David Dalglish: A Dance of Ghosts

Strangely enough, he was still smiling.

It was the pins that were the worst of it. Ghost had endured stabbings before, broken bones, and brutal beatings. Those he’d always known how to black out in his mind, to ignore as if they were happening to someone else. But the gentle touchers were too clever and too patient. As he wandered down the street, his entire body wrapped in a thick robe with a heavy hood, he could still hear the sick words of the man first sent to torture him after he’d been found dying in Leon Connington’s room.

“You’re a big man,” the gentle toucher had said. In all four years, Ghost had never learned his name. His face had been withered, his nose thin and scarred, his skin paler than the moon. “A big man, and you might be responsible for the death of our lord. So, I’m going to break you with the tiniest of things; do you hear me?”

The first pin slid into the flesh of his forefinger.

“The very … tiniest…”

Every hour, that man had come and inserted another pin. Underneath his fingernails, into his fingertips, his toes, his toenails. If the man slept, he didn’t for long, because for three weeks straight, the man had come, always cheerfully telling him the hour as well as the pin’s number.

“It’s just after midnight,” he’d say, grinning, stabbing a pin just left of Ghost’s eyelid. “And this is your seventieth. I’ll see you for seventy-one.”

At the three hundredth pin, the last sixty of which had been focused on his groin, Ghost had finally relented and begged for death. But death hadn’t come.

Only more pins.

“One day,” Ghost muttered, shivering despite himself. “One day, I’ll return as the one holding the pins.”

The hour was dark, which suited Ghost fine. He kept his hood pulled down across his face, hiding the white paint. Now was not the time for attention. The pins had done their work, and while the gentle toucher had removed them over the years, the ones in his fingertips had remained the longest. Even now they were puffy, scarred, and ached at the slightest pressure. The idea of holding a sword and wielding it in combat was preposterous. At least, without aid …

Ghost stopped before cracked white steps he recognized well. In what felt like a previous lifetime, he’d fought on those steps, keeping back a mad horde of mercenaries bent on desecrating the temple of Ashhur in their attempt to slaughter more of the thieves that infested the city. Doing so had earned him the help of a certain priest, a priest Ghost hoped would still be living within. He climbed the stairs, grunting at the pain in his feet. At least the gentle touchers considered themselves artists above the more basic forms of torture. If they’d resorted to breaking bones and hacking off limbs, he’d have been hobbling up the steps like a toothless cripple. Perhaps that was the real secret to their art as well as their longevity. They could drag the truth out of kings and lowborn alike, yet still send them back to their lives without significant damage. What person of power wouldn’t have the occasional need for such a tool?

Torches hung from the marble columns atop the steps, keeping the double doors well lit. Up to them Ghost went, rapping twice on the door. After a moment, he heard a creak followed by the door opening a crack. A young boy, twelve, maybe thirteen, peered out at him. His eyes widened at the size of him, the deep color of his skin, the paint on his face.

“The … the temple is closed,” the boy said. “If you need succor, you may sleep on the steps until…”

“I will not stay out here until dawn like a beggar,” Ghost interrupted. He put a hand out on the door, let his massive weight keep it from shutting. “Wake the priest named Calan. I demand an audience with him.”

The request certainly didn’t help the boy’s composure.

“The high priest is not to be disturbed after his evening prayers.”

Ghost chuckled.

“Either you disturb him, or I will. Which would you prefer?”

It felt good to know that despite all he’d suffered, he still could be an intimidating presence. The danger in his deep voice had not vanished amid those four torturous years.

“And who should I say is asking?”

“Tell him what I look like,” Ghost said. “Tell him it’s a ghost. He’ll remember me.”

“A moment; just give me one moment,” the boy said, looking as baffled as he sounded. “I need to ask first. Stay here, please.”

“If you insist,” Ghost said, giving him a grand smile.

When the door shut, Ghost’s humor quickly fled. He leaned against the temple, letting out a heavy breath. Simply clutching the door with his right hand had flooded it with pain, and his feet were beginning to swell from his barefoot walk to the temple. The feeling of light-headedness was helping none, either. Food had never been consistent in the dungeons, and despite his exit, he’d not had much to eat. It felt like his stomach was forever tied into a knot, and he knew it might take weeks before his normal appetite returned. It seemed almost laughable what he’d promised Melody he’d accomplish. Kill the Watcher? Ghost closed his eyes and felt the cold of the marble against his cheek. As he was now, he had a better chance of beating down the temple with his bare fists than killing someone like him. Someone whose rage had seemed endless, whose speed and skill, already brilliant, became something otherworldly upon witnessing the death of his friend, Senke. But a promise was a promise, and he’d not go back on it now.

The door opened fully, and an older man with a waist-long beard stepped out.

“Follow me,” he said. There was no hiding his distaste at the white paint across Ghost’s face. “Calan said he’d meet with you, though only Ashhur knows why.”

The man led him through the entryway, and the crimson carpet beneath Ghost’s feet felt divine. Once within the grand worship hall, they veered right, up to a single door that was partially ajar. Without waiting for permission, Ghost yanked it open and stepped inside.

An older man waited for him, in a room sparsely furnished but for a large bookshelf, a desk, and the simple bed he sat upon. His round head was bald, his face cleanly shaven. His beady green eyes seemed to light up at Ghost’s entrance, though there was no doubt plenty of hesitance as well.

“Most sick and feeble have the decency to wait until morning for me to pray at their sides,” Calan said, slowly rising from his bed.

“I am not most sick and feeble,” Ghost said.

“You’re exactly like them, just with more pride. Have a seat, if you’d prefer. At my desk is fine.”

Ghost settled into the wooden chair, and he pulled the hood from his face. In the candlelight, he knew he must look quite a sight, and hoping to blunt away any questions, he extended his hands.

“I am in need of healing,” he said. “And I do not know of any other who might be better at the art.”

“I think it safe to say I’m the only one of my ilk you know,” Calan said, staring at Ghost’s hands. “Which makes your praise rather … unimpressive.”

The priest took a step closer, and slowly he took Ghost’s hands. Finger by finger he scanned them, the lines on his brow deepening.

“I’ve seen marks like this before,” he whispered. “But only twice in all my years. You’ve been at the mercy of a gentle toucher, haven’t you?”

Ghost was impressed at how fast he discerned it, and he felt a glimmer of hope that he still might be made well.

“I have,” he said.

“How long?”

He swallowed.

“Four years.”

Calan looked up from his hands, his eyes wide.

“Four years? By Ashhur, you poor soul. Consider yourself blessed you’re even alive and of sound mind.”