Living With Ghosts (51 page)

He had never meant to come to this. He had never known what he could be.

Joyain exhaled and felt his body fall away into flame. Beside him, Miraude d’Iscoigne l’Aborderie clung to his hand and wept and whispered, over and over again: “Oh, don’t die. Oh, please, don’t bring death on us here.”

20

Y
VELLIANE LOOKED AT THE CLOCK and sighed. Noon, and there was still no word from the queen’s doctors. Firomelle had risen only once since the great soirée, and then only for an hour. No one was quite sure anymore who was in charge. Yvelliane had sat up most of the night before, trying to sort out the business of the low city, and had risen at dawn in an attempt to assimilate all the reports. A sickness, emanating originally from the new dock and the shantytown, now traveling deep into Merafi. No figures available upon its victims—who knew how many people had lived in those debatable parts? The watch was losing its own men too fast to trouble itself with reckoning civilian deaths. Some of the least reputable parts of Merafi were virtually deserted, boarded up and reeking of death. The wide southern arm of the river had flooded the south Artisans’ quarter and sections of Low Town. And through it all, violence was spreading. The watch had been reinforced from other regiments, but still the trouble went unchecked. Street fights, ambushes, unexplained bodies . . . One platoon had mutinied the night before last, when their officer had tried to order them to patrol the area between Low Town and the southwest trade district. After dark, almost no one would set foot in that part of Merafi.

The northern city fared only slightly better. The more recent reports spoke of sickness appearing patchily in the west quarter and the more respectable parts of the old city. The wealthier citizens had begun to leave, loading their property onto carts, heading out into the plains and the hinterland. There were almost as many houses boarded up for desertion as there were for plague. At the same time, fewer and fewer traders were making their way into the city as rumors of the troubles spread. The south gate was in disarray, unmanned and uncontrolled. Army HQ disclaimed all responsibility: by day, they struggled to hold their men in position, but by night, order dissolved. An informer from the main old city hinted at army shootings of panicked civilians in the debatable districts. The army reports spoke only of “necessary force.”

Plague. Riot. Desertion. That was only the picture painted by the more sensible of the reports. There was more. Accounts of people seeing ghosts or of encounters with impossible, monstrous creatures made out of mist. Descriptions of bodies found mangled and mauled beyond the ability of even the most sadistic street gang. A woman from Little Ash Lane swore that her child, dead of plague, had returned to life and blown away amidst the fog. Some of the tales could doubtlessly be discounted as the products of alcohol or delirium. Others . . . Yvelliane’s eyes kept returning to a sober record from a junior priest who had barely escaped alive from an encounter with a creature he described as inhuman. The attached surgical memorandum testified to bites and claw-inflicted wounds upon his body. The surgeon had been confident that the beast involved could not have been anything so mundane as an enraged stray dog. Another record told of a respectable cavalry widow who had simply disappeared into the night, after vowing to her family that she had seen her deceased husband outside her windows.

Yvelliane had been warned. Gracielis had told her that harm was coming upon Merafi. She had had her hand—almost—upon Quenfrida, so certain that simple expulsion would provide the solution. But circumstances had forestalled her. She had to resolve this conundrum, to redeem Merafi in Firomelle’s name from the madness that engulfed it, and her hands were tied.

And even supposing the sickness could be brought swiftly under control (and
what
had the watch commander been thinking of, not to quarantine the shantytown right at the start?), there was still the river. No ship had been able to dock for nigh on a month. The old docks were silted up and partly flooded; the new one had been half burned. Merafi was losing her grip upon commerce and without that same commerce, Merafi might as well embrace the plague and have done.

Yvelliane pushed her hair off her face and sighed. She was so tired. It had been too long since she had been home, sleeping here in the palace on an army cot in her office. She missed the peace of the Far Blays house. There had been no word from Miraude for two days. No word at all from Thiercelin. She closed her eyes, remembering the reassuring strength of his hands on her overweighted shoulders. He always hated it when she overworked.

Had
hated it. For all she knew, he was gone for good. She had had her chance to mend that breach and failed. It might already be too late. Perhaps he no longer loved her, worn out by her neglect. He was out there, somewhere in the city. She had failed to protect him, just as she had failed Valdarrien. As she had failed Firomelle. It seemed she was fated to bring pain upon those she loved . . .

She straightened her shoulders and opened her eyes. She could not afford this. There was no time for self-indulgence. Assuming that the decline in the rate of entry of comestibles into Merafi continued at the same pace, how long could the city survive before starvation became a problem? She stared at her neat columns of figures. Right. She knew the approximate size of existing food stocks and the normal rate of consumption. That did not help; without definite information on the level of deaths from sickness or violence and upon the numbers of those deserting the city, she could not come up with any sensible answer to her question. The more people died or departed, the longer the food stocks would last (less reduction for perishables, of course). But since she had no really good idea of the mortality rate, nor of the way and speed with which the plague and other disruptions were spreading . . .

Her head ached abominably. Ideally, she should go down into the low city herself and observe. Interview officers and reputable witnesses . . . She had suggested doing so yesterday, but the commander of the queen’s household guard had refused her an escort. Too dangerous. Yvelliane hesitated at the option of going unaccompanied. It was important, but . . .

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. She shook her head to clear it and called, “Come in.”

A maid entered. “A man has come with your messages, madame.” She held out a handful of papers.

“Thank you. Put them on the desk.” The maid obeyed, but hesitantly. Yvelliane said, “Is something wrong?”

“No, madame . . .” The maid paused. “It’s just . . . The man was a stranger, madame, and not in your livery. He said your house is closed; the messages were handed out to him through the gate.”

Cold shivered through Yvelliane. “Is he still here?” “No, madame. The porters tried to have him detained, but . . .” The maid’s voice tailed off. “I’m sorry, madame.”

Wonderful. But Yvelliane made herself smile. It was probably nothing. Perhaps Miraude planned a party. Perhaps all the regular staff were busy with that . . . “Never mind.” The maid curtsied and went out. Yvelliane picked up the pile of correspondence.

Most of it was insignificant. Bills from assorted trades-people. A note from a distant cousin, asking her advice on a business proposition. Another note, from Miraude’s uncle, complaining that Yvelliane let her run wild. At the very bottom were a longish letter in Miraude’s hand, and another in writing that Yvelliane recognized as that of Gracielis.

She put the latter to one side and opened Miraude’s missive, scrawled and expansive on scented paper. Yvelliane smiled as she began to read it, but before her eye had completed the first paragraph, she was frowning.

Dearest Yviane,
it began,
Here are all your letters. I’d have sent them sooner, but I’ve been busy. Really busy—not an excuse to stop you reading what ever it is my uncle wants to moan about (me, I expect).

I’ve done something stupid. (No, it’ s not to do with the earlymatter:I obeyed you on that and have avoided the gentleman.)I don’t know how to tell you. Oh, Yviane! The other night, Mal and I found a man—a cavalry officer (hisname’s Joyain Lievrier)—lyingintheroad,and I took him in here. I thought at first he was hurt—that my coach had hit him—but he’d taken the sickness from the low city. By the time I realized, it was too late.Iareth Yscoithi came here
(Yvelliane’s mouth set),
because he knew her; and she told me to shut up the house and let noo ne out, or the plague would spread. But the doctor had been in and gone, and half the house hold, and, of course, Mal had gone to his own lodgings.

It gets worse. I think the officer is dying; and the cook has taken sick and so did one of the footmen last night—and, Yviane, hedied! Mal’s valet was here this morning, and Mal is ill, too.
Here, the words were blurred, and Yvelliane suspected that Miraude had been crying.
I’m stillallright,sofar,andI’veshutthehouse,asIareth toldme.ButIdon’tknowwhattodo.

Youmustn’t come back till it’s over.I’m so sorry,Yviane, and I’m scared for Mal, and the officer.And for Thierry, too,wherever he is. I’d wish you were here, but then you’d only be at risk, too.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Don’t comehome. Forgiveme, Yviane.

It was signed:
Your foolish Mimi
.

Plague in the low city and around the new harbor. In the secondary area to the southwest. In the shantytown and the old docks. In Yvelliane’s home. She folded the letter and let it drop. Then she rose and went to the sideboard. A decanter stood upon it: she poured herself a drink and swallowed it down in one gulp.

Iareth Yscoithi had come once more under the Far Blays’ roof and once more brought death with her. A cavalry officer named Joyain Lievrier . . . Yvelliane was good with names: she had no difficulty placing that one. The tall, fair lieutenant with the deep-set eyes, who had fought a duel with Thiercelin for the sake of Iareth Yscoithi. Now this same Joyain was dying and had gifted his death to Yvelliane’s kin.

She would lose everything. She would not weep; she was stronger than that. Besides, she had too much to do. She would arrange something. She had work to attend to. She bit her lip and went back to the desk.

There was another knock. Sighing, Yvelliane said, “Yes?” The same maid came in. “Well?”

“Excuse me, madame. There is a gentleman to see you. A Monsieur Urien Armenwy.”

Yvelliane looked up. No word had come to advise her that Urien, Prince Keris’ right hand, was expected. A thin film of hope formed about her heart. Urien had abilities beyond the usual. If he had come, now . . . She said, “Show him in,” and hastily tidied up her desktop.

She rose, as he entered, and curtsied. He refused refreshment and took a straight-backed chair. Without preamble, he said, “I need your aid, Yviane Allandur.”

“I’m at your service, naturally.” Yvelliane sat down. “What is it? Kenan didn’t tell me you were expected.”

“Kenan is not aware of my presence.”

Now, that was interesting. Yvelliane concealed a smile at Urien noticing her noticing, and waited. He said, “You are acquainted with one Gracielis de Varnaq, a Tarnaroqui?” She nodded. “And he has spoken to you, regarding an association between the heir of my liege, Kenan Orcandros, and the woman Quenfrida d’Ivrinez?”

“Gracielis has a conspiracy theory,” Yvelliane was brisk; whatever her feeling about Quenfrida and Kenan, she was bound by her promise to Laurens. “I can’t tell you how correct it is.”

“You can, I think.” Urien looked at her squarely. She was silent. “Yviane Allandur, I have a thing to say unto you. Your city is sinking.” Yvelliane looked at the pile of depressing reports. Urien said, “I would work to alter that. But I cannot do so without your help.”

“Any direct political support must be ratified with the council . . .”

Urien cut her short. “I do not require the countenance of the council. Nor do I require anything that can compromise you. It is a matter simply of some calculations. You have the skill to perform them. I do not.”

More arithmetic. Yvelliane put her head in her hands and said, “Of course.”

“It concerns the tidal pattern of the river and the moons.” Rising, Urien came to stand beside her. He placed several sheets before her. She stared at them blankly. “I regret the imposition, but the matter is of some urgency.”

“They always are,” she said, wearily. “When do you need this by?”

“As soon as possible.” Urien put his hand on her shoulder. “There is a second thing.”

“More sums?”

“No. You have received a letter from Gracielis
undarios
?”

“Yes. It’s here somewhere . . . I haven’t had time to read it yet.” She stopped, and looked up at him. “Gracielis
undarios
?” Urien was silent. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“It is not my affair.”

Yvelliane shrugged, and began to hunt for Gracielis’ letter. “So, what’s the second matter?” She located the note under a pile of other papers,she fished it out and broke the seal.

“It concerns Thierry.”

She was still looking at the desk. Alarm caught at her. Swallowing, she found she did, after all, still have her voice. Flatly, she said, “Is he dead?” And kept her eyes downcast.

“No,” Urien said. Yvelliane shut her eyes. “But he is unwell. He has asked for you.”

“If it’s the plague, I can’t come.” She spoke harshly. She could not afford to think about this. “Given Firomelle’s current condition, the possibility of infection . . .”

“It is not the plague.” In spite of herself, Yvelliane gasped. Urien continued. “He has been injured in an attack.”

She had to retain her self-control. “Is it bad?” She made herself open her eyes and look up.

“Moderately. Gracielis
undarios
believes your presence would help.”

“What happened?”

Urien said, “He was attacked. Fey things walk by night here.”