Living With Ghosts (41 page)

His mind was wandering . . . No surprise. Through set teeth, Joyain said, “No,” denying the memory of late torchlight on the cliff top. Leladrien made a sound that might, perhaps, have been meant for a laugh.

“They’ll learn, our aristos.” Leladrien paused. Then, “Last thing, Jean.”

“Yes,” Joyain said, “anything.” There was a pounding in his ears. Dully, he realized it was his heart. Oh, river bless.

“Jean,” said Leladrien, “shoot me.”

Stone buildings were hard to burn, harder still in pouring rain. In the end, Joyain had to commandeer a wagon-load of oil from a tavern, and even then the fire was difficult to set. Knowing that he might not fairly ask one of his men to face what lay in the cellar, Joyain took upon himself the task of soaking and torching the bodies. It was worse, almost, than the eaves room, between the smell and the shadows and the overpowering heat. Too many men made inhuman by plague and death. He reemerged pale and trembling, and his tone with his unit was savage with misery.

He could not bear to think of Leladrien or of what he had done in that narrow attic room. Nail down the knowledge, seal it, and concentrate only on the now, the necessary.

He had thought there could be nothing worse than the odor in the house. Mingled with wood ash and charring, spoiled flesh, it proved him wrong. He was not the only one to stagger back from the warehouse, choking, although unlike some of his men he managed to control his nausea.

It was only the acrid smoke which caused his eyes to water and sting.

He was dimly aware that this conflagration constituted a second court-martial offense to his credit. He shied away from that thought, too, from the memory of a much wanted, illegal coup de grâce. It could not go unreported. He had no choice, caught up by duty and necessity. By awareness of how loudly a pistol shot could echo in a largely empty building.

The unit sergeant was at his elbow. Joyain pulled his distracted attention away from the fire and looked at him.

“What next, sir?”

The flames had attracted few onlookers. Joyain suspected that sickness and violence had driven most of the local residents away. He supposed he would have to check the surrounding building for further evidence of the destruction suffered by Leladrien’s garrison. More silent houses. More blackened, mangled, and decomposing people—people, not bodies. He felt himself pale, fought vertigo. He must not show any part of his distress in front of his unit. He said, “Clear the crowd and get any statements you can about what’s been happening down here. Have some of the men go through local houses and check for further casualties. I’ll need the details for HQ.”

“Very good, sir.” The sergeant moved off and began to pass on the order. Joyain sat down on a nearby mounting block and struggled to collect his thoughts.

Things from the river—mist-born, night-bound death. Iareth Yscoithi had been calm in the face of that strangeness; and Gracielis de Varnaq (who knew too much) had warned Amalie to leave Merafi, as if he had known what might be coming. Neither of them were native, neither of them had much reason to care about the city’s fate. Joyain shook his head and tried to settle his information together.

A warning of old things, stirred impossibly from the past to haunt and delude the present. Find a Tarnaroqui, old Banvier had said. Or ask a priest . . . He should go to a temple and pay for prayers for Leladrien, slain by water, consumed by fire . . . Enough, perhaps, to burn away the taint that had destroyed him, if it was true that these . . . whatever . . . feared fire.

It was ridiculous. He was ordering his intentions along a course of superstition and legend. Plagues happened, in docklands. Street gangs used night and fog to cloak their actions. A dying man might easily come, through delirium, to believe his death was caused by more than just sickness.

No illness known to Joyain came equipped with teeth sharp and strong enough to disembowel and half-flay a man.

There had to be some reasonable explanation. There must be. He must disbelieve the testimony of his own eyes and look for a rational solution. There could not be danger on the scale hinted at by Leladrien and old Banvier. The queen and her council had issued no special orders. The nobility were content to continue their pleasures. There was, then, no cause for alarm.

Shoot your deserters.
How many men and women had been in and out of this area in the last twelve hours? How infectious was this plague, anyway?
Touch nothing without gloves.
He must report back, yet he might already be a walking contagion despite having handled nothing directly, if the air itself was contaminated and the water as well. He sighed, temples pounding. It was beyond him. He was not made for this kind of thing.

The sergeant returned. Joyain said, “Yes?”

“We’ve finished searching, sir.”

“Good. And?”

“Sixteen dead, sir, and two or three close to death, all in houses within thirty feet of the river. No one admits to having seen anything unusual in connection with Lieutenant DuResne’s unit.”

“Anyone seen anything odd on their own behalf?”

“Not that they’re telling us, sir.” The sergeant hesitated, “At least . . .”

“Yes?”

“One woman—who used to work at the inn that was burned two or three nights back—swears blind she’s seen an aristo hanging about the remains.”

“So? Who is it?”

“According to her—not that she looks too reliable to me, sir—it’s the Lord of the Far Blays.”

Thiercelin duLaurier. Joyain suppressed a sigh. “The councillor’s husband? Well, that might not be such a bad thing. Bring it home to them what’s happening down here.”

The sergeant looked uncomfortable. He said, “Not that lord, sir—the last one. Valdarrien d’Illandre. And what’s more,” and his voice swooped up as the annoyance of a sensible man forced to report nonsense broke through, “she says she can only see him when it’s raining!”

It was cold. That was the only possible reason Joyain could have for shivering. He looked at the outraged sergeant and said, “Did you check her breath?”

“Yes sir. You could have lit a torch from it.”

“Well, there you are, then.” Joyain made himself smile. “Anything else of that type?”

“Not really . . . A child talked about seeing a dead grandparent, but the father tells me it’s the fever.”

“Nothing regarding street attacks?”

“Nothing new, sir.” Joyain glanced at the man.

“You’ll have heard some of the stories the watch have been spreading? Lot of rubbish designed to cover up their own shortcomings, I’d say.”

“No. I’ve been on detached duty.” Joyain forced himself to keep his tone light. “You’d better tell me.”

“Very good, sir. Some of their patrols are claiming that the deaths in the low city aren’t to do with the gangs, after all. Say they’ve seen creatures that creep about in the fog and attack people. That are conveniently impossible to catch or kill, I might add. Trying to get themselves off the hook, if you ask me.”

“Sounds likely,” Joyain said, distracted. Barracks talk, filtered by skepticism and expedience before it reached the officers, the high command, and, presumably, the royal council. “Thank you, Sergeant. Carry on.” Joyain rose. “I’m going up to HQ to report. Make sure that fire is watched and doesn’t spread.”

“Right, sir.” The sergeant saluted, and turned to go. Joyain watched him, frowning, then headed into the city.

He needed a drink. Stopping at a favorite tavern in the middle of the old town, he had two as a species of valediction. Then he called for pen, ink, and paper, and set himself to write a suitable account of the fate of Leladrien’s unit, and of his own actions in respect of this. It was easier than he had expected. He included everything, including his conversation with Banvier, the fight he and Iareth had had with the mist creatures, Leladrien’s testimony, and the stories picked up by his sergeant. He ended with a stark admission of his offenses against military law, and an offer to resign his commission and present himself before an appropriate disciplinary board. A half-livre to the potboy ensured that it would be delivered safely. After that, he had another drink. Then he took a fresh piece of paper, addressed it to Amalie, and wrote on it, quite simply “Leave Merafi” and his name. The potboy would take that, too. Joyain added a further half-livre to the fee and finished by buying himself another drink.

He had a superstition about doing anything in even numbers. That suggested to him a fifth drink. After downing it, he rose and went out into the street.

It had been years since he last visited a temple, save on official occasions. Something, some sense of what was appropriate, directed him toward the small chapel set two streets away from where Leladrien lodged. Had lodged. There was only one priest in attendance, and the floor had not been swept. Joyain bowed to the flame and dipped a nervous hand into the well, before finding himself a seat. He was out of the habit of prayer. It seemed needful, yet at the same time it was hard to assimilate. Perhaps his dilemma showed in his face, for the priest came to stand beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Joyain looked up. The priest was surprisingly young; a reason, perhaps, for his service in this minor shrine. Joyain said, “Did Lieutenant DuResne ever come here?”

“From the tenement above the chandlers’?” Joyain nodded. The priest said, “No.”

“Well, he never will, now. He’s gone to the flame.” The priest was silent. His expression did not change. Joyain said, “How many have turned up dead, near here, these past few days?”

“Enough.”

“Naturally dead or murdered?” Again, that silence. Joyain twisted his hands together. His knuckles were dirty with soot and ink. He looked at them, square and familiar. He said, “No one asks questions. No one bothers so long as it touches nothing important.” The priest was motionless. Joyain was cold despite the ale he’d drunk. “Does that mean that it doesn’t matter? That death doesn’t matter?”

The priest said, “I don’t know.”

Joyain turned to look at him. “Who does, then?” There were too few candles burning in the chapel, and the narrow, high windows gave little extra light. Shadows ran away into the corners, mocking. The air was full of waiting. Joyain had never felt so alone. He said, “The evidence is everywhere; but no one does anything.” The priest watched him. “No one talks about it, or acts. No one ever will. Do you understand me?” The priest was still silent. Joyain stood, and stepped away from him, shaking. His voice was no longer under his control. “Do you?” The priest made a gesture of pacification. “It’s all over, d’you hear? The streets are full of death. The living are dying, and the dead are coming back.”

The priest looked down. Then he sighed, and said, “What of it? What cannot be changed must simply be accepted.”

Joyain said, “There has to be another way.”

“Why?”

“Because . . . I don’t know . . . We can’t just let ourselves die, surely? We have to fight back.”

The priest gestured at Joyain’s uniform. “That is the choice of your life. It is for you to decide whether it makes any difference.” His tone was gentle but his eyes were bleak. Behind him, shadows stirred.

Joyain said again, “How many dead?” And then, “Don’t you care?”

“Yes. But my care won’t change anything.”

“Then why bother to begin with?” Joyain inhaled. “Why waste the time?”

“Why not?”

“But . . .” Joyain said, and shook his head. “I don’t know. You’re counseling despair. Will we all simply wait for death?”

“We all die.”

“Yes, but . . . Not like this, surely?” There was no answer. Joyain rubbed his eyes. “Why won’t you help me?”

“Do you need help?”

“Yes,” said Joyain wildly. And then, “My best friend is dead.”

“I’m sorry for your grief.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“Then why,” said Joyain, gesturing round him at the chapel, “all this?” He received no reply. “Why anything? The city is falling apart around us, and the council does nothing.”

“That is on them, not you or me.”

Joyain stared at the priest. “You’re just waiting? Waiting for death to find you?”

“Yes,” said the priest. “Like you.”

It was almost nothing, which drew Iareth out from the embassy with the first hints of dusk. An edge-of-vision thing, an ill ease in the blood, calling to her of open spaces. She rode out through the northern boundary, uphill, with her back to the river, toward the great road that led north. The sky was low and gray; intermittent rain darkened her hair. There was no wind. A steady stream of traffic threaded its way along the road; carts, in the main, many of them heavy-laden, all heading away from Merafi. There was a smell of burning.

A mile or two beyond the city she took a turn away from the road toward the low hills between the city and the sea. Perhaps a half mile farther on she reined in and dismounted. Tethering the horse to a scrub oak, she lifted down her saddlebags and walked to the brow of the next rise. She looked back toward Merafi.

It was heavy with mist. Toward the river’s main channel, the haze was hedged with orange: moisture infected with fire. No light to it, no beauty, but a sullen quality of waiting. The rain looked to be heavier there than here in the hills.

She had ridden here years ago with Valdarrien. A Valdarrien who could touch her, as he had not, last night, on the terrace. From Valdarrien her thoughts turned to Joyain, and she sighed. He was out there somewhere under the mist, and she had done nothing for him.

In the hollow, her horse whickered. She turned and caught sight of a pale shape against the sky. Her Yscoithi eyes, sharpened on darkness, saw farther than many. She narrowed them now, looking north. Her restlessness shifted toward a keener anticipation.

Swan wings clove the rain, strong as iron, and near as certain, borne in through the heavy air from the north and the land of her birth. Iareth stood tall on her ridge and waited, scarlet and gray cloak drawn about her. The swan moved in. When it was some few hundred yards away, she raised her left and primary hand and saluted. Hand on sword hilt—I serve you. Hand over heart—I reverence you. Hand held out, palm up before her—I am yours.