Ghosts in the Snow (20 page)

Dien heard a
fwupp
and looked through the open bedchamber door to see Risley lying facedown on the bed. "You, too. Full inspection."

Risley groaned and rolled to his feet, then stood beside the bed with his arms held wide. "When I volunteered to be guarded, I assumed I'd be asleep."

"Never assume anything. Let's see the teeth," Dien said.

Risley yawned, widely opening his mouth. Dien peered inside. Standard set of teeth with a few bits of pricey repairs. Sleepy breath with a hint of pipe smoke.

Dien stepped back and Risley asked, "You're not going to ask to look inside my shorts, are you?"

"Not if I have anything to say about it. Let's see the bottom of your feet." Dien saw nothing noteworthy there, either, so he turned Risley around. The same silvery scars marked Risley's back and arms, two his abdomen, and some were long enough to have warranted urgent medical attention.

Dien sighed and stepped away. Soles clean, scars healed, not a mark on him other than the last shadow of a shaving cut. Hands and fingernails clean. Damn, how much more innocent could he look?

"Can I go back to bed now?"

Dien glanced at his assistant, who strode forward to search the bed as he had five times before. "Nothing but sheets and blankets, sir."

"Enjoy your beauty sleep," Dien said. He checked Risley's closet and dressers—same stuff, different time of night—and left the bedchamber.

He and the coppersmith searched the remainder of the suite, the sitting room, library, bath chamber, and office. All rooms were cluttered but clean and he saw no blood or evidence of trouble. Dien sat at Risley's desk and looked through the drawers, again finding nothing unusual or suspect, but when the breeze from the open window blew a small pile of papers off the desk, he grinned.

On the doodle-covered blotter, partially hidden beneath loose sheets of parchment, lay a slim, leatherbound book. He opened the book and scanned the contents before handing it to the coppersmith.
Risley's ledger should prove interesting reading
. "This goes in the evidence bag," he said. "Go ahead and fetch a cup of tea. We'll do this again at four bell."

The coppersmith nodded and left the suite. Dien made a final circuit, then resumed his vigil across from the entrance door.

* * *

We might make it after all
, Dubric thought. He walked through the courtyard in the quiet of predawn with a sleepy leather worker named Shartte. His ghosts still numbered five. There had been no alarms from the castle and few unauthorized people in the courtyard. All patrols and guards had kept to their schedule. Otlee had been awake at each check and Dien had reported no trouble from Risley. It had been a quiet and cold night, like it was supposed to be, and Dubric was thankful for the relief.

The five bell had not yet rung when the first lights in the castle flickered. Dubric smiled. People were rising, getting ready for work, and it had been a quiet night. A wonderfully quiet night. Praise the King.

* * *

"I don't care what Dubric told you, I have to go to work!" a raven-haired girl said, high color on her cheeks. Beside her, a plain, freckle-faced girl nodded. Both had darkly stained hands, and filthy, dye-covered aprons.

The guards, Bacstair and a yawning weaver, both glanced at the sheet of instructions Dubric had given them. "Miss… uh…" Bacstair said, his tongue fumbling.

"'Miss? That's right. Miss one more day and I'm fired," she said with a flick of her black hair. "I've been sick fer a phase, women trouble, you see, and if I don't get the dye vats ready before Glis gets there I'm outta work!"

"Glis don't put up with no dingling," the freckled girl said earnestly.

"Only certain folks are allowed to leave the servants' wing before five bell," Bacstair said and pointed to the paper. "I have my orders."

"We're just going over there!" the black-haired girl whined as she pointed down the back hall. "We work with the weavers. Dyeing cloth. And if I don't have those vats ready by the time Glis gets there—"

"I understand what you're telling me," Bacstair said. "But my orders are my orders."

The freckled girl grinned at the weaver and giggled and poked him in the ribs with her elbow. "Tell him, Molur. Tell him we just work down the hall."

"They do, I knows that fer a fact." He swallowed and looked at the girls. "They're dyers, like they said. And Glis can be a real bastard when folks is late or if n they mess up a color."

"See, what'd I tell you?" the first girl said.

"You know these girls?" Bacstair asked.

Molur licked his lips as his face reddened. "There's a dozen or so dyers, maybe twenty weavers. I don't know ever'one, sure as the seven hells ain't no time fer chitchat, but I've seen 'em dyein'. I know that."

Bacstair sighed and tried to read the instructions again. It all seemed like a pile of gibberish to him. Only a few words made any sense. He looked down a servants' hallway, the girls' hall, and saw Otlee standing fifty lengths or so away, not far from where the hall curved. The boy could read Dubric's paper, that was as certain as the coming sunrise. But his son was on guard duty and had been promoted. Even presented with a fine steel sword and given expensive official uniforms. Otlee was on the road to nobility, and Bacstair would rather gouge out his own eyes than ruin Otlee's chances.

From his post, Otlee watched his father struggle with the paper and called out, "Father, do you want me to—"

Bacstair shook his head and pulled his gaze away from his son. He looked at both girls and straightened his shoulders. Might as well act official. "What are your names, please?"

The black-haired one smiled and looked him over. "Tis Cheyna. What's yours?"

"Bacstair," he muttered while he tried to write her name with the pencil Dubric had given him. The closest he could guess was "Shena."

Once he finished that struggle, he asked the other girl the same question.

"It's Claudette," she said with a giggle, her dye stained hands coyly coming up to cover her plain face.

"Claudette," he muttered and forced "Claedect" onto the paper.

"You've got our names," Cheyna said with a knowing gleam in her eye. "What do you want us to do now?"

Claudette giggled again and batted her eyes. Molur grinned and winked at both girls. Bacstair did not notice a single thing except the marks on the paper. He pulled his attention from the gibberish he had written and said, "You're only going a few doors down the hall?"

"Um-hmm," Cheyna said. "To the dye room."

Bacstair looked down the hall and sighed. No one was nearby. The closest person he saw was the archer who had been patrolling the hall all night. He was far down, near the rectory wing, and moving farther away by the moment. "All right," Bacstair said, "but once you're there, stay put. Can you promise to do that?"

Cheyna nodded, Claudette giggled. "We'll do whatever you say," Cheyna replied with a wink.

Bacstair looked at the note one more time and returned his attention to Molur. "Walk them to the dye room and make sure they get inside safely."

"Sure thing," Molur said.

Bacstair watched the girls walk arm in arm down the hall and hoped he had done the right thing.

* * *

The door was close, fourth one on the right side, and Molur opened it and looked inside. Not a soul to be seen. Claudette sighed with relief. She had almost expected to see Glis waiting to catch them arriving late, or some fearsome stranger skulking in a corner. The room was dark and cold, empty except for the dye vats, drying racks, and kegs of dye powder. Nothing new, nothing exciting. Same old boring job.

"Let me get the light for you," Molur said and grabbed a torch from the hallway wall. While the girls followed close behind him, he lit the lamps within the room.

Claudette liked watching him walk. She liked watching all the decent-looking men walk, but Molur was especially nice. She giggled and had to cover her mouth with her hand so he wouldn't notice.

"Thank ye, kind sir," Cheyna whispered as she reached for the waistband of Molur's trousers.

Claudette's eyes narrowed for a moment, then relaxed.
Ah, what the peg
, she thought.
Cheyna was always willing to share
.

Molur sighed and pushed the hands away. "Sorry, but I can't. Dubric will have my ass, for sure."

Wish I could have it, just for a little while
, Claudette thought, but instead she said, "Not to mention your wife," with a giggle in her voice. Married men were the best. They didn't want any more than a toss from time to time. Love 'em and leave 'em. No strings attached. She liked nothing better.

Molur shrugged and walked once around the room as his gaze darted into corners and under the vats. "She's not as smart as Dubric," he said with a grin.

Both girls sighed happily. There was hope after all. Cheyna said, "Maybe later, then."

Molur nodded and finished his tour of the room. He looked at the girls, touched his hat and winked. "Have a nice day, and I'll try to stop by for a sample later."

"We'll be waiting," Cheyna said.

Claudette giggled and smiled coyly.

As soon he left, Cheyna laughed out loud. "Men! Just bat your eyes and they'll do almost anything for you."

Claudette agreed wholeheartedly, but they needed to stay focused and get to work before Glis came in. Playtime was over. "What do you think? Mix the red and yellow kegs first?" Orange was her favorite.

"Nah. Blue and yellow. Glis wanted us to start with green. Damn boring green."

Claudette sighed. Almost everything was dyed green. Stupid, boring, Faldorrahn-green. With a grunt, she pried the lid off the keg marked
YELLOW,
while Cheyna kicked a few hunks of wood under a vat. Claudette scooped out a can full of acrid yellow powder, poured it into the vat, and tapped the lid back on the keg. That done, she turned to the keg marked
BLUE.

Cheyna poured a sack of soda into the water. "You hungry?" she asked.

Claudette shrugged. She was always hungry.

Cheyna pulled a huge, flat stick from the rack along the back wall. "Why don't you grab us a couple of quick breads or something? I can keep it stirred by myself for a while."

"Sure it will be all right?"

"Yeah. It's morning, and only what, fifteen lengths or so to the great-hall doors. Everything's guarded. We'll be fine."

Cheyna was right. There was nothing to worry about. Claudette grinned as she thought of another bonus. "Maybe I'll blow a kiss at Molur while I'm out there."

Cheyna laughed. "You've always liked Molur."

"He don't knock me around when he's done. And he's nice-looking, too." Claudette flashed a cheery smile and scurried out to the hall.

Before Bacstair could holler to stop her, she ran to the great-hall entrance and slipped through. A few people ate their breakfast, milkmaids and scullery maids mostly, and no one seemed to notice her. Sneaking to the front of the line, she grabbed a pair of muffins and half a loaf of bread, then scurried back to the hall, ignoring the disgruntled griping and muttered curses.

"Just grabbed us some breakfast!" she called out to Bacstair, and whatever he said in reply was lost to the sound of her munching. The muffin was a wee bit dry and the crust crunchy, but the flavor fine. Applesauce. Her favorite. She kicked open the door to the dye room with one foot and slipped inside.

Cheyna was nowhere to be seen and the paddle lay in a wet puddle on the floor beside the vat. Something stank, like gassy farts or rotten…

Claudette swallowed her bite of muffin before she puked it out instead. "Cheyna? Where are you?"

No answer.

Her heart leapt to her throat. "Quit joking around. This isn't funny, you know." Hands full of baked goods, Claudette circled the room much as Molur had. On the far side of their vat she stopped, her mouth working and her hands shaking. The bread and muffins fell at her feet and crumbled. For a moment, her vision blurred and she thought she would faint.

Dark red blood splattered the dye kegs, flowed along the floor toward the vat, and hissed in the fire. The stink was sickly sweet and repulsive. A curved chunk of raw and bleeding flesh lay on the floor near the middle of the blood and another lay not far beyond.
Oh, Cheyna
! Claudette tried to scream, but no sound came out. The lamps extinguished, one by one, plunging her into darkness. Her hands clutched at her face and her mind demanded that she
Move, dammit, move now
! but the signal somehow got misplaced and it took a few precious moments for her feet to get the message. A scream fluttering in her throat, she finally scrambled back and stumbled for the door, tracking blood with each step she took.
That Bacstair guy, he had a sword, and so did Molur. I'll be safe there
, she thought,
safe with
—

Something yanked at her hair, dragged her back toward the vat, and Claudette never had another thought. Or time to scream.

Dubric considered making a detour to the kitchen, grabbing a spot of hot tea, and finishing patrols. The night was almost done, no one had died, and all the sentries remained on schedule.

"No," he muttered, wincing at the image forming in front of him.

Behind him, Shartte said, "What was that, sir?"

"Nothing." Dubric took a deep breath and stomped toward the castle as the five bell rang. Before he reached the main doors, both the sixth and seventh ghosts had joined the party.

Where the seven hells do I look
? he thought.
Who are they? Where are they
? He trudged through the great hall while the early morning workers, including a few tight clusters of milkmaids and scullery maids, watched him with mixtures of alarm and wicked curiosity. He dared not look at the ghosts long, not with Shartte dogging his heels and people staring, but he had noticed that the girls were filthy, with their skin stained dark in patches, and wore lowly uniforms of unskilled, unschooled labor. Privy maids? Clay mixers? Wool dyers? Metal polishers? Barrel greasers? Manure spread—

"Sir?" Shartte asked, nearly startling Dubric out of his skin. "Is something wrong? Is there something you need me to do?"

Dubric deliberately relaxed his jaw. "No, of course not. It has merely been a long night."

"Aye, sir," Shartte replied.

The five bell rang and most of the workers in the great hall stood, scurrying to their jobs and walking through the ghosts. A few shuddered and drew their wrappers close, but most hurried toward the back hall without a second glance. Dubric and his ghosts followed them.

He reached the back hall and watched the workers separate into groups heading to work. A few new arrivals stumbled from the servants' wing on their way to breakfast. Dubric leaned against the wall, out of the way, while his heart pounded and the ghosts shimmered near the edges of his vision.

Shartte, thankfully, stood beside him and remained silent.

Supervisors walked past, some from the servants' wing, some from their own rooms upstairs, and no one paid him any undue notice. The castle came alive around him and he wondered where the bodies could be. Inside, outside, upstairs, the main floor, or in the bowels and catacombs beneath? Lowly workers labored everywhere in all kinds of weather. Since their ghosts had appeared only moments apart, he knew both were likely killed in the same place, wherever that may be. But where, dammit, where?

A few minutes later, Lars and Risley walked down the main stairs. Dubric eyed Risley carefully, noting his immaculately pressed linen shirt, Haenparan-blue jacket, black trousers, and flowing cloak, as well as boots that had been polished to a sparkling shine. His hair was freshly combed and his hands were clean. All in all, a perfect image of a young lord about to take a public stroll. Dubric frowned. Wherever Risley had been during the past half bell, skulking around outdoors seemed doubtful. Risley gave Dubric a cordial nod, while Lars raised a single questioning eyebrow.

Casually looking away from the pair, Dubric scratched the corner of his mouth, signaling Lars that they would talk soon. Both disappeared into the ever increasing flood coming from the servants' wing.

Yawning, Otlee exited a short time later amid a rush of linen and floor maids. Dubric motioned him over. "Stay with me. I may need you."

"Yes, sir," Otlee said, stifling a yawn.

"Any incidents last night?"

"No, sir. Not for me, anyway." The boy paused and lowered his head. "My father had a problem, though. I think he had trouble reading your instructions."

Dubric felt a quick pang of guilt for putting an unschooled man through such a demeaning ordeal, but with Dien relocated to Risley's suite… He shook his head, dismissing it. "What sort of problem?"

Otlee yawned against the back of his hand. "Couple of girls wanted to go to work early, I think, but since they weren't milkmaids or scullery maids, he didn't want to let them through. Evidently he found their names on the list, so it turned out all right."

Dubric's heart skipped a beat. There were few female staff members on the early-workers list. "What time was this?"

"Gosh, I dunno, sir, maybe quarter before five bell."

Dubric closed his eyes and opened them slowly, hoping Otlee did not hear the urgency in his voice. "Did you happen to notice who the girls were or where they worked?"

"Sure. They walked right by me. They were dyers, but I didn't get their names."

Dubric turned to the left and hurried down the hall, Otlee and Shartte on his heels.

The door to the dyer's workroom stood ajar, offering a narrow shaft of dark shadows to peer through and a low fire crackling beneath a vat on the far side of the room. When he had walked past during his patrol, this very door, like the others along the hall, had been closed. "Get your father," Dubric said, pulling his sword, "and whoever was assigned to help him."

Otlee swallowed, backed a step away, then turned and ran.

"Oh, Goddess. Oh, good gracious," Shartte babbled.

"Quiet," Dubric snapped, his voice just a whisper. "Arm yourself and button your lip."

Shartte's voice and hands shook as he yanked the sword free. "Yessir, whatever you say, sir. I certainly will—"

"Shh!"

Otlee appeared at Dubric's elbow with Bacstair and Molur behind him. Both men remained silent, their faces the color of Bacstair's dough.

"Someone fetch me a light," Dubric said. "Otlee, you come with me. The rest of you, no one except Otlee and I comes through this door, in or out, under any circumstances. Do you understand?"

"Yessir," they replied, and Bacstair seemed to waver a moment, anguish and guilt vying for control of his face.

Dubric looked away from the three men and gave Otlee a reassuring smile. He opened the door, noting that the outer latch appeared clean.

Otlee lit the nearest light while Dubric walked slowly into the room. "Sir? We have blood here."

Dubric breathed in the scene, smelling the acrid tang of dye mixed with the sweetly metallic scent of fresh blood. "On the door or the floor?"

"Just the latch, sir."

This is the second time he has left a bloody latch. He does not bother to wipe his hands before leaving. Why? Was he not afraid his bloody hands would be noticed
? "Can you lock it?"

"Sure." He heard a
click
, then the light shifted as Otlee came to stand beside him again, the lantern clutched in his hand. "Pushed it up with my pencil, and I didn't leave any marks."

"Good job. What do you notice? What do you see?"

"The smell, mostly. Doesn't smell like the others."

"That is the dye. Anything else?"

"Not yet, sir. They're not out in the open like the others."

Smart boy. Very insightful
. "No, they are not. Why do you think that is?"

Otlee glanced behind him, nodding toward the door. "Because he left it unlocked on purpose, didn't he? In case someone came in. He'd know about them before they knew about
him
. "

Dubric nodded.
That is why they appeared a short time apart. He killed one while waiting for the other
. "Are you ready?"

"Of course I am, sir."

Together they walked toward the huge vat, pausing at the scattered pile of baked goods beside smeared footprints that tracked into a puddle of blood. Dubric knelt beside them and began his notes. "Why are the prints bloody, yet walking into it?"

Otlee knelt as well, his knees less than a hand's width from the nearest print. "They're small and without shoes. Our killer has bigger feet and wears boots, so maybe the second girl tried to back away?"

"That is my guess, as well."

"How did you learn all these things, sir?"

Dubric grunted as he stood. "Trial and error. And more investigations than I care to count."

They walked around the puddle, noting each footprint and smear. A slab of flesh lay on the far side of the vat, near the eviscerated corpse of one dyer. She sprawled faceup on the floor with her head and right arm sizzling in the fire, her belly open, and her entrails lying over her left arm.

Sighing, Dubric pulled her from the fire and knelt beside her. He measured the gash across her abdomen, reading each measurement aloud while Otlee noted the information. Wincing at the burnt flesh, he pulled open her mouth and her charred cheek ripped apart. "Her gums are swollen but her back teeth have not appeared. Mark her age as around fifteen summers."

He continued his examination, moving downward from her head. "Possible bruising on her neck, but it may be a result of the fire. Blouse and apron cut open, right arm completely charred. Abdomen is dissected below the sternum and digestive organs removed, as are… What's this?"

Otlee remained silent as Dubric leaned close and probed her chest cavity. "Lobes of the lower lungs are missing. That is a new development. Heart remains intact and in place, but the aorta is mang— Ow!"

"Sir?"

Dubric pulled his hand from inside her chest and stared at the pointed strip of wood protruding from the back of his finger.

"How did that get in there, sir?"

"I do not know." Dubric pulled the sliver from his hand and leaned over the corpse again. Slowly, he reached in, mimicking his previous movement. The back of his hand rubbed against the sternum and ribcage. "I believe it was stuck against the back of the sternum, above the lower heart, unless it was already attached to me somehow. Make a note to have Rolle split her rib cage. I want to see where the sliver came from."

"Yes, sir."

Dubric turned the splinter in the light. About as long as his thumbnail and varnished on one side, the wood was coated with blood.
At last a clue! Is it oak? Maple? An exotic and traceable wood? Could it have come from the killer's hands or his clothing? Is it a clue to where he works or where he lives
? Dubric looked around the dyer's shop, at the wooden racks, the wooden paddles, shelving, and sticks. Some were varnished, some were not, but everything showed evidence of wear and splintering.
Hells, did it get in there when he dragged her to the fire
?

Once the sliver was safely tucked away, he finished examining the dyer but found nothing more of note. He stood, brushed off his hands and walked around the vat, looking for the second girl.

He found her propped in the far corner with her legs splayed out and her intestines lying on her lap. She had been cut open from her sternum to her pelvis. The flesh from her left thigh was gone, cut from the bone, and both arms were missing.

"Where is the rest of her, sir?"

Dubric walked around the vat and looked inside. The green fluid had a brownish scum on its surface. "I want this drained."

"Yes, sir." Otlee knelt before the sitting girl and sketched her position. Once finished, he started to stand, then tilted his head to the side as he knelt again. "I think I see something, sir."

Dubric leaned over, squinting to peer beneath a set of shelving. A faint brownish smear marked the floor before it, and Dubric held his breath as Otlee reached under.

The boy winced, his face contorting into a slight grimace as he retrieved the hidden treasure. Blood coated his hand, oozing thickly between his fingers. "I think it's a piece of liver, sir, but I'm not quite confident on anatomy."

Dubric rummaged through his pockets, seeking a small sack. "You are correct. It is indeed part of a liver. What can you tell me about it? Nearly every clue has a story to tell."

Otlee turned the piece over in his hand. "Still kinda warm. And it's been cut, not torn, except for… Horse piss! Sir!"

Dubric looked up at the horror on Otlee's face as the boy backed away, holding the bit of liver like an offering. "What? Otlee! Are you hurt?"

Gasping, Otlee stopped his retreat and stared at the dripping hunk of meat in his hand. "It's bitten, sir! He took a bite of her… of her…"

"Shh, now. Calm down." Carefully, Dubric took the piece from Otlee's hand, examining the marks along the shortest side.
Teeth, no doubt about it. What kind of monster eats people
?

Dubric reached into a pocket with his clean hand and retrieved his kerchief. "I believe your lessons are done for the time being. Fetch Rolle or Halld. Get their backsides out of bed, if need be."

"Sir, I'm sorry. It just startled me and won't happen again."

Dubric stared at the teeth marks while his stomach roiled in disgust. "No need to be sorry. You are doing a fine job." He paused and looked at Otlee. "Go get them. I will wait for you to return and we shall pick up where we left off. All right?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Otlee bobbed a quick bow, then left the room, informing the outer guards of the change of plan before he closed the door again.

Dubric gently placed the bitten liver in his kerchief, taking care not to dislodge the bread crumbs adhering to the bitten side as he wrapped it.
The bastard made a sandwich
.

* * *

"The bastard never left, sir! I'm sure of it." Later that morning, Dien sat in the witness chair and banged his fist on the thick wooden armrest. "We woke him at four bell, checked the whole suite, checked
him
for good measure, then let him go back to bed. He sleeps in his underdrawers, and he sure as the seven hells wasn't armed at four bell, I can guarantee you that. By the time Lars got there, his lights were already burning and he had dressed. I tell you, he never left!"

Dubric shifted in his chair. "Lars admits he overslept. Not by much, maybe ten or twelve minutes. He didn't get there until almost quarter after five bell. That left Risley over a whole bell to—"

Dien shook his head. "He never left, sir. Not unless there's another way out. The damned door was in my sight the whole night except when we were inside. It never opened. Not once."

A knock rattled the door and, after Dubric's grunt, Otlee peeked in. "We've found part of the second body in the vat," he said. "Rolle says the chewed liver came from her, and the flesh of her thigh is just gone. He says he needs to talk to you."

Dubric grunted his agreement and stood, shoving aside Risley's ledger and ship manifests Dien had seized for potential evidence. Between the records and the ghosts, he wondered if he would ever get a moment's rest again. "Dammit, Dien, who else can it be? Find someone to watch him. I do not care who, just do it! We have to solve this before other young women die!"