Living With Ghosts

361 Pages·2011·1.32 MB·English

by  Sperring Kari

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.
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To Phil,
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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
“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
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