Living With Ghosts (28 page)

She did not understand. She knew nothing of his old life in Tarnaroq. She interpreted his alarm, quite naturally, as sick fancy. And he had no means to prove to her that matters were otherwise. He was not Quenfrida, to play games with perception. He had none of the little skills, the showy ones of light, of fire. He could see ghosts and the past, sometimes. Useless to read for her. She had told him so much of her life already. It would be a charlatan act, lacking truth.

He was too light-headed to plan clearly. He thought of Thiercelin, who might give more credence to his fears, and then remembered that Thiercelin might even now be dead. A duel . . . He inhaled and said, “Have there been any important deaths recently?”

“I don’t think so.” Amalie looked at him, puzzled. “Why?” And then, “Love, surely that wasn’t it? A suicide pact?” She sounded frightened. She had moved as far away from him as she might. Rather too lightly she continued, “I know I’m not your only patron, but . . .”

He interrupted her. “It was nothing of that kind.” She looked unconvinced. “I promise you. I asked about deaths because a . . . friend of mine was due to fight a duel.”

She relaxed a little. “I see. No, I’ve heard nothing of that.”

Thiercelin was safe, then. As safe as anyone might be now in Merafi. Gracielis said gently, “Thank you.” And then, for she was still afraid, “Ladyheart.”

She looked at him. “You’re not going to tell me why, are you?”

“No. I cannot. I made a . . . vow once, and I may not break it.”

“I see.”

He was too weak to reach out to her. He said, “I wish you would believe me about the river.” He could read for someone else, Herlève, perhaps. “There’s a reason, connected with my vow. I studied certain matters once. I learned to see certain things, conditions, and bindings, and sometimes the past. You’ve praised my insight a time or two. It’s something of that nature.”

“I don’t know.” Amalie spoke almost too quietly to be heard. “There are stories, about Tarnaroqui witches, but . . .” She had been gazing at the floor. Now she turned. “You?”

“Not precisely.” He was so tired. “I might show you, perhaps, if I were stronger.”

“I don’t know if I want that.”

“No.”

“It’s just that . . .” She stopped. Her face grew determined. “I don’t really know you at all, do I? I thought I did, but . . .”

“You do.”

“No. You did this—” she gestured at his bandaged forearms, “and I can’t think of the least reason for it. And now you tell me you have, I don’t know, magic powers . . .”

Unexpectedly, it hurt. He looked at her, distressed. “I’m still myself.”

But she would not look at him.

Thiercelin shut the door with unnecessary force and swore. He had had two very frustrating days, and was in no mood for being obstructed. Especially by such persons—innkeepers, for example—who should know better.

He was also rather tired. Somehow, in the wake of his abortive duel, he had been unable to face going home. Pictures in his mind, of dead Valdarrien following him in. Not that Yvelliane would be there to see, of course. She probably had not noticed his absence yet. She would hardly have time for such trivia as her brother’s ghost. Thiercelin had ended up accompanying Maldurel to a party and making a night of it. The following day, hungover and rather embarrassed, he had hired himself rooms in one of the large inns in the hill district. A lackey had been dispatched to summon his valet and to arrange for his luggage to be brought to him. Thiercelin doubted the event would cause any surprise at home. The story of his quarrel with his wife was guaranteed to have reached the servants’ hall at double speed. He could not quite face communicating his temporary address to Yvelliane, however. He told himself that he needed time to think and carefully put the issue to one side. He would solve this business of Valdarrien by himself. Perhaps that would prove to her that he was a capable, responsible adult. Perhaps she might finally believe that he loved her and not her late brother.

In the late afternoon he had paid his promised visit to Gracielis and found the latter absent. Thiercelin had left a note and gone back to his temporary lodgings.

Conscience had provoked him to return the following morning. But when he tried to go up to Gracielis’ room, the landlord of the Jade Rose intercepted him. Monsieur de Varnaq, he said, was away.

“When will he be back?” Thiercelin asked.

“I have no idea, monseigneur.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“I couldn’t say, monseigneur.” And the landlord bowed and excused himself.

Thiercelin, on the whole, disliked being stalled. He liked it even less when, after the landlord, left the taproom, one of the serving maids had tapped him on the arm, and said, “Regarding Gracieux . . .”

“Yes?” Thiercelin hesitated then remembered. Some coins exchanged hands.

“I didn’t see him leave, monseigneur, but he’s been gone two nights and that’s a fact.”

“Two nights?” Surprise caused Thiercelin to raise his voice. The girl shushed him, giving an anxious glance at the door to the kitchen. He spoke more softly. “You don’t know where he is?”

She shook her head. “No, monseigneur. He comes and goes a lot.” She paused. “There’s someone, though. One of the professional kind . . . She might know.” The kitchen door opened. The girl started and said loudly, “I’m sure I don’t know.” A swift glance over her shoulder. Then in a lower voice: “Sylvine.”

Then the landlord came over and rather frostily asked Thiercelin to leave.

Hence the necessity of slamming the door.

He was halfway back to his lodgings at the Phoenix when he began to have the feeling he was being followed. The streets were as busy as ever; a brief halt and a look around from a shop doorway gave him no real clues. Even so, he was increasingly uncomfortable as he set off again.

He almost leaped out of his skin when, on the corner of Coopers’ Street, a hand was laid on his arm. He looked round in alarm, to find himself staring at a young woman in a rather unsuitable dress. The hand on his arm was gloved in brown. The other, resting on her hip, was in green. She smiled (revealing uneven teeth) and said brightly, “Good day to you, monseigneur.”

“Quite,” said Thiercelin. And then, “And to you, demoiselle.” A professional named Sylvine . . . It was possible. “Demoiselle Sylvine?”

“At your service, monseigneur.” She curtsied.

Thiercelin hesitated. This was a busy junction, and the girl was not of the type with whom a lord should be seen consorting. Not before dark, anyway. He raised his brows at his own hypocrisy and looked around him for somewhere to take her. He said, “Perhaps I can buy you a glass of wine? I believe you may be able to help me.” And then, “If you could recommend a local cabaret?”

She could, of course. Possessing herself more firmly of his arm, she led him down two alleys and into a small tavern. The wine she ordered was not cheap, and when it arrived, it looked to have been watered. Watching the clientele, Thiercelin came rapidly to the conclusion that the owner did not expect his customers to be overly bothered by such considerations. At least there was a steady traffic of couples up and down the rickety stairs.

He could not help thinking that Valdarrien would have loved it.

The girl Sylvine drank two glasses of wine rather quickly and smiled at him. “So. You think I can help you?”

“I’m looking for the Tarnaroqui who rooms at the Jade Rose. Gracielis de Varnaq. Do you know him?”

She nodded. “Gracieux. Everyone knows
him
.”

“Yes, well, he seems to be missing.”

“It’s possible.” Sylvine studied her gloves. Her expression was calculating.

Thiercelin said, “A girl working at his inn thought you might know something.”

“Possibly.” She sighed, dramatically. “It depends, rather. He’s my friend. I’d need to be sure your interest in him was . . . friendly, too. If you see what I mean.”

He rather thought he did. He put a coin down in front of her. She looked at it without interest. He added a second. Her eyes narrowed a little. He hesitated, then added a third. “Two’s the going rate for an hour’s conversation. Or so I gather from Gracielis.”

She laughed. “He charged you that? You were had.” “Was I?” Thiercelin looked rather pointedly at the coins.

“He’s a class item, Gracieux. But just for talking!” She shot him a shrewd look. “Or was there more?”

“Not your business, I think.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I tipped him off about your interest in the first place. I might be due a cut.”

“Well,” said Thiercelin, “you seem to be collecting it, don’t you?”

“So I do.” Again, that shrewd look. “But this is information, not conversation.”

“And I thought you said this was too much just for conversation.” He smiled at her sweetly. “Shall I ask your going rate?”

She pushed her hair back behind her shoulders and inhaled. Her bodice was a little too tight. The glance she gave him was arch. Then she coughed. Thiercelin looked sympathetic. Her expression turned irritated. “I’ve nothing you’d want. You don’t look the kind to come slumming.”

Gently Thiercelin said, “The information?”

He could almost hear her calculate as she looked him up and down. She paused then said, “Twenty livres.”

“Robbery. I’ve bribed the watch for less.”

“Eighteen, then. The watch don’t know where he is.”

“I’ll bet they could find out, though. Five.”

“I thought you were his friend. Fifteen.”

“Seven.”

“Twelve. Don’t you want to know where he is?”

“Ten.” Thiercelin stared at her, hard.

She looked uncertain. Then she sighed, and said, “Ten, then.”

“Good. So, where is he?”

“Where are my ten livres?”

Thiercelin counted them out slowly in front of her. He wondered rather how he was going to replace them. His income from his Sannazar estate had never been quite enough, and he had already spent more than thrice its total this year. He would have to speak with his man of business. He was not going to apply to the Far Blays revenues for funds until this mess was sorted out. Sylvine held out her hand for the money. He shook his head and said, “Tell me, first.”

“Half up front.”

He pushed five coins over. They disappeared into a pocket. She said, “Do you know a haberdashery company called Viron? On Bright Moon Street?” He shook his head. “Owner’s a widow. One of Gracieux’ regulars.”

“He’s with her?”

She ignored him. “Word is he was carried out of the Jade Rose two nights since and taken off by her. Don’t know if he’s at her place; my source said he looked half dead. But I expect a lord like you can go and ask Madame Amalie Viron what she’s done with him.”

“I daresay I can.” Thiercelin handed her the rest of her fee. Then he rose and put on his hat. “Thank you. It’s been an experience.” He bowed to her. “Good day, demoiselle.”

“Aristos,” said Sylvine.

It did not take him long to locate the shop on Bright Moon Street. He asked for the owner. A courteous apprentice offered him a chair in the shop and went upstairs to inquire. A few moments later he was conducted up two flights of extremely clean stairs and shown into a small salon. It was furnished a little more elaborately than he personally liked, but it was warm and comfortable. The woman standing by the fire was not young, nor was she pretty, but her figure was trim and her smile attractive. She dropped a curtsy and said, “Monseigneur de Sannazar? This is an honor.”

Thiercelin bowed. A little awkwardly he said, “You’re Madame Viron?”

“Yes.” She gestured to a chair. “I’ll have some wine brought up.” Thiercelin sat. “Now, how may I help you?”

He waited until she, too, was seated, then said, “I’m looking for someone. A friend . . . Gracielis de Varnaq.”

“What makes you think I know him?”

“A . . . colleague of his mentioned it. Forgive me if I’m being indiscreet.”

She was silent. Thiercelin hesitated, looking at his hands. Then he said, “Do you know him?”

She said, “May I ask you a question?”

“Certainly.”

“What interest do you have in him?”

“He’s my friend.” She looked surprised. He twisted a button on his doublet. “We met in rather unusual circumstances, but it’s true.”

“I see.” She rose, and went to the window. She said, “When you last saw him, how did he seem?”

Thiercelin let go of the button. “Not well.”

Her voice was almost too quiet to hear. “Suicidal?”

“No, I wouldn’t say so. He’d a fever, but . . .” Thiercelin stopped. “River bless.”

She turned to look at him. “You should know, I think, that two nights ago he tried to kill himself. I don’t know why.”

“Neither do I,” Thiercelin said. And then, “Did he . . . ?”

“He lives. The doctor says there’s no immediate danger.”

Thiercelin found he was holding his breath. He released it and said, “Do you know where he is?”

She paused, studying him. Then she seemed to reach some kind of a conclusion, for she nodded, and said, “He’s here.”

“May I see him?”

“I don’t know. Wait here, please, monseigneur.” She went out and he heard her climb the stairs. The clock ticked on the mantel. Thiercelin played with his gloves. Several minutes passed before she returned. She said, “He’d like to see you.” She did not sound entirely happy at the prospect.

Thiercelin rose. “You’re very kind. Thank you.”

The room to which she led him was furnished in the same style. She did not enter with him. He advanced a few paces and hesitated. Gracielis looked to be asleep. The door closed. Thiercelin sat on the edge of a chair, and Gracielis opened his eyes.

They looked vast, bruised in the narrow face. Thiercelin said, “Well, that was a sensible thing to do.”

Gracielis smiled palely. “It’s a good thing, monseigneur, that I’m not dependent upon you for sympathy.”

“Thierry,” said Thiercelin, out of habit. And then, “So, will you tell me why?”

Gracielis looked away. “Forgive me. I can’t.”

There was a silence. Then Thiercelin said, “Does it have anything to do with me? With me and Valdin?”

Gracielis sighed. Then he said, “Not in the sense you mean.” He hesitated. “Thierry, I . . .”