Sleeping with Ghosts
In a land where travelers go to bed with cold iron close to hand, Yordan Korvechi is a priest with one purpose: holy assassination. When the hungry ghost of his latest target returns to trouble his sleep, though, Yordan begins to realize that killing him was the easy part.
The man’s portrait was hastily drawn, scratched in sharp charcoal on a page from a book of devotionals. When Yordan traced the line of a cheekbone, his fingertip came away black. “This isn’t much to go on. If he’s so much as started wearing his beard differently—”
“Our agent put his life at risk to bring us this portrait.” The Father Superior reached for the page and set it on his desk, pinning it down with a lead paperweight. Afraid I’m going to smudge it further, thought Yordan, although he kept his face neutral. “She Who Turns the Page has spoken. This is the man.”
“I’m not saying it isn’t the man. I’m only saying I wish we had a better picture.”
The Father Superior quirked a thin brow. “What, you want him to stand still for half an hour while I take a tintype?”
“It would help.” Yordan leaned over the desk, studying the portrait again. The man was young, he thought. Younger, at any rate, than anyone else he’d taken. Thin as a blade, lips like a slash, beard cut close along his jaw. Even in rough charcoal, there was a keenness to his eyes that sent a thrill of anticipation down Yordan’s spine. “How long do we have?”
“The mother’s already been confined to her bed. If the birth is typical, less than a month. If the child comes early—and you know they always come early when we haven’t cut them a soul yet—”
“No need to trot out the lurid details. You could just tell me that time is of the essence and have done with it. You don’t have to paint me a picture.”
“Have you ever sat at a woman’s bedside while she delivers a soulless child, Brother Yordan?”
Yordan pushed the paperweight aside and picked up the page, folding it neatly into quarters and tucking it into his breast pocket alongside his coiled garrote. “No, but I’ve seen her carried out afterward. They had to make three trips to get all the pieces.”
The Father Superior’s smile was a length of razor wire. “Time is of the essence, then. Cut this man’s soul away. Don’t make me paint you a picture.”
“Our agent put his life at risk to bring us this portrait.” The Father Superior reached for the page and set it on his desk, pinning it down with a lead paperweight. Afraid I’m going to smudge it further, thought Yordan, although he kept his face neutral. “She Who Turns the Page has spoken. This is the man.”
“I’m not saying it isn’t the man. I’m only saying I wish we had a better picture.”
The Father Superior quirked a thin brow. “What, you want him to stand still for half an hour while I take a tintype?”
“It would help.” Yordan leaned over the desk, studying the portrait again. The man was young, he thought. Younger, at any rate, than anyone else he’d taken. Thin as a blade, lips like a slash, beard cut close along his jaw. Even in rough charcoal, there was a keenness to his eyes that sent a thrill of anticipation down Yordan’s spine. “How long do we have?”
“The mother’s already been confined to her bed. If the birth is typical, less than a month. If the child comes early—and you know they always come early when we haven’t cut them a soul yet—”
“No need to trot out the lurid details. You could just tell me that time is of the essence and have done with it. You don’t have to paint me a picture.”
“Have you ever sat at a woman’s bedside while she delivers a soulless child, Brother Yordan?”
Yordan pushed the paperweight aside and picked up the page, folding it neatly into quarters and tucking it into his breast pocket alongside his coiled garrote. “No, but I’ve seen her carried out afterward. They had to make three trips to get all the pieces.”
The Father Superior’s smile was a length of razor wire. “Time is of the essence, then. Cut this man’s soul away. Don’t make me paint you a picture.”
# # #
Yordan presented his identification papers at the ticket counter, where the station mistress gave him a cautious once-over through the protective glass and said, “Brother Yordan Korvechi. You don’t look like a priest.”
“What’s a priest supposed to look like?” He pushed his papers under the glass again, but she kept her hands folded in her lap.
“I was raised in the church of She Who Winds the Thread,” she answered, tilting her head as though it had been a serious question. “The brothers all wore robes with gold braid, even out of the church. They always smelled like incense, even when you passed them on the street. That’s a proper priest.”
“Well, that’s the Threadmen,” snapped Yordan. “I’m a Bookman, and we’re too damn busy for incense.”
“Oh.” Her hands had started trembling; he could tell, even though she hid them under the counter. “She Who Turns the Page. Going to go turn someone’s page, are you?”
He had a knife up each sleeve and a slim pistol in his coat lining, a garrote in his breast pocket just aching to be unwound. From the way her gaze kept slipping toward the station guards, she had to know it. “Ticket, please. And I’ll have my papers back.”
“Just making conversation,” she muttered, but she returned his papers to him and handed him a ticket, and he reckoned that was better than conversation.
He boarded the train less than an hour later, shutting himself in his compartment and closing the three iron latches on the door. The leather seats were still new enough to squeak against his coat, and the maps in the pouch by the window were up to date. He spread one over his lap while he waited for the all-aboard.
The target had a summer home along Lake Liakra with a carriage house, a chapel, and a vineyard that had produced a decent bottle of red twenty-five years ago. He no doubt had a private hunting reserve in the forest, where he and his friends stalked the kind of beasts who looked on men with half-starved eyes and bared their broken teeth. The summer home meant money; the chapel meant old money; Lake Liakra meant his family preferred the silver bullet to the silver spoon.
Strictly speaking, She Who Turns the Page could call on her priests to cut any man’s soul away. But she seldom called for them to take anyone rich, anyone powerful—and least of all, anyone young.
Even with the charcoal sketch safely pressed between the pages of his prayer book, Yordan couldn’t entirely believe how young the man was.
They wouldn’t send me if they weren’t sure, Yordan told himself, while the conductor shepherded passengers aboard and the priests of He Who Loves Cold Iron readied their long knives at every coupling between the cars.
The train would pass through the forest on its way to Lake Liakra, and in that tangle of close-knit boughs, the iron rails were as much a palisade as a pathway.
“What’s a priest supposed to look like?” He pushed his papers under the glass again, but she kept her hands folded in her lap.
“I was raised in the church of She Who Winds the Thread,” she answered, tilting her head as though it had been a serious question. “The brothers all wore robes with gold braid, even out of the church. They always smelled like incense, even when you passed them on the street. That’s a proper priest.”
“Well, that’s the Threadmen,” snapped Yordan. “I’m a Bookman, and we’re too damn busy for incense.”
“Oh.” Her hands had started trembling; he could tell, even though she hid them under the counter. “She Who Turns the Page. Going to go turn someone’s page, are you?”
He had a knife up each sleeve and a slim pistol in his coat lining, a garrote in his breast pocket just aching to be unwound. From the way her gaze kept slipping toward the station guards, she had to know it. “Ticket, please. And I’ll have my papers back.”
“Just making conversation,” she muttered, but she returned his papers to him and handed him a ticket, and he reckoned that was better than conversation.
He boarded the train less than an hour later, shutting himself in his compartment and closing the three iron latches on the door. The leather seats were still new enough to squeak against his coat, and the maps in the pouch by the window were up to date. He spread one over his lap while he waited for the all-aboard.
The target had a summer home along Lake Liakra with a carriage house, a chapel, and a vineyard that had produced a decent bottle of red twenty-five years ago. He no doubt had a private hunting reserve in the forest, where he and his friends stalked the kind of beasts who looked on men with half-starved eyes and bared their broken teeth. The summer home meant money; the chapel meant old money; Lake Liakra meant his family preferred the silver bullet to the silver spoon.
Strictly speaking, She Who Turns the Page could call on her priests to cut any man’s soul away. But she seldom called for them to take anyone rich, anyone powerful—and least of all, anyone young.
Even with the charcoal sketch safely pressed between the pages of his prayer book, Yordan couldn’t entirely believe how young the man was.
They wouldn’t send me if they weren’t sure, Yordan told himself, while the conductor shepherded passengers aboard and the priests of He Who Loves Cold Iron readied their long knives at every coupling between the cars.
The train would pass through the forest on its way to Lake Liakra, and in that tangle of close-knit boughs, the iron rails were as much a palisade as a pathway.