Living With Ghosts (29 page)

“Yes?”

“There is a thing I can’t ask of Madame Viron . . .”

“What?”

“There is a weaver on Little Mill Street, trading under the sign of the blue orb. Could you take a message to him?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Thank you. Could you tell him, please, that Gracieux will do what was asked. He’ll understand.” Thiercelin raised his brows. Gracielis caught his eye and looked momentarily wicked. Then he said, “You’re good to me.”

“I owe you.”

“No more, I think.” Gracielis paused. “We should talk . . . Not today.”

“No.” Thiercelin rose. “I’ll come again. You’ll be here?”

“It seems probable.”

Outside, it was raining.

“Be careful of your heads.” Lantern in hand, the scholar lead the way through a low doorway, “And mind your feet: the stairs are worn and quite narrow.” The undercrofts of the Old Temple were cool and dark and dank, redolent of old wet stone and stale air. The higher layers had been filled with chests and closets, wine racks and barrels, braziers and lamp stands and rows upon rows of shelving. Down here, the detritus was sparser. Fractured wooden bones hinted at long-forgotten trunks or cabinets. Lampions clumped together in rusting heaps. Shelves sagged or hung by one end. Miraude wrinkled her nose: her mouth was sour with damp and dust. Her boots were already grimy from the upper floors. Here, the moss and slime attested the closeness of the water table. Well, she had been warned, and had dressed
en cavalier
as a precaution. The scholar waited at the stair foot, lamp held up. She picked her way downward in its pool of yellow light. Behind her, Kenan’s steps were firm and confident. In all the times she had been inside this temple, she had never known that its roots reached so far. Its public face was smooth and elegant, dressed stone and curving graceful pillars. The walls of this undercroft were built of irregular stones, clumped together and held in place with a thick mortar. Some showed signs of old decoration: a trace of painted lettering here, a smoothed edge there. As Kenan joined them at the base of the stair, the scholar said, “This is thought to be the oldest part of the current temple, but its original function was probably something else. Our earliest records suggest that in the reigns of Yestinn and his first three successors, the temple was rather to the north of here. This building seems to have been erected as a store or perhaps a communal warehouse, probably at the time when the first fortress was extended on the eastern side. The remains that underlie this area represent a part of that fortress which was demolished to admit the expansion.”

Miraude said, “Why did they do that?”

“It was toward the end of the Long War. The holdings of the kings were increased, and that meant an increase in the size of the royal household.”

“And,” Kenan said, coldly, “doubtless an increase in the number of hostages and prisoners.” He looked around him. “I fail to see anything remarkable in this room.”

“Oh, the interesting remains are farther in.” The scholar beamed at them, and offered Miraude his free arm. “Shall we?”

He guided them diagonally across the undercroft, ducking under the low vaulting and steering Miraude around those places where the floor was slippery. From around halfway, a crack appeared in the flagstones, splintering into veins as they neared the wall. Several of them continued upward into the fabric of the latter. To the right of the widest, a section of floor was cordoned off and covered with an oilcloth. “Damage from the landslip,” the scholar said. “And here . . .” Releasing Miraude’s arm, he lowered the lamp. “You see at the base? That’s where we found the first traces.”

The crack ended in a gap approximately two feet high and eighteen inches wide, giving onto a dim space. In the light of the lantern, Miraude made out a piece of smooth wall beyond, extending down into the darkness.

“The current wall has been built across the base of that former one,” the scholar said. “One of the junior priests was able to wriggle through and found a considerable space beyond, heading underneath this undercroft. So we took up a section of the flagstones, over here.” He gestured to the oilcloth.

Kenan said, “I fail to see any indications of age.” “Indeed. But you haven’t seen our main discovery.” The scholar said. “If you would take the lantern for me . . . Thank you. Now, over here, we have the real find.” Handing the lantern to Kenan, he lifted part of the cordon and pulled the oilcloth aside, revealing a hole some four feet square with a ladder leading down from it. “Now—Prince Kenan if you could bring the lantern a little closer—you’ll note that there are marks on the stones that we lifted.” He gestured. “Here and here. They’re very worn, but this seems to be the wings of the Allandurin eagle, while over here we have what looks like the paw of a bear or similar creature. I speculate that at one point the priests retained some responsibility for what lies beneath here. Long forgotten, of course and I haven’t yet had time to examine their records fully . . . However, shall we go in? I think you’ll find this fascinating.” He took the lantern back from Kenan. “Be careful of your heads. This first area is low and the floor is rather uneven.” Stepping down into the hole, he offered his free hand to Miraude. Aware of Kenan, sour and judgmental, she smiled and stepped down neatly without aid. A cold draft came from underneath the flags. She tugged her sleeves down, making sure they were properly tucked under the long cuffs of her gloves.

Under the floor, a low space extended away into darkness. The floor had one been smooth-tiled, but centuries of stress and subsidence had reduced it to rags and lumps. Here and there stretches of tiles remained, patterned in faded blues and browns. The walls were dressed stone, thick and solid—the remains of foundations. A series of columns, all now broken off, marched the length of the area. As the scholar had warned, the ceiling was low. Miraude could just about stand upright, but both men had to bend. The scholar guided them onward, pausing from time to time to point out a maker’s mark or the site of a find of pottery or bone. Stubs of walls interrupted their progress, marking out the limits of long-neglected chambers. In the gloom, it was hard to make out the dimensions of the space. It had to be many times larger than the undercroft. Miraude guessed that it must extend out well beyond the boundaries of the Old Temple, but in which direction she was unsure. They seemed to turn several times, but the low light and the old stone gave away no clues. Left to herself, she was not certain she would be able to trace her way back to the entrance, but the scholar went on with a steady pace.

He halted in front of the stump of a particularly wide pillar and held up the lantern. “This is my prize find,” he said. “If you come round the back . . .” On the reverse of the pillar, a flight of steps led downward. The cold draft strengthened. There was a taste of stagnation, or ancient damp, biting through the dust and dirt. Miraude shivered. Beside her, Kenan swayed and put out a hand to support himself. The scholar said, “Prince Kenan? Are you unwell?”

For several moments, there was no reply. Then Kenan straightened and inclined his head. “Dust in my eyes.” He pointed to the stairs. “Let us descend.”

There was something lying on his stomach. Gracielis opened an eye and peered down, cautiously. Biscuityyellow eyes stared back incuriously. Then they blinked, as their owner yawned and began to wash a back foot. Gracielis considered. The pain was gone from his head, and with it much of the mind-numbing dizziness. He opened the other eye and tried moving. It hurt a little, but nothing insupportable. The cat, disturbed, glared at him. “I beg your pardon,” he said, politely.

Someone snorted. Turning, he saw Herlève making up the fire. She said, “That dratted animal. She’s not to be let in here—I keep telling Madame. Let me take her out.”

“It would be a discourtesy,”

“I’m sure. Well, you’re clearly feeling better.” She studied him. “The doctor says you’re to eat and can get up if you want to.” She sniffed. “Madame says you can join her in the salon.”

“That’s kind.”

“I daresay,” she said. “But don’t you go upsetting her again.”

“No,” Gracielis said meekly. “I’m very sorry for the trouble.”

“So you should be.” Herlève came over and thumped his pillows with unnecessary force. “Right, up you come. No, don’t lean on that. You’ll start the bleeding again, and think of the work that’ll make.” Gracielis held his tongue and let her lift him. She put a tray in front of him. “Now, you’ll eat all of this.”

“Yes, Madame Herlève.”

She glared. “Can you manage?”

“I believe so.”

“I’ll thank you not to spill it on Madame’s bed linen.”

“When is it? What time?”

“A little before noon. You slept through, after Monseigneur de Sannazar left.” She paused and looked at him, “And there’s another thing. Poor Madame!”

“He isn’t my lover.” She looked disbelieving. “I swear it.”

“So what is he? Your cousin?”

“No, he . . .” Gracielis hesitated. “We met a long time ago, through a duel. He’s my protector, after a fashion.”

First I’ve heard of it, said Herlève’s expression. But she made no comment. When he had eaten, she took the tray away and said, “Your clothes have been sent. You can dress and go through.” She paused then added, “Monsieur Jean is here. So behave yourself.” Without awaiting a reply, she whisked out of the room. He heard her talking to someone outside.

His robe had been laid out on a chair, freshly washed and ironed. Putting it on proved a little complicated and infuriatingly slow. He was still slightly light-headed. At the fringes of consciousness he heard rain drumming on the window. That made him uncomfortable. He took his mind from it. Time enough, later . . . He made his way to the mirror and set about untangling his hair.

That hurt. His abused wrists protested. He needed to use one to brush, the other to support himself against the mantel.

He nearly lost his balance when the door opened and Amalie came in. She gazed at him aghast, then rushed over. He leaned on her as she steered him to a chair. She said, “What were you doing?”

“My hair.” He gestured at the mirror. “You have company.”

She laughed and took the brush from him. “Let me.” And then, “Herlève says you’re feeling better.”

“Indeed. Thanks to your care.” She patted his cheek and began brushing. The cat jumped into his lap and began to purr.

Amalie said, “Is that you or her?”

“Both.” He smiled at the cat.

“Hedonist.”

“Who wouldn’t be, possessing your undivided attention?”

“Hedonist
and
shameful flatterer.” Amalie bent and kissed him. “You’ve cheered up. I’m glad.”

He twisted round to see her better. “I’ve distressed you. Forgive me.”

She paused, winding one of his curls around her finger. “Did you mean all that, about the river?”

He looked down. She resumed brushing. After a moment she said, in a slightly altered tone, “It’s over its banks in parts of the low city and the shantytown. Jean told me.”

Flooding. The window was at his back. Gracielis did not try to look at it. He could still hear the rain. He sank his fingers into the cat’s fur and said, “Do you have a set of playing cards?”

“Yes.” She was surprised. “Why?”

“There is something I’d like to show you, with Monsieur Jean’s permission.”

“Card tricks?”

“Not precisely.”

“Well, if you wish.” She finished combing and fetched a hand mirror. “Will that do?”

His reflection showed him a sharp edge to his beauty, as though something of his true nature was beginning to break through. He smiled at Amalie. “Thank you, Ladyheart.”

She kissed him again. “Come and see Jean. I’ve made chocolate, and the room is warm.” She helped him to stand, then slipped her arm through his. He kissed her hair.

In the salon, Joyain sat in a wing chair by the fire, staring at his immaculate boots. He looked up as they entered and nodded. “Gracieux.”

“Monsieur le lieutenant.” Amalie made sure Gracielis was comfortable on the daybed, then went to see to the chocolate. Gracielis continued, “You are well, I hope?”

“Yes. And yourself?”

“I’m much recovered, monsieur.” Gracielis risked a smile. “Thanks to Madame.”

Joyain made a noncommittal answer and turned to receive his chocolate from Amalie. Gracielis watched him. They had met several times over the years and preserved a relationship of guarded neutrality. Like most military men, Joyain neither approved nor condemned prostitution and possessed the virtue of refraining from interfering in Amalie’s affairs. On the other hand, Gracielis suspected that, like many of the better mannered of the officer class, he felt a quiet dislike of overtly charming and gilded masculine beauty. Gracielis knew relatively little about him. He would make a good subject.

Amalie brought Gracielis chocolate and sat down herself. Into the small silence he said, “There was the mention of cards . . . ?”

“Of course.” Amalie rose and opened a box on the dresser. Joyain looked surprised. She handed them to Gracielis. “Here.”

“Would monsieur le lieutenant shuffle them?”

Joyain looked even more surprised, but did not demur. Gracielis added, “Could you discard the numbered cards, apart from the aces?”

“Well, if you like.” Joyain sorted through them. “Now what?”

There was a small table next to the daybed. Gracielis pulled it toward him with a foot and put his cup on the floor. He said, “Could you bring them to me, please, monsieur?—No, Ladyheart, please do not touch them—and might I borrow some small possession from you? A kerchief, perhaps?”

Looking puzzled and faintly put out, Joyain brought over the cards. He had no kerchief, but a little rummaging produced a spare button. Gracielis thanked him and began to lay out the cards, Mothmoonwise, in the pattern called the star, which anchored past and present.

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 principal 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.