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    Ghostspeaker
    Ghostspeaker
    Ghostspeaker
    Ebook110 pages1 hour

    Ghostspeaker

    By Charlotte E. English

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    About this ebook

    Konrad Savast is the Malykant: foremost and most secret servant of the God of Death. His job? To track down the foulest of murderers and bring them to The Malykt's Justice. No mercy. No quarter.
    It’s the Festival of the Dead, and Myrrolen’s famed circus has opened in town for one marvellous week. But the festivities are interrupted when a lifeless body turns up on stage in the middle of a performance… and then disappears.
    Konrad’s investigation brings him face-to-face with the enigmatic Myrrolena herself: Ringmistress and adept keeper of the circus’s secrets. To uncover the murderer, he must dig deeply behind the scenes of the famed Ghost Circus—but Myrrolena may prove to be more than a match for the Malykant…

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherFrouse Books
    Release dateSep 4, 2014
    Ghostspeaker
    Author

    Charlotte E. English

    English both by name and nationality, Charlotte hasn’t permitted emigration to the Netherlands to damage her essential Britishness. She writes colourful fantasy novels over copious quantities of tea, and rarely misses an opportunity to apologise for something. Spanning the spectrum from light to dark, her works include the Draykon Series, Modern Magick, The Malykant Mysteries and the Tales of Aylfenhame.

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      Book preview

      Ghostspeaker - Charlotte E. English

      Ghostspeaker

      The Malykant Mysteries, 4

      Charlotte E. English

      Copyright © 2014 by Charlotte E. English

      All rights reserved.

      No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by EU copyright law.

      Contents

      1. Chapter One

      2. Chapter Two

      3. Chapter Three

      4. Chapter Four

      5. Chapter Five

      6. Chapter Six

      7. Epilogue

      Chapter One

      Konrad dived into his study and all but slammed the door behind him. What an infernal crush. At least half the gentry of the city of Ekamet were crammed into his ballroom tonight, or so it seemed; he had reached the point where he could scarcely breathe amidst the bustle and the tumult of his lamentably successful event.

      To his decided dejection, he was the host of this particular piece of organised, purposeless chaos. He was obliged to hold gatherings at Bakar House once or twice a year; it kept him involved in the social whirl of the city, allowing him to maintain useful contacts among Ekamet’s social elite. But he detested the obligation. He was the Malykant, chief servant of The Malykt, the spirit Overlord of death; his role was to punish murderers, not to dance with silly young women until his feet were sore.

      Worse, this year something seemed to have changed. His status as a bachelor — and a most eligible one, given his apparent wealth — had always rendered him susceptible to attempts to land him as a husband. He was used to fending off such attacks, but lately they had come thick and fast; it was as though someone had declared open season upon him, and the onslaught was not to end until he was safely married. It was insufferable.

      His study was blessedly dark and quiet, and he heaved a sigh of relief as he loosened his cravat. A drink of something would go down well, he thought; half an hour of peace and a stiff drink would set him up, and he could face the remainder of the evening with equanimity.

      He was halfway across the room before he realised that he was not, in fact, alone. Somebody was sitting in his favourite chair. Startled, a curse fell from his lips before he could catch it, and of course, it proved to be a lady sitting there.

      ‘This part of the house is not open to guests,’ he said. What was she doing, sitting here in the dark? He lit a couple of lamps and the woman in the chair sat up, blinking in the sudden glow of light.

      ‘I am sorry,’ she said after a moment. ‘Only I could not bear the crush a moment longer. All those people.’

      He wondered how she had managed to find her way to one of the very few quiet rooms in the house. Trial and error? He was struck by how tired she looked; her fair skin was smudged with dark circles under her eyes, and her posture was weary, shoulders slumped as she wilted into the chair. She was in her early twenties, he guessed, and pretty, with curling blonde hair and wide blue eyes.

      Seeing as she was a guest at his own ball, he ought to know her name; but he’d left all that business to Mrs. Domashev, a lady of advanced years who posed as a distant relative and handled all of his entertaining for him. Such as it was.

      ‘Miss... um, I’m afraid I must invite you to return to the ball,’ he ventured. ‘Your mother will be missing you, I am sure.’ He kept his voice even only with an effort; all he wanted was some peace! In his own house! Infernal socialising, it was so much more trouble than—

      ‘My mother is dead,’ said the woman, frowning. ‘I cannot imagine she is missing me very much.’

      Konrad cleared his throat and searched uselessly for something to say.

      ‘My name is Dominka Popova,’ she supplied.

      ‘Ah yes — of course—I was but an instant from recalling it,’ Konrad said smoothly, and bowed.

      She crooked a cynical half-smile at him, and shook her head. ‘You were not, sir, but I shouldn’t wonder that you forgot. How can anybody be expected to remember so many names? I think that half the city is here tonight.’

      She made no move to get up, Konrad noted with annoyance. Sighing, he slumped into the chair opposite. ‘And I wish they would go away again,’ he said candidly. ‘I, too, have had enough.’

      She made no reply to that, merely picking listlessly at the embroidery adorning the front of her sumptuous blue velvet gown. She was in low spirits, he thought, and it wasn’t just the ball. ‘I hope you will excuse the presumption, Miss Popova, but: are you well?’

      Her head came up abruptly, and a sunny smile appeared from somewhere. ‘Why, of course, sir!’ she said, with every appearance of good cheer. ‘And I mean to dance a great deal more before the evening is over, I assure you.’

      He blinked. ‘You will not accomplish that by sitting here in the dark.’

      ‘No, no,’ she agreed in a brisk tone. ‘A little rest was all that I required.’ She smiled brilliantly at him, and it struck him with sudden force that she reminded him of Enadya. Oh, not in her physical appearance; his sister had been as dark-skinned as he was himself, with the same dark hair and eyes. But her mannerisms, and that smile... the realisation struck him to the heart, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe.

      Miss Popova eyed him narrowly. His discomfort must be showing, he realised, and he sought at once to conceal it behind his usual urbane facade.

      She was not convinced. ‘Are you well, sir?’ she enquired — displaying in the process the same sweet solicitude Enadya had always shown him, and his heart twisted.

      ‘Perfectly,’ he assured her.

      ‘Perhaps a dance would revive you,’ she offered, and jumped to her feet. ‘It would certainly revive me. Tell me, can I persuade you?’

      ‘Not a chance,’ he said grimly. ‘I do not intend to dance again for at least the next month, if I can contrive it.’

      She appeared crestfallen, and sank back into her chair. The cheer had faded from her face, leaving her the same wilting young woman he had first seen. Konrad felt like a brute.

      ‘It is so difficult...’ she began, toying restlessly with the cuff of her sleeve. ‘So difficult.’

      ‘What is difficult?’ Konrad prompted, after a long pause.

      ‘Oh, life,’ she said, directing at him a swift, piercing stare. ‘Do you not think?’

      ‘It can be,’ he said, cautious. ‘What is it that you are finding difficult, in particular?’

      ‘Everything,’ she said, wilting a little more. ‘Life and death — love, romance — family — these concerns cannot be easily managed, I think. They encroach upon one another — war for attention—’ She broke off abruptly, and straightened. ‘All the greatest nonsense, of course,’ she said, her tone suddenly brisk once more. ‘We all have our trials, do we not, sir?’

      Konrad blinked, confused by her mercurial changes of mood. ‘Indeed, we do,’ he agreed. ‘In fact—’ He was obliged to stop speaking, as footsteps loudly approached in the corridor outside. Abruptly it occurred to him how questionable was his current position, alone in a room with an unmarried young lady... if anybody were to catch them in such a circumstance, the consequences could be messy. His intentions might be perfectly respectable, but gossip had a habit of believing otherwise.

      The same realisation came to her, it seemed, for she leapt lightly out of her chair and crossed to the door. Once the footsteps had safely passed, she made Konrad a hasty curtsey and said softly: ‘I apologise for the intrusion, sir — this is your private room, is it not? I had better return to the ball.’ Konrad did not have time to reply before she was gone, the door closing softly behind her.

      He sat where he was for some minutes, breathing in the blessed silence left by her departure. The door was stout, and effectively blocked out the noises of the ball; Konrad could almost fancy himself alone in the building. His thoughts turned inevitably to Enadya, and he sighed deeply.

      It had been months since he had last thought of her. More than a

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