“The grinning ghost of Taverton Hall,” Rhauligan announced to the gathered, peering folk, holding them up. “You were all supposed to flee, you see, not rush to see who’d fired the-”
Someone screamed. Someone else cursed…slowly, and in trembling tones. Folk were backing away, their faces pale and their fearful stares directed past Rhauligan’s shoulder.
The turret merchant turned slowly, already knowing what he’d see. He swallowed, just once, when he found that he’d been dead right.
A breeze he did not feel was stirring the plumes of the helm worn by the grinning face of the head that was floating almost nose to nose with him. Lord Farrowbrace started calling hoarsely on god after god and Rhauligan could hear the sounds of boots whose owners were running away.
The dark eyes of the Grinning Ghost of Taverton Hall were like endless, lightless pits, but somehow they were meeting his own gaze with an approving look. Rhauligan stood his ground when ghostly shadows spilled out from the helm, flickered bone-white, and seemed to struggle and convulse. After long moments, some of those shifting shadows became a ghostly hand, reaching out for the Harper.
Scalp crawling, Glarasteer Rhauligan did the bravest, and possibly the most foolhardy thing in his life. He stood his ground as that spectral arm clapped his own arm firmly.
The cold was instant, and bone-chilling. Rhauligan grunted and staggered back involuntarily, his face going gray. There was a loud, solid thump beside him, and when he looked down he discovered that it was Lord Justice Jalanus Westerbotham, sprawled on his back in the mud, fallen in a dead faint.
Trembling just a trifle, Rhauligan looked back at the ghost-but it was gone. Empty air swirled and flickered in front of him; he was standing alone in the moonlight.
The Lady Lathdue and the Lady Chalass were approaching him hesitantly, their eyes dark and apprehensive, their blades borne by their fathers thrusting out protectively between their slim arms. Lord Farrowbrace, his eyes haunted with wonder, stood a little apart, his own sword dangling toward the trampled ground.
“Sir? Are you well?” the Lady Lathdue asked.
As she spoke, a throng of ghostly figures in finery and armor seemed to melt into solidity all around the nobles, all of them nodding approvingly or sketching salutes with spectral hands or blades. Rhauligan blinked, staggering under the sheer weight of so much ghostly regard-and when he could see again, they were all gone.
Wondering, the turret merchant looked down at his arm, which still felt encased in bone-searing ice. His leather jerkin had melted away in three deep gouges, where three bone-white marks were burned into his bronzed skin. Like old scars they seemed; the parallel stripes of three gripping fingers.
Glarasteer Rhauligan looked up at them all, drew in a deep breath, and said in a voice that was almost steady, “I’ll live, but smoke can kill those who can’t move out of it. We must find and free Lord Crimmon Paertrover. Let us be about it.”
And from that night until the day he died, those three white marks never left Rhauligan’s arm.
