Ghosts in the Snow (33 page)

Dubric looked up at the knock on his office door. Ten ghosts cavorted around the room, trying to cause trouble. Olibe Meiks, the eleventh, had wandered away and Dubric had not seen him since, even though his oppressive ache remained as an endless reminder.

"Sir?" Otlee asked, clutching an accounting ledger to his chest as he peeked in the door. "Do you have a moment?"

Dubric set aside his pen and looked through Elli to see the page. She sat on the edge of his desk, her backside squarely on his notebook, and she contemplated Dubric with cool orneriness. When he had inadvertently set his notebook there that morning, she had pounced upon the opportunity to cause trouble, as had the other ghosts. Three of the girls had commandeered the chairs and had spent most of the morning passing Rianne's foot between them. Two fought over who would get to play with Otlee. Dubric wished they would all go follow Olibe Meiks and leave him alone.

"What is it, Otlee?"

"I know you're not supposed to be disturbed unless it's an emergency, sir, but you have a visitor."

"Who is it?"

"Hulda Meiks, sir. She's rather insistent and refuses to leave."

Dubric sighed, wishing Elli would get off his desk. "Send her in, then."

A moment later, Hulda strode in with a baby in her arms. Two children followed her; a girl of perhaps five summers and a boy of three or so. Olibe Meiks stood behind them, the pitchfork clutched in his hands. His eyes glowed with rage. Every living member of the family had a blotchy face and tear-streaked cheeks. Hulda said softly, "Stay out there, darlings. With the boy."

"Yes, Mama," the girl answered and grasped her brother's hand. As soon as they were clear, Otlee closed the door. Olibe stepped through.

Hulda stared at Dubric as she cradled the baby. "Did you see my children? My babies?"

Dubric tried to watch Hulda, but Olibe's hands kept shifting on the handle of that pitchfork. A most worrisome situation. "Yes, ma'am. They are beautiful children."

"My babies lost their daddy because of you," she said. "And look at me when I'm talkin' to you."

Dubric turned his head toward the woman. "Yes, ma'am."

She leaned forward. "Goddess, you're polite now. Not like the night you banged on our door and demanded my husband guard the castle. You sure didn't call me 'ma'am' then. You didn't give us a chance to say no.

"Your husband was a good man, and our first choice. He would not have said 'no.'"

"He wouldn't have left his wife a widow and his children orphans, either. You gave him no choice."

"We have listed you and your family with the widows and orphans of war. Your husband served in an official capacity and you shall receive full wage payment and relief from taxation, as if he had been in the army."

"I don't want your filthy money. I want my husband back!"

The pitchfork moved, but Dubric forced his eyes to remain on Hulda.

She laughed viciously. "Now you're quiet. Since you sent Olibe to his death you've asked that we have patience. Patience and understanding, while you twiddle your thumbs up your ass. You've tossed the bastard that killed my Olibe into the gaol where he still lives and breathes, despite his terrible deeds. You have no intention of punishing him, do you? He is of your kind, after all. A High Noble. A
Royal
. You never punish one another, only those lower than you."

Dubric took a slow and measured breath. "There is a chance, however slim, that it may not be Lord Risley who has done this. I have to be absolutely certain before I execute an innocent man."

"Horse piss. Tis him and we all know it. No one died last night, did they? But he left his little whore runnin' loose, and I hope he breaks free to get her. Truly I do. I hope he cuts her into pieces, then comes after you."

"Missus Meiks, you do not know what you are saying."

"I know what I'm saying. You've made my children orphans and left me a widow. Then you arranged for your precious Lord Romlin to skip away without losin' his life for his crimes. I hope he cuts you up and pisses on your guts. Leaves you lying dead in the mud and snow like he did my Olibe. If he doesn't do it, I'll do it myself."

"I can throw you in gaol for threats like that."

She tossed her head back and her eyes shone with vile glee. "Try. I know of thirty men ready to hang you and Lord Romlin today. Throwin' a grievin' widow into your stinkin' gaol will be the last mistake you'll ever make."

"Your grief has clouded your mind, madam. Perhaps you should leave now, before you cross the line and I do throw you in gaol."

"My mind is perfectly clear. I hope you die a painful death and rot for eternity in the seven hells," she snapped, then spat in his eye.

Dubric started to stand as the anger flashed within him—no one had ever spat on him and not regretted it—but Olibe Meiks moved quickly to protect his wife, and threw the pitchfork.

The pain flared exquisite and fiery, and Dubric nearly screamed. The force of the blow knocked him off his feet and shoved him back into the chair, which skidded backward, slamming against the wall, the back of it cracking. Dubric's ghosts all watched with deadly interest.

Hulda Meiks had already turned to leave and did not notice. She yanked the door open and stomped through, slamming it behind her. Olibe looked at Dubric for a moment. He mouthed something to the other ghosts that Dubric did not understand, then followed his wife.

"Oh, peg!" Dubric gasped through the pain. His hands slid over his belly. He felt nothing but the cloth of his shirt and his heart slamming beneath his ribs, but he saw the pitchfork. The tines had buried in his abdomen, leaving less than the thickness of a finger between the cross piece and his flesh. He sucked in one painful breath after another, and try as he might, he could not move from the chair.
It is not real
, he told himself.
It cannot be
.

Of all of his ghosts, he had never known one to harm a person, never seen one truly interact with the real world. But only one other ghost had ever remained long enough to move about. She certainly would never harm anyone, although he suspected she had been able to move objects for a long, long time.

He struggled to remain conscious through the pain. There had to be something he could do. Something, for King's sake!
Otlee. He could help. He could pull this thing away
.

He took a breath to call the boy's name, then paused. How could Otlee pull a pitchfork he could neither see nor feel? How could anyone? How could the horrid thing remain even after Olibe had gone?

He looked to his ghosts. "Please," he said. "One of you, please help me."

Nine looked at him and laughed. Elli alone nodded. Darling Elli Cunliffe, the orphan he had bounced on his knee and given sweets to. She had been a beautiful child; a skipping delight of blue eyes, blonde hair, and laughter. She turned around on his desk and crawled toward him. Her dead eyes flickering as if snow still fell upon them, she smiled sweetly, reached out, grasped the handle of the pitchfork, then yanked it downward.

This time Dubric did scream. It felt as if his insides were being dragged across broken glass. The handle vibrated like a bell and his eyes rolled white even as Otlee burst in.

"Sir!" He ran through the door and skidded to a stop as Dubric raised a hand to slow him.

Dubric gasped and swallowed a scream as Elli pulled the horrid thing upward. He had to get the boy out before the ghosts tried to harm him, as well. "Otlee," he choked out, his voice breaking. "I need you to go to the stable. Ask Flavin if he has had any more grain stolen this moon."

Otlee ran to his side. "But, sir. You screamed! You look ill, sir. Wouldn't it be wiser for me to fetch a physician?"

"No! Get to the stable. Now. That is an order."

"But, sir!" Fytte and Ennea stood behind him, their fingers lifting his hair. Otlee did not seem to notice, but both flashed wicked grins. They could
touch
him. Fytte licked her finger.

What did Olibe tell them
? he thought, panting through the pain.
What has he done
? "Go. And hurry!"

Otlee hesitated, then ran through Ennea and Fytte.

Celese closed the door and beamed at Dubric. He felt cold dead fingers glide over his bald head, yank on his ears. Was it Plien? Ennea? Cheyna? All three? Elli climbed onto his lap and reached again for the pitchfork. She felt cold, like ice, and her eyes glittered as she yanked the handle.

* * *

He did not know how long he screamed. He only knew his throat hurt, and his head and mouth felt as if they had been burned by ice. But suddenly the cold and much of the pain lifted away. He gasped for breath as he opened his eyes.

The ten huddled together in the far corner with dead eyes that were wide and afraid. They stared at something on his left. He smelled perfume on the air, and for once he welcomed it.

His head rolled painfully on the creaking bones of his neck and he smiled. "Brinna." He had first seen her ghost over thirty summers before, and she had long since come and gone of her own accord. But she had never truly left, for he had never caught her killer. She had remained the lady of the castle even in death, as she had been in life. Sweet, sweet Brinna Brushgar.

Brinna nodded, saying something he could not catch.

"I do not understand," he said around the blistering pain in his belly.

She smiled and placed a finger on his lips. Like the other ghosts, her touch felt cool, but unlike the others, she was gentle. She pointed to the pitchfork and turned her eyes to the ten girls.

"No, it was not them. It was another. Olibe Meiks. A gardener."

She nodded sadly and curled her arms as if holding a baby.

He almost cried as he thought about Brinna and babies. She had held her infant son, Stev, when she had died. When they both had died. Stev had not lived to his first moonrise, and the church insisted he had not received his soul. Although he had been murdered in his mother's arms, his ghost was forever gone. Brinna often checked on sleeping babies and watched over children at play, perhaps because of the one she had lost. "Yes, he has children. His wife blames me."

She shook her head and frowned, wiping a tear from her eye.

"Yes, it is sad." He took a ragged breath. "Do you know who has been doing this to our castle?"

She shook her head, and "no" was unmistakable on her lips.

He glanced to his ghosts. "Do they know who killed them?"

Brinna looked at the ghosts and he saw his own question on her lips. She soon turned back to him and shook her head.

He started to nod his disappointment, but Brinna's attention had drifted to the girls.

She said something, her eyes narrowing, and she spoke again. A moment later she returned her glowing gaze to him. She smiled softly, tilted her head, and pointed to the pitchfork.

"Do you think you can remove it?"

She nodded and pointed at him, contorting her face in anguish and pain.

"It hurts now. Removing it cannot be worse."

Smiling, she moved to stand between his knees. She grasped the handle and he sucked in a harsh breath as the pitchfork shifted.

He took a few deep breaths and said, "On the count of three." When Brinna nodded and tightened her grip, he said, "One. Two—"

The pain ripped through him and he screamed again. As darkness engulfed his mind he thought,
She remembered the old trick, after all these summers. Pull on two
.

Otlee had no intention of going to the stable. He pounded on Dien's door until Sarea snatched it open.

She held a sleeping baby in her arms and whispered harshly, "What do you want? Don't you know we're trying to sleep, for Goddess's sake?"

Otlee bobbed a quick bow. "I am truly sorry, ma'am, but there is an emergency."

She sighed. "I should have known. Dubric never lets him have a full day's rest. Come on in. I'll get him up for you."

As soon as Otlee stepped inside, she closed the door and handed him the baby. "I'll be back in a moment. Easier to wake him if I have full use of my hands."

"Yes, ma'am," Otlee said, shifting the baby in his arms and bouncing her gently while he waited, praying that Missus Saworth hurry.

She did. A growl rumbled through the suite and Dien staggered through an open door, filling the portal as he tied a robe around him. "What's happened now?" he said around a yawn.

Otlee hoped he did not sound as panicked as he felt. "It's Dubric. Something's wrong. He's in pain. Sick. I'm not sure." Otlee held the baby toward her mother. "But it's bad. He screamed, Dien. Dubric screamed."

Sarea hurried over to take the baby while Dien said, "Give me time to get my pants on."

* * *

They found him on the floor of his office. He lay unconscious beside his overturned chair, and his skin was cool and pale. One ear bled, and Otlee grimaced as Dien turned Dubric's head. Despite first appearances, the blood had not come from inside the ear. The lobe had been ripped off.

"Goddess, what happened?" Otlee asked. "Is he alive?" Something cold glided along his cheek and he jumped away.

Dien touched Dubric's neck with his fingertips. "He's alive. Fetch a physician. Rolle, if you can, not that blabbering Halld."

Feeling as though someone was dragging icicles through his hair, Otlee turned and ran through the door, a whimper escaping his throat.

* * *

"I can carry him," Dien said.

Rolle stood and looked at Otlee. "Run ahead and turn down his bed. We'll have more luck keeping him in his own suite than the infirmary."

Otlee stood in the doorway, the closest he had come since fetching Rolle. "Yes, sir," he said and hurried away.

Dien glanced at the boy but said nothing. Something didn't feel right, that was for certain. Whatever it was, it had spooked Otlee. The boy had looked at death many times over the past few days; surely it was something other than Dubric's illness bothering him. And why the peg did the office smell like perfume? "What in the seven hells happened?" he asked the physician.

"Considering his age, the murders, and how hard he has been pushing himself, he has probably suffered an ictus of the heart, or perhaps apoplexy."

"Bull piss. Not Dubric."

Rolle shrugged. "The strain has ruptured his blood vessels, leaving a row of welts across his abdomen. I am greatly relieved that they burst there and not on his head or near his heart. Believe me or not, that is up to you, but if he doesn't get some rest, this will happen again, and next time it may kill him."

Lars ran in, his face flushed. "Otlee said— Oh, Goddess!"

Dien lifted Dubric's limp body. "Gather up his notebook and pencil. We're taking him to his rooms."

Lars grabbed Dubric's things. "I'll run up the east tower. Maybe I can get the. hall clear."

"Good idea," Dien said. "We should try to keep this quiet."

As Lars sprinted from the office, Dien settled Dubric in his arms. "Will he make it?"

Rolle packed up his instruments. "He should. I'll bring some lily of the valley to calm his heart, and some laudanum to soothe his nerves. I can do no more. But he'll have to settle down, not get so worked up."

Dien nodded. "He'll settle down, if I have to sit on the old bastard myself."

* * *

Dubric awoke to see the ceiling above his bed and to feel a rat chewing on his ear. Grunting, he slapped the rat and snatched his hand back from its bite. "What the—?" he started, but saw Rolle holding a shining needle.

Rolle sighed. "Now look at that. Only two stitches to go and you've ruined my knot."

"Sir!" Otlee said from the other side.

Dien stood at the foot of the bed, as did Lars. Both looked alternately relieved and worried.

Dubric shoved Rolle away as he sat up. "Leave it alone. What happened?"

Otlee looked at Dien on one side; Rolle frowned on the other.

Dien said, "You collapsed."

Of course I collapsed
. "Let me up. We have much to do and I have wasted enough time."

"You're not going anywhere," Dien said. Beside him, Lars nodded. Eleven ghosts stood behind them; Brinna and the ten. The ten huddled together while Brinna watched them.

Dubric stared at Dien and Lars. His abdomen hurt, there was no denying that, but it was like a dream of pain. Not real. The ceaseless throbbing of his aching head brought more agony and he had survived it for days. "There is nothing wrong with me."

Dien opened his notebook. "Otlee informed me that Hulda Meiks insisted on seeing you, and right after she left you screamed. That true?"

"Yes and no. Now let me up."

"You are hereby ordered to stay abed," Rolle said. "You're not getting up." The needle moved close again.

"Watch me," Dubric replied as he batted Rolle's hand away.

"Lars and I will handle whatever happens today," Dien said. "Does Hulda Meiks have something to do with this?"

"There is nothing wrong with me. Dammit, Rolle, leave my ear alone."

Rolle cleared his throat. "You have an open wound and I don't want it to get infected."

" 'Open wound'? What open—?" Dubric touched his ear and winced. His attention focused suddenly on Dien. "What happened?"

"You'll have to tell me. So far you've been a pretty shitty witness."

Behind Dien, Fytte snapped her teeth together, then slunk back as Brinna said something.

She bit me
! Dubric thought, but he said, "How bad is my ear? What am I doing here?"

"Most of the lobe is missing," Rolle said. "I'd suggest you let me stitch up what's left before you lose the whole thing to infection or rot. Beyond that, I'd say you had an episode. Apoplexy, perhaps, or a problem with your heart. They're not uncommon in men your age. You're under too much strain and are bursting blood vessels."

Dubric's heart was fine and he knew it. "Sew the damned thing up, then get out of here," he said. "I do not need to be under a physician's care, for King's sake."

"You're staying right frigging here," Dien said. "I'll bribe half the damned staff into holding you here, if I have to."

Lars nodded. "We can handle things for a few days."

Dubric winced as Rolle shoved the needle through his ear. "I tell you, there is nothing wrong with me."

All three members of his staff contemplated him with disbelief plainly written on their faces.

* * *

Bells later, Dubric looked up as Otlee hurried in. "I've requested a fresh pot of tea, sir."

Dubric flipped a page of his notebook. Lazing around was going to drive him mad. "How many men do we have scheduled to patrol tonight?"

"I'm not supposed to talk work with you," Otlee said. "You're supposed to rest. Do you need anything?"

"Yes. Fetch me my pants."

"Sorry, sir. Dien forbade me to."

That damn Dien had stolen every pair of trousers, every long tunic, robe, or cloak Dubric owned. Faced with the option of indecency, not to mention flaunting his bony knees, Dubric had remained in his suite, even if he had not remained in bed. He sat at his table and had papers strung all around, as well as a box of bloodied clothing. The welts on his belly no longer hurt, Brinna kept the ghosts corralled in the corner, and even his ear had stopped its wretched throbbing. Dammit, he had work to do, and only Otlee to run his errands.

"Tell Dien he is fired."

"I already did, sir. He thanked me and laughed."

Dubric grunted and flipped through his notebook again while Otlee watched him expectantly. The ghosts watched him, too. Insanity loomed around the corner. He could feel it. If he could only get rid of the ghosts and the boy, at least he could think, for King's sake.

Otlee found a chair and sat while Dubric pored through his notes. Some time later, a knock rattled the door and Otlee jumped up to answer it.

Lander Beckwith stood there, a note clutched in his hands. He looked at Otlee and squinted at Dubric. "Dubric has a message," he said to Otlee.

Otlee accepted the message and nodded his thanks. Before Beckwith could say anything, Otlee closed the door.

Dubric sipped his tea and held out his hand. "I do get to read my messages, do I not?"

Otlee shrugged and dropped the sealed note in Dubric's hand.

The green wax seal broke with a slight snap. "Tunkek on a pony," he whispered as he read. "That damned bastard!"

"Sir?" Otlee said.

"Get Dien. Tell him it is an emergency. And tell him to bring my damned pants!"

"But, sir, what happened?"

He slammed his book closed and stood, bony knees and all. "It is from Haenpar. We have been threatened with war if I do not release Risley."

"Oh, peg!" Otlee said, then turned and ran for the door.

* * *

Lars sorted scattered papers in Dubric's office, while Dien righted furniture and tried to repair Dubric's broken chair.

"Looks like a stampede came through here," Dien muttered as he brushed off his hands and stood.

Lars said nothing and Dien turned to look at him.

"Rats steal your tongue, pup?"

"No," he said without looking up. Guilt twisted in his gut. He had a pretty good idea what had come through the office, and it wasn't a stampede. Dubric had a riot all of his own. A ghostly riot. "Just trying to make sense of these papers."

Dien pulled a hammer from one of the cabinets. He knelt beside the broken chair again. "Have you ever smelled perfume in here?"

Lars glanced in the corner where Dubric had once pointed at the ghosts. "Not that I can recall."

Dien set aside the hammer. He turned to look at Lars and said, "Spill it, pup."

Lars started filing. "Nothing to spill."

"Uh-huh. And you expect me to believe that?"

Lars glanced up, then looked away. He had been ordered to keep the ghosts a secret. No one could know, not even Dien.

Dien said, "You've stared into the corners about a thousand times since we came in here, and you're filing testimonies under inventory. Something's on your mind."

"It's nothing, all right?"

Dien sat on the floor facing Lars, his wrists on his knees. "Is it Jesscea?"

Lars looked up, startled. Jesscea was Dien's second eldest daughter, thirteen summers old and pretty with thick dark hair and pale green eyes. Moergan, Trumble, and several of the other senior pages talked about her sometimes, about how she'd be of courting age soon, but he'd never… "No! Why would you think that?"

"A man worries about his daughters. And when a lad such as yourself clams up when the man happens to—"

"I have never, ever, had an improper thought about Jesscea."

"But you're coming of that age. She is, too."

Lars swallowed. "Ar-are you asking me to court your daughter?"

Dien took a deep rumbling breath and shook his head. "What I'm saying is that I'm not so old I don't remember what it's like to be young. You're a good lad. She could do much worse."

Lars blushed. "I hadn't thought about anything like that. Honest. I don't have time to think about things like that."

Dien leaned forward. "I know. You're focused on your work. But a lad your age should be noticing girls, spilling some oats now and then. Not spending all his time filing papers and running errands."

"It's my job, and I have to do my job." Lars raised his eyes. "Everything else can wait."

"Do you really believe that? Has your quest for perfection—"

"I am not questing for perfection," Lars muttered, resuming his filing.

Dien stood. "Fine. Deny it. Shit, you're no different than Dubric, holding everything inside. It's gonna eat you whole, like it has him. He chose to be that way, but you…" He shoved the broken chair upright and picked up the hammer. He knelt again and hammered the wood as he hammered his words. "I should order you to get drunk, you know. Order you to gamble, or take up smoking, or get laid. Force you to roughhouse or play a game of pick ball with the other lads. Dammit, boy, you're like a son to me—"

"At least I'm like a son to someone," Lars muttered, the papers rattling in his hands.

Dien snapped his head around and his gaze gleamed piercing and hot. "Pup, listen to me. I don't know what beast crawled up your father's ass, but you're—"

Lars stood. "I'm what? A disappointment? A total slop for brains? Worthless? Useless? Ignorant? Better off dead?"

"Does he say that piss to you?"

"He doesn't say a single pegging word to me!" Lars reddened and his hands balled into fists. "He hasn't spoken to me for almost six summers, even when he's here with Kyi Romlin. Not one blasted word! It's like I don't exist."

Dien said softly, "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"Fine. Forget you ever did, all right? Just forget the whole thing."

"I'm not going to forget," Dien said. "When he sent you here you were what, nine summers?"

Lars nodded and lowered his eyes. He had left Haenpar on his ninth birthday and had never been back. "Time to grow up," his father had said. "Dubric will make a man out of you." They were the last words his father had ever spoken to him. Upon arriving in Faldorrah he had worked long, hard hours as a junior page, been promoted rapidly, even chosen for Dubric's personal staff. At first he'd sent letters home every phase or so—addressed to his father—but his father never replied and finally Lars had given up. His mother wrote occasionally; he received a letter from her every moon or two, but never his father. Not once in nearly six summers. No matter what commendation he received, what promotion, what accomplishment, no matter how perfect his marks, Bostra Hargrove, Castellan of Haenpar, had never shown the slightest bit of interest in his son.