Living With Ghosts (2 page)

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 beyond dispute. He was very expensive. Living off the finite fruits of his beauty, he had made sure of that early. He was twenty-six years old.

He had refused to help Thiercelin. In the doorway of a fashionable confectioner, he paused and looked back over his shoulder. His gaze passed through the lieutenant’s ghost, dodging disquiet. Some streets away, a guild clock struck a quarter to five. He owed nothing to Thiercelin. The ghost watched him with spiteful eyes, giving no aid. Thiercelin would be gone, and Gracielis had an appointment to keep. He took one halfhearted step back the way he had come and stopped. It was no concern of his. It was, anyway, forbidden.

Forbidden. He looked at the ghost and spoke a soft word. The insubstantial form wavered, clutched, faded. Gracielis put out a hand to the doorjamb, face paler than before. The post was damp, leaving a dark stain on his white lace cuff. He brushed at it, absently. Then he straightened and turned his back to the street. To the side of the confectioner’s ran a short passage. Halfway along it was a green-painted door. He knocked twice and waited.

The old woman who opened it did not look pleased to see him. “You’re late.”

“I’m desolated.”

“You’re to wait.”

She made no move to take his cloak or hat. As he turned toward a door off the hall, she said sharply, “Not there. Upstairs.” And then, as she locked the front door, “The small room. You know the way.”

“Of course.” His foot on the stair, he stopped and bowed to her. “Thank you for your kindness.” She scowled. He lowered his gaze and headed up the stairs.

There was a room at the end of the short corridor. It was simply furnished: a high-post bed, chairs, a long dresser. Entering, he took off his hat and dropped it on the washstand. He folded his cloak over a chair. The casement was half-closed. Opening it, he looked down into the yard. It was still raining. The light was beginning to fade. Somewhere, a dog barked. A woman’s voice rose to scold it. He could see shadowy forms beyond the windows of the house opposite. There were no sounds from the rooms below him.

He sat on the window ledge and drew a small comb from his pocket. There were no candles. He could just about make out his reflection in the pane. His hair was damp. He set himself to groom it, neatly methodical.

He heard no footfalls on the stairs. He did hear the door open, but by then he was standing, hand white on the comb, as the air brought him the whisper of a name. Sweet musk—and amber and bitter orange. He controlled a shiver as memory supplied him with a face. Without turning, he said, “I was expecting a minion. This is an honor.
Chai ela,
Quenfrida.”

Quenfrida did not smile. She said, “Are you disappointed?” He could see her reflection in the window. He watched as she set a candlestick on a chest and lit it with a word.

Her perfume was making him dizzy. There had to be a reason for her presence. The Tarnaroqui spy-mistress here in Merafi seldom troubled herself with him. He said, “Of course not.”

They were not speaking the local tongue, Merafien, but their native Tarnaroqui. She lifted the jug from the washstand and poured water into the ewer. There was no towel. Turning, he offered her his handkerchief. The offer was made just a little before she realized the need.

She took it, drying her hands. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“I beg your pardon. But it costs me nothing to help.”

“Indeed.” She leaned against the dresser. “But it costs me something to accept it. You overextend yourself.”

“I ask your forgiveness.”

“Do you?” Her voice smiled. “Have it, then.”

“Thank you.”

“It costs me nothing.”

There was a small moment of silence. He played with his lace, still trying not to look at her. She said, “You have something for me?” And then, “Gracielis? You must have something to report.” She had crossed the room toward him. Now she placed a hand upon his breast. She said, “You were late today.”

“I was delayed.”

“Really?” It was hard not to look at her. The bodice of her plain gown was fastened at the front. Almost casually, she began to loosen it, so that the sleeve tops slid away from her shoulders. He followed the motion, a faint flush heating his skin. She smiled and reached up to unpin her hair. He looked away. Her laugh was deep and not entirely kind. He was her creature utterly, and she knew it. “Sit down,” she said, softly.

He sat on the bed, looking at his feet. Cloth rustled as she let her gown drop to her ankles. She said, “You haven’t told me your news.”

“I have none,” he said to the floor.

“None? I’d heard otherwise.”

“Then you heard wrongly.”

“I did? My sources are usually reliable.” She was brushing her hair, heavy and scented across her white shoulders. “You’d do well to remember that.”

“I do.”

“Of course.” There was another silence, as she worked the brush through a knot. He kept his eyes downcast, feeling the pulse beat rapidly through his blood. He had not anticipated her presence. He had not had time to raise his defenses. From outside no sounds were audible.

She laid the brush down. “You’re getting careless. One might suspect that your loyalty was failing. That’s not healthy.”

“I do what I may.”

“Do you?” The bedsprings creaked as she sat down beside him. “You erred today, in banishing your shadow.”

“It was annoying me.”

“You had not the right. You know the limits of your bond.” One of her hands tangled in his hair. He shivered. She said, “However, I’m disposed to be lenient.”

He closed his eyes. The fingers strayed beneath the neck of his shirt. He said, “You are too kind.” It should have been sarcasm. The last word betrayed him, blurring almost to a gasp as she traced the top of his spine.

“You have a new patron, I hear.”

“I have several.”

She gave one long lock a sharp tug, and he winced. “Look at me.”

He drew in a deep breath, turned. She was clad only in her fine shift, cut low over her breasts. “That’s better,” she said. Her hand left his back, and moved to caress a cheekbone. Her perfume drowned him. One of his hands rose to imprison hers. She twined her fingers about it, stroking his palm.

“I don’t want . . .” he began.

She shook her head at him. “Thiercelin duLaurier of Sannazar and the Far Blays has been seen looking for you. Has he found you?” She leaned toward him, and her hair brushed his face.

“It wasn’t important,” Gracielis said. He was trembling.

“You have seen him, then. What did he want?” She leaned even closer, sky-blue eyes looking straight into his.

“It was nothing. A mistake.”

She kissed him. He groaned, resentful, as his arms slid round her. Her hands explored him, unbuttoning his doublet. He pulled free and buried his face in her hair. She pushed the doublet aside and began to undo his shirt. “You’re sure of that?”

He closed his eyes, inhaling her perfume. Her skin was smooth beneath his touch. She finished with his shirt and moved onto his breeches. Hands clenching, he said,

“I’m sure.”

She pushed him away. “Don’t waste my time. What did he want?”

He rubbed a hand across his face. “Nothing useful. Truly.”

“What did he want?”

Thiercelin’s face, curiously bereft . . . An old memory of cold and gunshot and blood. An older one, from the days before his exile, when she had loved him. Her hands caressed his chest, gentle, tormenting. “Nothing I could give him.” He bit down on his lip, hard. Her hands strayed lower and he gasped in unwilling pleasure. “A ghostseer. He wanted a ghostseer.” Shame was a dark flood within him. Thiercelin’s image eddied and faded.

Quenfrida took his face in her hands. Fighting her perfume, her presence, he said, “I can do nothing. You know that.”

“Bonds may be loosened for certain purposes.”

“I can’t.” His breathing was quick and shallow, his skin slick with sweat. “It’s a private matter to him.”

“I’m not asking you to hurt him.” She recommenced her caresses. “I’m only asking you to do what you’re trained to do. What you’ve vowed to do. Help him. Renew your acquaintance with his wife. Serve Tarnaroq.” She pushed him back against the thin pillows, curled herself against him. His hands somehow found their way to the lacing on her shift.

She was pliant, making no resistance. He let himself be drawn closer, then kissed her as though it could hurt. She smiled as she pulled free. “Well?” Her tone suggested that all things were possible. Her hands reinforced the suggestion.

He shivered. Her perfume was a cloud around him. “Go to him,” she said, “Go, and tell him you’ve changed your mind. Help him a little.”

“Why?” Her arms twined about him. He was forgetting to breathe.

Her smile became languid. “We’ll see.” Her hands ceased teasing and grew urgent. He rolled over, trapping them.

There was no choice. Nevertheless, “I hate you,” he said, as he succumbed to her.

She spoke the word that caused the candle to go out, and then, “I know.”

He woke alone. His clothing had been folded and placed on the chest. The memory of Quenfrida’s perfume clung to his skin and hair. The lieutenant’s ghost watched him from the end of the bed. Rising, Gracielis washed and dressed mechanically. The water in the jug was warm and herb-scented. The small wall-mounted mirror showed clear eyes, fresh skin. Recollections of pleasure still shivered through his veins. He felt wonderful.

He hated himself.

Quenfrida had left a small purse atop the pile of his clothing. His pride wanted desperately to leave it. He owed his landlord a half-month’s rent. He had to eat, to clothe himself, to buy the necessities of his life. He counted the coins out onto the chest, took enough for his immediate needs. The remainder he left lying, whore’s price, on the rumpled bed.

He was alone in the house. He shut the main door behind him and made his way out into the street. It was perhaps an hour after dawn. The rain had stopped some time in the night, though the air was still damp. A faint mist, child of the river, hung over Merafi, deepest in the harbor quarter and the old city island, light as a veil over the aristocratic houses on the high eastern edge.

The cobbled streets were already full. Shop wares obstructed the dry places beneath the houses, and carts made a chaos of the wider thoroughfares. Dodging across the gallows-square, he took a sharp side turn under the Farriers’ Guildhall and emerged from the concealed passageway, the traboule opposite the Dancing Bridge. From there, he climbed the lesser stairs to the side of the Island Temple and paid the two sous to use the Priests’ Bridge over the river’s northern arm. On the opposite bank, he could see the thick walls and low towers of the Old Palace. The toll keeper smiled at him knowingly. “You’re early. Client lost interest, Gracieux?”

Gracielis shrugged, graceful as his street name. “She’s exhausted.”

The toll keeper laughed. “Well, your lies are pretty enough, anyway.”

The lieutenant’s ghost grinned in sour agreement. Gracielis bowed and passed on over the bridge and out into the wider streets of northwest Merafi. Day came later here, amidst the half-timbered houses of this residential quarter. It was only on the quayside that there was much activity. Walking upriver toward the Gran’ Théâtre, his pace slowed somewhat. Almost, he frowned.

A few of his fellow professionals were still working along Silk Street. As he crossed, one of them hailed him, waving her yellow scarf. He smiled at her on reflex and bowed without halting. The lieutenant’s ghost leered. She hesitated, then raised her voice and called after him. “Gracieux!”

He stopped and looked back. “Sylvine?” She was young, but her figure tended to the plump. She panted a little as she caught up with him. She looked faintly harassed. Hovering, the ghost leaned toward her, face unkind. “Is something wrong?”

It seemed unlikely. His fellow professionals did not turn to him in need. His reputation for polite disinterest discouraged this. And then, he was not native. He considered her. She returned his gaze with some irritation. She said, “It’s too sticky for running. Why didn’t you wait?”

“Forgive me. I’m remiss.”

“Evidently.” She did not sound mollified. He sighed, and looked away with a pretty air of contrition. She added, “Oh, don’t play off on me. I know how much you mean it. You’re in trouble.”

He looked up. “What?”

“There’s someone looking for you.”

He relaxed. “Indeed. Thiercelin of Sannazar and the Far Blays. I met him yesterday.”

“Oh.” She pouted, put out.

“But it’s good of you to tell me.”

“I suppose.”

He bowed to her and began to walk away. He had barely taken two steps before she ran after him and shoved him, hard, against the wall. From a window above, someone emptied the contents of a chamber pot into the street below.

Gracielis swallowed. Then he said, “Thank you.”

“Wouldn’t want to to spoil that finery, would we?”

He kissed her fingers, and she pulled her hand away. She added, “You owe me. See you remember it.”

He said, “I will.” Her only reply was a shrug. He bowed a second time and turned. His lodgings lay a few streets away, across the Chandlers’ Square and into the merchants’ quarter. As he reached the corner of Silk Street, Sylvine started to wave, thought better of it. The lieutenant’s ghost made a valedictory, obscene gesture in her direction.

Gracielis shook his head at it. “No manners,” he said, gentle, reproving. It sneered.

Not all women were Quenfrida. Perhaps.

Across the city, the mist was starting to lift.