Living With Ghosts by Kari Sperring Page B

distance. I confess myself grateful for this; it seems that my courage in this respect is less than I had believed. But I am well within myself, Father.Do not be concerned up on my behalf. It has been six years since the death of Valdin Allandur. I intend to face such memories as this city contains with firm resolve.
    I should report also that this forenoon we received a visit from the resident ambassador from Tarnaroq, accompanied by the Lady Quenfrida, who is known to us . . .
     
    “The Tarnaroqui delegation, monseigneur,” Joyain announced. “The honorable Ambassador Lord Sigeris; the Lord Radewund; the Lady Quenfrida.” It was not his job to conduct visitors to Kenan, not usually. But they had arrived as he had been about to inform His Highness that the horses were ready for his morning ride, and it had seemed efficient for him to accompany them upstairs. Stepping to his left, he bowed. “I’ll send word to the stables that your ride is delayed. Will that be all, monseigneur?”
    Kenan Orcandros looked up from the correspondence he had been going over with Iareth Yscoithi. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Do remain.” His tone was not quite pleasant. “I’m sure your commanding officer will want to be sure we do not plot treachery under your roof, whatever our various reputations. You, too, Iareth kai-reth .” Iareth had risen; she nodded and stepped back to stand at a window.
    Joyain said nothing. Kenan, it seemed, was still young enough to enjoy rudeness. If Kenan wanted to be insulting—Joyain was pretty sure that the subject of the insult was less himself, than it was his country and the Tarnaroqui delegation—then that was none of Joyain’s business. His commanding officer was unlikely to care, and it was up to the Tarnaroqui how they responded. Schooling his face to neutrality, he retired to the door and stood with his back to it.
    At least it was dry in here. He had never known rain like it: there was talk in the barracks of sandbagging the old quay, and the floating dock was all but unusable.
    Ambassador Sigeris had finished making a long—and incomprehensible—speech in Tarnaroqui. Now he bowed, and added in Merafien, “Which is to say, we of Tarnaroq are honored to make the acquaintance of Lunedith’s heir.” It seemed he, too, chose to ignore Kenan’s attempt at insult.
    Kenan had not bothered to rise. To Sigeris’ speech, he responded only with a curt nod. Sigeris looked momentarily askance, then, recovering himself, asked, “How do you find Merafi?”
    “Wet,” said Kenan.
    There was a pause. The visitors had not been invited to sit. Sigeris stood with his hands behind him, watching Kenan. Radewund was studying his cuffs. To Joyain’s experienced eye, he looked hungover. The woman Quenfrida had wandered over to the mantel, and was examining a china figure. Without turning, she said “Would that be slightly, adequately, quite, or very?”
    “What?” asked Kenan.
    “Wet.”
    There was another pause. Then Kenan said, “Some-what. If I may enlarge the parameters.”
    “Naturally. That’s one of rank’s privileges.” Quenfrida’s voice was silken: although he could not see her face, Joyain was willing to swear that she was smiling.
    “So it is,” Kenan said lazily. “I’d rather forgotten.”
    “Ah,” said Quenfrida. “Forgetfulness.”
    “Quite. I am, in addition, remiss. I begin to note it.” Kenan made a small bow to Sigeris. “Perhaps Your Graces would care to sit and take refreshments with me?”
    Sigeris was watching Quenfrida: his expression was curiously thoughtful. As she turned to look at him, it turned into a smile. To Kenan, he said, “That would be welcome.”
    “So.” Kenan gestured to the assortment of chairs.
    “It’s morning. They drink chocolate here at this hour, I think.” He glanced at Joyain as he spoke. The latter made a hasty bow. “At home in Lunedith, we drink ale.”
    So did Joyain, as a rule. Chocolate was for the rich. Iareth left the room;