“What my sister does not mention in her rather too charming memoir is that the emperor kept a pet ghost. And in order to have a pet ghost, one must have a pet medium, of course, a pet Sasturi.”
I’m afraid that our hostess was in her cups when she said this. She was wearing a wig of curls and had powdered her face quite strenuously. You could see the scars that she was trying to hide beneath it, the little pits in the skin of her nose. From a distance she was quite striking. Up close she was worn as an old slipper. And since I had spent the evening befriending and flirting with her, I was seated very close indeed.
She had cast a wide net for her little dinner party, her salon, as she called it. Yet of the hundreds she had invited, only thirty or so had arrived for the evening’s entertainments. None of my compatriots from Haunts and Scribbles had come, and in truth I wouldn’t have, either, if I hadn’t been so in need of ready cash. The allurements of student life do tend to exhaust ones savings, and I was still fairly young, and still much given to going to low taverns and singing on tables. Not that it hurt me much. One met many a traveling songster while singing on tables, and these poor wanderers were always in need of fresh material, stories to take out to the provincial villages and amaze the yokels with.
Memoirs had become the fashion of the court, and many of the songsters were mining them for material. Erotic anecdotes from the Duke of Ibimendi’s ill spent youth were making the rounds, and the Prince of Churls, one Crowcam Azerdondea by name, had delighted the populace by writing a very scurrilous account of his own lusty adventures. But the queen of all memoirs that year had been written by our host’s own sister, Doesa Muelant. She was the toast of the town, welcome at any salon, and a personal friend of the queen. At first her sister was included within the magnificent aura of her clout. She had been invited to many an august gathering so that she could supplement Doesa’s delightful reminiscences, but she had quickly made herself unwanted. She tended to grind her teeth and contradict everything that Doesa said. Now, in scholarly circles, this would be deemed delightfully rigorous. A claim can only prove its validity through violent combat with another claim. And the same holds true for stories. But Malreesi Muelant was such a sourpuss that the court could not abide her. After only a week or two invitations were retracted or never sent, and Malreesi was left to make her own way in the world of fame and anecdote. Hence her dinner party. Hence her manifold invitations. Hence my attendance, in hopes that I might learn some scandalous counter-story to sell to the songsters.
“Tell us, please,” I said, leaning in and almost choking on the particulate atmosphere that floated about my hostess’s face, “of this pet ghost.”
We were seated at a long table in a gilt drawing room, and the other guests were engaged in desultory conversation. We were all riffraff of one sort or another. All accept the rather striking Sasturi guild master, who had set about making himself almost as charming as I was. He was seated at Malreesi’s other side, facing me and smiling. He had the Sasturi trick of picking up odds and ends with his long fingers and making patterns with them. Presently he was arranging two chicken bones and three olives in a series of patterns on his plate. It was quite hypnotizing. But our hostess was annoyed by it, which is no doubt why she had embarked on her tale. And she continued it in a manner that was intended to raise his hackles.
“And his pet Sasturi,” she reminded me. “You will, no doubt, say that it is impossible for a Sasturi to act in such a way.”
My rival for her affections gave her an ingenuous smile. “My dear Lady Muelant,” he said, “nothing whatsoever can surprise me. We have a very scandalous history, as my friend from Haunts and Scribbles knows.” He inclined his head courteously towards my person.
“I can affirm that you do,” I said lightly. “But I have never heard of a Sasturi who acted as a pet minder.”
“Oh, he was an evil man,” Malreesi said, and fed a morsel of chicken to one of the rather ugly dogs that gathered about her chair. “Papa did not like him at all. We were very far from home, of course, but our family has long been enshrined, and Papa sent a regular tithe to the Oracle at Pahyangoeda. I am afraid that he regarded all Sasturi with some suspicion. But this Raensapali guild member, this pet minder, as you say,” this with a simper at me, “was set apart. He was that odious. Worse than all the rest.”
I was afraid that she might go too far. I myself am a great admirer of the Sasturi, as all right thinking people should be. But then, I do not come from an enshrined family. When my poor father died, the Sasturi who came to the door were willing to take his ghost for only a few coins, and they returned with a nicely detailed map to the bend in the river where they had set his spirit free. My mother went there every year until she herself passed away, and when I showed the map to the Sasturi who came to exorcise her spirit from the house, they were very happy to take her to the same river bend, for a small extra fee. All above board and respectfully done.
“Without the Sasturi,” I demurred, “the entire Kingdom would be haunted. Especially in recent years.”
“I suppose it would, I suppose it would,” she said, picking up one of the little dogs and letting it lick her face. A streak of enflamed and worried skin was revealed as the powder was licked away. “You do supply a service,” she said to my table mate, who had completed another design with the chicken bones and olives. “And the humble people love you well, I am sure. But his grace the Emperor Adakhuehan the Seventh was a little too doting, I must say. He was mad of course. All of the emperors named Adakhuehan were mad. It’s a wonder that the courtesans kept begriming their children with that name.”
“This I do not understand,” the Sasturi Guild Master said in his pleasant, unflappable tone. “Surely the emperor’s mother was an empress.”
He was flattering Malreesi’s knowledge. Rather common knowledge, I thought, but he chose to treat it as wisdom that she had gained from a life of clinging to the edge of diplomatic circles. “Not so,” she told him, delighted at the chance to lecture. “Would you believe that the Raensapali emperors kept whole covens of courtesans for their enjoyment, and when they were dying they picked the favorite of their many offspring to succeed them and consigned the rest to a life of imprisoned opulence in the Palace of Sighs and Hours? Very dark things were said of that palace. Diseases of the night were rampant, and most of the imprisoned princes imbibed great quantities of betzazarra. Have you ever tried it, Guild Master? No, you wouldn’t. You Sasturi are very careful about what you ingest. Here you are, enjoying my hospitality, and drinking nothing but tea! This handsome young scholar is putting you to shame.”
I raised my wine glass and winked. “The Raensapali emperors were indeed infamous,” I said. “It is quite a privilege to sit with a lady who knew the last emperor personally. He was mad, you say. What was the manifestation of his madness?”
“Have I not told you that he kept a ghost for a pet? Is that not manifestation enough?”
“It is a funny word, manifestation,” the Guild Master said.
“Funny how?” our hosted inquired suspiciously.
“Why, it is a word we use, sometimes, when we are asked to clean a home of spirits. We tell ourselves that there is a manifestation. But I have often wondered what is being manifested. Not the ghosts themselves, surely. For us, the dead are rather mundane, I’m afraid to say. Manifestation must mean something grander, mustn’t it? The arrival of an unexpected event or realization. That is why it is a good word for madness, and not a good word for the dead. Death is predictable. Madness is always surprising.”
“It seems that you are a philosopher, in addition to being a medium,” I said.
He smiled at me. There was a bit of chicken flesh stuck between his front teeth. “We Sasturi must be many things. Craftspeople. Philosophers. Adventurers. It is a very fulfilling life.”
“Perhaps life itself is worthy of the word ‘manifestation.’ It, after all, isn’t predictable.”
Our hostess was growing restless. “Why such quibbling over words?” She asked. “I was telling a story.”
“Please continue,” I said. “I am aquiver with curiosity.”
“Another fine turn of phrase,” she told me, and set a bejeweled hand on my arm. “Now where was I? Ah yes. The mad emperor. It was rumored that the ghost was one of his brothers. But papa saw through that. Surely, he said, people would recognize one of the emperor’s brothers, even if they were confined to the Palace of Sighs and Hours. And the ghost was rather short, and had a hairlip. The Raensapali might have been mad, but they were all tall and beautiful, all except one, of course. Papa became quite obsessed with discovering the identity of the ghost.
“My sister and I were mere children at the time. Doesa was much younger than I was, so she didn’t see as much as I did. She had a smaller awareness of what was happening in the court, and even in our household. The ambassadorial manor was a little way outside of the city, and we were protected by stout walls and loyal retainers. Papa would take his carriage back and forth to the court every day. I am sure that there are a few inquiries he made without my knowing of them. But he was very happy to have me sit on his lap in his study while he wrote his reports, and he would tell me all about his discoveries and his diplomatic victories. He was, perhaps, a little indiscreet, but I was his favorite child, no doubt his favorite person in the world. You learn so much more when you are loved.”
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The Guild Master looked at me and raised an eyebrow. I, too, felt that her digs at her sister were a little too obvious. “If it wasn’t a brother’s ghost,” I said, “than whose ghost was it?”
“Ah,” she said, allowing the little dog in her lap to begin licking her plate, “that is what Papa set out to discover. But to do so he would have to find a Sasturi whom he could trust. The Raensapal Guild House was out of the question, of course. All the Sasturi there were quite loyal to the emperor, and could not be suborned. So he sent all the way to Yenceyan for help. And they sent Gray Baenix.”
At this name some of the humor fled from the Guild Master’s face. He busied himself with designing another pattern of chicken bone and olive. This displeased our hostess so much that she snapped her fingers, and servants appeared to take the plates away. I wondered what dessert would arrive in their place. I hoped for something with distinguishable parts, so that my friend would have something to pattern. I was beginning to suspect that Malreesi Muelant had never met a Sasturi before. If she had, she wouldn’t have claimed acquaintance with Gray Baenix. And she would have tolerated her guest’s need to fiddle with the remains of dinner.
“Gray Baenix,” I said, “is a name that is well known in Haunts and Scribbles. How could it not be? The most famous Sasturi of our age.”
“Oh yes,” she simpered. “He was a dear friend of Papa’s. Not at first, of course. He liked to be mysterious, as all Sasturi do. But Papa gave him the prettiest room in the manor, and offered him free access to his study. Many a time Doesa and I would sneak to the door and peer in at him reading one of Papa’s fine leather bound volumes. And he liked the prickly fruit they have in the south very much. Gozabarish. Have you ever had one? They taste like sweetened rain.”
Sugar water, in other words. But I said nothing. I hoped that we wouldn’t be having gozabarish for dessert. I tended to avoid them, as I found their flavor very cloying.
“The great problem,” our hostess continued, “was how to get him into court. The local Sasturi would know him, of course. But Gray Baenix was famous for a reason. He was more talented than any other medium, and willing to go farther. He told Papa that he needed to find a handsome ghost, preferably the spirit of a northern man. Papa paid some bribes and was happy to discover a prisoner who was slated for execution. An adventurer from Ordalamia who had killed an old widower. Now if he were executed in the public square, the Emperor’s Sasturi would be there to collect the ghost. So poor Papa had to pay more bribes to have the man sprung from prison and brought to the ambassadorial manor. The execution,” she said, ruffling the fur on the top of her dog’s head, “happened there.”
I was beginning to become quite alarmed. She was telling a dirty story. Not dirty in the usual smutty, salacious way. But a story that any Sasturi would find obscene. Not a story I could readily sell to a songster. They wouldn’t want it. No one would want it. I could barely bring myself to glance across at the Guild Master. When I did, I was surprised to find that his expression was quite calm, his lips curved up in a smile of polite interest. But his hands had disappeared beneath the table, and I was sure that his fingers were frantically patterning the tassels on his robes.
“I do not think,” I began, “that Gray Baenix…” But the Guild Master looked at me sharply and gave a little shake of his head. I fell silent, and was saved from awkwardness by the arrival of dessert. It was gozabarish, of course, served on a flat yellow cake. Their flesh had been scooped from their prickly outer peel and deposited in a symmetrical pattern. They quivered up at me gelatinously.
“This is a fascinating tale,” the Guild Master said encouragingly, after our hostess had taken a bite of the confection, closing her eyes and humming with exaggerated pleasure.
“I suppose it is,” she said dismissively. Her eyes slanted towards him, and there was malicious mischief in her expression. She knew exactly how offensive she was being. No wonder she was no longer invited to the salons that her sister attended. “Would you like me to continue it?”
“Yes, please,” he said.
“You Sasturi…manifest different powers from time to time, do you not? You are each unique in your approach, as all artists are. Gray Baenix had discovered a way of letting a ghost ride his body, as well as his mind. He invited the adventurer’s spirit into his flesh, and the very features of his face were rearranged. He even grew taller.”
She took another bite of the dessert. I was sitting back, feeling rather disgusted. I had drunk too much, and had that bloated, dissipated feeling that comes upon you when you realize that an evening has been ill-spent. One of her little dogs began licking my hand. I shooed it away.
“Ah,” the Guild Master said. But he didn’t add any further remark. He knew, as I did, that she was a fabulist. No Sasturi could ever pull off the trick she was describing. They wouldn’t want to. All of their training was meant to allow them to keep their own personalities, their own selfhood, as the ghosts rode them. To allow a spirit to alter your flesh…it was unthinkable. A kind of rape, I suppose. And Gray Baenix was the best of them, the least likely person to do as she described.
Our hostess, however, took his monosyllable as an invitation to continue. “It was rather easy, then. Papa took him to court, introducing him as an emissary who had come from Bahburahn Azerdondea for further treaty negotiations. Once Gray Baenix was in the Hall of Reception, he was able to wrestle the hair-lipped ghost away from the emperor’s pet-minder. And do you know what he found? The ghost was none other than the emperor’s own namesake, Adakhuehan the Second, he who was responsible for the decapitation of the clean faces.”
She looked at us with gloating eyes. I tried to disappoint her with an indifferent expression. The Guild Master was more diplomatic. He smiled softly. He had been moving the little blobs of gozabarish around on the surface of the cake, and they made a rather pleasing pattern. It was strangely calming to look at it. “I have heard of Adakhuehan the Second, of course,” he said, “but only in passing. Perhaps our friend from Haunts and Scribbles can tell us who he was.”
I resented this slightly. I wanted to leave, not get drawn further into her phantasmal lies. I put on my most pretentious and languorous expression. “Oh, he had quite a problem with acne, and it bothered him so much that he took to killing all the courtiers who were blessed with nice skin. But I’ve never heard that he had a hairlip.”
“Neither had I!” Malreesi said, bringing her fleshy palms down onto the tabletop and making the silverware jump. “It was a great Raensapali secret! They were shamed enough by an emperor who had pimples and boils. They would have killed to keep the fact that he was disfigured as well a secret. But you are missing the truly shocking thing. This Sasturi of the emperor’s, this pet-minder, had gone into Raensapal Shrine and extracted the spirit of an ancestor. He had brought it back into the world! At the mad emperor’s orders! Can you imagine such a thing?”
I couldn’t. It had never happened and could never happen. The ancestors, once they are confined in a shrine, stay within that shrine. It is what allows for the stability of the world, and is the great gift that Manrie once gave us.
I expected the Guild Master to protest, but he did not. Our hostess’s story had attracted the attention of some of the other guests, and they began to comment and joke. They were, as I said, riffraff, and easily ignored. I made my excuses as soon as I could and left the party.
It was winter, and cold. It had been snowing, and a party of servants were busy sweeping the streets with their stiff brooms. They were all bundled up, but I was in my meager winter robes. Still, I paused as I stepped out onto Mahlsambat Avenue and looked back at the house. It was on the outskirts Direschki District, the neighborhood that the court had chosen to inhabit. A fine house, but not particularly imposing. None of the houses were. The neighborhood had been chosen due to its proximity to the step cliffs, which loomed above it. The moon was out, breaking the clouds and sending its light to glitter on the falling snow. I could see some of the construction on the cliffs. The great palace that the architect Nirmaluko was building for the king. Had been building for nearly a decade. What must it be like, I thought, to sit in a manor beneath the palace you would one day inhabit? To feel the loom of its grandeur above you. I imagined that it must give the king an itchy feeling. It must represent something that he had not quite managed to live up to. A prominence. A fame. An overwhelming prestige. I imagined that he looked up at it always with the feeling that his real life had not yet begun, that he wouldn’t truly be himself until he sat on his throne in its magnificent halls. The delays in construction must be driving him mad.
A footfall behind me, and I looked around. It was the Guild Master, who had also managed to make his escape. He came up beside me, and for a moment we stood in silence, looking up at the half-finished palace. When I lowered my gaze I found that he was smiling at me.
“I imagine that you found the evening to be something of a waste,” he said.
“Our hostess is quite repulsive.”
He nodded. “But you must have known that when you accepted the invitation. Why did you come?”
“Oh, I thought there might be some good stories.”
He studied me, consternated, and then his face cleared. “Ah. I have heard that some scholars have other uses for their discoveries than writing long treatises and giving lectures. There are people, I believe, who will pay good money for an entertaining story.”
I decided to be embarrassed by the transparency of my need. “Yes, but that story was far from entertaining. There may be songsters who would pay me for it, but I am happy to say that I am not acquainted with them. How are you not angry?”
“Oh, I am, of course. She besmirched the name of Gray Baenix with obscene accusations.” Another shrug. “People have always told unkind stories about the Sasturi. We scare them, I suppose.” He smiled at me and reached for his purse. “Would you allow me to pay you for the story? I am no songster, of course, and will make no use of it. But I have sympathy for a young man’s plight, and a great respect for Haunts and Scribbles. And I would not want that story repeated.”
“There were other people at the table who heard it.”
“Repeated by someone reputable, I mean.”
I took the money, of course. I decided that he was simply being charitable, and I was in need of charity. I had quite a large bar bill at many of my favorite wineshops, and couldn’t go to them again until each was paid. Besides, I was flattered by his calling me reputable.
We parted, and I walked back through the city. I found my step lightening as I walked. I discovered that I was pleased with the evening after all. It even struck me as amusing. Our hostess had been so ridiculous. I began to bubble with the good cheer that is usual with me. I decided that I would go to a wineshop, pay my bill, and entertain people with a recounting of the dinner party, although, to honor the request of my new friend, I wouldn’t give any details of Malreesi Muelant’s tale. I would simply say that it was obscene, and then describe the Guild Master’s reaction to it. That, in itself, had been quite entertaining. Yes, it was good to be young, and carefree, a scholar in the City of Libraries, the city that had become the chosen home of the Azerdondea kings.