Living With Ghosts (21 page)

The chemist said, “In the light of our new scientific knowledge, you have to accept that the old beliefs are metaphors. Our ancestors couldn’t grasp the world the way we do, they lacked our techniques. But all these tales of living rocks and shapeshifters . . . They’re just ways of expressing our feelings and fears about the natural world. They don’t literally exist. It’s not possible.”

“The
Books of Marcellan
say otherwise,” the priest said.

“Marcellan was a primitive. The work being done at our university and at those in the Allied Cities have clearly demonstrated that . . .”

“In Lunedith,” Kenan said, cutting across him, “we are not so contemptuous of our past.”

The chemist blinked. The scholar said, hesitantly, “Of course, all these things are open to interpretation . . .”

“Fact is fact,” Kenan said.

“But that’s precisely my point. Science gives us facts. The
Books of Marcellan
merely give us stories,” the chemist said.

“Stories believed by many people over many years,” said the priest.

“Facts,” said Kenan, folding his arms.

The chemist stared at him. “But, young man, no one has ever seen such things.”

“Perhaps,” the writer said, quietly, “we need better eyes.”

“I’ve seen them,” said Kenan.

There was a silence. The scholar picked up his tea, cup rattling against the saucer. The priest said, “Well, of course, there have always been accounts . . .”

“Delusions,” said the chemist.

Miraude said, “Isn’t that often the first response to new discoveries?” She smiled at the chemist. “I remember you telling us how your brother reacted to your early findings. As you always say, proof before pronouncement.”

“The Lunedithin maintain closer links to our common past than we do,” the priest said. “And, of course, the Tarnaroqui . . .”

The chemist interrupted. “None of this is testable, gentlemen.”

“Perhaps,” Kenan said, “your city is simply too young. You clear away your past in every generation. How can you know anything of your origins like that?”

“Without progress,” the chemist began.

“Truth,” said Kenan, “is not to be found in perpetual changes. You have neither depth nor faith nor any real past here.” He leaned forward in his chair. “Merafi was founded by an unbeliever. It was made to be blind. You have nothing here older than two or three centuries. My family have lived in the keep at Skarholm for a thousand years.”

“The Old Water Temple . . .” said the priest.

“Was rebuilt by the queen’s great-grandfather after the west city fire,” said the writer.

“There are tunnels.” The scholar put down his cup. “Under the butter market and along the line of the old city wall.”

Kenan turned toward him a little too sharply. That was interesting. The scholar continued, “And under the Old Temple there are ancient foundations. It’s possible they may belong to Yestinn Allandur’s original fortress, if the early maps can be trusted.”

“I didn’t know that,” the writer said.

“I’ve been engaged on a program of investigation,” the scholar said. “A cellar was damaged in that temple last year, and the priests very kindly invited me to excavate.”

Kenan’s face was neutral, yet the line of his shoulders bespoke intent attention. Watching him sidelong, Miraude said, “I should very much like to see that. History fascinates me.”

“It’s dark and dirty . . .” the scholar began.

She came to stand beside him. “And you would be there to teach me.”

“Well . . .”

“It would,” said Kenan, “be of interest to see if any part of Merafi has true antiquity.”

Miraude placed her hand over that of the scholar. “With Prince Kenan and you to watch over me, I’ll feel perfectly safe. And,” And she smiled again at Kenan, “We might come closer to finding the proofs that our chemical friend requires.”

The scholar lifted her hand and kissed it. “If you wish it, then.”

“I do. It will be our adventure.”

Across the table, Kenan raised his cup, hiding his mouth. She was pretty certain he smiled. Well, that was his privilege. But there was something he wanted here, and Miraude had every intention of ensuring she was with him when he found it.

The lieutenant’s ghost preened, watching Gracielis with colorless eyes, aping his every movement. Pushing his wet hair back, Gracielis smiled and then shook his head, spraying water across the floor, through the ghost. He said, “You waste yourself, haunting me. You should haunt children. You’re the ideal excuse for wicked behavior.” It stared back at him, contemptuous.

He shrugged and stepped out of the bath. His skin was flushed with heat. He stretched and reached for a towel, enjoying precious time alone. Well, almost alone. The ghost sneered at him. He bowed to it. Then, wrapping a robe about himself, he sat down to the glass and began to comb the tangles out of his hair. Unpainted, his face had a curiously unreal quality, as though he withheld his opinions even from himself.

He had not found Chirielle or much information to add to that he had bought from Sylvine, but Amalie had been pleased with what he had been able to tell her and his expenses had been more than met. There was a new ring in the ebony box on his dresser. And, more importantly, his words had eased some of Amalie’s worries. It pleased him to please her and to spare her anxiety.

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.”