Living With Ghosts

by Kari Sperring

  Faces were his stock in trade. He knew that woman. Iareth Yscoithi, Valdarrien’s lover, who had left Merafi six long years before. Gracielis had seen her at the theater, never met her. There had to be some explanation, some unraveling of what had just passed within him. Such things should not be possible here in Merafi, where ghosts seldom walked. He was hedged in by the memory of Valdarrien d’Illandre, right down to the malicious spirit that haunted him. The lieutenant’s last act in life had been to kill Valdarrien. Gracielis had mourned neither of them. The lieutenant had been a bully and an abuser. He had no idea why the man’s ghost had attached itself to him. And as to Valdarrien . . . He had not known the late lord of the Far Blays, although he had seen him from a distance a time or two and had been a witness to his death. His connection to that family had always been through Yvelliane, who had been swift to see in him a useful source of information. And now . . . Valdarrien’s ghost walked and shadowed the footsteps of Thiercelin. Two days ago, at the masquerade, moonlight and water had disturbed the echo of Valdarrien’s death. A past that was not his own was reaching for Gracielis, in the quiet need of Thiercelin of Sannazar, and the commandments of Quenfrida.

  In the cool gaze of Iareth Yscoithi, who had returned to Merafi. He fought a sudden urge to hide. Instead, he passed a hand over his eyes and turned away into the city.

  Somewhere, he could hear a sound like river water falling.

  “No, monseigneur, the Rose Palace is relatively new. I think the present queen’s grandfather built it or possibly his father. It takes its name from the color of the walls. Something to do with the brickwork.” First Lieutenant Joyain Lievrier pushed his damp fringe out of his face yet again, and tried to maintain a smile. Why did his luck always seem to land him slap in the middle of tour parties? Six weeks hanging about in the cold at a border garrison town and another six escorting the river-damned Lunedithin heir and his entourage to Merafi. And he wasn’t even meant to be in command: he was neither senior enough nor well-born enough to merit that. But two weeks after meeting the Lunedithin party, his commanding officer’s horse had shied at a sapling, throwing the captain and breaking his leg in three places. Prince Kenan Orcandros was expected in Merafi at the onset of autumn. The captain had not been fit to travel. And that had left Joyain. The captain was the cadet son of a high aristocratic family and a fluent Lunedithin speaker to boot. It was true that Joyain had been assigned to this detail because he, too, spoke some Lunedithin. But while the captain had learned his from scholars and diplomats, Joyain’s was considerably less formal. He’d come by it by watching his father haggle with sheep traders, itinerant laborers and petty merchants on his family holding near the western end of the border. The Lievrier family were gentry, nothing more; Joyain was a competent soldier. He had never wanted to be anything more. Now, he suppressed a sigh and continued, “The Old Palace was getting too small. It’s part of the justiciary now.”

  “I see.” Kenan Orcandros, the young Lunedithin heir, had red hair and a sour expression. He was the grandson of Lunedith’s prince. That did not mean that Joyain had to like him. “We are more attached to our past in Lunedith.”

  “Yes, monseigneur, I’d heard that.” Inspired,Joyain admonished himself. You’re really on top form with the small talk today, my friend. “Is it true that your clan have lived in the same palace for forty generations?”

  “Of course.” Kenan did not trouble to keep the scorn from his voice.

  Joyain sighed.

  “We do not believe in abandoning tradition,” Kenan said.

  “No, monseigneur.” Joyain had the liveliest suspicion that Kenan was about as pleased to be here in Merafi as Joyain was to be on escort duty. It was tradition that the heirs to Lunedith came south to Merafi for the winter after their majority at age twenty, to do homage to the queen and to become acquainted with the customs and manners of Gran’ Romagne. Joyain rather thought that was one tradition Kenan would have happily have abandoned. It had taken six hours, not six weeks, for it to become apparent that the heir to Lunedith disliked and disapproved of everything and everyone that was not Lunedithin. His companions—all members of Prince Keris’ personal household—had done their best to smooth over his antagonism, but it had not been a comfortable journey, even before the captain’s accident.

  As to himself, Joyain was looking forward to handing Kenan over to the royal household and to the resident ambassador from Lunedith. He wanted a bath and a change of clothing—and some pleasant company, river rot it.

  “And your weather!” Kenan shuddered. “I’ve never seen such rain.”

  “It’s unusual, monseigneur.” Joyain tried to sound placatory. He succeeded only in sounding resigned. He suppressed another sigh. “We usually have quite mild autumns.”

  Kenan looked incredulous. Joyain bit his lip, trying to think of some plausible excuse for the weather. He pushed his hair back yet again. Kenan’s temper wasn’t the only thing to be suffering from the rain. Joyain’s dress uniform wasn’t benefiting much, either. Tentatively he said, “Some of the provinces have been quite damp this year, too.”

  Kenan’s expression did not change. Joyain gave up.

  From the row behind, Tafarin Morwenedd, the leader of Kenan’s Lunedithin bodyguard said, “It has been this wet at home in Skarholm these last several autumns.”

  Kenan frowned.

  Joyain opened his mouth, then shut it again hastily as another of the Lunedithin spoke.

  “That is so, Kenan kai-reth. Tafarin is right. When I was in Merafi before, the climate seemed temperate.” The speaker was another of Kenan’s bodyguard, a quiet woman called Iareth. Joyain shot her a grateful glance and could have sworn she answered it with a glimmer of a smile.

  Tafarin smiled and said, “You of the otter clan should favor the rain, Kenan kai-reth. Especially if our feline Iareth Yscoithi can bring herself to endure it.”

  Iareth pulled a face. Kenan looked as if he would like to snap, then shook his head and laughed instead. “Very respectful, Tafarin kai-reth.”

  “Indeed. It is one of my virtues.”

  “Fox’s virtue!” Kenan said and made a dismissive gesture. Then he looked at Joyain. “Lieutenant, you have my apologies. I dislike this rain, but my kai-rethinare determined that I may not blame that on your city.”

  “Thank you, monseigneur.” Joyain bowed from the saddle and thought longingly of sentry duty. Outside the debtors’ prison. In the snow. “Hopefully, the rain will stop soon.”

  “Hope is a virtue also,” said Kenan.

  Gracielis found Thiercelin of Sannazar waiting for him in one of the smaller parlors of the fashionable coffeehouse called Philosophy. The room was relatively empty; the scowling Thiercelin made an uncomfortable companion for the would-be poets and playwrights who frequented the place. Nevertheless, it took Gracielis several minutes to join him, since he had first to run the gamut of several patrons. When finally he arrived at Thiercelin’s table and made his bow, Thiercelin glared at him and said, “Is there no one who doesn’t know you?”

  He had not issued an invitation to sit. Standing, therefore, Gracielis considered. His hair was beginning to dry, curling from the damp. “That,” he said, “depends upon where I am. I never know anyone anywhere that would embarrass them.”

  “Yes, I suppose you wouldn’t,” Thiercelin said.

  Gracielis smiled.

  “Don’t hover like that; you’re making me nervous.”

  Gracielis sat, limbs composing themselves into ready elegance. The lieutenant’s ghost leaned on the chair back, sardonic.

  Thiercelin said, “I have something of yours.” He reached under his chair and lifted out a small chocolate pot. He put it onto the table beside him. “I try to honor my bargains.”

  Gracielis made another small bow.

  Thiercelin said, “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

  Bitter orange and musk . . . Within perfumed memory, Gracielis hesitated. Chai ela, Quenfrida. It might not be said, and yet . . . “I t
ry to honor my word.”

  “Indeed?” For all his indolence, Thiercelin was no fool. Gracielis kept his face candid, watching him. Thiercelin frowned, then turned to pour the chocolate. In profile he looked tired, so that when the cup was passed, Gracielis let his fingers rest against the other’s.

  It was possible that Thiercelin did not yet know that Iareth Yscoithi was back in Merafi.

  I have seen Valdin . . . Gracielis sipped his chocolate, then set it down on the chair arm, through the misty hand of the lieutenant’s ghost. “So,” he said, “what do you wish?”

  Thiercelin did not answer the question. Instead, he said, “He always hated this place. Valdin, I mean. Said the very thought of it made him yawn. That’s why I . . ,” He sighed. “He wouldn’t come here.”

  “Is that important?”

  “He was in my home,” Thiercelin said. “His former home, two nights ago. I think . . . And then at the masquerade, it almost seemed like . . .” He paused. “I think I’m afraid.” He looked down again, withdrawing from the confidence of the admission. The lieutenant’s ghost made a gesture of dismissal.

  It was a shadow only, a poor, spiteful thing. Eyes on it, Gracielis said, “That’s understandable.”

  “Two nights ago, at the masquerade . . .” Thiercelin fidgeted with his cup. “That was more than just Valdin, wasn’t it?”

  Something in the rain, some hint of changes . . . Thiercelin had been standing in water and the light of both moons. Had they both been full, it might have made some sense. Whatever it was that had its hands on him—on them both—was powerful. Gracielis said gently, “Memories can sometimes be stronger than we want.” Then he shivered at the memory of a memory that was not his own. “I think you should know,” he heard himself say, “that Iareth Yscoithi is back in Merafi.”

  “Iareth . . . ?” Thiercelin echoed, then stopped. His hand tightened on the chair arm. “Yviane told me that the young heir was due to visit, but she didn’t mention Iareth.”

  “She may not have known,” Gracielis said.

  There was a silence. Thiercelin seemed to be drawing himself together. Then he said, “I don’t go to court often. I don’t imagine I’ll have to see much of her.” He was drinking wine. Refilling his glass, he gestured to the chocolate pot and said, “I commend your moderation.”

  Gracielis gestured, graceful, dismissive. “Wine is ruinous. And my face and my form are my fortune.”

  The look Thiercelin gave him was on the very edge of appraising. Gracielis smiled at him. “Very pretty,” Thiercelin said, “But it’s your mind I need, not your body.”

  “As it pleases you.” Gracielis twined his rose-colored lovelock absently around a finger. “How may I serve?”

  “You might,” said Thiercelin, “sit in that chair, rather than reclining in it.”

  Gracielis straightened his spine, let his hands fold in his lap, deliciously coy. “Like this?”

  Thiercelin growled. “It is,” he said, “a great wonder to me that no one has as yet strangled you.”

  It was restored between them, the ritual bond of patron and servant. The dangerous moment of closeness had fled. Safe from the clutching hands of this man’s past, Gracielis relaxed.

  Thiercelin said, “Is it true, what Yviane said? Do you see ghosts?”

  “Yes.”

  “Always?” Thiercelin looked about the room, straight through the hovering form of the lieutenant’s ghost.

  Gracielis arched his brows at the ghost. “Only when there’s something to be seen.”

  “I don’t believe in them,” Thiercelin said. The lieutenant’s ghost laughed. “I mean, I didn’t, until . . .”

  “They’re mostly unreal.” Gracielis waved a hand through the ghost. Then he paused, choosing his words. “Their creation is a question of . . . of strength of heart and strength of place. When something or someone, is drawn powerfully by an event or a location, it can happen that a trace lingers. And then sometimes the dead will cling to someone, or be conjured back by a need.” Iareth Yscoithi, Valdarrien’s Iareth, newly returned to this city, which had seen Valdarrien’s death. “They’re mostly not harmful. Not very harmful, anyway.” The lieutenant’s ghost glowered. Gracielis ignored it.

  Thiercelin looked at his hands. “I miss Valdin.”

  “Yes.” Again, Gracielis reached out to him in comfort. This time Thiercelin’s hand lingered in his.

  “If he’s really . . . Could you see him?”

  “Perhaps. And . . .” Bonds may be loosened. Gracielis said, “I may be able to find out what binds him.”

  “Can you break it?”

  There was a cloud about Gracielis, composed of Quenfrida’s perfume, and other things. The memory of bruised magnolia and the sound of silver bells in the garden of his Tarnaroqui home. A snatch of his own voice, long ago, and Quenfrida’s, sharp with rage. Banishing ghosts lay within the domain of priesthood. Very carefully, he said, “That’s harder. I don’t know yet.” He drank chocolate to banish the taste of blood from his mouth.

  “I see.” Thiercelin looked beyond Gracielis and across the room, through the lieutenant’s ghost. After a moment he said, “Will you meet me tonight, in the royal aisle?”

  “Moon-double is better for seeing ghosts.”

  “The moons were in separate phases when I saw Valdin two nights ago. And Handmoon was dark the first time I saw him.” Thiercelin sounded defensive. He lowered his voice. The lieutenant’s ghost stood smirking beside him.

  It had been a long time since Gracielis had kept proper account of the moons’ positions. Folding his two-colored gloves in his hand, he tried to remember how they had stood the night before. Handmoon had risen early in the east quadrant and shone near full, although he could not remember if it had been waxing or waning. Mothmoon . . . Crescent only, he thought, but he was unsure. Most people—most Merafiens—could not see ghosts at all, or, if they did, saw them only when both moons were aligned and the night clear. That should have been his first question to Thiercelin: how stood the moons when you saw the ghost? He cursed himself inwardly. Quenfrida would have seen this difficulty at once. It was so like her to know more than she told. He would look foolish if he sought her advice now. He raised his eyes. Thiercelin was watching him.

  Gracielis said, “Monseigneur, may I ask a question?”

  “Probably.”

  “You speak of Lord Valdarrien. Have you ever seen another ghost?”

  Thiercelin frowned. “No. I’d always assumed they were just a story.”

  Gracielis smiled. Thiercelin looked curious. “Such an attitude is very Merafien. But it’s perhaps unwise. Ghosts are no fable.”

  “I thought you said they were harmless.”

  “Often.” Gracielis took care not to look at the lieutenant’s ghost. “But not always. They can be malicious.”

  “You’ve seen that happen?”

  “No.” Thiercelin was beginning to look worried. Gracielis smiled at him and squeezed his hand. “It’s rare. It’s unlikely you’re in danger.”

  “Unlikely.” Thiercelin sounded sceptical. “Valdin wouldn’t approve. He liked to consider himself very dangerous.”

  “So I remember hearing. Tonight, then, if you wish.”

  “Thank you.” Thiercelin hesitated, then added, “How do I pay you?”

  Traitor’s gold, left by Quenfrida in a rented room. She must have known of the irregularities in this case before giving him her orders, and she would gloat if he came suppliant to her for explanations. Gracielis said, “There will be no charge.”

  Thiercelin looked surprised.

  “You are buying nothing that I sell.” Their hands were still joined. “However, should there be anything else . . . ?” The glance with which Gracielis accompanied the words was arch.

  “There won’t be,” Thiercelin said and took his hand away.

  Yvelliane placed a brass paperweight on the top of the tall pile of papers that stood at her left elbow and stretched her shoulders. She said, “I have s
ome new information on the illegal imports of steel from the Allied City States. My sister-in-law Miraude attended the public masquerade earlier this week, and she confirms that the Ninth Councillor is meeting with someone from the customs office. I have another agent checking that out now. But it will be at least ten days before I receive the next report from any of our embassies there.” She looked across the broad oak table at Laurens of Valeranica, Prince Consort to Queen Firomelle and himself a scion of one of the Allied Cities.

  “I’ll write to my uncle.” Laurens said. “He’ll probably deny any official knowledge at his end, but he’ll know we’re watching. He might decide that makes it too much trouble.”

  “We can hope.” Yvelliane smiled at him. “And meanwhile, I’ll make sure that the Ninth Councillor’s office is very closely monitored.” She stretched again and rubbed the back of her neck.

  From her high winged chair beside the fire, Firomelle said, “When did you last sleep, Yviane?”

  “Last night.”

  “At home in your own bed for a sensible number of hours? Or over your papers at your desk for a couple of hours?”

  Yvelliane evaded her cousin’s gaze. “There’s a lot to get through right now, with the formal reception for Prince Kenan tomorrow evening.”

  It was early evening. The gray autumn light retreated slowly from the tall windows, drawing lines in shadow across the floorboards. Two fires, one at either end of the long room, offered patches of brightness. The table stood in the center, its surface covered with letters, account books, document cases, and papers. Three silver candelabra marched along its spine, none of them lit. In front of Laurens was an impressive array of ink holders, pens, and seals. Three walls were lined with tapestries in yellow and red, depicting the journey of fire from the Book of Five Domains. The lower parts of most of them were invisible behind oak bookcases filled with records in red-bound ledgers and roll cases in blue and green. The fourth was set with three tall casement windows. Small carpets stood before both hearths, edged by two winged chairs and a number of stools. Officially, this was the queen’s smaller withdrawing room. In practice, it was her day-to-day office, where she met with her closest advisers. Laurens and Yvelliane sat at the east end of the table, close to the queen’s chair and the larger of the two fires. Its warm light was kind but could not disguise the hollows in Firomelle’s face, the thinness of her hands, or the way she held her heavy shawl wrapped tightly about her. From time to time she coughed, the sound hard and painful. Every time it happened, Yvelliane and Laurens exchanged a glance and said nothing. There was no point. Firomelle had no intention of sacrificing her duties to her health.