Living With Ghosts

by Kari Sperring

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  “Look . . .”

  Gracielis and Thiercelin were no longer alone in the aisle. Silent over the hard road, a horseman came cantering. His head was high. His cloak stirred with a wind that was not blowing. He was hatless; the hair that streamed behind him was longer than fashion required. His clothing was dark; he had neither braid nor bright buttons. The faint moons’ light glinted off the pommel of his sword. His face was in shadow. There was a careless defiance to him, lined in posture, in the very angle of that bare head.

  Into the silence, Gracielis heard Thiercelin whisper, “Oh, Valdin.”

  Gracielis leaned forward in the gloom. He said, “I see him.”

  “What do we do?”

  “We wait.”

  Mothmoon broke through the clouds, illuminating the road. The rider cast no shadow.

  He was closer now. In a few moments he would pass by them or perhaps through them, as though they were the creatures of mist and memory.

  His face was unmistakable. A little drawn, a little malcontent. High cheekbones, dark brows. He was bearded, like the most typical street bravo. The hooves of his mount did not quite touch the ground.

  There was no more time. Gracielis opened the carriage door and stepped down into the road. He was straight in the path of the rider.

  He looked into the eyes of the late Valdarrien of the Far Blays, and spoke the word which compelled a halt . . .

  Copyright © 2009 by K.L. Maund.

  All Rights Reserved.

  DAW Book Collectors No. 1468.

  DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly

  coincidental.

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  To Phil,

  who has always wanted to patronize the arts,

  with love.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I have been living with this book for a very long time. It has gone through many revisions and rewrites, and many people have helped, encouraged, and supported me along the way. I could probably write another chapter just listing their names. The members of the Apple Writers’ Workshop worked their way patiently through the first version; the members of the Milford UK 2007 and Friday the Thirteenth Writers’ Workshops read chunks of my most recent revisions. Intermediate versions were painstakingly beta-read by Austin Benson, Nik Ravenscroft, and Jaine Fenn. Storm Constantine and the Immanion Press were kind and generous: thank you. Ian Watson not only copyedited the penultimate version but was hugely supportive. Lisanne Norman has been an inspiration, an ally, a champion, and a dear friend. I also owe huge thanks to my editor at DAW, Sheila Gilbert, for her support and faith and to Chris McGrath for a wonderful cover picture. Finally, my partner Phil Nanson has not simply had to read almost every new draft, but has put up with all the tribulations of living with a writer (and her cats) with patience, fortitude, and immense tolerance.

  1

  EVEN THE LIEUTENANT’S GHOST looked startled as the door slammed shut.

  Across the Lower Gold Street coffeehouse, other heads turned to stare. The nobleman who had caused the disruption gazed about him, looking straight through the ghost, then began to make his way toward an alcove at the rear of the salon. Worthy merchants glared at him. Rain dripped off his wide-brimmed hat and splashed on the floor. He wore a rapier under his fine woolen cloak; the end kept catching in the chair backs. He was tall and pleasant-faced, but for all that he did not look to be in the best of tempers.

  Seated in the alcove, Gracielis de Varnaq, gigolo and spy, exchanged glances with the ghost. He recognized the nobleman, but he had no desire to talk with him. The circumstances of their first meeting had not been auspicious.

  The man halted in front of Gracielis, overlapping the ghost. Gracielis looked up inquiringly.

  “I want,” said the nobleman, “one hour.” Coins dropped one by one from his hand onto the table. Across the coffeehouse, other patrons again turned. “Is that enough?”

  Gracielis took hold of himself and smiled. “Perhaps.” Pitched soft, his voice carried no further than the table’s edge. A faint accent clung to it, alluring as the memory of a perfume. “It would depend on how you wanted to fill the hour.”

  “Six days,” the nobleman said. Gracielis let one brow rise. “Six days it’s taken me to find you. I’ve made an exhibition of myself in half the public salons in the city.” Gracielis shrugged, beautiful, apologetic. “Six days. And you say it depends.”

  “My regrets.” Gracielis held out a hand. “Will you sit down?”

  The nobleman swore. Gracielis lowered his painted eyes.

  “To the river’s bed with your airs! Don’t you remember me, Gracielis?”

  Gracielis looked up. “Do you want me to?”

  “Yes!” The nobleman’s hand slammed down upon the table. The coins bounced and rolled. One fell. The lieutenant’s ghost extended impotent fingers to catch it. Around them the other clients gaped and stared.

  “I remember you,” Gracielis said. “Lord Thiercelin duLaurier of Sannazar and the Far Blays.” Thiercelin sat. The interest from the rest of the coffeehouse began to subside. “I am at your service, monseigneur,” Gracielis said.

  “One hour,” Thiercelin repeated. Gracielis twined his rose-colored lovelock around a finger. Thiercelin continued, “I want to talk to you. That’s all.”

  Looking over the coins, Gracielis selected two, pushed the rest back. He was careful to hide his relief. “You may also,” he said, “buy me a drink. Chocolate. I seldom drink wine.” At his back, the lieutenant’s ghost sneered.

  Thiercelin made a sign to a waiter. Then, leaning back in his chair, he said, “You’ve done well. My wife said you would.”

  “I’m honored.” Gracielis looked down at himself, appraising without vanity. “I wouldn’t like to give the lie to a lady.” The lieutenant’s ghost spat, silent, insubstantial.

  “Quite.” Thiercelin’s tone was dry. “My wife said another thing also.”

  Here it came. “I don’t fight duels.”

  “Nor I, save with gentlemen.”

  Gracielis’ eyes widened and he bowed. “Forgive me.” The ghost laughed soundlessly.
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  “She said you see ghosts.”

  Gracielis had been toying with his two coins. Now he stacked them and pushed them back across the table. He said, “I think, monseigneur, you’ve mistaken my trade.”

  “No mistake,” Thiercelin said. Gracielis shrugged, picking up his cloak. Thiercelin continued, “Six years ago we witnessed a duel, you and I. Both combatants were killed. One of them was my best friend. Valdin.” Gracielis reached for the two-colored gloves that signaled his public profession. Thiercelin put a hand on them. The lieutenant’s ghost grinned, exposing decaying, phantom teeth.

  Thiercelin said, “Eight nights ago I saw him again.”

  Gracielis let his hand drop back to his side. The ghost was still laughing. “As you said, both men died. How could you see one of them?”

  “The watch-captain wanted you flogged for collusion in those deaths. My wife bought your pardon,” Thiercelin said. “Don’t you think you owe me a hearing?”

  Gracielis drew in a breath. His eyes flickered sideways to look at the lieutenant’s ghost.

  Leaning across the table, Thiercelin’s face was strangely defenseless. “Six years ago. I held Valdin’s hands as he lay dying. I saw him buried. Eight nights ago, I saw him again, in the royal aisle. He hadn’t aged a day.”

  “Ghosts don’t,” Gracielis said. “So they say.”

  Thiercelin looked at his hands. “It was Valdin. He smiled at me . . . I thought I was seeing things. The next night . . ,” He shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “You have your answer, then.” Gracielis said. “You don’t need me.”

  The waiter arrived with the chocolate, put it down on the table. He glanced at Gracielis curiously. Thiercelin said, “You could sit down and drink it, at least.”

  Gracielis hesitated.

  “Please.”

  It was not a lord’s place to plead. Gracielis sat, the motion oddly graceless. Thiercelin said, “I need your help. My wife wouldn’t lie to me.”

  “I can’t help you.”

  “You’re the only other witness to that death. I’m willing to pay you. I . . .”

  “I can’t help you.” Gracielis repeated. He reached across the table, took one of Thiercelin’s hands in his. “Forgive me. I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s forbidden.”

  “Forbidden? But . . .”

  Gracielis squeezed his hand. “Yes. Try to forget this. It was a trick of the shadows, nothing more.”

  Thiercelin took his hand away. “You’re wrong.”

  Gracielis rose, shaking his head. “Forget,” he repeated, turning to go.

  Alongside him, the lieutenant’s ghost made an obscene gesture of triumph.

  In the street outside it was raining. Gracielis held one hand out, and the corners of his mouth twitched very slightly. He pulled his hat down over his eyes and wrapped his cloak about himself. The lieutenant’s ghost sneered. He looked at it in momentary thought, then shook his head and turned away down the street.

  It was not given to every man to see ghosts. More annoyingly, it was given to even fewer to choose not to see them. Walking, he remembered every necessary bow and smile to passing acquaintances, but inside, he turned Thiercelin’s words over and over. He had lived with his gifts all his life, but he had always taken care to hide them from others. To do otherwise courted danger; especially here, especially for a foreigner and an exile. Even in his native Tarnaroq, his abilities could arouse suspicion. Here in Merafi, exposure could mean death. And besides, he was bound. The terms of his exile allowed him little freedom. He was permitted only the lesser arts, of seduction, of allure.

  This was the quality of Gracielis de Varnaq; with him all things were a matter of grace. His manner was chosen to disarm, his words to please. His charm was beyond dispute. He was very expensive. Living off the finite fruits of his beauty, he had made sure of that early. He was twenty-six years old.

  He had refused to help Thiercelin. In the doorway of a fashionable confectioner, he paused and looked back over his shoulder. His gaze passed through the lieutenant’s ghost, dodging disquiet. Some streets away, a guild clock struck a quarter to five. He owed nothing to Thiercelin. The ghost watched him with spiteful eyes, giving no aid. Thiercelin would be gone, and Gracielis had an appointment to keep. He took one halfhearted step back the way he had come and stopped. It was no concern of his. It was, anyway, forbidden.

  Forbidden. He looked at the ghost and spoke a soft word. The insubstantial form wavered, clutched, faded. Gracielis put out a hand to the doorjamb, face paler than before. The post was damp, leaving a dark stain on his white lace cuff. He brushed at it, absently. Then he straightened and turned his back to the street. To the side of the confectioner’s ran a short passage. Halfway along it was a green-painted door. He knocked twice and waited.

  The old woman who opened it did not look pleased to see him. “You’re late.”

  “I’m desolated.”

  “You’re to wait.”

  She made no move to take his cloak or hat. As he turned toward a door off the hall, she said sharply, “Not there. Upstairs.” And then, as she locked the front door, “The small room. You know the way.”

  “Of course.” His foot on the stair, he stopped and bowed to her. “Thank you for your kindness.” She scowled. He lowered his gaze and headed up the stairs.

  There was a room at the end of the short corridor. It was simply furnished: a high-post bed, chairs, a long dresser. Entering, he took off his hat and dropped it on the washstand. He folded his cloak over a chair. The casement was half-closed. Opening it, he looked down into the yard. It was still raining. The light was beginning to fade. Somewhere, a dog barked. A woman’s voice rose to scold it. He could see shadowy forms beyond the windows of the house opposite. There were no sounds from the rooms below him.

  He sat on the window ledge and drew a small comb from his pocket. There were no candles. He could just about make out his reflection in the pane. His hair was damp. He set himself to groom it, neatly methodical.

  He heard no footfalls on the stairs. He did hear the door open, but by then he was standing, hand white on the comb, as the air brought him the whisper of a name. Sweet musk—and amber and bitter orange. He controlled a shiver as memory supplied him with a face. Without turning, he said, “I was expecting a minion. This is an honor. Chai ela,Quenfrida.”

  Quenfrida did not smile. She said, “Are you disappointed?” He could see her reflection in the window. He watched as she set a candlestick on a chest and lit it with a word.

  Her perfume was making him dizzy. There had to be a reason for her presence. The Tarnaroqui spy-mistress here in Merafi seldom troubled herself with him. He said, “Of course not.”

  They were not speaking the local tongue, Merafien, but their native Tarnaroqui. She lifted the jug from the washstand and poured water into the ewer. There was no towel. Turning, he offered her his handkerchief. The offer was made just a little before she realized the need.

  She took it, drying her hands. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

  “I beg your pardon. But it costs me nothing to help.”

  “Indeed.” She leaned against the dresser. “But it costs me something to accept it. You overextend yourself.”

  “I ask your forgiveness.”

  “Do you?” Her voice smiled. “Have it, then.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It costs me nothing.”

  There was a small moment of silence. He played with his lace, still trying not to look at her. She said, “You have something for me?” And then, “Gracielis? You must have something to report.” She had crossed the room toward him. Now she placed a hand upon his breast. She said, “You were late today.”

  “I was delayed.”

  “Really?” It was hard not to look at her. The bodice of her plain gown was fastened at the front. Almost casually, she began to loosen it, so that the sleeve tops slid away from her shoulders. He followed the motion, a faint flush heating his
skin. She smiled and reached up to unpin her hair. He looked away. Her laugh was deep and not entirely kind. He was her creature utterly, and she knew it. “Sit down,” she said, softly.

  He sat on the bed, looking at his feet. Cloth rustled as she let her gown drop to her ankles. She said, “You haven’t told me your news.”

  “I have none,” he said to the floor.

  “None? I’d heard otherwise.”

  “Then you heard wrongly.”

  “I did? My sources are usually reliable.” She was brushing her hair, heavy and scented across her white shoulders. “You’d do well to remember that.”

  “I do.”

  “Of course.” There was another silence, as she worked the brush through a knot. He kept his eyes downcast, feeling the pulse beat rapidly through his blood. He had not anticipated her presence. He had not had time to raise his defenses. From outside no sounds were audible.

  She laid the brush down. “You’re getting careless. One might suspect that your loyalty was failing. That’s not healthy.”

  “I do what I may.”

  “Do you?” The bedsprings creaked as she sat down beside him. “You erred today, in banishing your shadow.”

  “It was annoying me.”

  “You had not the right. You know the limits of your bond.” One of her hands tangled in his hair. He shivered. She said, “However, I’m disposed to be lenient.”

  He closed his eyes. The fingers strayed beneath the neck of his shirt. He said, “You are too kind.” It should have been sarcasm. The last word betrayed him, blurring almost to a gasp as she traced the top of his spine.

  “You have a new patron, I hear.”

  “I have several.”

  She gave one long lock a sharp tug, and he winced. “Look at me.”

  He drew in a deep breath, turned. She was clad only in her fine shift, cut low over her breasts. “That’s better,” she said. Her hand left his back, and moved to caress a cheekbone. Her perfume drowned him. One of his hands rose to imprison hers. She twined her fingers about it, stroking his palm.