Living With Ghosts (15 page)

“Alas, I’m no hero.” He sighed, elegant, melodramatic. The ghost made a gesture of contemptuous agreement. Gracielis made in return the slightest of bows. “On the other hand, I’ve never understood heroes. It is my belief that roses are a more appropriate gift than slices of dead dragon.”

“Perhaps.” Amalie feigned to consider. “Dead boar can be cooked and eaten, of course, but dead dragon would seem to have little purpose other than to stain my floors and force me to resand them.”

“Dragons, therefore, are not a fitting gift.” Gracielis smiled. “Perhaps I should slay snapdragons for you?”

She laughed. “I liked the roses better.”

“Then it shall be roses.” He looked wicked. “Sixteen dozen.”

Amalie thumped him.

Three days had passed since they had walked by the river. Cold days, for the most part, with wet and misty nights to follow them. Gracielis had watched with eyes grown cautious, skin flinching from the ghost-touch of change. The air tasted to him of honeysuckle. He had not dared to speak of it to Quenfrida, lest he inform where he sought to be informed. He was afraid to do more than hint at what he sensed—rumors spreading everywhere of problems in the old docks, of the queen’s failing health, of disturbances and discontent.

He was beginning to be alarmed. He was in danger of becoming involved; he who should be indifferent to Merafi’s fate. And Quenfrida suspected it.

You were ever better at love than hate
. . . Hate had built the shapes in the mist and on the river. That and the heavy falling of water. By rights, he should have questioned Quenfrida when he had had the chance, resisted the silken enticement of her. He did not like what he was seeing and hearing.

The road underfoot was muddy. Amalie held up her skirts and teetered a little on her pattens. He made as clear a path for her as he might and conversed without full attention. There was something coming, something waiting in the mist and the infuriating rain. Even the lieutenant’s ghost was grown wise to it, petulant with static, mist-laden. There were as yet several more shops and stalls to be visited. Amalie, despite her wealth, preferred to do her own marketing. Gracielis obediently carried parcels, inspected fruit, and smiled at vendors. The ghost paced him, marching maliciously through those who lacked the blood to see it. Visible, here in Merafi, against nature, by day, and without two moons’ light.

That went against Merafien nature, just like Valdarrien of the Far Blays, who had no more right than the lieutenant to come back. The marketplace was damp, irritable with chill and mud and worry. Amalie’s face looked pinched as she made her purchases, and the wares seemed dulled, spoiled by weather and waiting. She was as dependent upon the goodwill of the river as anyone else, and as likely to suffer should it turn.

As they made their way back to her house, he said, “Your ship isn’t back yet.” It was not a question.

She looked at him. “Yes. How did you know?”

“You’re unhappy, save by odd moments. When you think no one is attending, you worry.”

Her house was pleasantly warm. The street door opened straight into the shop. An apprentice was serving a customer at the high counter. Behind it, the journey-man cast up accounts at a lectern. They went through the connecting door at the rear and up into the kitchen. Amalie gestured for Gracielis to put her parcels on the table and sat on a stool to remove her pattens.

The housekeeper began to unpack the parcels. “No fish, madame?”

“It wasn’t fresh. I thought we might use some of the salt meat instead.” Amalie pulled a face. “I know it isn’t popular with the boys, but . . .”

“Them!” The housekeeper could not have been more contemptuous. “They should be grateful you feed them so well.” The lieutenant’s ghost, who enjoyed her acerbity, shadowed her as she moved around the large room trying to look down her dress. “You’re staying to eat?” she asked Gracielis. He looked at Amalie, who nodded. “Take those shoes off, then. Madame’s chamber is no place for your mud.” Amalie looked at her reprovingly. “Fresh cleaned, it is. And you can’t sweep a polished floor with come-hither looks or pretty manners.”

“I am,” said Gracielis, “a mere parasite. Ladyheart, I beg you, persuade Madame Herlève to forgive me or I’ll die of grief.”

“And a nice mess you’ll make doing it,” Herlève said, flicking him out of her way with a hand. “Upstairs with you, Gracieux, and make madame smile. That’s your job, isn’t it?”

“I hear and obey.” Taking Amalie’s hand, he led her up the short flight of stairs to her large second-floor chamber. It was, if anything, even warmer than the kitchen. He evicted her tabby cat from the daybed and bowed. “Madame.”

“Ridiculous creature! Whose house is this, anyway?”

“Madame Herlève’s, surely?”

“You’d be forgiven for thinking so.” The cat leaped back onto the couch and stood beside Amalie, looking disgruntled. The lieutenant’s ghost, appearing suddenly through the floor behind them, made the animal jump. Gracielis frowned at the ghost. It looked unconcerned and dropped itself into the best armchair.

Sometimes, Gracielis wished he knew how it did that. It could not actually move any objects and generally walked through most of them. But from time to time it seemed quite able to treat them as solid. If he had the secret, he could tamper a little. He would enjoy watching the ghost fall through something unexpectedly.

Amalie said, “Bring me the chocolate set, will you?” He fetched it from the corner cabinet and then rang down for hot water. He sat on a footstool to watch her prepare.

Carefully, he said, “Your ship?”

“No news.” She sighed. “I can stand the financial loss, but such events are bad for morale, especially in this political climate. And to cover immediate overheads I may have to sell one of my upriver contracts. Things may be tight for a while.”

“Then you shouldn’t buy me presents.”

She shrugged. “It isn’t that bad.”

“Is something else worrying you, apart from the ship?”

The chocolate was made. She poured him a cup and passed it across. “There might be. You remember that my late husband’s brother trades in the north? I buy some of my fur trim from him.”

“I remember.”

“Well, he’s had worrying news from his Lunedithin agent. Apparently they’re getting less willing to trade their fur and amber and a few other things under the terms of the present treaty. They say Prince Keris is getting old and forgetful. And then . . .” She looked at him, hesitated. “Well, I have reason to believe we’re being undercut.”

“You and your brother-in-law?”

“No. Not exactly. The Merafien Haberdashers’ Guild.”

“Ah.” He blew on his chocolate. “That’ll be my countrymen.”

“Probably.” Again, she paused. Then: “The heir to Lunedith is rumored to have Tarnaroqui sympathies. My nephew Jean is in his suite. He’s keeping an eye on things for me.”

“Shall I see if I can find anything out?” He often heard rumors through his fellow professionals, with their network of clients from all classes. “To date, all there is on the street regarding the new ambassador is that he’s said to have rather odd tastes.”

“I don’t want to know. At least, not unless I need to resort to blackmail!” She smiled. Then she shook her head. “I’ve been meaning to ask, have you heard anything about the trouble there’s been in the new dock?”

“A little. It’s said it began with a fire in a riverside cabaret.”

“Yes, I’d heard that, too. But . . .” She frowned. “My guild master has a ship down there. It came in just before the trouble started. Word is that the rioting is over, but no one has as yet been given access to any of their cargoes, or to the crews involved.”

“That’ll be due to the excise men.”

“I daresay.” She shrugged. “Didn’t you tell me that one of the girls who works Silk Street has a lover in the Port Authority?”

“Chirielle, yes.”

“Could you ask her about it? I’ll pay, of course. I could use being owed a favor by the guild master.”

“Of course.” He bowed. “I haven’t seen her lately, but I’ll ask.”

“Thank you, love.” Amalie held out her hand. Rising, he took and kissed it. “That’s nice. What would I do without you?”

He kissed the inside of her elbow. A little indistinctly he said, “Nothing so interesting as you do with me, I trust.”

She shivered a little and stroked the side of his face. The lieutenant’s ghost watched in faint anticipation. He ignored it, bending down to kiss her throat. “I am to make you happy, am I not?” he said. “Madame Herlève ordered it. Shall I obey?”

“Lock the door first,” said Amalie.

Thiercelin’s game of solitaire was not coming out. He frowned at it, then shuffled the cards together into a heap. He sighed. That had been, by his count, the sixteenth game. None of the others had come out, either. Moodily, he began to lay out a seventeenth and poured himself yet another cup of bad wine from the carafe on the table. He stared at the cards and set blackly about trying to win.

He had been playing for perhaps ten minutes when a shadow fell across the cards. From behind him, an accented voice said, “You might, perhaps, move the double-coin.”

Thiercelin turned. Gracielis stood at his shoulder, arms folded, head a little to one side. Annoyed, Thiercelin said, “Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you for days.”

Gracielis was dressed for outdoors. Over his slashed doublet and breeches, he wore a heavy green-lined cloak, and on his head was a wide-brimmed hat. The odd-colored gloves of his calling were tucked through his belt. His shoes and stockings were grimy. He smiled. “I’ve been busy. My apologies.” Sitting, he picked up Thiercelin’s cup and drank from it. His lips were over the same spot where Thiercelin’s had touched. “You’ve chosen poorly. My landlord has better wines than this. Of what were you thinking, when you dealt those cards?”

“None of your business,” Thiercelin said. “If I’m going to be hungover, I might as well do it cheaply.” Gracielis was taking off his hat. He raised his elegant brows, reproving. Thiercelin said, “Stop that.” And then; “Busy doing what?”

The brows climbed higher. Gracielis said, “Shopping.”

“Shopping?” Thiercelin could not quite suppress the slight rise in his tone. “All week?”

“Part of it.”

“And the rest?”

Gracielis looked at him sidelong. “I had . . . commitments. Had I known you needed me urgently . . . Do you deal from the right or from the left?”

“The right,” Thiercelin said. “Do stop fidgeting about that drowned card game! It isn’t important.”

“Games,” said Gracielis, “can be of vital importance. Sometimes.” And he looked down, his long lashes delicately set off against his white skin. He was quite ridiculously beautiful. “Is the deck your own?”

Thiercelin ignored him. He was not going to be vulnerable to that silken grace. He said, “I only want to talk to you, Graelis.” He stopped as the diminutive escaped him and looked down.

Gracielis sighed melodramatically, placed one elegant hand over his heart. “Shall I be consoled?” And then, “Graelis?”

Thiercelin let the second comment pass. He said, “I’ll buy you a drink. Failing that, you’ll have to look to your current lady friend.” He looked his companion over. “She seems to be able to afford you.”

Gracielis turned his painted gaze upon himself, admiring, amused. “Perhaps.”

There was an oval topaz brooch pinned on the doublet. Reaching over to touch it, Thiercelin said, “Certainly, I’d have said.” Gracielis made no answer. He was looking at the solitaire, and frowning a little. “So,” Thiercelin said, “is that a result of your shopping?”

“No. It was a gift from a lady.”

“With whom you shop?”

Gracielis looked up. His expression was guarded. One hand dropped to cover part of the cards. He said, “There’s more than one lady in Merafi. And not a few gentlemen.”

Thiercelin gave up. Summoning a waiter, he ordered a bottle of rather better wine and a plate of sweetmeats. “Not,” he said, “as durable as topaz. My apologies.”

“Not so.” Gracielis mixed wine with an equal amount of water and drank. “It can’t be pawned, so it’s far more permanent.”

Thiercelin looked thoughtful. “Perhaps I should buy you dinner?” Gracielis made a diffident gesture. Thiercelin laughed. “If the food here is edible?”

“It’s excellent, of its kind, but you may think it plain.”

“I’m sure I’ll survive.”

Across the table, Gracielis raised his cup in salute. “My thanks, then. But,” and he smiled, “I wasn’t hinting.” He was charm to the bone. One might not resent it.

“I can afford it,” Thiercelin said. He looked down.

Gracielis said, “Tell me about the cards.”

“Why?”

There was a pause. Then Gracielis said, a little diffidently, “I can see . . . a something in them. But the deck and the spread are strange to me.”

“It’s a simple solitaire.” Thiercelin picked up a card and studied it. “The general idea is . . .”

“I understand the principle. I wanted to know your thoughts.”

Thiercelin looked up. “You’re nothing if not persistent. If you must know, I was thinking about you.”

The painted eyes widened the slightest fraction. With a finger, Gracielis traced the outline of one of the court cards. “The valet—a servant, a young man, a message. Aspected in stone, so the relationship will endure. And here, the sword, aspected in flame. Judgment and truth. And not a little danger.”

“I don’t believe in fortune-telling.”

“Nor do I, when I do the reading.” Gracielis said. “I have clearer vision for the past. The sword lies over another of its kind, aspected in wind, for the north. You’ve seen Iareth Yscoithi.”

“That’s a safe guess.” Thiercelin, discomforted despite himself, looked down and said, “And predictions of long acquaintance are doubtless good for your business.”

“I have no idea,” Gracielis said. “Perhaps I should try it.” He paused, then added, “You are under no financial obligation to me, including your kind offer of dinner.” Thiercelin was silent, playing with his lace. “It was your solitaire.”

That much, at least, was incontestable. The rest . . . Thiercelin looked up, expecting to find compassion in the painted eyes and found instead that Gracielis was not looking at him at all. Rather, his gaze was fixed on some point to his right. Glancing over, Thiercelin could see nothing of interest. Quietly, he said, “I’m sorry.”