eyed Urien. In the presence of a red-haired boy with mocking eyes . . . Allandurin blood, falling onto water and stone . . . Gracielis shuddered. He knew his dreams of old: the garden and the path and the unopened gate. He knew how it should end. Not like this, in this nightmare of water and blood.
Now I know. Now I know what binds him, and it still makes no sense
. . . Out loud, he said, “Will you see her again?”

“Iareth? I don’t know.” Thiercelin’s hand was cold. He was clad only in a thin shirt. “Why?”

Gracielis drew in a deep breath. “It was an old nightmare, and yet it was not. At its end there were changes. She was in it. You must ask her . . .” He hesitated, recalling the mist, the unclean feel of it. He could not bear to speak of that, not yet. Quenfrida’s touch in it, somehow; and something more. He said, “Ask her about Lord Valdarrien and a waterfall and this Urien.”

“You think he’s the source of the binding on Valdin?”

I don’t know
. . . “It’s possible.”

Thiercelin relaxed. “I’ll try to see her. Though it would help if you came, too.”

“No!” Gracielis spoke more vehemently than he had intended. Thiercelin stared at him. “If you please, I’d rather not.”

“Well . . .” Thiercelin looked down at him and his expression softened. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. After all I’ve already done to you.”

“Tonight wasn’t your doing.” It was nearly true. Gracielis found from somewhere a smile. “It was . . . old experiences of my own.” Thiercelin looked unconvinced. Gracielis sat up carefully and took his other hand. “It’s the truth, I swear.” Thiercelin was shivering a little. Despite the fire, the room was cool. “I’ve usurped your bed. Let me return to the hearth.”

“No,” Thiercelin said. “It was your bed to start with.”

“That’s different.”

“I beg to disagree.”

They stared at one another for a few moments. Then Thiercelin said, “This is daft. As if it mattered. I’ll take the floor.”

“You will not. You are my guest.” Back on familiar territory, Gracielis added, “This bed is wide enough for two.”

“You’re ill. I’ll disturb you.”

“I’m much recovered. And you’re cold. It’d be hard for you to sleep on the floor.” Gracielis made room. “And . . . I think I might appreciate company. A ward against dreams.” Perhaps Thiercelin’s very normalcy could shield him a little. Thiercelin still hesitated. Gracielis looked demure. “I’ll behave, I promise.”

Thiercelin’s lips twitched. “How?” Gracielis made no answer. “I may not sleep well, anyway. This duel . . .”

“Forgive me. I’d forgotten.”

“You had reason.”

“Yes, but . . .” Gracielis stopped and shrugged. “I fear I have no remedy for that trouble.”

“No more than I have for yours.” Gracielis looked down. Thiercelin hesitated a moment longer. Then, “To the river’s bed with it!” he said, and climbed in. Despite the gap between them, Gracielis could feel how cold he was. There was silence. Gracielis turned over and saw that Thiercelin’s face was wet.

It was late. He was tired. Not his problem, this business of Valdarrien. (
Don’t think of the lieutenant’s ghost.
) Not his past. His part was restricted to a brief, half-instinctive act of kindness. There was no room amidst his own fears, his own bitter memories, for this added confusion. Very gently, he said, “It will be well, monseigneur. Thierry.” And wrapped his arms about Thiercelin and held him, as the fire turned the room warm and the gray dawn began to filter through the shutters.

9

“B
ANDAGES,” SAID LELADRIEN. “Smelling salts. Change for the toll bridge. Spare cloak. Pistols . . . Have I forgotten anything, Jean?”

Joyain looked at him in irritation. “How should I know? You’re the second.”

“So?” Leladrien pulled a face. “Your merchant origins are showing. Calm down.”

“I am calm.”

“Oh, really?” Leladrien put down the gun he was cleaning and leaned on the table, folding his arms. “Tell that to my floor. You’ll wear it out if you keep pacing up and down like that.”

“I’m not pacing.” Joyain said, reaching the window and turning. “I’m exercising.”

“Of course.” Leladrien’s tone dripped sympathy. Joyain glared. “Training for your Big Event.”

“Do stop it, Lelien.”

“And fail in my duty?” Leladrien looked offended. “As your second, it’s my job—my vocation—to ensure that you stay calm, stable and prepared.”

“By annoying the hell out of me?”

“Better annoyed than afraid.” Leladrien’s expression shifted two degrees toward the smug. “And I’m succeeding so far, aren’t I?”

Joyain came to a stop halfway down the room. “That isn’t the point.”

“It isn’t?”

“No.” Joyain caught himself beginning to pace again. “And, moreover, I don’t appreciate your suggestion that I’m scared.”

“Did I suggest that?”

“Yes.”

Leladrien looked at the cleaned pistol thoughtfully. “You’re sure? I have a pretty clear memory of calling you annoyed. And you
are
annoyed.”

“Yes, but . . .” Sighing, Joyain looked at his friend. “You’re supposed to help me.”

“I know.” Leladrien smiled. “And it seemed to me that the best way would be to take your mind off it. Of course, if you’d rather worry . . .”

“Not really.” Joyain made a deliberate decision and sat down. “What time is it?”

“Nearly eight.”

“Two hours . . . How will we get into the Winter Gardens?”

“Whatsisname has access. Lord of South Marr. He’s got a contact in the watch. It’s all arranged.”

“Good.” Joyain looked at his boots. “That’s all right, then.”

Leladrien hesitated. “Jean . . . if something does go wrong . . . is there a letter you want delivered?”

“No.” Joyain had considered writing to his family and rejected the notion. Better to leave it impersonal. That way, fewer questions would be asked. And as for Iareth Yscoithi . . . “Thanks, Lelien.”

“My pleasure.” Outside, a clock struck the quarter hour. Joyain sighed again. Leladrien said, “Look, let’s go and get some breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“No, I suppose not.” Leladrien smiled. “But I am. Come on.”

Joyain shrugged and complied.

“All set?” Thiercelin hoped he sounded more cheerful than he felt. It was horribly cold, and the mist still had not lifted, even though it was now half past nine. Not that anyone could tell that, from the state of Maldurel’s sitting room. The air was still smoky from the fire, and the candles had yet to be changed.

Maldurel regarded him with a jaundiced air. “Who knows?” he said. “At this hour.”

“You should, for one. Looks as if you’ve been up all night.” Thiercelin leaned on the mantel. “Or are you just getting old, Mal?”

“Hmmph,” said Maldurel. And then, “What kind of a time d’you call this, anyway?”

“Breakfast time,” said Thiercelin, “usually.”

“What? You’re getting staid, Thierry! Breakfast before noon! I make it a point never to rise before eleven-thirty.”

“So I see.”

Maldurel ignored him. “It’s bad for the constitution. Bad for the complexion. You might,” and he yawned, “have fixed this little
affaire
for a reasonable hour.”

“You chose the time,” Thiercelin said, stung.

Again, Maldurel ignored him. “Like Valdin.”

“I have the clearest recollection,” said Thiercelin, “that Valdin had a reprehensible predilection for fighting at dawn.”

“Nothing wrong with that. Good sense, in fact. Get it over with before going to bed. Gets it out of the system. No lying awake worrying. No inconvenience to the seconds.”

“But you haven’t
been
to bed yet,” Thiercelin said, outraged, “so . . .”

“That’s not the point.” Maldurel climbed to his feet. “I didn’t expect you to appreciate it. Just like Valdin.

Bloody maniacs, the pair of you.” Thiercelin bowed. “Enchanted. Shall we go?” “May as well, I suppose.” Maldurel’s valet brought in his cloak. “Will this take long, d’you think? I have an appointment at two and I shall have to get ready.”

Thiercelin said, “I doubt even I can manage to prolong one duel for four hours.”

“Good.”

The valet ushered them out the door. Silence fell as they began to make their way along the street. At the first corner, Thiercelin said, “Do you have the key to the gardens?”

“Of course.” Maldurel patted his pocket. “Picked it up last night.”

“Right.”

Again, there was silence. About halfway there, Maldurel said, “What’s it about, then?”

Thiercelin’s mind was elsewhere. He said, “What?” “I said,” said Maldurel, “what’s it about? This duel.”

“Oh, that. A matter of diplomatic protocol.”

“What?” Maldurel seemed to find the information indigestible. “What d’you want to go fighting about that for? Hardly seems very significant.”

“It seemed quite important at the time.”

“Oh. You were drunk, then.” Maldurel considered. “Funny thing, that. Reminds me of something I meant to tell you.”

“What?” said Thiercelin, who was beginning to feel rather lost.

“I’m coming to that.”

“What are you talking about, Mal?”

“What?” They stopped, and stared at one another.

Rather defensively, Thiercelin said, “I wasn’t drunk.”

“What?” said Maldurel. And then, “Oh, then. I was.”

“You were what?”

“Drunk.”

“You weren’t there.”

“Yes I was. Stands to reason I was. Man can’t see a thing if he isn’t there, can he? That’s only sense.”

“I think,” said Thiercelin, “that we’d better start this conversation again. Where were you drunk and when; and why are you telling me about it?”

Maldurel wore the expression of a man at the extreme of patience. “A sennight since. At the Rose Palace. It was a funny thing. Thought it might interest you. Gave me quite a turn, or at least I expect it would have done if I’d been sober.”

Thiercelin put his head in his hands and wailed. “Will you
please
make sense?”

Maldurel looked at him. “Nothing to tear your lace about. As I said, I was drunk. It was queer, though. I was on my way home, minding my own business, and not thinking about much. And there he was. Large as life. Same bloody sneer on his face, and lurking about in corners trying to give a man a start. Typical, if you ask me.”

“Mal, who are you talking about?”

Maldurel sounded like a man explaining himself to an idiot. “Valdin, who else? The emperor of Tarnaroq?”

“You saw Valdin?”

“Yes. I just said so, didn’t I?”

“Valdin himself? Near the Rose Palace? In the aisle?”

“Yes. But I was drunk. Nothing to get so excited about, Thierry. People are always seeing things when they’re drunk. My cousin saw a dancing cow once in the fish market. At least he thought he did.”

Thiercelin cut him off. “Did he say anything?”

“The cow? How should I . . . ?”

“No, Valdin, idiot!”

“I see,” said Maldurel, “no cause for abuse.” And then, more kindly, “But I suppose you’re wound up about this duel. He did, actually.”

“What?”

“What?”

“
What
did he say?”

Maldurel looked faintly affronted. Carefully, he quoted, “ ‘Still hungover, Mal?’ ”

Thiercelin was still laughing when they reached the Winter Gardens.

His opponent awaited him outside the gate, together with his second. Suddenly sober, Thiercelin exchanged bows. Then he looked at Maldurel.

Maldurel gazed back at him. “What, Thierry?”

“The key?”

“Oh, yes. Of course.” Maldurel began to rummage through his pockets. The two army officers were silent. Uncomfortable, Thiercelin shuffled, then pretended to be cold. The opposing second caught his eye and smiled wryly.

He said, “Cold enough, for autumn.”

“Yes,” Thiercelin said. “I hate to think what the winter will be like.”

“Worse, I should think,” said Maldurel. And then, “Aha!” He grinned broadly and brandished a large brass key. “Got it! Well, gentlemen, shall we go in?”

It was still misty. The garden, sloping down to the river, was empty, lawns half hidden in fog. It had a halfkempt air. The dead leaves had not been raked away and moss had begun to colonize the gravel paths. Vapor coiled about the tree boughs. Thiercelin shivered a little. The seconds were examining the guns; his opponent had wandered away somewhat and stood staring into the distance. Against his will, Thiercelin remembered Valdarrien, anger-lost and vital, sword light in his hands under these same trees. The grass was damp today. That was going to be a nuisance. How young they had been, the first time Valdin fought here. Ten years ago, maybe twelve. The air was moist, unkindly warm. Thiercelin inhaled and tasted honeysuckle. Valdin had been half-drunk, almost laughing as he fought, barefoot on the spring grass. Thiercelin could not, for the life of him, picture the face of the other man involved. The affair had been friendly, to first blood only, and there had been a large and amicable breakfast afterward, by the riverside. The other man had fallen at one point; that was it. Thiercelin could see Valdarrien’s half-smile as he helped the other up. It had to have been about cards, then. Valdarrien had always been blasé about money. That duel had been fought closer to the river, down at the bottom of the wood. Thiercelin remembered the feel of bark at his back as he leaned on a tree to watch the sport. The other second, a young provincial, had watched with him, wide-eyed with delight and shock. Even then, he had had the name for it, nineteen-year-old, reckless Valdin, the troublemaker, the duelist, laughing on that spring morning on the river’s edge. Thiercelin looked away through the fog-bound trees, as if he might somehow see through them into that happier past.