Living With Ghosts

by Kari Sperring

  It was evening. For once, it was dry. Both moons shone unimpeded by cloud, and he was blessedly free from any sense of impending change. Perhaps, after all, it had been simply imagination. Perhaps there was nothing strange below the surface of the river. Don’t ask too hard why Thiercelin should see ghosts unseasonably, in opaque Merafi. Call it fluke, only; or attribute it to unacknowledged old blood.

  Perhaps it was all over.

  He did not trouble to turn when the knock came at his door. One of his landlord’s staff, no doubt, come for the bath. He called, “Come in,” and returned to the important task of applying his perfume, spelling out his name. “You’re prompt. Thank you.”

  “I wasn’t aware I was expected. Or did you see it in a card game?” The voice belonged to Thiercelin. The words were a little slurred and the tone sardonic. “Am I disturbing you, Graelis?”

  Gracielis turned and smiled. “Of course not. You’re welcome. Sit and I’ll call for refreshment.”

  Thiercelin sat down astride a chair and folded his arms along the back. “Wine, I hope. It’s too late for chocolate.”

  “As you wish.” His face showed only welcome, but behind the calm courtesy Gracielis was calculating. Thiercelin’s clothing was rather disheveled and he was flushed. He was also frowning. Gracielis drew his robe a little tighter and padded barefoot into the hall to attract the attention of a waiter. The lieutenant’s ghost followed him. It grimaced in anticipation. Gracielis arched his brows at it. He had nine years’ knowledge of the drunkards of this city. He did not think Thiercelin had it in him to become violent. Nevertheless, he was cautious. The marks left by Quenfrida were fading, but he felt no need to acquire new ones.

  Returning to his room, he sat down on a stool and said, “So. How may I serve you?”

  Thiercelin shrugged. “I don’t know. I was in the neighborhood. I thought I’d visit.”

  “I’m honored.” There was a silence.

  A waiter came in, bearing wine and water. He placed it on the sideboard and bowed. “I’ll send the boy up for the bath, Gracieux.”

  “Thank you.”

  Thiercelin picked up the bottle and examined the label. “Not cheap. I’m too drunk to care, you know.” He paused. “And I may have to write an IOU for it. Somehow I lost most of my ready money at The Wheel.”

  Gambling was a pastime that Gracielis took care to avoid. However, he shrugged and said, “These things happen. Let it be my treat.” The ghost made a disbelieving gesture. He ignored it. “Your health, monseigneur.”

  “Thierry,” said Thiercelin. He poured wine for himself and drank.

  Gracielis had poured water for himself, not wine. He watched Thiercelin, disquieted. After a moment, he said, “I’m about to dine. Will you join me?”

  Thiercelin gave him a sharp look. “I’m not that drunk.”

  “I didn’t think that. But I’m hungry.” It was not quite true, but Gracielis played candor, and after a second Thiercelin relaxed.

  “Why not?”

  “I’ll arrange it, then.”

  It took perhaps fifteen minutes for the bath to be removed and food provided. The lieutenant’s ghost hovered over it in impotent longing, and cast resentful looks at Gracielis. He paid it no heed, concentrating upon calming Thiercelin. The latter showed no special interest in the food, but he ate well enough.

  Even so, Gracielis took great care not to touch him. “Who pays for all this?” Thiercelin asked him, waving a hand at the room. The meal was over, and the Lord of Sannazar had settled into the single armchair. “Or is that an impolite question?”

  Gracielis sat on the rug before the fire, letting its heat dry his hair. “The question is reasonable. The answer is: I do.”

  “And who pays you?” Gracielis looked at Thiercelin reproachfully. “Am I being indiscreet?”

  The ghost bared its teeth in silent laughter. Gracielis said, “A little.”

  “Forgive me, then. I just . . . wondered.”

  “I have several regular clients. I wouldn’t be treating them well if I revealed their names.”

  “No, I suppose not.” Thiercelin sighed. “And it doesn’t bother you, living like this?”

  “You believe it should?”

  “I don’t know. It would bother me, I think.” Thiercelin looked down. Gracielis watched him. “I disturbed you tonight, didn’t I?” Behind Thiercelin, the ghost nodded, jubilant.

  Gracielis said, “You did not. As you see, I was unoccupied.”

  “That isn’t quite the same thing. I don’t know why I came here.”

  “You were passing.”

  “Did I say that?” Thiercelin said. “I was lying. What time is it?”

  “I don’t know. Around ten, perhaps. I haven’t heard the curfew.”

  “I’d thought it later.” Thiercelin shook his head. “You lose your sense of time in places like The Wheel. It was midafternoon, I think, when I went there.” He smiled. “With Mal—Maldurel of South Marr. That’s why I lost, of course. Valdin . . . Valdin always said Mal was bad luck. That’s one of the reasons I stopped gaming. Almost stopped gaming. Do you disapprove?”

  “No.”

  “And if you did, you wouldn’t tell me.” Thiercelin drew in a long breath. “Do you lie to me, Graelis?” Gracielis looked down. “I’d like to know.”

  Gracielis thought. Carefully, he said, “Not in general.” And then, looking up, “Vanity is not one of your traits, I think.”

  Thiercelin smiled. “Meaning that no flattery is necessary? Or is that flattery? That’s too complex for me right now.” Thiercelin grew serious. “If I asked you something, would you answer me honestly?”

  It would depend . . . But Gracielis could not say that. He said, “Naturally.” The lieutenant’s ghost pulled a face at him.

  Thiercelin looked speculative. “About Yvelliane. You told me there had been nothing between you. Is that true?” Gracielis hesitated. Thiercelin added, “I think I need to know. We . . . quarreled.”

  “That’s a poor reason.”

  “Perhaps. But I need to know all the same.” Thiercelin’s face was open. The ghost gloated at his shoulder, and Gracielis knew a flicker of anger.

  If this was friendship and not one of his carved and contrived connections, then he should be honest. He watched the fire for long moments. Thiercelin said, “Graelis, please.”

  Gracielis said, “You didn’t quarrel on my account?” “No. Not really. It was about Iareth, I think. Or Valdin.” Thiercelin’s voice was bleak. “Or simply because Yviane can no longer be troubled to maintain the pretense of affection.”

  “It isn’t pretense.”

  “How would you know?” Gracielis was silent. “It’s true, then. You are her lover.”

  “No.” Gracielis looked up. “I’m her informer.” Thiercelin looked puzzled. “Informer? About what? I thought discretion . . .”

  “I don’t inform on my clients. But I hear things. And I transmit them, when it seems desirable.”

  “What sort of things? No, I don’t want to know. Did you tell her about me, about Valdin?”

  “No.”

  “Will you?”

  “No. You don’t wish it.”

  “Is there more?”

  “To me?” Gracielis smiled. “Of course.” He stretched, letting the firelight gild his skin. The ghost made an obscene gesture. “What would you know?” Not everything. Not even a friend might know that. Quenfrida was not given to sharing her secrets. Nor did his own needs, his fragile pride, permit any revelation of his dependence on her. He said, “I speak and read five languages—six, if you include old Lunedithin. I dance beautifully. I have excellent taste. And,” and his eyes danced, “I can play the spinet. A little.”

  Thiercelin said, “I dread to think!” And then: “How little?”

  “Very little.”

  “I’ll remember that.” They smiled at each other. “And Yviane?”

  “I don’t know. Does she play the spinet?”

  “That wasn�
��t what I meant.”

  “I feared not.” Gracielis drew in a long breath. “I’m not her lover now.”

  “Not ‘now’?”

  “Not . . . Not since the death of Lord Valdarrien. Before that, yes, for some two and a half years.”

  “I see.” Thiercelin sighed.

  “It does not help you, knowing.”

  “No, not really.” Thiercelin looked at the fire. “And even if she was . . . if you and she still . . . It wouldn’t be my business, would it?”

  Carefully, Gracielis said, “Have you been faithful to her?”

  “Yes. Does it surprise you?”

  “No. You love her.”

  “Oh, that.” Thiercelin waved a hand through the lieutenant’s ghost. It snarled at him. “It’s what I do. I love Yviane. I always did, even before . . . It doesn’t change anything.”

  It was Gracielis’ opinion that it changed a goodly number of things. He said, “Does she know that?”

  “It wouldn’t make any difference.”

  Gracielis said, “She isn’t given to thinking of herself as lovable. Just as useful. She doesn’t make such things easy.”

  “She makes it impossible.” Thiercelin rubbed his eyes. “I can’t make her hear me, I can’t reach her, and I’ve tried for so long. And now . . . this business of Valdin and Iareth Yscoithi. I can’t burden her with all that.” He covered his face. “I’m a mess, Graelis. There’s more.” Gracielis was silent, waiting. To the floor, Thiercelin said, “There’s you.” He looked up. “Can I stay, tonight? I don’t want to go home.”

  “You should, nevertheless.”

  “I can’t, not yet.”

  “If you wish, then.”

  “I don’t mean . . . That is, I want the company, but I don’t . . .”

  Gracielis smiled. “There is,” he said, “no obligation.”

  “Thank you,” Thiercelin said. And then, “You’re making a habit of this, aren’t you? Being kind to me.” Gracielis looked away, discomforted. Thiercelin said, “That night, when Valdin was killed . . .”

  “It was nothing.”

  “It was a great deal. And the other things more recently, to do with him.” He paused. “I saw him again . . . He spoke, this time. He seemed so real . . . It’s no problem of yours.”

  Gracielis looked at the lieutenant’s ghost. His share of the burden left by careless Valdarrien. However much he might wish to avoid it, he was bound into this, even without Quenfrida’s schemes and temptations. He did not pretend to understand. Because he had been silent a little too long, and Thiercelin was watching him, he smiled, and said, “One likes to keep in practice. Such opportunities aren’t common, here in Merafi.” The ghost grinned.

  “Or anywhere, I’d have thought.”

  “Merafi especially.” Gracielis spoke without thinking. Thiercelin looked inquiring. “You know the old tales? Regarding places where . . . things not wholly human might more easily manifest?”

  “There’s something about it in the legend of Yestinn Allandur. His rival, Gaverne Orcandros, had a . . .” Thiercelin seemed to be searching for a word. “He was supposed to have found a woman who had no clan blood, or some such. Is that what you mean? The creatures born out of flame or stone?”

  “Something of the kind. The stronghold of the Orcandrin was at one of those vulnerable places. That’s how he was able to find his . . . his lover.”

  “I never heard any tales of that kind regarding Merafi.”

  “No indeed. Merafi is an opposed place.” Gracielis hesitated and then added, “Legendarily. It is supposed to have a property—a kind of opacity—to such creatures.”

  “Ghosts,” put in Thiercelin.

  Gracielis looked at the lieutenant’s ghost, and nodded. “Ghosts, for instance. It’s said that some quality of this city—the mingling of salt and fresh water, perhaps—produces that opacity. That’s why Yestinn is supposed to have chosen the site to build his capital. His old stronghold wasn’t opaque. And he’d attracted negative attention from . . . inhuman things.”

  “Do you believe it?” Thiercelin’s tone was hard to read. He sounded almost anxious.

  Gracielis hesitated. After a moment, he said, “Well, I am Tarnaroqui . . .”

  The disclaimer had the desired effect. Thiercelin relaxed and smiled.

  All over Merafi, curfew rang. In the Lunedithin residence, high on the northwest side, Iareth Yscoithi of Alfial made her preparations for bed. On the floor below, Tafarin Morwenedd opened a second bottle and raised a glass to absent friends. Joyain declined to join him, and wondered how long it would be before he would be relieved of this duty. Kenan had gone out before lunch and once again not returned. This would be the second night he had been absent.

  Kenan was no child, no prisoner, and no fool. It was his business, if he elected to spend a night in foreign arms (whatever Iareth might say about his proclivities). And it was not—could not be—Joyain’s fault, if he lacked the same unconcern demonstrated by the Lunedithin charges. It was not part of his orders to know their exact whereabouts at all times.

  It had, above all, nothing to do with any lingering sense of guilt Joyain might have regarding his own behavior. Valdarrien of the Far Blays was dead. If his friend Thiercelin was to fight Joyain tomorrow, it still had nothing to do with Joyain’s congress with Iareth Yscoithi. Everyone involved was an independent adult.

  He had no intention of indulging in guilt. He had nothing to feel guilty about. Kenan was guaranteed to turn up safe and sound, probably at the most inconvenient moment possible and full of unreasonable demands for attention. Everything was perfectly in order.

  He hoped that Leladrien had managed to make proper arrangements regarding guns. He hoped that Thiercelin’s second would remember enough about military law to bribe the park keepers to look the other way tomorrow morning. Otherwise . . .

  His spurs clicked as he turned and started back down the room. It was fine. He was not worrying. He had nothing to worry about.

  He could not help it, all the same.

  Beside the fire, Tafarin poured more wine and smiled. Upstairs, Iareth put out her candle and opened the casement.

  A few streets away, Yvelliane of the Far Blays sat in the dark, pretending to herself that she was not waiting for Thiercelin to return. Maldurel of South Marr, in his lodgings, put the finishing touches to his toilette, thinking of nothing in particular. Miraude sat up in bed, head bent over a volume on the early history of Gran’ Romagne.

  The night was clear. Two moons, out of phase, lit the city. In the new dock, the last of the fires were nearly extinguished, the last rioters almost subdued. The river flowed on, thick with mud and fallen leaves. The air smelled of coal and autumn. No ghost rode the starlit aisle to the Rose Palace. Down in the shantytown, the sinkholes ran saltless for the first time in a week. In Amalie’s salon, the master of the Haberdashers’ Guild sipped sweet wine. Word from the coast guard spoke of ships finally expected home now that the weather had improved.

  In Quenfrida’s house in the old city, Kenan Orcandros smiled.

  Thiercelin could not sleep. It was, he was aware, nobody’s fault but his own, yet for all that he could not escape a vague sense of resentment. He lay in Gracielis’ bed and wriggled, staring into the gloom. The room was lit only by the dying fire. Before it, Gracielis stretched out. He had his back to Thiercelin and his blanket pulled up to his chin. Probably, he was asleep. Thiercelin turned over again and suppressed a sigh. Think of nothing. Think of something neutral . . . Not of tomorrow’s duel, not of Yvelliane. Remember Valdin, that time in the Old Palace, fighting in a gallery. How he cursed the polish on the floors! Of course, it was different with swords; such duels took longer. A pistol shot . . . Don’t think about it.His opponent—what was his name?—Lievrier was a cavalryman. Had to be a fair shot, then. Maybe better used to muskets . . . Thiercelin should not have drunk so much today, risked a hangover. River bless that Gracielis had made him eat. One thing Yvelliane would not have to reproach her
self with. . . . Don’t think about it.

  It was much too warm. Thiercelin wondered if Gracielis would mind if he opened a shutter. The fire was going out, of course, but . . . He wriggled some more and tried to get comfortable. He could smell Gracielis’ scent on the pillows and sheets. He lay in the very place where Gracielis himself must usually lie, hair tangling with the memory of auburn curls. Don’t think about that, either. Had Yvelliane ever felt this same confusion? Not since Valdin died, Gracielis had said, but Thiercelin could picture it anyway, Yviane here in this room, in Gracielis’ arms. He shivered with a jealousy that was part pleasure.

  Gracielis had not lived here six years ago, prompted the rational side of his mind. Remember, he roomed down by the old docks, in that inn where Valdin . . .

  It could only hurt so much, a gun wound. Only last so long. How short a time, between the shot and Valdin’s death . . . Don’t think about it.This bed was too soft. Typical of Gracielis. How old was he? How old had he been, when Yvelliane . . . Don’t think about that, however tempting.

  However erotic. Thiercelin buried his face in the pillow and managed not to groan. Gracielis’ perfume folded about him like a shroud.

  There was movement in the room. Then Gracielis said, “Monseigneur?”

  “Thierry,” said Thiercelin, into the pillow. His pulse was racing . . . this was the worst kind of foolishness. He was, rot it, married. He loved Yvelliane. Gracielis could be no more to him than a passing temptation. He could master it. He had to. “What is it?”

  “Is something wrong?”

  Thiercelin was not going to turn round. He was, above all, not going to look at Gracielis lying half-naked in the firelight. Think of Yvelliane.

  That hurt. He could only see the anger on her face, the bitterness as she accused him. She would never understand, and he was failing her. He could not think of a way out of the tangle. He had never meant to hurt her, only to solve this problem of Valdarrien. He was unfit to do anything by himself.

  He could not take it to her, not now. He could only go on and hope for the best. Perhaps it would all turn out well and she would forgive him. Perhaps two moons would become one. He said, “I can’t sleep. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”