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Authors: Kari Sperring

Living With Ghosts

BOOK: Living With Ghosts
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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.

 

The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

Nearly all the designs and trade names in this book are registered trademarks. All that are still in commercial use are protected by United States and international trademark law.

eISBN : 978-1-101-01965-8

DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED
U.S. PAT. AND TM. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES
—MARCA REGISTRADA
HECHO EN U.S.A.

http://us.penguingroup.com

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

 

 

 

 

E
VEN 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.

“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.

BOOK: Living With Ghosts
11.99Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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