Ghosts in the Snow (18 page)

"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 she 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.

"Please," the movement of her mouth said, "please help us. Please, please help us. Please, please help us." Over and over again, with only a blink of her dead eyes to separate the requests for help. It was almost enough to drive a sane man back to religion.

Dubric slammed his fists on the bed and looked from one ghost to the next. Did they not understand that he was doing all he could? He had assigned patrols, questioned witnesses, and traced every possible lead, no matter how minor it might be. Why did they not understand this was different than some drunken fool beating someone to death or a woman who could take no more of her cheating man and bashed his head in? Why did these ghosts have to be so blasted complicated? Why did they have no apparent connection other than their status? Their killer had left no clues and no reason for their deaths. Besides, it was a killer no one had seen, and every murder scene save one had been severely compromised, leaving him no way to track the beast. How in the seven hells was he supposed to catch a killer he could not see or follow? Maybe when he was younger, maybe back when his mind and reflexes were quicker and stronger, he could have thought his way around this problem. Did these damn ghosts not understand that he was an old man, not smart enough, or creative enough, to catch the bastard?

"I'm an old man. Leave me alone and find someone else to bother." Dubric closed his eyes, growled his anguish, and threw himself back onto the bed.

His ghosts, however, remained.

* * *

Nella sat between a chattering pair of privy maids and a nervous group of old women and felt utterly alone. She had always enjoyed the company of her friends during meals, but tonight they were gone and no one at the crowded table talked to her. She wondered if it was because they didn't know or like her, because they were either shy or standoffish, or if it was because Risley stood behind her and watched the crowd.

As much as she hated to admit it, even to herself, she'd have waged money on it being Risley. If he wasn't there, the privy maids would be commenting about her at least.

She sighed and forced down another spoonful of porridge. If he would sit she could talk to him, but no, he had to watch over her. He had to stand and not eat. Goddess, didn't he realize no one was going to bother her in a crowded—

"Stop there," Risley said, and she almost dropped her spoon.

"I've got work for your girlie," a grumbling man's voice said. She turned to smile at a villager named Inek. He stood an arm's reach from Risley, with his glittering eyes focused on the sword. "I'm not looking for trouble, Nell, but I went to your room first—"

"Excuse me?" Risley said as he leaned forward, his fingers flipping loose the strap over the hilt of his sword.

Nella wiped her mouth and stood. "It's all right. I patch the knees in his trousers. Two pair a phase for an eighth crown."

Inek nodded. "My woman left a while back and I need someone to patch my clothes. Nell here needs money. It's a fair swap."

Risley grimaced. Nella was sure he could smell the reek of unwashed skin every bit as much as she could, and she was thankful Risley's hand moved away from the sword. "I'd be happy to patch them for you," she said with a relieved smile. "Did you bring them here or leave them at my room?"

"Damn, woman, of course I brought them with me." Inek thrust a ragged, burlap sack tied with twine at her. "Last two pairs of trousers. Still have plenty of shirts. Then we can start on bedding."

Nella took the sack from him. "Thank you kindly. I should have them finished tomorrow."

"Thanks, Nell." Inek winked his thanks and swaggered back into the crowd.

Risley turned to look at her. His mouth worked for a moment as he struggled not to voice whatever thought he did not want to say aloud. At last he sighed and said, "Go ahead and finish eating."

She returned to her meager meal. Beside her, a privy maid snickered and resumed her gleeful gossip.

Dubric did not move when he heard the knock on his door. He merely blinked at his reflection in the faintly glowing mirror and sighed. "It is open," he called out.

Far behind him, Dien opened the door and light spilled into the otherwise dark room. "Sir?" he said. "We're almost ready to start patrols."

"All right. I will be in my office in a few minutes," Dubric said. Long since having given up on sleep, he sat—fully clothed and ready to work, no less—on a chair before a tall oval mirror. Its oak frame was old and chipped and the silver had flaked off the back of the glass in several places. Despite the age, and the wear and tear, the mirror still worked fine.
Just like me
, he thought with a slight, sad smile. Nuobir had made the mirror as an experiment when they were still in University, before the death and blood of the war had overrun their lives. He had created it as a way of keeping in touch with far-flung friends and relatives. You merely had to gaze into the mirror and hold something that belonged to the person you wanted to see. The mirror would show you where they were and what they were doing.

Nuobir had intended the mirror to be used for good; to check on aged and ailing family, make certain everything was all right at home, or be sure the children were safe while out playing. But life was never simple, and good ideas did not always achieve their potential. Days after its creation, the news of the mirror had spread across Waterford and visitors to Nuobir's workshop were not the least bit interested in seeing Grandma gnaw her mashed tubers to goo or a child study for exams. Oh no. Folks wanted to spy on the secret, sordid details of their lives. Was the innocent daughter remaining virginal while being courted by Sir So-and-So? Was the husband out gambling or whoring? Was the sweet little wife stealing money from the sock under the bed?

Less than a phase after its creation, Nuobir announced at Council he had smashed the mirror. Destroyed it and all the sick desires along with it. Nuobir had never been one for folly and evil indulgence. He had also been a hesitant and terrible liar. Dubric sighed.
I miss you, old friend
, he thought.

Dien entered the suite, his shadow reaching forward as if to draw Dubric into the light. "Are you all right, sir?"

"I am fine," Dubric replied. "Just visiting with my memories." He stood and looked at the mirror one last time, Oriana's shining silver dagger still clutched in his hand. The reflection of Oriana stood beside his chair, her rich dark hair loose and flowing down the back of her bard's doublet. She was young and sweet, forever untouched by the ravages of age. For a few moments he had felt her fingers along his scarred cheeks, smelled her delicate perfume, and he had wept with joy. He missed her so. If only he had been cursed before her death, he could see all of her he wanted. If only she had never died at all.

Dien's faintly glowing reflection nodded. "How is she, sir?"

"Still waiting for me." Dubric touched the glowing surface. Oriana smiled and seemed to nuzzle into his palm, and he could imagine her warmth against the cool glass. He almost added that she scared away the ghosts, but he held his tongue instead. Dien worried enough over the occasional indulgence of the mirror and dagger without adding bothersome ghosts to his headaches.

As if on cue, Dien said, "Sir, you are still being careful with that damned thing, aren't you?" His eyes were narrow and watchful. Suspicious. Dien had never touched a Mage Killer's dagger; few men had. An understandable phobia.

Dubric said, "It is merely a dagger, after all. It will not harm me if I am careful. Even if I am not, what difference would it make now?" He looked one last time at his beloved Oriana, then put the dagger in its sheath before he did hurt himself. Mage Killer's daggers were dangerous to men, even dried up old buzzards like him. The slightest attack, a threatening twist, even scraping mud off boots would forever unman the strongest and fiercest of men. Although Dubric had not lain with a woman since Oriana's death, he had no desire to lose the ability. He always handled the dagger with reverence and respect.

Sighing at the return of the ghosts, he glanced at Dien, covered the mirror, and placed the dagger carefully in its drawer.

"I heard Inek was in the castle, sir. Caused a bit of a stir at supper by talking to Risley's girl, but he and Risley didn't come to blows. After that, he apparently left. Shall I have him watched again tonight?"

"No. We cannot afford to waste the men." Dubric closed the drawer and turned back to Dien. "Are there any other developments this evening?"

Dien flipped open his notebook. "The lads have finished their research and they're waiting in your office. We've got every common exit guarded, and all entrances to the servants' wing. All unnecessary exits from the castle have been locked and barred. With luck, the staff will sleep soundly tonight."

Dien paused and took a breath as if he were reluctant to continue. "The only bug in the works, so far, is our resident troublemaker."

Dubric sighed and grabbed his cloak. "What has Risley done now?"

"The bastard's camped out in the middle of the female servants' wing, sitting on the floor with his sword across his lap. Insists he's not moving. Half the girls are hiding, the other half are furious, sir."

"At Nella Brickerman's room?"

"Yes, sir."

It was not surprising. "Tell him his writ does not allow him to lurk around the women's quarters like a lecher, then drag him to my office."

"Yes, sir." Dien turned and left.

Dubric departed a few moments later.

* * *

"You found nothing?" Dubric leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. The ghosts had taken to wandering around the room instead of languishing in one place. Elli's ghost had started tugging at her own hair, while Fytte's pleaded incessantly. Dubric struggled to keep his attention on the boys.

Otlee shook his head and glanced at Lars before looking at his notes. "Sorry, sir, but we even went through books in the restricted section. We found no medical, or magical, connection between kidneys and hair. Nothing. But I did find something that might explain how no one is seeing him."

While Dubric waited, Otlee flipped through his notes. "There are conditions—two, actually—that I've found so far, that might explain…" He paused, searching the notes. "Dysodermneurpytis is my best guess, sir, but it could be a stelan-seula."

Dubric forced his hands open, suddenly aware he had clenched them together. "Let us hope it is not Wraith Rot," he said, his fists clenching again, "and the other is… unthinkable."

"I really don't think it's a soul-stealer, sir," Otlee said, referring to his notes again. "Surely no one here has been exposed to one. Besides, without a mage to control the remains, they'd be little more than a breathing husk. But Wraith Rot is a slight possibility. If the person in question had been to particular quarantined areas and happened to pick it up."

"What is Wraith Rot, sir?" Lars asked, frowning.

Dubric rubbed his aching eyes. "A highly contagious disease where the body and mind rot away, turning the victim into little more than haze."

"So they become a wraith," Lars said, shuddering.

"But it's not a sudden change," Otlee chirped in, running his finger down his notes. "Symptoms start with headaches and nervousness, then excitability and aggression, even memory loss and dementia. Then their skin develops sores and starts disappearing, they lose weight, and their teeth fall out. It can take moons for the rot to become permanent, and the victim might not even know what's happening to them until they're vaporous all the time. But by then it's too late to treat. I can go get the book, if you're interested. Fascinating stuff!"

"That is not necessary," Dubric said. "I have seen the effects personally. As for the other option, there are no stelan-seula beasts in Lagiern. We killed them all, decades ago."

"Yes, sir," Otlee said. "That's why I don't think it's a soul-stealer. But it's probably not Wraith Rot, either, just a remote possibility."

Dubric wrote in his notebook, struggling to keep his tired hands steady. "Nice job. What else have you found?"

Lars pointed to a map-sized piece of parchment on his lap. "We've found a few similarities between the girls, too. They're minor, but…" he shrugged and moved his fingers across the paper. "Not only are they commoners, but they have no other family here at the castle, no reachable next of kin. Elli Cunliffe was the only definite orphan, but the others might as well have been. All were born commoners as far as we can tell. Their ages are similar, but they're all unmarried servant girls, so this is likely coincidence. They had reputations as having loose morals. According to their supervisors, all were mild disciplinary problems, but not enough trouble to ever get fired or reassigned. They weren't shining members of the staff, but weren't the worst, either. The biggest consistency, though, was that all were found near places where they worked. Why were all but one found outside? That's what I'd like to know."

Beside him Otlee nodded. "That and why does no one seem to care about them? I mean, please excuse me, sir, but I'd think someone would be upset. Surely. The castle as a whole seems angry over the murders, but not individual people. Someone has to care about these girls."

"I am certain someone does, Otlee," Dubric said. "But folks are upset, scared, and afraid to draw attention to themselves. Sometimes it is easier to relish your own grief than to share it with everyone else."

"Witnesses don't like to come forward on their own," Lars said. "We usually have to drag information out of them."

Otlee was about to ask a question when a ruckus erupted in the previously silent outer office. Something slammed hard against the wall and both boys turned their attention to the door. Fytte and Elli turned, too. Dubric almost groaned. Ghosts paying attention. What next? A quilting bee?

"Get your filthy hands off me!" Risley said as clear as day.

"Quit your bellyaching!" Dien replied, and the door burst open. "Get your sorry ass in there!"

Risley stumbled into Dubric's office with his hands tied in front of him. His clothes hung askew and his hair had plastered to his sweaty brow. Despite being tossed through the door like a pail of discarded dishwater, his demeanor remained controlled and haughty. He had a bruise and a scrape on one cheek and ice flashing in his eyes. "Your goon here threatened me," he said calmly to Dubric. "I'd like to lodge a formal complaint."

"Complaint my pimpled ass," Dien replied through puffy, bleeding lips as he lumbered in. The knuckles on one hand had split open and blood spattered his shirt. "I found you loitering in a restricted area with a restricted weapon in plain view. You're lucky I didn't toss you in gaol and forget you ever existed." Dien dropped Risley's sword and scabbard on the desk, then pulled three daggers from his pockets. "Pretty boy here was armed to the teeth."

Risley smiled at Dien. "I have a writ."

Dien growled low in his throat and pushed Risley's chest with one thick finger, towering over the young lord. "
Had
a writ. Girly peepers don't get to have writs."

Dubric stood. "That's enough!" He stared at Risley and said, "I warned you to stay out of this. I do not want to throw you in gaol, but if you do not cease, and I mean cease right now, I will—"

"Ha! You don't have the mettle to challenge this. I've got another writ. And another and another. You're not going to stop me from protecting her. If you try again, I'll personally drag your carcass in front of the full Lord's Council and have you brought up on charges of treason."

Treason? Dubric considered, though his face remained emotionless.
How in the seven hells could he accuse me of treason? I am not threatening national security or the safety of the King's family or officially protec
—
It must he the girl, the damned girl
! He frowned and said, "Tunkek will never allow you to do this."

"My grandfather's opinion does not matter, not this time. I've already sent word to my da and I filed the preliminary petition myself two moons ago. My da sanctioned their approval. Now untie me before I get really ticked."

If anyone knew how to get around the King, Kylton Romlin did. If he had been helping Risley, there was no limit to how far this could go. "How did you manage to have a Pyrinnian commoner placed under royal protection?"

Risley leaned forward, "You don't get it, do you? Once she's finished with the damned debt, I intend to court her. Publicly. At least until she figures out she can do far better than me or sends me packing. Either way, it's up to her, not you."

Dubric still could not believe what he was hearing. Risley had professed to being in love, but this was ridiculous. "You have really filed to have her listed at court? A
commoner
?"

"Filed and received. My initial petition and her tentative approval for court status should arrive here in a couple of days. Until that time, I'd like to commandeer a member of your
elite security staff
to aid me on my—"

Dubric's hands slashed out. "No. Absolutely not."

Behind Risley, Dien rolled his eyes and muttered, "This is frigging ridiculous."

Risley held out his bound hands and glanced at them as if to remind Dubric to untie them. "Want me to take over around here? I can do that, you know. Those writs allow more than weapon privileges, if need be."

Dubric yanked on the ropes around Risley's wrists. "I am short-staffed as it is. If you take one of my men, that leaves areas unwatched and puts the girls you are supposedly determined to protect in greater danger."

"Then I'll take Lars. I hear you've pulled him off night duty anyway."

"Me? Why me?" Lars stood and handed the piece of parchment to Otlee.

Risley turned to look at the boy. "I know you can handle yourself in a fight. I also know you don't quite trust me right now. From my position, that's an asset."

Lars stepped forward, his head shaking. " 'An asset'? What the heck are you talking about now?"

Dubric had finished untying the ropes and Risley rubbed his wrists as he said to Lars, "I've traveled to a lot of places these past few summers, seen and done terrible things in the name of the King. Who's to say I haven't been touched with some dark magic? Been tainted somehow? Completely lost my senses? I know I'm a suspect here, and I can understand that. I also know I haven't been the easiest person to deal with. Maybe it's my infatuation with Nella, maybe not, but if I'm to blame for any part of this, someone needs to stop me. Especially if I'm guarding the maids all day. What if I'm alone with one, even for a moment? I can't watch them alone. I can't take the chance."