Ghosts in the Snow (2 page)

Dubric took his cloak from Lars. If he had not taken time to chat with Bacstair, some of this bedlam would have been avoided.

"I take full responsibility for the damage, sir," Lars said. "We should have been quicker. Two milkmaids found her. By the time Otlee and I arrived, they'd already botched it."

"Them and the gawkers. Curse our luck." Dubric brushed off Lars's regret. Disturbed murder scenes were common and expected. He fastened his cloak, looking to the growing crowd and the six pages who held them back. "Otlee!" he yelled.

A slender boy ran up, snowflakes dousing his fiery hair. "Yes, sir," he said, standing a little taller as he glanced at Lars.

"Log witnesses and disperse these crowds. They have done enough damage already."

"Yes, sir," Otlee bobbed a quick bow and ran back to the crowd. He pulled a roll of paper and an inexpensive pressed-coal stick from his pocket, then began taking names.

While Otlee gathered names, Dubric knelt beside Elli and examined her face. Smoky, snow-dusted blue eyes stared at the sky, and smears of mud had congealed beneath her lids. Snowflakes on her eyes flickered like life before they melted to tears on her cheeks. He had always thought Elli had pretty eyes, and he sighed as he closed them. Ever alert, Lars stood beside him and watched the crowd with his hand on the hilt of his short sword.

Dubric checked her hands. Her fingernails were intact, although filthy and worn from regular use. He found no bruising on her mud-smeared face or neck. He nodded to himself and yanked back the blanket.

Gasps rose around him like sparrows taking flight.

Dubric had no time for niceties. "Get them out of here!" he barked to the pages. Lars remained stoic yet observant and Dubric nodded his approval. Few grown men would contemplate a dead bare-chested woman so calmly, let alone a boy Lars's age.

Dubric resumed his work, his hands gliding swift and sure over her body. Despite the covering of mud, he found no injuries on her throat, chest, or belly. She still wore underdrawers, so rape was doubtful. Her legs seemed fine. He checked her armpits for temperature, her breasts for bruising, her belly, and her knees. She was still warm, considering the cold weather, and he found no apparent bruises or injuries.

"Feel here," he whispered, and Lars knelt beside him.

Lars pushed his fingers into her armpit and pressed in to gauge her temperature. "Still warm. Dead maybe a half bell?"

"Perhaps. This cold, I would guess a quarter bell."

"Cause of death, sir?"

"I am not yet certain."

They rolled her over, onto the blanket, and Dubric paused to wipe his hands before he reached for a slim leather-bound book and pencil he kept handy in his pocket. He refused to endure his duties without paper and pencil, and he had insisted that his personal staff be adequately outfitted, regardless of historical precedent. For centuries the dark mages had crushed literacy on the mainland, wiping out all traces of science and learning, but the island city of Waterford had stood alone against the shadows and kept knowledge alive. Even after the war, they continued to create the finest papers and writing implements in the world.

Beside him, Lars stood and snarled, "So help me, Ulldel, you step past that line again and I'll drag you to the gaol myself."

The crowd grumbled in response, then fell silent.

As Lars knelt beside him again, Dubric said, "Ulldel is an idiot."

"He's a drunkard, an ass, and was stealing a scrap of her dress when we arrived. He's already on my witness list."

Dubric returned his attention to Elli. Her cause of death was obvious, even through the mud. Someone had slashed her back open from her ribs to her hips; the huge gaping hole had filled with muck when she was rolled onto her back. Tapping the pencil on the page as he considered the information, he scratched a few quick notes, drew a rough sketch, and rubbed his aching eyes while Lars efficiently scooped mud from the wound.

While Lars watched the crowd, Dubric tucked the book back into his pocket and felt along Elli's upper back and legs. He found no other wounds. Expecting to find her skull caved, Dubric examined her head last and found the back of it coated in thick, cloying mud. He brushed the muck away and paused before tapping Lars's leg.

"Oh, peg," Lars whispered.

Most of her hair and scalp were gone. Her bloody skull gleamed from her crown to her nape and the skin behind her ears was tattered in muddy hair and blood clotted flaps.

"Inform the physician," Dubric said.

"Aye, sir." Lars bounced to his feet and ran to the castle.

As Dubric stood, he glanced at the crowd. He knew all the faces, and also knew it was likely that one had murdered Elli. Fifty, perhaps sixty people to interview in the hope one would say something useful. He wrapped her in the filthy blanket, wiped his hands, and rubbed his eyes. The ghosts flickered but did not leave. He felt too old to deal with this. Too old and too tired. But there was no one else, and it was his job.

He hefted his burden and set off to the castle, ignoring the curious stares from the crowd and his ghosts trailing behind him. He felt the loose weight of her body in his arms. She was so young. So much had been taken from her.

* * *

Dubric left Elli's corpse with the physician and hurried to Lord Brushgar's office without bothering to clean the muck and blood off his clothes. Unlike the eager onlookers in the courtyard, the people in the great hall seemed quieted by the news. Breakfast ended amid the hesitant clatter of dirty dishes, people with frightened eyes hurried to work, and the herald announced a visitor for Friar Bonne, but few people talked. Except for the herald whose jittery prattle clattered around the hall, those who spoke, whispered. Dubric felt their fear in the silence and he lengthened his stride as nearly every eye turned to stare at him. Someone in the crowd dropped a goblet or a plate and the crash shattered the subdued fear. Several women screamed and part of the crowd surged forward, swarming around him.

"What 'appened, Dubric?" an old seamstress asked, her tongue flicking between her rotted teeth.

Helgith, the head linen maid, tugged on his arm. "Did he lop off her head?"

"Her head? I heard he sliced open her guts," one of the butlers whispered.

Dubric shook his head and pushed his way through. "I cannot divulge details—"

"Pah on that, Dubric. We've a right to know."

Dubric snapped his head toward the last speaker, a hulk of a man named Dulte, and said, "You have a right to know what I decide to tell you. As of this point, you have a right to know nothing. Once I speak to Lord Brushgar I will begin an investigation, and I will take comments from all witnesses. Did you witness anything, Dulte?" Dubric pulled out his notebook and raised a single questioning eyebrow.

Dulte shook his head and stepped back, his clay stained hands held before him. His eyes flicked from Dubric's face to the notebook. "Not me. I didn't see a thing. I swear! I've been inside all mornin'. I haven't even been outside the west wing all winter!" He backed into a pair of timid privy maids who squealed and skittered away.

Dubric shoved the notebook back into his pocket. "Then get out of my way and let me do my job!"

The nervous crowd parted before him and he strode across the hall to the dais. Lord Brushgar's oak throne had stood on the platform overlooking the great hall since Nigel Brushgar had claimed Faldorrah at the end of the War of Shadows. A sparkling clean and lovingly maintained Faldorrahn flag hung on the white granite wall behind the throne like a bright and glowing tapestry; beside the flag stood a carved oak door. A cleaning maid polished the sleek woods as she did every morning, even though no one sat in the throne anymore. She glanced at Dubric, then stood, fixing her eyes straight ahead with a polishing rag clutched in her hand.

Dubric climbed the carpeted stairs. "Good morning, Josceline. How are you today?" She, and her mother before her, had been entrusted with the all but impossible task of ensuring that the trappings of Brushgar's lordship, and the rambling suite he lived in, remained immaculate.

She smiled, her attention still focused straight ahead. "Fine, milord. Thank you. How are you, sir?"

"I have seen better mornings, but my health is good."

Josceline stole a glance. He saw in her dark eyes that she had heard the news and felt sorry for the task before him. "Then everything else will manage, sir. Tis only work and there's always plenty of that."

He laughed then and the ghosts behind him wavered. At nearly thirty summers of age and the mother of four boys, Josceline was a hard worker, dependable, and not prone to gossip. Sadly, she had no daughters to carry on her work when she retired. "I suppose that is true," Dubric said. "Is he in his office yet?"

"He arrived before I did, sir. The accountants are upset about some thing or another. They're in there with him."

Josceline began her labors before dawn, so Brushgar must be unaware of the murders, unless the accountants had mentioned it. Dubric almost released a rueful sigh. If it did not concern numbers, it did not concern the accountants.

He stepped past her and reached for the gleaming brass door latch. Josceline returned to her polishing.

Dubric entered the cluttered office without knocking. Startled, the junior accountant behind the door jumped away and knocked a pile of papers, scrolls, and books onto the dusty wooden floor, then shot a nasty glare at Dubric. When he tried to control the avalanche, he only made the problem worse.

Dubric hid a smile as he stepped inside. After fifteen summers of fruitless struggle, Josceline's mother had admitted defeat when faced with the ever-expanding mess of the office. Dubric doubted if anyone had cleaned it for two decades or more. The chaos of written records scattered among piles of antique gears and levers barely left room to stand. Jelke, the head accountant, gave Dubric a grim nod and continued his diatribe.

Nigel Brushgar slouched behind the mountain of papers on his desk, which were weighed down with a rusted, tubular bit of archaic machinery. He had always shown an interest in the mechanisms and accoutrements of the ancients, preferring collecting over actual use and research. Wire spectacles twirled in his thick fingers, and he sighed and waved Dubric in while Jelke warbled numbers and pointed to marks in his ledger.

Jelke's voice trembled against the papers on the desk. "I tell you, we have to raise taxes! Now. We're forty thousand crowns behind expected levels—"

"We've had a harsh winter, and are running low on supplies as it is," Brushgar muttered as he examined a speck on his lenses. "I'm
not
raising taxes in the middle of a harsh winter."

"Spring's only six, maybe eight phases away," the accountant by the door said as he shoved the pile of papers under the chair. "The winter will be over by the time the people pay."

Brushgar slammed his fist on the table and the papers tottered but did not fall. "When will you get it through your skulls that
I'm not raising taxes
!"

Jelke fluttered his hands near his face and leaned forward. "You haven't raised taxes in
five summers
, my lord. We are falling behind in income projections. Even Pyrinn has more income than we do and our land is much more prosperous."

Brushgar lifted his paperweight and absently opened and closed the rear lever with his thumb while embracing the crumbling grip in his palm. "Egeslic taxes his people to death. They're starving, for Goddess's sake! Starving and dying, all for taxes and fees. I will not do that to my people, projections be damned. Haenpar taxes
less
than we do and Lord Romlin manages just fine. If we need more money, find a way for me to breed meatier sheep or harvest more grain. Malanna's blood, find more uses for granite or wool; Goddess knows we've got plenty of both around here. I don't care what you do, but
do not under any circumstances
raise taxes." He waved the mechanism toward the door, shooing the accountants like geese. "Now get out of my sight. Dubric needs to speak to me."

Brushgar dropped the artifact on his desk and lumbered to Dubric. "A problem?" Brushgar asked as the accountants gathered their ledgers and closed the door behind them.

Dubric stared forward and he snapped to attention with his feet spaced apart and his back straight. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword and he noticed Brushgar glance at it. Knowing that Brushgar would read trouble in his deliberate stance, he had hoped to brace his lord for what was to come. The last murder, nearly five summers ago, had been a simple domestic problem. Dubric had handled it quietly, with minimal fuss. It had not required this level of notification. A possible repeat murderer was a different matter entirely, and the victims were members of the castle staff. "Yes, milord," he said, his voice calm and steady. "Murder."

Brushgar stopped. His right hand reached for a sword he had stopped carrying forty summers ago. He drew in a breath, his eyes wide and startled.

Dubric knew Brushgar was not the only one who had preferred to live under the belief that nothing bad ever happened in Faldorrah. "In the courtyard. A milkmaid. Elli Cunliffe."

Brushgar took a breath and gathered his bulk as if for a fight. "That's not all, is it?"

Dubric took a breath, considering his answer. "No, milord. He cut her up. Butchered her. I have never seen such base brutality, such vicious anger and disregard for life, and I fear he will kill again. This is not a common domestic problem or drunken brawl, milord, but a rabid beast. The staff will be terrified and we must take drastic steps to keep them calm. We have a problem I cannot begin to describe."
And one girl still missing
, he said to himself.

Brushgar lumbered back to his chair. "I suppose you have no suspects?"

"Not yet, milord. But I will."

Brushgar contemplated Dubric for a moment and nodded. "If you're looking for blanket approval, it's yours. You have my full authority to catch the bastard any way you can. Do whatever you need. Take whatever you need. I cannot allow this to happen in my castle."