Ghosts in the Snow Read online

  Dubric nodded and noted the expected reply date in his notebook. Messenger birds flew frequently between Faldorrah and Haenpar, and this afternoon there had been one Haenparan bird left. Praise the King! Perhaps he would get a break in this investigation after all.

  "Otlee?"

  "I'm supposed to go with Lars to the birds, to the armory to choose a sword, and start research in the library. We're going to find a reason why he's taking the kidneys and hair, if we can. After that, we're to make a chart comparing the victims."

  "Very good." Dubric ignored the reluctance in Lars's eyes. Both boys had been delegated to safe duty, and both had been instructed to go to bed by midnight. Dubric did not want to take another chance with Lars's life, or Otlee's. Not after this morning.

  "And you, sir?" Dien asked as the boys gathered up their papers and turned to go.

  "Questioning victims' friends and acquaintances. Most likely a waste of my time, if past interviews are any indication."

  His three assistants nodded their sad agreement and left the office. Dubric spent a few moments glaring at his ghosts, then he left, as well.

  * * *

  A few people turned to look at their odd procession, but Nella didn't mind. She had learned long ago the truth of safety in numbers. Every time she passed a cluster of servant girls, she said, "We're all going to the privies." More often than not, their group would grow. By the time they reached the rows of privies behind the castle, seventeen servant girls had come along. All were members of the cleaning staff.

  The night was clear and cold and the stars sparkled like hard glints of ice in the sky. As soon as he stepped out into the chill, Risley removed his cloak and handed it to the shivering girls. "Try to stay warm," he said.

  Some of the girls looked at him nervously, while others babbled their thanks. His cloak was wide and flowing and the girls soon discovered if they huddled close together, many could be protected from the wind.

  The castle loomed above them as they hurried to the privies. Many of the windowed rooms were lit by candles or lamps, and dim light flowed into the courtyard. The courtyard was dark, but not pitch-black, and Nella could make out the shapes of the privies, the potters' sheds, and the leather shop.

  Ten privies waited in one long row, and Risley checked each one in the line before he let a girl enter. After deciding to use three at one end, Risley and the huddle of girls waited outside the middle privy's door. The girls had merely half a dozen steps to any of the three privies. The warmth, and the protection, remained close.

  Nella snuggled into Risley's cloak, her face pressed against the woolen fabric so she could breathe in his scent, and she watched him as best she could in the dark. He seemed so sure of himself, so invincible.

  Almost half of the girls had gone to the privy when they heard a pair of men walking toward them. The men chatted with each other and did not seem to notice the huddle of girls wrapped in the cloak. Not until Risley spoke.

  "Halt there," Risley said and took a couple of steps to stand between the two men and the girls. "These privies are in use."

  "Eh, wot? I's got to use the shitter," one said.

  "We always use the end 'uns," the other said. "They're the closest."

  "Not this time." Around Nella, several girls gasped when Risley pulled his sword and his voice dropped to a venomous snarl. "You've been warned. Halt now and go around to the other end."

  Even Nella knew openly displayed weapons were forbidden, and she winced at the threat.

  Both men stopped, their shapes dim shadows in the dark. "An who be tellin' us ta go 'round? Ye ain't Castellan Dubric, that's as sure as me ass."

  "Risley Romlin. Now get the peg out of here." His sword winked in the dim light from the castle and both men jumped back.

  One of the men blabbered, "Curse it, Sawllt! 'E's got hisself a sword! We ain't gotta go dat bad." Both ran back into the dark, until only the sound of their footsteps remained.

  Risley turned back to the girls as he sheathed the sword. "Everyone all right?"

  Seventeen dimly lit faces watched him, fourteen in the huddle, the other three peeking from the privies. Some of the faces nodded, but most cowered away.

  Nella said, "We're all fine."

  He rubbed his hands together as if to warm them and said, "Good. Everyone keeping warm?"

  All seventeen nodded.

  Everyone but you, Nella thought. You've got to be freezing. But before she could say anything to him, it was her turn. Risley watched her open the privy door, and he was still watching her door when she stepped out a few moments later.

  * * *

  Dien burst into the outer office and startled three laundry workers waiting on the bench. He did not glance their way; he hurried to the inner office door and knocked.

  "Come in," Dubric said and rubbed his eyes. A plump girl with limp, mouse-brown hair sat before him. Her hands were red and blotchy from bleach and the rest of her was pale and mealy-looking. She had spent the past quarter bell complaining about her back and Dubric was ready to toss her out the door.

  "Ah, Dien!" Dubric stood and motioned Dien in. "This is Grentche and she was just finishing her testimony."

  Dien grumbled a greeting but barely glanced at the witness. "We have a problem, sir," he said.

  Dubric hurried around his desk and held the door open for Grentche. As soon as she shuffled out, he closed the door and said, "What happened?"

  "We've had an incident in the north courtyard. I've got two potters, both on our hopeful list for tonight, who are mighty upset over being threatened at sword point."

  "Risley?"

  "Yes, sir. But that's not all."

  Dubric's sigh was harsh. "What else has he done?"

  "Sent the last frigging bird to Haenpar this afternoon. A message to his father is all I know. We won't receive new birds for at least three days."

  "Fetch Trumble," Dubric said as he stomped out of his office.

  * * *

  Dubric found Risley easily enough. A cluster of cleaning girls wrapped in a nobleman's cloak and walking through the north door would have been hard to miss. The fact Nella Brickerman called for more made it harder still. The dozens of other servant girls milling around the entrance made it downright impossible to ignore.

  Nella slipped out from the cloak and said loudly enough for all to hear, "Anyone else need to go to the privy?"

  At least twenty hands shot up.

  Risley accepted his cloak from the last batch of girls as Nella said, "We can even keep you warm out there. Warm and safe."

  Dubric pushed through the assembled crowd; most of the girls scuttled away from him but a few gave him scathing looks. "What do you think you are doing?" he asked Risley.

  Risley held his cloak open while Nella herded the girls inside its folds. "I'm making privy runs. If you'll excuse us?" He opened the door and the bundle of girls stepped into the cold.

  Dubric followed. He had to jog to keep up and his breath billowed white with every word he spoke. "I informed you earlier today that this is not your concern."

  Risley shook his head and said, "And I told you it was. Did you know these girls are officially allowed only one trip to the privy during the workday? One damn trip, preferably over their lunchtime, along with the rest of the staff. It's a wonder they don't burst open. And, to make matters worse, by the time they get done working it's dark. How would you like to face death every time you were allowed to take a leak? I'm just glad Nella's duties are finished for today. Without her here to assure them that I'm harmless, the others would be on their own." He looked back to the girls and said, "We're using the three on the left, ladies. Since we've been in the castle for a while, let me check them before we get started, all right?"

  Dubric fumed while Risley checked the three privies. Once deemed safe, the girls started in.

  Risley stood behind the group, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

  Dubric shivered and wished he had grabbed his cloak. "There are other
privies."

  Risley's attention remained on the girls. "Not for the servants. There's the privy beside the barn, for stable hands, pig masters, and so on, a few privies for the kitchen staff—far too few for all of them, by the way— and another three for the accountants and office workers. Most of the female staff, especially the cleaning maids, have to use these."

  From the bundled group before him, Dubric heard someone say, "Yeah. Not only do we hafta go outside, we gotta share with the men. We need our own privies!"

  A chorus of angry agreement floated through the cold air.

  Dubric could not believe what he was hearing. "But they work in the living quarters! Every large suite, and every floor, has privies."

  A girl turned to look at Dubric. "Pah! It's against policy to let us use the floor privies, let alone the private ones. Automatic dismissal, they tell us. Those privies are for the nobles and families. Not us poor girls." She turned away and muttered, "Bastards."

  Dubric pursed his lips. No wonder the killer found girls outside alone. The staff supervisors were not supposed to limit privy access, especially in the winter!

  Risley watched the girls enter and leave the privies, and the tone of his voice was merely curious. "Are you after me for making privy runs or have I stepped on someone's toes?"

  Dubric sighed and rubbed his eyes. All he needed was to add privy usage complaints to his already full plate of problems. He would worry about the privy mess tomorrow, since Risley's flagrant disregard for policy was a more immediate concern. "I hear you unsheathed your sword tonight."

  "Of course I did. Two men approached and refused to stop, and I had seventeen girls to protect. They're both lucky they're still breathing."

  Dubric stomped his feet in a vain effort to keep warm. "Give me your sword."

  "No."

  Excuse me? Dubric thought, and when he spoke again his voice growled. "I will throw you in gaol if I have to."

  Without taking his eyes off the girls, Risley retrieved something from a pocket and smacked his palm against Dubric's chest. "No, you won't. Not this time."

  As Risley's hand moved away, a piece of parchment fluttered into Dubric's hands. "What is this?" he asked, clutching at it.

  Risley watched a tall, thin floor maid enter a privy. He seemed utterly unconcerned with Dubric. "King's Writ."

  King's Writs guaranteed full weapon privileges, access to restricted areas, and other indulgences. They were only available from King Tunkek Romlin himself, and were almost as rare as feathers on a horse. "Bull piss. Waterford is a fortnight away. You cannot have a—"

  "I have three or four of them tucked away at any given time. Never know when I might need one."

  Dubric crushed the crisp parchment in his hand. If it was a King's Writ, Risley could swing his sword around in a crowd of children and pregnant women, carry it without a scabbard or peace bond, and show it to every person who walked by. As long he did not intentionally harm innocent people, Dubric could do nothing to stop him, legally. Perhaps not even then. "You son-of-a—"

  "Now, now," Risley said as the last girl stepped from her privy, "watch what you say about my mother." He flashed a grin at Dubric and called out, "Everyone finished?"

  A chorus of agreement bounded through the cold air. Risley stretched to see and count the whole group, then followed the bundled girls back to the castle.

  * * *

  Dubric stomped to his office, crushing the writ into a tight ball. "I simply do not have time for this madness. Damn that boy."

  He threw open the outer office door and startled a senior page from the bench.

  "You wanted to see me, sir?" Trumble asked, bowing. Small and slender built, the lad was one of the best horsemen Dubric knew.

  "Yes. I need a rider." Dubric fished a twenty-crown coin from his purse and handed it to Trumble. "In Aberville, a village about two days' ride south on the merchant's road, there is a steel smithy who makes razors. I need to know what Faldorrahns may possess them."

  Trumble bowed, pocketing the coin. "Yes, sir."

  "Take a bird with you," Dubric said, rubbing his eyes. "I do not want to wait four days for a reply."

  "As you wish, sir." Trumble bowed again, then left, closing the door behind him.

  * * *

  More than a bell later, Nella stood in the supper line with a few seamstresses and a very tired-looking glazier. All of her friends had already finished supper while she continued to help with privy runs. She sighed at the thought of facing a meal alone. Risley walked beside her and watched the crowd.

  "Aren't you going to eat?" she asked.

  "I'll eat later." He gave her a quick wink and said, "I'm working now and I can't eat on duty."

  Nella shook her head and smiled at him, then turned her attention to the thin pickings available to eat from the servants' allotted portions. Whatever had been the main meat choice was long gone; perhaps ten spoonfuls of greasy meat pie remained. Nella didn't mind the lack of meat, since she had never developed a taste for it. Shellfish and an occasional mangled fowl were the closest to meat that Pyrinnian peasants ever had. After arriving in Faldorrah, she had sampled pork, venison, and beef, and had found them all disgusting. Since fish had never appeared as an option, and chicken was available only once a phase or so, she usually looked instead to the kettles of greens or vegetables, the bowls of baked or boiled tubers, the tray of breads, and whatever fruit was available. But tonight she was over a bell later than her usual supper time and had little hope for her choices.

  The fruit compote was gone and the baked tubers as well. Only dark rye bread, boiled squash, and porridge with maple syrup remained. She sighed and asked for a bowl of porridge while the seamstress in front of her griped about the meager selection.

  The serving lass shrugged and slopped a ladle full of greasy-meat-goo onto a plate. "If n ye get here late, you take yer chances," she said. The seamstress sniffed the goo and wandered into the thinning supper crowd.

  The serving lass looked at Nella and at Risley, her eyes growing wide as she fumbled for the porridge spoon.

  "Is there a problem?" Risley asked.

  "No, sir. No problem 'ere. Just ne'er seen ye at me line b'fore. Surely ye don't want the organ-and-trimmins pie or porridge."

  Risley looked at the food table as if he'd never laid eyes on it before. "Don't you have any good stew or roast pork? Perhaps some pheasant and dumplings or a nice bit of mutton?"

  Nella hid a chuckle behind her hand as the serving lass answered, "They're serving roast pork t'night, I'm sure of it, at the nobles' tables, sir. And I thinks I saw dumplins in the kettle this evenin', too." She carefully spooned up a bowl of porridge and handed it to Nella.

  "What about here? Don't you serve the same food over here as at the nobles' tables?"

  "Oh no, sir. Not for the servants, sir. They get the seconds and whate'er's left from yesterday or from earlier. Whate'er the nobles won't eat." She shrugged.

  "You can't be serious."

  The serving lass reddened. "Honest and truly, sir. I wouldn't lie 'bout nothin'."

  Nella giggled and shook her head, helpless to smile at Risley's surprise. "Surely you didn't think that we servants are treated the same as the nobility?"

  "It simply never occurred to me that the kitchens would bother serving separate meals. Lately I'm discovering several things that I'd never considered before." Sighing, Risley looked at Nella, and at the small bowl of porridge as she poured a dollop of maple syrup on top. "Please tell me you're eating more than porridge."

  Nella lifted her bowl. "I wish I could, but the tubers were all gone."

  "Then let's go over to the other tables. Maybe, hells, surely they still have something more substantial than porridge."

  She smiled and walked past him, heading to a seat. "I can't do that."

  "Why not?"

  She sighed and whispered, "You keep forgetting. I'm a servant, not a noble. I'm not allowed to get food from the nobles' tables." Her eyes rose up to his and sh
e hoped they were not ashamed. "Porridge is fine."

  "Nella…" he whispered, but the nearby crowd had fallen almost silent and his voice rang oddly in her ears.

  She shook her head and glanced at the people around them. "Not now, Risley. Please. People are staring."

  He nodded, grumbled, and followed her through the crowd. "Things are going to have to change around here," he muttered.

  * * *

  Dubric lay in his bed, in the dark, staring at the ceiling. A scattered ring of five ghosts glowed faintly around his bed. He rolled onto his side and squeezed his eyes closed. He had to stop thinking about the case, the ghosts, everything. He had to get some sleep. Patrols started in four or five bells.

  He lay there for a few moments, perhaps to the count of ten, and his eyes bolted open again. The ghost of Celese the Laundress stood before him, hazy blood dripping from her throat to forever drench her uniform. Her eyes glowed creamy green and her mouth cried out in silent anguish.

  He rolled over again. Elli Cunliffe this time. Her front was clean—he knew her back was a gaping hole of gore, but he could not see that, at least not now— but her glowing eyes, once so blue and pretty, were dead and gone. Vacant, horrified, and pleading, they stared at him.

  "Go away and leave me alone!" he yelled, but they did not listen. He rubbed his eyes. Still they remained. He cursed them again. Nothing happened. Fytte stood at the foot of the bed, her throat slashed and her eyes dead and glowing. The first of the ghosts, her specter was the brightest, the strongest. Fytte alone could move her limbs, but he suspected Elli would start moving soon, then Ennea. What then? Would they reach for him? Drag him to their bloody bosoms? As each one grew stronger, would they become more of a nuisance than they already were? Was that even possible?

  He sat up and stared at Fytte. At her slashed throat, her dead yet aware eyes, the blood-drenched apron, the short curling hair. She moved her mouth, over and over again, repeating the same message until he thought it would drive him mad. She had been saying the same thing all day.