Ghost Talkers

by Mary Robinette Kowal

  The blue disc … it was pulled from the necks of soldiers who were injured and would not return to the battlefield. Ostensibly, it was part of tracking the medical records. In fact, it was the key that bound British soldiers to the nexus at Potter’s Field. The real reason for removing it from wounded soldiers was so that they did not report in if they died in the hospital with nothing useful to say.

  “I think it was a mistake to not issue them to the Indian Army.”

  He snorted. “Because it gives the game away. Not because you think we have anything of value to add to the reports.”

  “Both.” Ginger wiped her hands across her face, shivering. “I will make the recommendation to my superior, but I can offer no assurances beyond that.”

  He broke into a sudden grin. “Considering that I thought you would lie to me—I will take it. And thank you for trusting me.”

  “I am not certain I have much choice, since you could expose me with a single shout.”

  Cpl. Patel blanched. “Oh my goodness. I did not think of that. I beg your pardon. Most sincerely, I beg your pardon. I should have waited until we were not—”

  “Please—” Ginger reached across the gap between them and rested her hand on his arm for a moment. “You are correct, and have nothing to apologize for.”

  “Thank you.”

  Ginger nodded and stared out at the path in front of them, looking through Ben to the truck that would carry her to Le Havre. “Tell me about your wife as we go?”

  Cpl. Patel glowed with a rosy mist of adoration and pulled a set of keys from his pocket. “Her name is Arundhathi, and she is a most excellent woman.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Ginger leaned against the wall behind a rosebush overlooking the street that led to the Spirit Corps warehouse, waiting for Ben. It seemed that she had spent most of her time over the past days waiting for Ben, but without his ability to scout ahead, she would probably be in the clutches of Merrow or Reg or Axtell or … She clenched her teeth. She was no longer certain who the enemy was, only that there was one. More than one.

  Rubbing the bridge of her nose did little to relieve the headache that had taken up residence there. She hoped, very much, that Cpl. Patel had made it safely back to his camp after dropping her off. Just as fervently, she hoped that his unique position as a driver who was a medium also made his guess about the blue ID discs unique.

  Morning sun slanted down the street, cutting black shadows with golden light. Ben wafted down the street and passed directly through the rosebush to stand by her with the branches sticking through his body. A bloodred blossom emerged from his neck like a boil. His jaw was set and firm.

  Ben pointed down the street toward the train station. Images of him stuttered around the bush, moving toward the wall surrounding the warehouse that housed Potter’s Field, before evaporating back into himself. “Merrow.”

  “Damn it.” Ginger squinted down the street, but didn’t see the man. She gnawed on her lower lip, thinking. “Is he alone?”

  “Yes.” Ben grabbed at a rose branch as if he could snap it off. Great red wings of anger snapped behind him and then curled tightly around him.

  Closing her eyes, Ginger tried to run through all the possible choices in front of her, but she was so fatigued that only one seemed viable. “Change of plans. Since we know he’s here, I’m going to go to Brigadier-General Davies.”

  “No!”

  “Yes.” Ginger pushed herself away from the wall. “Davies can’t be the traitor, because if he were, they would already know where the Spirit Corps is. He might arrest me before he lets me talk, but at least that will put him on alert.”

  “Ginger…”

  “I know, I know. You think it is not safe.” She straightened her jacket, wishing she were in her Spirit Corps uniform for this purpose. “But nothing is safe, so that provides little reason not to proceed.”

  The space between Ginger’s shoulder blades itched as she stepped out from behind the rosebush. She shoved her hands deep in the pockets of her jacket as she walked toward the main street. Every part of her soul screamed at her to run, but running would draw attention.

  “Hide.” Ben zoomed past her, grabbing for her arm as if he could hurry her along.

  Behind Ginger, a bottle rattled on the pavement. She murmured, “Is he…?”

  “Yes.”

  The itch between her shoulders grew until she shuddered. Merrow wouldn’t shoot her, because that would draw attention.

  Attention—Ginger had planned to head away from the gates to Potter’s Field, because Merrow was there. But so were the guards. Merrow had been hiding from them, so that meant they weren’t on his side. She hoped. Abruptly, Ginger turned around and ran screaming toward the main gate of Potter’s Field.

  Toward a distinguished British officer.

  He had white hair, a hoary mustache, and a brace of medals on his uniform. This was who had been behind her?

  The man’s eyes widened, and his stance settled, in a movement at once strange and familiar. She had seen Merrow do that on a train.

  God—this was Merrow, but he somehow appeared two inches taller and broader through the shoulders. And with pale hair.

  Ginger screamed louder. Her throat and soul tore with her screams.

  The MPs came running out of the gatehouse and aimed their weapons at her. Too late, Ginger realized what this looked like. She was dressed like a French farmer. Merrow was dressed like a British officer, and she was charging him.

  Ginger pulled to a halt and yanked her hat off, tossing it aside. Please, God, let Lt. Plumber have been right that she was unmistakably a woman, even in men’s clothing. “Please! Help me. This man is—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” Merrow grabbed her, and Ginger gasped as his hand closed around her injured wrist, pressing into the blisters there. He twisted her arm behind her. When he spoke, his voice was hauntingly familiar, but not as Merrow’s. He sounded like the officer who had drowned Capt. Norris in the baths. He sounded like an aristocrat, bored and utterly in charge. “A word of caution, gentlemen. Do not flirt with Americans: they’ll try their best to entrap you.”

  “Bloody Americans.” One of the gate guards spat on the ground.

  “It’s my own damn fault. The henna should have been a clue to her desperation.”

  “Henna?!” Ginger tried to stomp on his foot, but he dodged nimbly. “This man is a traitor and—”

  He twisted her wrist again, and her vision went white with pain. “Really … that fiction did not work any of the other times you tried it. Do you think these gentlemen are more foolish?”

  “She been giving you trouble? Want us to take her along to the MPs?”

  “No … no, thank you. You have a gate to guard.” Merrow sighed with upper-class resignation. “And I do not want my own indiscretion to inconvenience anyone but me.”

  “What’re you going to do with her?”

  “I’ll walk her down to the hospitality hut where I met her and turn her over to the matron there.” Merrow turned Ginger as easily as if she were a puppet, so she faced away from the gate to Potter’s Field. “Wish me luck that they actually send her back to America this time.”

  Ginger tried to struggle free, but his grip on her gave no room for leverage. With her hand twisted up behind her back, she had to move forward to keep from falling. Though perhaps falling in the street would be preferable to wherever he was taking her.

  Ben reached for Merrow and jerked his hands back with a hiss of pain. He issued a string of curses, which demonstrated that his language had not been impaired on that front.

  Behind her, Merrow made a grunt of satisfaction.

  “What did you do to him?”

  Merrow didn’t answer her, just continued marching her down the street. Ben circled them, balling his hands with rage. Red swirled around him as if the very air were boiling. “Salt. Clothes—”

  “Salt? How did you introduce it to clothing?” She waited for Merrow to answer.
When he didn’t, she continued on, hoping she could provoke some sort of response. “Bathing it in a solution of salt water would work, I suppose. I wonder at the ratio. Is it scratchy and uncomfortable? I do so hope it is.”

  He turned Ginger abruptly, and she stumbled. His grip on her arm kept her from falling, but it left her nearly blind with pain, as something in her wrist snapped. When her vision cleared, they were back in the alley that ran down one side of Potter’s Field. It had been used, at one point, to load materials into the warehouse and still had the remnants of boxes littering the cobbled surface.

  He stopped and sighed. “Did the captain untie you?”

  Even if she had possessed the breath to speak, she was not going to answer his questions, by God.

  Merrow sighed again. “That isn’t a state secret. Did he untie you?” When Ginger remained silent, he put a hand on her shoulder and forced her to her knees. “Captain, please tell Miss Stuyvesant the rules when facing interrogation. She won’t believe it from me.”

  Ginger swallowed and cursed internally when her voice shook. “So you are going to interrogate me now, instead of spending days pretending to be a friend? Why? Why are you betraying your country?”

  “Betraying my—” He gave an ugly laugh. “I have to ask, what did you think Capt. Harford was doing, when he was behind German lines? Making friends? Being loyal to Germany?”

  She had no answer for that. Darkness swam in front of Ginger’s vision. For a moment she thought she was going to faint, and then she realized it was the leading edge of Ben’s aura. He drifted in front of her, radiating fear. “Answer anything not critical.”

  “Well, won’t he just know what’s critical then?” She turned her head as far as she could toward Merrow. “Fine. No. He did not untie me.”

  “Damn.”

  “Why damn?”

  “Because I was looking for a reason not to kill you. And if you had that much control over the ghost, that would be useful technique to extract.” He sighed again. “Please believe that I have been trying very hard not to place us both in a position where that was necessary.”

  “That is hardly a comfort.”

  “No. I suppose it isn’t.”

  “Why now?” She searched the ground, looking for something to use as a weapon. There was a board just in front of her, but not quite in reach. When Merrow was silent, she looked over her shoulder. “You don’t want me to go to my grave wondering. Unless you want me to haunt you.”

  Ben reached over her, passing his fist into Merrow’s head. “Two ghosts.”

  The man shivered and then gave a shrug. “Because at the moment, you are the only person who knows I’m a spy.”

  “Ah, but I’m not.” Ginger wet her lips and looked forward again.

  “You are. If you had told anyone, then you wouldn’t be alone.” Cloth rustled behind her. “At least you’ll get to be with the captain again.”

  Merrow let go of her wrist. Ginger lunged for the wood and was yanked to a halt. A tight line ran around her throat.

  Ginger could not breathe. She clawed at the wire. Struggling to rise, she could not draw a breath to scream. Ben screamed for her, and the spirit plane shuddered with the waves of blue-black anguish that rolled out from him.

  Ginger gripped Merrow’s wrists and the rough braid of a British officer. She dug her nails into his flesh, trying to peel his hands away. She could not breathe. Could not breathe—

  Metal clanged against brick.

  Above her, a meaty thud, and then Merrow grunted. The pressure at her throat slackened. Ginger dropped forward, rolling onto her back.

  Lt. Plumber balanced over her and brought his crutch around for another blow. Merrow caught it, blocking the blow as he kicked the lieutenant’s remaining leg out from under him.

  Mr. Haden appeared from somewhere and stabbed a knitting needle deep into Merrow’s back. Face blanching, Merrow dropped to his knees. Lt. Plumber swung his other crutch up from the ground and caught Merrow in the jaw. He fell forward, still somehow catching himself on his hands. As he struggled to get his legs back under him, Mr. Haden jabbed another needle into his thigh.

  Edna ran forward, her skirt flapping, and kicked Merrow onto the ground. In moments, she had his hands and feet trussed together as if he were a sheep.

  Ginger pushed herself up as Joanne and Helen caught her. She looked up at her circle in bewilderment. “How—”

  Mr. Haden leaned down to help Lt. Plumber up. “I had a visitor from beyond the grave.…” He pulled another pair of knitting needles from his pocket, his aura dark with grief. “This bastard thought he could get away with strangling Mrs. Richardson. Set off a shell in the bunker to cover his tracks, but she reported in. To me.”

  “So we’ve been watching for you.” Helen stood with her hands on her hips. “That scream of yours made quite the ripple in the spirit realm. Good thing too.”

  Ginger stared at Merrow, her stomach turning. Mrs. Richardson. Strangled? She had wanted to be wrong. Ginger turned to Ben for reassurance. Where was he?

  The air in the alley was warm and still.

  The auras of the mortals glowed in a mix of angry reds, triumphant golds, and the deep violet of grief. But Ben … God. She pressed her hand to her mouth. His unfinished business had been finding the traitor.

  He couldn’t be gone already.

  Ginger’s gaze dropped to Merrow again, bound in the middle of the alley. She had so very much wanted to be wrong. She had wanted to be simply tired and confused and paranoid. Ben and Mrs. Richardson and …

  “Why Mrs. Richardson?” Her voice cracked. “Why not me?”

  Merrow closed his eyes, face blank. His aura crept with grey-brown resignation, but the ever-present fear had vanished.

  Lt. Plumber prodded him with his crutch. “The lady asked you a question.”

  With his eyes closed, lying down, Merrow looked even younger than before, like a teenager taking a nap. If that teenager were bound and bloody. The knitting needle in his back shifted with each breath. Red rimmed the cloth around it in a widening circle.

  Ginger wet her lips and turned to Mr. Haden. “Did Mrs. Richardson say anything else?”

  “Aye. That she did. She—”

  “Wait.” Helen held up her hand. “Best not to let this one know what we know.”

  Lt. Plumber nodded. “I can help with interrogating him.” He ground the tip of his crutch into the earth. “Be a pleasure, in fact.”

  “I think we’d all be glad to help with that,” Joanne said, cracking her knuckles.

  Edna simply stooped and lifted Merrow off the ground. She grunted as she heaved him over her shoulder like a sack of grain. “Where do I take him?”

  Helen eyed the warehouse that housed Potter’s Field. “Well … it seems to me that since he wanted to see the inside so much, maybe we ought to let him. It’s not as if he’ll be able to tell the Huns about it now.” Tapping her finger on her lower lip, Helen turned back to Ginger. “How stable are you?”

  “Fine.” It had been so long since she had truly been well that it did not even feel like a lie.

  Snorting, Helen shook her head. “I don’t know why I expected you to tell me the truth.”

  “I mean, tired, obviously, but well enough. All things considered…”

  “And Capt. Harford?”

  Ginger looked around them again at the quiet, warm alley. She tried and failed to smile. “I—we know who killed him, now.” That question had been all that had kept him there.

  “Ah…” Helen’s aura dripped grief across the space between them. “I am sorry—and not, all at the same time.”

  “Me too.” Ginger wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She had thought she would be able to say good-bye. “It had become … difficult, at the end. Why did you ask me about my stability?”

  Helen gestured toward Potter’s Field. “We’ve made some changes.”

  “Thank heavens. I wasn’t sure if you got my message.”

  “We did.�
� Helen cocked her head. “Did you get ours?”

  “Yours…?”

  “We didn’t know where you were, so we tried lucid dreaming at you.” She jerked a thumb toward Merrow. “About that one.”

  “Oh.” She had thought that was just a nightmare. “Almost. What sort of changes?”

  Helen eyed Merrow and grimaced. Crossing to Ginger, she crouched down and whispered to her. “The Germans have been attacking hospitals and men at rest. We’ve been flooded with useless reports, so … we made a holding area. On the grounds.”

  Now her question about Ginger’s stability made sense. Walking through a ghost was difficult for a medium under the best of circumstances. Walking through a courtyard thick with them? It would be hellish. “Ah … well. I’m fine. Really.”

  Snapping her fingers, Helen scowled at her. “You are lying.”

  “And you’ve done your best to warn me, so consider any consequences on my head.” She tried to stand, wincing as she put weight on her wrist. “We can’t wait around coddling my delicate sensibilities.”

  “Now you sound like a Jane Austen novel.” Helen straightened, offering a hand.

  Clasping it with her good hand, Ginger felt a wave of warm comfort flow between them. The tangible sympathy made her eyes burn with tears. She tightened her lips and let Helen help her off the ground. Mr. Haden joined them, offering Ginger his arm. She followed their small procession to the iron gate set in the wall that surrounded the warehouse grounds.

  Joanne pointed down as she entered the gate. “Careful there.” A line of salt sparkled in the morning sun and followed the path of the wall all the way around the grounds.

  Ginger leaned on Mr. Haden as she stepped across, careful not to disturb the grains. The temperature plummeted from July to November. Souls pressed against her from every side.

  She is lying in bed, smiling at the nurse who brought the evening meal. If she had both her legs, she would flirt, but that is utterly pointless. Something crackles. A light flares—

  She is shaking the dice in her hands, laughing at Branson. He has had terrible luck with the dice all night, and wonders if someone might want the ratty kidney belt his aunt made him. Something crackles. A light flares—