Ghosts in the Snow (11 page)

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."

"Yes, I can," she said, smiling. "We traveled together, alone, for five days. If he was a killer he had plenty of time, and plenty of opportunity, to kill me. He was nothing but nice to me, and he saved my life. I know in my heart it's not him." She shrugged. "Beyond that, I can't say. It could be almost anyone else, but Dari's right, too. We can't be afraid of everyone. We have to keep our wits about us and stick together. Besides, he's only killing at night. It's still daytime." She smiled at Mirri and reached for a pile of linens in the next laundry cart.

Mirri and Dari looked at each other, and all the girls resumed their duties.

* * *

Lars hurried down the main stairs with a fresh bag of tea from Dubric's suite tucked under his arm. Dubric had already drank all that the office storage room contained. Goddess forbid the old castellan manage an afternoon without his tea.

Lars had just reached the second floor when a single threatening phrase caught his attention.

"What's the matter, Beckwith? You get a stain on your hankie and forget your manners?"

His errand forgotten, Lars stopped in mid-step and turned to see Risley leaning against the wall, smoking, beside the entrance to The Bitches.

The herald winced and peeked back toward the ladies' hall, smoothing his flouncy tunic with shaking hands. "There is no crime in hiring a maid to clean."

"I saw you look at her." Risley nodded once, slowly, and took another drag on his pipe before reaching over to close the door.

"That, too, milord, is no crime," Beckwith said, backing away.

Risley puffed smoke from his mouth and the cloud encircled Beckwith's head. "Stay away from her. I'm warning you."

Beckwith paled. "But I have to retrieve the doily tomorrow. I promised—"

Risley leaned close to poke Beckwith with the pipe and Lars had to strain to hear. "You've made the wrong promises."

"Please, milord," Beckwith said, cowering away. "There's nothing to be jealous about. You're getting upset over nothing."

Risley's face reddened. "Nella is not nothing."

"Stop it!" Lars scrambled up the stairs, but Risley pushed Beckwith against the wall.

"Stay away from my Nella." Risley grabbed Beckwith by the arm and shoved him aside. "I'm only going to warn you this one time before I lose my patience."

"Risley," Lars hollered as he ran to them. "Let him go-"

One more shove, then Risley backed away. "So help me, I'll pluck your eyes from your fool head if you look at her like that again."

Beckwith gasped for air, fanning his face as he struggled to breathe. "Did you see, Master Hargrove? He assaulted me. I must lodge an official complaint."

Sweat beaded on Risley's brow and he tried to brush Lars aside. "I saw how you ogled her. Lecherous shit. Complain all you want. I ought to have you gelded."

Beckwith shook his head. "I did no such thing. You're wrong."

Lars skidded backward, struggling to keep Risley from reaching Beckwith. "Stop it, both of you."

"I saw what I saw. She's not some trollop, so keep your eyes to yourself, you hear?"

Beckwith cowered and hurried away, tripping as he glanced over his shoulder.

"Will you look at him?" Risley said, pointing toward the herald. "The bastard looks at Nella like she's a piece of meat, then acts like it's my fault he's a condescending puke."

Lars let Risley go. "What about your temper? And look at you. You're red in the face, sweating. What's wrong with you?"

Risley stopped glaring at Beckwith's retreating back and stared at Lars, his mouth dropping open. "I… I don't know." He wiped at his brow and looked at the dampness on his hand as if he'd never seen it before. "I am sweating, aren't I?"

He seemed to sag as he bent to pick up the pipe and Lars noticed a tremor in his hand. "I saw how he looked at her, and something snapped, I guess." He stood straight again and glanced at Lars, rubbing his forehead with his free hand. "Goddess, my head hurts."

"Go on and see physician Rolle. He'll have something for your headache. I'd better get back to work."

"Yeah. Thanks, Lars."

Risley gave Lars one last confused glance, then he walked down the hall, muttering.

Lars took a moment to note the incident in his notebook before hurrying on with Dubric's tea.

* * *

Throughout the castle, speculation ran wild as afternoon gave way to evening. Panic and fear led to anger. Fistfights broke out over meaningless disagreements. The herald and the head accountant came to blows over a message. Marital spats flared in public hallways. Girls of the staff clustered in nervous groups and few strayed from their friends. Flighty and afraid, many deemed every man in the castle a potential killer. Dubric received so many reports of suspicious men that afternoon that he dedicated ten pages to check the details and question all accused. He wondered how he would keep up with the flood of testimonies.

None of the men seemed guilty in any way, but Dubric added each name to a dedicated page in his book. He posted pages as sentries, assigned squires to guard the main entrances, and archers to patrol dark halls. He insisted the entire staff be re-assigned so no woman had to work alone. He did all he could to ensure their safety, but as he sat down to his late supper with Dien, Lars, and Otlee in the great hall, he wished with all his heart he could do more.

* * *

After dinner, Dubric sent Lars to catch a couple of bells of sleep and walked with Dien to his rooms.

"How many men do you trust right now?" Dubric asked as they meandered down a quiet stretch of hallway. A pair of privy maids ran past, their hands locked together and their eyes wide and watchful.

"Besides us? Not a single frigging one," Dien said.

Dubric agreed. "How many can you trust by tomorrow? And which ones would they be?"

Dien stopped and shook his head as if he had heard wrong. "Sir?"

"The army is wintering with their families until the equinox. If I send a page to fetch them in the dead of winter with a killer on the loose, the castle nobility will have me gutted. We have exactly six archers and three squires, including you, to use as guards. I cannot cover all the doors with nine men, and we have sent two of those to the village. The castle nobles are useless, foppish fools, and we have had dead girls two nights in a row. Even if the murders have stopped, which I doubt, we are going to need some help."

Dien grumbled and scratched his bristly chin, glancing at the herald who hurried by with a message in hand. "I see your point, sir, but any man we choose could be our killer. Any of the squires or archers could be our killer, too."

At this point, that worry did not matter to Dubric. Trustworthy men mattered. "Who would be your top three choices?"

Dien thought for a moment, then said, "Olibe Meiks, Bacstair Arc, and Flavin Hlink."

A gardener, a baker, and the stable master. All big men, and all calm and dependable. Only Flavin did not have a family. "Good choices, all three. One with me, one with you, one with Lars tonight. If we have no murders, then it could be one of the three and our presence may have stopped them. All three will go to gaol until we sort it out. If another girl dies and the three have been with us constantly, we can be certain that we have three trustworthy sets of eyes."

Dien reached for his notebook. "Want me to tell them?"

"No, that is my responsibility. You take Olibe tonight. I will tell him to meet you in the great hall. Lars can meet Flavin at the stable."

Dien smiled. "Bacstair'll talk your ear off."

"I am hoping he will keep me awake." Dubric smiled at Dien, then hurried to inform his new helpers.

* * *

Nella looked at the few worshipers and shook her head as she knelt in the temple. This evening's service seemed small; only twenty-two souls knelt before the altar instead of the usual thirty to forty. Most were families and married couples from the village. As far as she could tell, she was the only woman alone, and the only servant.
Folks must be afraid
, she thought as she lowered her head, closed her eyes, and breathed slowly through her mouth, calming herself. For the first time since she'd arrived in Faldorrah, she wished the commoners worshiped first instead of after the nobles. It was late and the sermon was almost over, but she was in no hurry to return to the servants' wing by herself. Walking back had never bothered her before, but it was past sundown, the halls were long and dark, and lone girls died.

Friar Bonne lifted the candle, offering its heat, its brightness, to the gods. The flickering candlelight glowed on his face as if he commanded enough power to change the course of time. He recited his often heard plea for piety, for purity in the pursuit of Holy Perfection, imploring his worshipers to do their best and then do more, all in the service of Malanna.

Nella felt the beat of her heart with each word he spoke. For as far back as memory could take her, she had tried to be good, to always do the right thing, and to work. Even after Camm had been taken, during those dark days when her father and mother both hovered close to death, Nella had worked to keep her family alive. At fourteen summers of age, she had supported her parents, kept them fed, and never used a single penny for herself. Since she had learned how to walk, she had worked every day of her life, toiled until she was too tired to stand, and then continued to work anyway. She knew serving Malanna was like that kind of work, though it was work of your heart, not of your back, and sometimes that work came harder. But the Word of Malanna said perfection was to be rewarded, and it always gave Nella hope. Still, all hope aside, she had a dark walk ahead of her, and she whispered her own pleading prayer.

Friar Bonne's round body glided down the altar steps as he spoke the final prayers for his flock. He lowered the candle and placed it on the silver stand before the altar. "Praise the Goddess!" he said, his voice rumbling and soothing to Nella's ears as she finished her little prayer.

"Gracious Malanna, Bringer of Life!" Nella and the others answered. Far behind her, the door to the castle creaked open, then closed.

"Watch over my flock, I beg of thee," Friar Bonne said as he walked among them. "Keep them from harm. Give them strength for the work awaiting them on the morrow, and the wisdom and patience to see them through the day." Nella felt his gentle hand on the back of her head and he said, "And please, Goddess, see them safely home."

She raised her eyes from the floor and he smiled at her. Malanna's fire still flickered in his eyes and he nodded to her as if he knew a secret. A breath later, he turned from Nella and bade everyone to rise.

The comforting essence of cheese and wine hung around him and she smiled. It was a nice smell, of safety, happiness, and peace; simple things unheard of in Pyrinn. She breathed in the idea and held it close within her heart.
Oh, Goddess
, she whispered to herself,
if you can, let me know safety and happiness. And, please, I beg of you, do not let me die in the dark
. Nella closed her eyes and stood. Her heart felt free and light, better than it had for a long time, and, for some reason she could not fathom, she no longer felt afraid.

The families, the married couples, all but Nella, found their wrappers, cloaks, and coats and hurried into the night with barely a thank you for the service. As had become her usual habit, Nella helped Friar Bonne blow out candles and clean up what little clutter the worshipers had left behind.

A pew creaked near the castle door, and Nella glanced back to it but saw no more than shadows. She continued to extinguish and gather candles, glancing from time to time into the darkness by the door. The pew remained silent while she finished her simple labor and carried the candles to Friar Bonne.

He took the candles from her and began sorting them into a box. "Such a small cluster tonight. People should come to the temple when they are afraid, not stray further from it."

"Yes, Friar," she whispered as she folded a shimmering piece of white velvet over silver candlesticks. Once wrapped, she lay them in a box and handed it to Friar Bonne.

He paused and looked at her, his wide face concerned. "Will someone come to escort you? I can walk with you, if you—"

"That's all right, Friar," a voice said from the dark pews. "I came to take her home."

Nella turned, her heart thudding. "
Risley
?"

Friar Bonne beamed. "Lord Risley! I thought it was you."

Risley stood, rising from the shadows. He slipped between the pews and walked up the aisle to them. Like Friar Bonne's prayers, she felt him as if he were a source of heat and light. "May I escort you safely home?" he asked, bowing before her.