Living With Ghosts

by Kari Sperring

  Quenfrida would have him cross them, for the sake of Thiercelin of Sannazar, whom she had no cause to love. For Thiercelin’s sake or, more likely, her own.

  Gracielis had no desire to obey. He had no choice. On Amalie’s rosewood secretaire, beside his gloves and serpent mask, lay a note in his neat hand addressed to Thiercelin. Amalie’s housekeeper would see it was delivered.

  And he would do as he had been bid. His fingers combed through Amalie’s hair, and his reflected eyes caressed hers in the mirror, but he was apart behind his painted face. There was some question of history between Quenfrida and Thiercelin’s clever wife Yvelliane, a half-healed wound, rooted in the years that Quenfrida had spent in exile in the northern principality of Lunedith. Quenfrida’s presence there had been, he suspected, a punishment for her failure with himself. Yet she had returned from Lunedith creamily satisfied. She would use him for the slow unraveling of Yvelliane d’Illandre, if she could. If he was weak enough.

  He didn’t want to think about it. Pulling away from his thoughts, he smiled at Amalie. “There,” he said, “it’s done.” She looked at herself, then up at him. “Well?” He made his eyes huge. “You do like it?” She hesitated. His expression played anxiety. “Ladyheart . . .”

  “I like it.” She shook her head at him. “Perhaps I should employ you full time.”

  He let his eyes slide sideways to the daybed. “I don’t deserve it.” The ghost signed scornful agreement.

  “You’ll do,” said Amalie.

  “Whoops,” said Thiercelin, sidestepping. And then, “Shall I diet, do you think?”

  Miraude looked sidelong at him from the almond slits in her mask. “Probably not. Oh, look out behind you!”

  “How?” said Thiercelin, twisting. The ground was still damp after a day of intermittent rain. The air showed a tendency to mistiness, not helped by the damply smoking torches. Both moons had risen, but neither provided much light. Clouds hid Handmoon; Mothmoon showed only in crescent. “I’ll only knock off somebody’s hat,” Thiercelin continued, “That was your foot again, wasn’t it?”

  “I’m not sure.” Miraude said, “Oh, Thierry, do give it up!”

  “Is my dancing that bad?”

  “No. But this crush!”

  “I warned you.”

  “I know, I know. It’ll be better in a bit, when they finish erecting the covers.”

  “Hmm.” Leading his partner carefully through the crowd in the dance arena, Thiercelin was unconvinced. He couldn’t recall a public masquerade that had not been overpopulated and frantic, but this one was surely worse than average. It was the inclement weather, perhaps, or some obscure side effect of the strike in the docks. Even so, the administration of the event seemed to have dissolved. Too many tickets sold, too many small disasters . . .

  Held in the Winter Gardens, the ball was open to anyone who could afford the admission price. Masked in satin, in cotton, in buckram and canvas and figured brocade, the bourgeoisie picked their way through the artisans and laborers, and the nobility flirted with the playful children of innkeepers and shop owners. An insufficient number of pavilions had been pitched, supplying (in theory at least) refreshment and shelter. Torches burned in tree-mounted sconces, smokily lighting the dance floor and the promenades. The music of two orchestras vied for attention with the shrieks of food vendors and the thunderous small talk of the pressing throng.

  It was a great pity that it kept raining. The discreet back alleys and bowers were discouragingly damp and the footing uncertain. There was going to be a great deal of work for Merafi’s laundries and a great number of body servants honored with gifts of mud-stained finery. Thiercelin, who had never minded sacrificing elegance to comfort, had thoughtfully dressed en chevalierand, moreover, rolled his bucket boots up to their highest limit. He had been rather startled when, in the carriage, Miraude had untied the points on her long bodice; but his surprise had turned to amused admiration when she stepped out of her skirt to reveal matching breeches beneath. “In this rain,” she had said, laughing, “being my height will be disadvantage enough without having petticoats everywhere.” He had conceded the point readily. Her dark head did not quite reach his shoulder: in the milling press of masqueraders, she might easily be trampled.

  One arm carefully about her shoulders, he picked out a route to the edge of the dance floor and looked around for seats. The pavilions and covered areas were full, as were most of the nearby tables, but a little judicious use of his elbows secured for them a section of a wide bench built around the bole of a lime tree. “There,” he said, and sighed. “I’m exhausted.”

  “Poor thing.” Miraude wrapped her cloak around her and sat hugging her knees. “Sorry you came?”

  “Certainly not. Although your friends seem to have thought better of it.”

  “Hmmm . . .” Miraude looked around her. “I’m sure they’ll be here soon. In fact I think I see some of them over by the Wave Fountain.” She paused, frowning. Then she said, “Why don’t you go and find us some drinks and meet me there?”

  “I’m not sure I should leave you.”

  “I’ll be fine. Go on.” And she gave him a small push.

  “All right, then.” He bowed to her and began to try to make his way through to the refreshments. The crowd about the dance arena had not thinned out; his progress was painfully slow, and he began to wonder how exactly he was going to carry back the promised refreshments even remotely intact. He’d need a tray, or a bell, or spiked elbow pads . . .

  Someone stumbled into him from behind. Thiercelin cursed as he stepped into a muddy pool of water. Rehearsed in the hazards of these fêtes, he put a hand over his purse and looked around. He had not been robbed; the man behind him was simply off balance. Reassured, Thiercelin began to move on. Shafts of light from both moons struck downward from a sudden gap in the clouds. And then . . . About him, the noise and crowd of the masquerade dropped away as memory laid hard hands on him and shook. Underfoot, churned grass and mud gave way to flagstones.

  The air was thick with soot and sour ale. A small group of soldiers pressed around him, calling insults at a young man who fought his way toward the narrow staircase. This can’t be right, this was six years ago. Despite himself, despite his disbelief, Thiercelin turned and found himself gazing into the frowning gaze of Valdarrien d’Illandre. The Pineapple. This was the Pineapple, the cheap inn where Valdarrien had been killed. Thiercelin swallowed, “Valdin?”

  “What?” Valdarrien set his beer mug down on the table with a thump.

  “You . . . That is . . .”

  “You can’t be drunk, not on this stuff.” Valdarrien said.

  “No, but . . .” Not drunk...That had to be true,he hadn’t touched anything stronger than watered wine all day.This could not be happening. Thiercelin shook his head to clear it and found himself looking straight at the young man on the stairs.

  Gracielis. Six years younger and a lot less self-possessed. This is how it started, with Gracielis and the soldiers.And with me . . . One of the soldiers, an infantry lieutenant, blew a kiss to Gracielis. “New doublet, is it? Was that a gift from the lovely Yvelliane of the Far Blays?”

  “I bought it myself,” Gracielis said.

  “But she paid for it, yes?”

  “I don’t like to discuss ladies in public.” Gracielis bowed and made to continue up the stairs.

  The lieutenant laughed. And then, “Yvelliane isn’t a lady, she’s a . . .”

  No . . . But despite himself, Thiercelin leaped to his feet, fists clenched. I don’t want to go through this, not again. At his side, Valdarrien laid a hand on his arm. “Don’t.”

  But Thiercelin had paid no attention. He could not change that now. He said coldly, “Apologize for that.”

  The lieutenant sketched a bow. “My humble apologies, I didn’t realize we had gentlemen present.” His tone was anything but apologetic.

  Valdarrien rose. “Come on, Thierry, let’s get out of here.”

  “Of course,�
�� the lieutenant drawled from behind them, “you wouldn’t expect much better of a lady whose brother kept a barbarian whore for a mistress.”

  Valdarrien whirled on his heel and spat in the lieutenant’s face. There was a short silence. Then Valdarrien said, “You’ll give me satisfaction for that. I’ll prove the lie in your blood.”

  The lieutenant looked him up and down. “I’d be delighted. If you’re sure you want a lesson from a real fighter.” He fingered the pistol at his belt. “Shall we?”

  Valdarrien bowed with exaggerated politeness. “I’d be delighted.”

  Thiercelin said urgently, “Valdin, don’t . . .” But Valdarrien pushed him away and stalked out through the inn’s side door.

  In the yard ouside, it was cold. The cobbles underfoot were slippery with straw, and the place reeked of urine. One of the lieutenant’s friends provided a second pistol; Valdarrien barely looked at it before taking his place in front of the tumbledown stable. Nothing about this was regular.Why didn’t I stop him? But no one had ever been able to stop Valdarrien in this mood, not Thiercelin, not Yvelliane, not even his beloved Iareth Yscoithi. In the dim light of the inn’s windows, the two men took aim. There was a moment’s stillness.

  “Fire.”

  Two shots echoed off the walls. For a moment, Valdarrien stood there, smiling faintly, as the lieutenant folded to the ground. Then he swayed, paled, dropped. The front of his shirt was dark with blood.

  When Thiercelin reached him, he was already dead.

  “Monseigneur.” That happened ,too, Iremember that voice. Hands had hold of Thiercelin, shaking him. “Monseigneur de Sannazar.” He looked down and found his gaze intercepted by the multifaceted eyes of a snake.

  He stepped back, shivering. The glittering eyes watched him dispassionately for a few seconds, then blinked out as their owner swept off his plumed hat and bowed.

  “Monseigneur de Sannazar.” Heavy auburn curls brushed along the serpent mask, perfumed as the voice which greeted him. Thiercelin swallowed, said nothing. Gracielis continued: “I owe you an apology.”

  Rather feebly, Thiercelin said, “You do?” None of this made any sense. Gracielis had been there in the inn yard when Valdarrien had been killed. But now . . . He swallowed. “I’m not sure I . . .”

  Gracielis looked down. “Indeed. I’m willing to help you.”

  I don’t need your help.I didn’t see anything.Only Valdin, at home, and here and now this . . . Gracielis had raised his eyes to watch him: it was impossible to read his expression behind the snake mask. What would he do,if I told him . . . Thiercelin could not think. He said stiffly, “I see.”

  “I sent you a note, but . . .” Gracielis hesitated, looking a little over Thiercelin’s shoulder. He seemed to be thinking. Then he drew in a breath and bowed again. “Good night, monseigneur.”

  “Yes,” Thiercelin said. “Good night, then.” Gracielis had already turned to go, offering an arm to a trim woman in dark red. Thiercelin straightened, tugged at his collar. He felt light-headed, confused. He should have asked Gracielis, right here, right now. He did not want to think about it, any of it. He wanted to go home and drink and forget everything. The rain was no longer light: he drew his cloak about him, deciding to abandon the quest for refreshments, and take Miraude home. The weather would quench the enthusiasm of the masqueraders. Strange that Gracielis had recognized him, masked . . .

  The park was lit up by a sudden lightning flash.

  2

  IT WAS BEGINNING TO LOOK as though the rain would never let up. The cobbles were treacherous with mud; passing carts a hazard to vanity. The rain coated Merafi in gloom, dripping from carved eaves and roof posts, collecting in gutters, descending in sudden deluges from overburdened awnings. Gracielis walked the length of Silk Street and smiled absently at his fellow whores, hovering damply in doorways. He did not stop. At the street’s head, he crossed into a congested thoroughfare, cloak held tight. People pressed close around him: servants, housekeepers with laden baskets, farmers in from the surrounding countryside to sell vegetables or poultry, factors and beggars, middle-class ladies and their maids, apprentices and day laborers. Guild masters or burgesses strode by, using their elbows and the points of their canes. Merchants and seafarers from six or seven different countries jostled against egg sellers and flower sellers. The occasional aristocrat passed by in a carriage, coachmen hollering for the crowd to make way. Street cries echoed from the sides of temples, rumbled along the arcades, and rattled through the congested squares. In the air hung a new tension, an anxiety not wholly weather-borne.

  Changes hung in the rain, nearly visible to Gracielis. It was a slender thing, fragile as the reflection of a reflection. The lieutenant’s ghost, stalking maliciously through the fishwives and the carters, was filled with glee, his form edged with faint, static light. Changes, thought Gracielis, and could not quite control the shiver that ran through him. If I had not failed, if I had been chosen, if I had been someone else . . .

  It was forbidden. He was Quenfrida’s one flaw, her one mistake. He should not have failed his initiation; he should not have been able to fail. She had given too much by the end, so that the gift might not be wholly withdrawn from him. (Except in death. But her calm, balancing hands had not seen that route for him, not then, not yet.) Anomaly, failed priest, flawed lover, reluctant spy—his fault and hers. An obscure comfort, that. Just as Quenfrida was his one weakness, so was he hers. For she should have chosen better.

  He reached the edge of the road, the dry place under the overhang of the old buildings, and began to pick his way through the press of people. The arcades were lined with stores and workshops: tailors, print shops, spice factors, cloth merchants. It was said you could buy almost everything somewhere in Merafi. In this district, the goods being offered were mostly luxuries: fabrics and trimmings for high-class finery, fine bound books, trinkets of silver filigree or ivory or porcelain. In the squares, stalls sold fresh fruit, vegetables, and flowers. On the corners, peddlers sold ribbons and needles or hawked hot chestnuts from their trays. Down the side streets, he could glimpse small cabarets, some already open for business, rubbing shoulders with patisseries and perfumers. When the wind shifted, it brought with it hints of the fishmarket on the other bank of the river, or the bloody scent of the shambles. Through open doorways the floors of shops were trampled and muddied, wares pulled back from the damp, attendants peevish with chill. Too many people were packed here to avoid the wet and the mud. There was a smell of stale wine and soggy wool and worse things. Fastidious, he wove his way through the unwonted press. The ghost mocked him, smug with his discomfort. He would, at that moment, have greatly enjoyed the indulgence of irritation.

  He was silken charm to the bone.

  It was a slow progress. Aware of the danger of being late, he began to work his way back to the road and the downpour. Better wet than impolite. Coming to the edge of the shelter, he ducked his head against the rain and pulled his cloak even tighter. His boots were going to require a great deal of work to restore their shine. A man pushing a handcart swerved to a halt in front of him, casting up mud. He looked at the man with mild regret.

  At the man, and beyond. All along the length of the street, people were stopping or huddling back against the sides. Turning the corner into the street came a unit of the Queen’s Own Cavalry, their horses groomed to a shine, their tabards emblazoned with the flaming eagle of Merafi’s d’Illandre kings. The blue and white feathers in their wide-brimmed hats curled lightly in the rain. Neither their boots nor the horses’ coats bore more than a light splatter of mud: they had not come far, then. Perhaps someone from the royal household had business with the city aldermen. Along with the rest of the crowd, Gracielis stopped to watch. In the center of the procession rode a smaller group, who had clearly traveled much farther. Their banners hung limp and soggy; their cloaks were rain-dark and bedraggled. Some of these came also from the royal cavalry, but perhaps twenty foreigners rode in their midst, clad in heavy g
ray cloaks edged in scarlet. Clansmen from the northern Lunedith, the land that had given birth, long ago, to Merafi’s royal d’Illandre dynasty. The d’Illandre kings had expanded south and west, carving out the kingdom of Gran’ Romagne, with its rolling hills, fertile plains, wide valleys, and rich rivers, and founded their new capital of Merafi, where their widest river met the sea. But Lunedith remained a dependency of its crown, ruled on behalf of Queen Firomelle by her ally, Prince Keris Orcandros, from the ancient city of Skarholm. The Lunedithin traded in sulfur and timber and pelts; a handful of merchants had settled in Merafi, but most chose to remain in their cold homeland, cleaving to customs and beliefs from before the birth of Gran’ Romagne and holding themselves aloof from their neighbors. Strange stories were told of the clans, that they were shapeshifters and hedge witches, though here in Merafi only children chose to believe them. Children, and a handful of scholars and priests, and those who had time for history. And Gracielis. In his Tarnaroqi homeland, legends were treated with caution. It was not unknown for them to have consequences that could, even now, harm you.

  Dead Valdarrien of the Far Blays had loved a Lunedithin woman and lost her. Somewhere in the back of Gracielis’ mind was a thundering, like the sound of water falling. He took an almost unconscious step forward. There in the party’s center rode a woman with level green eyes and braided hair that, when dry, would be a dusty ash blonde. Her strong archer’s wrists held her mount in check; her head turned toward the sharp-featured man beside her. Gracielis could taste lemon and dust. The air was heavy with the memory of falling water, with the crack of a gunshot at midnight.

  He had already reached for a sword he did not carry. His lips shaped a name that was not his to use. In the next instant, she would turn to him, see him, and . . .

  His fingers closed about his wrist, nails digging in. “I,” he said, aloud for the neighbor man to hear, “am myself and no other. I am Gracielis de Varnaq, and I hold to my own past.” The riders passed, vanishing toward the aristocrats’ quarter in the high city. His breathing was his own again, yet he remained motionless gazing after them, while the crowds began once again to move, until a street vendor cursed him for being in the way.