Ghosts in the Snow Read online

  Lars fell into the witness chair with the awkward lankiness of a boy on the verge of becoming a man. "Maybe so. But he seemed convincing and sure of himself."

  "Best witness we've had so far," Dubric said as he thumped his pencil on the clean surface of his desk.

  Lars's eyes widened and he tilted his head, his fingers tapping on the arm of the chair. "I'd heard that an old friend of yours made some stuff to help you against the dark mages. Did anything he made—"

  Dubric had already considered the same question himself. "Turn someone invisible? No. Nuobir made things to either kill the mages or protect us. Weapons and armor, for the most part. He never dabbled with worthless enchantments."

  Lars's brow furrowed. "How is invisibility worthless?"

  Dubric's stomach growled. "The mages could see magic. Being invisible would be useless against them, a waste of time and energy."

  Dien nodded. "It'd be no better than a jester's trick."

  "But, sir, what about magic spells?"

  "Not likely." Dubric sipped his tea. "Only the most powerful mages could create such an effect, and they would not waste the spell's energy to murder a servant girl. I would be more apt to suspect Wraith Rot or other diseases before a mage."

  Lars turned to Dien. "We have any gypsies wintering here?"

  Dien shook his head. "No, not a one."

  Dubric suggested, "Perhaps we should consider the herbmonger. Has Inek caused any trouble lately?"

  The summer before, they had discovered Inek using his herbs to make people sick so they would then seek his expertise to cure them. He had received a dozen lashes for his crime, tight price restrictions, and a moon in gaol. It was not his first incarceration, or first whipping. A few moons before the poisoning incident he had started a brawl in the local alehouse and had injured several patrons. He had once attempted to molest the ropemaker's wife, and had also visited the gaol for theft and general disorderliness.

  Inek was hateful and rude, hut was he a murderer?

  "No, sir, not lately. Want me to have him watched, just in case?" Dien asked, a vicious gleam in his eyes. Inek had set Dien's boots afire during the pursuit last summer and had burnt his feet. Dien tended to harbor grudges.

  Dubric contemplated the polished surface of his desk. Inek was a pain in the backside, an angry and vile man. Although the herbmonger seemed to prefer brawls over blood, he would certainly bear one night's observation, even though there were few men to spare. "Certainly. Send a pair of archers to watch him overnight. And order more lamp oil. We are going to need it for patrols."

  "Yes, sir," Dien replied.

  Lars leaned forward. "What if someone's corrupted by magic? Do we have any old magic stuff here? Could someone have found it? What happened to it all?"

  "What we have is locked in a metal-lined cabinet in my suite. We destroyed what dark magic we found, and Nuobir did not make as much as people think," Dubric said. "I have my old sword, Nigel's axe and shield…" he cleared his throat and frowned. "And Oriana's dagger."

  "Sorry," Lars whispered as he shifted on his seat.

  Dubric shrugged. Dien and Lars both knew the wounds were old yet festering. "That is essentially all I have. Tunkek has some, and Kyi Romlin, too, I hear. A few older things made before the war are around; useless personal items, for the most part. The mages destroyed anything that could be used against them. During and after the war, we scoured the land, looking for the mages' artifacts. Not much from those days survives at all and only the rare magical item exists outside official records."

  Dubric looked at Lars for a moment and hesitated before asking, "Do you know what items Kyi has?" Lars was the only lad Dubric knew who called the Lord and Lady of Haenpar by their first names; his father was Bostra Hargrove, Kyi Romlin's castellan and a good friend of Dubric's. But Dubric hated mentioning Lars's family in his presence; the tension between father and son was obvious. Neither had explained Lars's abrupt arrival in Faldorrah, and Dubric did not want to push the lad. Whatever misunderstanding had happened between the two was none of his business.

  Shifting uncomfortably, Lars looked at the ceiling as he called forth the memories. "My father has Byreleah Grennere's arrows, if I remember correctly, five of them, anyway. Kyi has Siddael Marrick's sword, but it's dead. Doesn't protect anymore, he said."

  Dubric leaned back in his chair. Nuobir had told them that although the daggers were eternal, the magic in the bigger weapons would die when their bloodline ceased to flow. The Marrick line had been gone for some twenty summers now, and Siddael's sword was a relic of a best forgotten time, nothing more. The Darril family, however, had continued through Albin's sister Brinna Brushgar to her daughter, Lady Heather Romlin of Haenpar. She had been fourteen summers when Albin died, and as the last of the Darril line had accepted responsibility for the weapon. "What about Albin's sword? I thought Kyi and Heather had it?"

  "Not anymore. They gave it to Risley. He showed it to me a couple of summers ago."

  Dubric tapped his pencil on the desk. Risley has Albin Darril's sword, he thought. Is it here? In Faldorrah? And if so, does Risley know it can do more than -protect him? He made a note in his book. "Do either of you have any other ideas?"

  Dien scratched his two-day growth of beard. "I have a question. How can it be that none of those girls we interviewed today knew a blasted thing about the dead 'uns? Girls talk, don't they? By the seven hells, I can't shut my daughters up most days."

  Dubric had not associated with young girls for summers. Not since Heather Brushgar grew up, married Kylton Romlin, and moved away. He looked at Dien for a moment and said, "I think you are right. See if you can find someone they did talk to. They had to have something in common. A suitor, perhaps?"

  Dien pulled his notebook from his pocket. "Yes, sir. I'll track them down."

  Lars yawned and blinked a couple of times. "They did have something in common. Their names started with similar letters. E and F."

  Dien laughed and looked up from his notebook. "I doubt that means anything, pup, but you never know."

  Dubric noted Lars's comment in his book. Even odd-sounding leads played out sometimes. "Any other ideas?"

  Lars said, "Yes. A couple of things. Who would be likely to be out and about before dawn, and why is he killing servant girls?"

  "Well, pup," Dien said, "we don't know for sure it's a 'he' who's doing this, and lots of folks have to work before dawn."

  Dubric leaned back in his chair. "Remember, it is only servant girls so far. Maybe it is because they are easier to find alone, or maybe because they are working before dawn. It might also be due to a reason we have not yet discovered. The killer might have ladies in his sights, too. We have no way of knowing. But after finding two sets of men's boot prints, I am fairly confident that we seek a man."

  A moment later, Otlee knocked then entered, the green-sealed physicians' report in his hands. He looked as tired as Dubric felt. "They say it's the same weapon, sir," he said as he covered a yawn with his hand. "Just her kidneys and hair missing."

  Dubric stood and said, "Enough talk of killers and death. It is time for dinner."

  * * *

  Instead of eating in the great hall with the others, Dubric decided to get a bowl of soup for dinner and eat at his desk. He entered the kitchen and immediately noticed that most of the female staff were keeping to one side of the room and the men to the other. Both sides shared uneasy glances and the air was thick with far more than the aroma of roasting rabbits. Dubric ignored the cautious and angry stares and pulled a bowl from one of the many dish cupboards along the east wall.

  Three scullery maids scurried away, shooting worried glances at him even as they ran. He had invaded their territory, insecure as it was. He felt truly sorry for scaring them, but he had not eaten since the middle of the night and his stomach protested any further delay.

  He dodged a pair of lackeys running past with steaming buckets of water, ducked beneath a servitor's high-piled food tray, avoided stepping thro
ugh the argument between the meat carver and the swine herder, and finally reached an aromatic pot of soup bubbling in the hearth.

  Pitta supervised the afternoon and evening cooking that day. She barked instructions to three meat maids, then turned to Dubric with a huge soup ladle in her hand. "Afternoon, sir," she said. Her wide earnest face was flushed from heat and steam, and she wiped sweat off her forehead with her sleeve.

  "Afternoon," he replied, sniffing the air. "Chicken?"

  "Not today. Tis quail and carrot. We had some left from last night."

  Last night's quail had been tasty, even cold from his pocket at three bells in the morning. "Mind if I take a bowl?" he asked.

  "Help yourself," she replied. She glanced at the outer door with a slight frown and handed Dubric the ladle. "If you'll 'scuse me, sir, the herb merchant just arrived."

  Dubric nodded and stirred the soup a couple of times before dipping a portion for his bowl. He hung the ladle on its nail above the hearth and was about to locate some fresh bread when Pitta walked by with a bag of anise seed. He smiled. Anise seed today meant anise cookies or quick breads tomorrow.

  The bakers had piles of rolls and small loaves cooling on the racks and he selected one, slipping the welcome ball of warmth into his jerkin pocket. Finished with his hurried visit, he turned from the bakers and nearly knocked over the herbmonger from the village. Hot quail-and-carrot soup sloshed over the front of Dubric's jerkin and pants with a clear bright flash of pain. He held the bowl away from him and looked over the damage before turning his attention to the herbmonger. "What are you doing here?" he snapped.

  "What?" the herbmonger said, his hands on his grimy hips. "You banning me from the kitchen now?"

  "I did not see you," Dubric muttered. Inek the herbmonger was stocky and muscular, built more like a blacksmith than a merchant, with dark hair thinning over a blemished pate and an unwashed odor lingering around him. Someone had cut off one nostril and part of his ear, likely in a tavern brawl. Dubric often struggled to avoid looking at the greenish bubble where the left half of Inek's nose used to be, and he often failed.

  They stared at each other. "You are not banned from the kitchen," Dubric said from between clenched teeth, trying desperately not to stare at the bubble of snot expanding and contracting with each breath. "I hear you have been doing honest business these past few moons."

  "You don't give me a chance to do honest business!" Several members of the kitchen staff turned to look, but Inek did not seem to notice, or care. "You've forced me to cut my prices so much it's barely worth the walk."

  "Then stop coming," Dubric muttered as he flicked a slice of carrot off his jerkin.

  Inek shook his greasy head. "If you think you can push me around, you're sadly mistaken."

  "If you think you can cheat and poison my people, you will feel my whip again." Dubric took a deep breath, stared at the wretch for a moment, and said, "Did you want something?"

  Inek grinned, the bubble on his nose expanding in his glee. "Actually, I did. I wanted to see what you looked like when someone pushed you around. How do you like the boot being on the other foot?"

  Dubric's eyes narrowed. "No one is pushing me around."

  Inek laughed again. "You sure? I'd heard you've had three dead girls 'round here."

  "Do you know something about that?"

  Inek shook his head. "You think I'm stupid enough to get within sight of you if I knew anything? You even thought I had something to do with it you'd kill me and ask my corpse questions. I'm no fool. All I know is what I've heard. Past two nights a girl's died." He looked Dubric in the eye and nodded. "Yup. You're scared. 'Bout damned time. How do you like it?"

  "Get out," Dubric snapped.

  Inek shrugged and walked away, his rolling, wide armed gait throwing the smooth workflow of the kitchen off kilter. Dubric watched him go, then cast aside his soup along with his warm loaf of bread onto a nearby table. Suddenly, he was not hungry.

  * * *

  "Excuse me, Miss Nella?" a man's voice said from behind her.

  She turned, startled, and a pile of towels fell to the floor at her feet. She saw only the herald, and he looked every bit as surprised as she felt.

  "You have my sincerest apologies, Miss Nella," the herald said as he knelt to help her. "I didn't mean to scare you."

  She smiled and blushed, shrugging as she knelt beside him. "That's all right, Mister Beckwith. We're all a little jumpy these days." She and her three friends had spent the last half bell restocking the east-wing storage closets with freshly laundered linens while Plien and Stef, who were in trouble, had to change the sheets and bath linens by themselves. Restocking was a brainless job and her mind had been wandering to when she would get to see Risley again.

  The white feather in Beckwith's green herald's cap bounced as he handed her the towels. "My wife is a wreck. She's lost two scullery maids, you know. At least the children aren't here to see this madness."

  Nella tried not to look at the ridiculous feather. While she spent an afternoon peeling turnips a phase or so ago for a hard-earned half crown, Pitta had mentioned their children were going north to visit their grandmother. Since that afternoon, Nella had completed five tasks for the Beckwiths; work and money she was glad to have. "Hopefully Dubric will catch the killer soon," she said as she stood again and turned to put the towels away. She flashed a reassuring smile at Mirri, who had backed against the next closet to watch the conversation, and turned back to the herald.

  He rooted through the various pockets of his ruffled tunic while the feather in his cap jiggled. "I don't mean to be a bother, Miss Nella, truly I do not, but Pitta wanted me to ask if you could take a look at this. Now if I could only find the wretched thing."

  Nella covered her mouth with her hand so she wouldn't laugh; she found feathers utterly hysterical. In Pyrinn only jesters wore the silly things, and in Faldorrah none but the herald wore them. Thank the Goddess he only had the one. Full, frothy, white, and prone to bouncing. She struggled with the giggles every time she saw it. His foppish, ruffled attire didn't help, either. Ker came to stand beside Mirri and she gave Beckwith a wan smile.

  Beckwith didn't seem to notice the mirth bubbling in Nella's eyes. He emptied several pockets of rumpled bits of paper, a stub of green wax, various personal trinkets, and writing tools before producing a folded bit of lace. "There we go. Silly me, I spilled jam on this last evening and Pitta is about to have my hide. Her grandmother made it, you see, and I've gone and ruined it all." He looked at her and blushed as he handed her the lace. "Can you perchance get the stain out?"

  She took it from his hand and unfolded it. A tatted doily made of fine cream-colored thread, it was about a length across and felt soft and sleek in her hands. A wide purple stain splotched near one side. She turned the doily over and squinted at the threads. "Do you know what it's made of? Surely not wool."

  He shrugged and the feather bounced. "Spun cotton, I think. It may be silk, but I doubt it. Pitta's family certainly never…" He shrugged again and started putting things back in his pockets.

  Since arriving in Faldorrah, she'd cleaned several fine cotton items. "If it's cotton, I can get it out."

  Relief shined on his meek face. "Do you know when or how much?" He smiled hopefully.

  She looked at the doily again before returning her attention to the herald. "How does late tomorrow sound?"

  All the breath left him in a rush as he stood. "Tomorrow sounds perfectly wonderful. Thank you."

  "You're welcome. Probably cost about two scepters."

  Absentmindedly tapping and checking his pockets, he said, "If I get it before supper tomorrow, I'll gladly pay five times that."

  She laughed and shook her head. "Two scepters. That's all."

  He smiled. "Two scepters it is."

  She nodded, accepting the deal. "A bargain well struck. I'll have it to you before supper tomorrow."

  "Thank you, Miss Nella," he said, then bowed to her friends, gracing both of th
em with a smile. Bidding the three "Good day," he turned to go, the feather bouncing with every step.

  As Nella folded the doily and slipped it into her pocket, Dari walked by.

  "You're hopeless," Dari said, shaking her head. "Have you no greed?"

  Nella grinned. "None."

  "You should have taken the full crown."

  Nella laughed. "For ten or twelve minutes of scrubbing and rinsing with a quarter pence of soda? It's not worth a full crown."

  Dari gestured to the ceiling before pulling another stack of towels from the laundry cart. "It was worth it to him. You shoulda let him pay it."

  "Nella," Mirri said softly from the other cabinet, "I know you wanna pay back Lord Risley and all, but do you really need to meet with… well… men? I mean, with all that's going on, perhaps it would be better for us all if…"

  Dari rolled her eyes. "You have got to be kidding me! How can she make any money if she doesn't talk to people?"

  Mirri blushed and lowered her head. "I don't mean I don't want her to make money, it's just that anyone could be the killer."

  "No," Dari said, balancing the towels on her hip. "It's not anyone. It's one particular son-of-a-whore. And I for one am not gonna jump at shadows because one guy has it in for us."

  "But it could be anybody," Mirri said, tears welling in her eyes. "Even Mister Beckwith."

  Ker coughed a short laugh, covering her mouth with her fingers.

  "It's not anybody," Dari's free hand flicked the thought away. "It's surely some unmarried guy. A loner. Someone nasty."

  Ker nodded. "Mister Beckwith's nice. Real nice."

  "Yeah, he's nice, but how can we be sure about anyone?" Mirri asked. "Maybe Stefs right. Maybe it's Dubric. He's not married, like you said."

  Nella finished with her towels and turned to the other girls. "It's not Dubric," she said as she closed the closet door, "and it's not Risley. We can trust both of them."

  "I know you like Lord Risley and all, Nella," Mirri said, "but you can't be sure."