Ghosts in the Snow (6 page)

"Can you believe this rude little bastard?" a potter said. "Acting like he's the lord hisself or somethin'."

Dien shrugged. He continued to look at the papers, and remained calm and unflustered. "Lars is in charge here, and I recommend you pay close frigging attention to what he says."

Most of the people in the room glanced at the broadsword strapped to Dien's hip and retreated a step.

Otlee looked at Lars with adoring respect. "What shall I do?"

Lars opened the door to Dubric's private office and motioned Dien inside. "Take a break, get a drink, and grab something to eat. Be back in half a bell, all right?"

As Otlee left, Dien lumbered into the office and Lars followed.

* * *

Nella finished her collections with minimal fuss. This phase had gleaned her an extra six crown three scepters from her odd jobs. She smiled. It had been a productive phase, and she'd had no deadbeats. She found a quiet, cold table near a sleet-spattered window in the great hall and ignored the people around her. While most gossiped about the murders and ate their supper, Nella stacked and sorted the coins, counted them twice, and tallied the numbers against last phase's total, just as her father had taught her. Smiling at the money, she pushed a wayward strand of dark brown hair behind her ear. She'd netted over eleven crown this phase. Perhaps, if she was lucky, she had only one more phase of debt ahead of her. Only one more phase until freedom. She sighed and watched the sleet for a moment.

She arranged and folded the money in a scrap of cloth, tied it tight, and slipped the whole bundle into her pocket. A bounce in her step and a smile on her face, she pressed through the crowded hall again and went in search of Risley.

She found him on the third floor of the west wing. Risley was tall, dark-haired, and self-assured, understandably popular among the ladies. He headed to the main hall for supper and grinned as soon as he saw her. She smiled back and hurried toward him. She only met him on wage day, and only in public. The comments and gossip were bad enough without adding private meetings to the fire.

Clotting the flow of traffic, they stood facing each other in a crowded hall and the angry glances and comments of the crowd disappeared.

"I have the payment," she said, holding out her parcel.

He accepted the money, slipping it into the pocket of his cloak without giving it a second glance. "Can you join me for dinner in the great hall?"

"No, I can't. Not tonight. I have a huge pile of mending I need to finish before bed." She had agreed several phases ago to meet him for dinner once her debt was done, after she was truly free. She often wondered whether it was anticipation of freedom or the dinner feeding her hurry to pay him back. In her heart she knew it was the dinner. Just him, just her.

"Are you certain?" he asked and eased closer to her. A cook glared at them then hurried on, shaking her head.

Nella lowered her eyes and blushed, fighting the urge to back away. "Yes, I'm sure. I'll finish paying in another phase or two. Surely you can wait that long." His familiar scent, of horses and leather and pipe smoke, made her heart dance.

"I don't want to wait," he whispered in her ear. "Dine with me. Tonight." His breath warmed her cheek. Two young ladies shot dagger glances at Nella and raised their noses in the air, then they, too, were lost to the crowd.

"Oh, Risley," she laughed. "You do this every phase."

"I keep hoping you'll accept," he replied, grinning.

She smiled back. "I will, when my debt's done."

"Promise?"

"I promise. But I have to get this done, really."

"All right." Risley started to take her hand, then seemed to change his mind. "I guess I'll see you next wage day, then, right?"

Nothing could keep her from meeting him again. "Yes."

This time he did take her hand. "I need you to do something for me," he said as he stroked her fingers. It was the first time he had touched her since the journey from Pyrinn.

"What?" she asked, still oblivious to the unpleasant glances and mumbled comments. She could see nothing but him, and that was fine with her.

His fingers stroked hers. They were warm and gentle. Just like she remembered. "Be careful. Please.
Extra
careful."

Everyone had heard about the two dead girls. "I will be careful, don't worry. I promise." As much as she wanted to stay, she had to leave before she added more wood to the rumor fire. "I'll see you next phase, all right?"

He dropped her hand and she smiled her good-bye, then hurried into the crowd.

* * *

Mirri glanced up as a man passing through the dinner crowd bumped her chair. Fluffing her dark curly hair, she smiled at him and turned back to Nella with a happy sigh as he walked away. "How much do you have left?"

"About twelve crown," Nella said and forked up some beans. "Maybe only one more phase, surely no longer than two.
If
I can find enough mending."

Plien winked at her. "I'll be glad when the mending's done. You stay up half the night and I need my beauty sleep."

Nella shook her head and sipped her cider as she tried not to laugh.

Around a mouthful of poultry, Dari said, "She has to sit in the hall to do it, you dingle. Helgith took our light away. If you were ever in the room, you'd know."

"Polishing is worse than mending," Stef said, grumbling into her mug of cider. A thin girl with dull hair and angry eyes, she leaned back and glowered. "Mending is quiet, at least. Polish stinks."

"No polishing this phase," Nella said. "I promise."

Mirri giggled, her round cheeks turning pink. "There's nothing left to polish! I walked by the ballroom the other day and every candlestick gleamed like magic in there."

"They better," Stef muttered,
thunking
her mug on the table. "She polished one hundred and thirty-two of the damned things."

"One fifty-six," Nella said. "Josceline gave me two whole crown to polish the two dozen in Lord Brushgar's suite. I couldn't bring those back to our room."

"Be still my heart," Stef said, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms over her chest. "Two whole crown!"

"Oh, shut up," Dari said, giving Stefan evil glare. "At least she's trying. All you do in your spare time is sleep."

"It's all right," Nella said. "I know I'm a bother."

Dari shook her head. "You're nothing of the kind."

"I sure don't mind," Mirri said, batting her eyes and resting her chin on her hand. "I think it's romantic."

Plien shrugged and sipped her cider, her eyes seeking out interested men, as always. Beside her, Stef glowered.

Nella glanced across the table to Ker. Small, shrinking, and quiet, she stared at her plate, fiddled with her steel bracelet, and grunted. Ker rarely said more than a single word or two.

"Ker don't care, either," Dari said. "Looks like you're odd one out again, Stef."

Stef pushed her plate away and stood. "Fine. I'll be odd one out. Nothing new there. But when Helgith jumps all our asses because Little Miss Perfect broke curfew to do extra work, or falls asleep on the job, don't come crying to me."

"We won't," Dari said, her voice as sweet as apple blossoms in a spring breeze, and her eyes as hard as Faldorrahn granite.

Nella shook her head and sighed, returning to her supper.

* * *

Grandfather's old cloak works perfectly
, he thought as he chewed a mouthful of bread and contemplated the supper crowd.

A relic from the war, his grandfather had stripped the warm, woolen cloak off a dying mage and had kept it secret, spiriting it home. Not only was it prone to repelling rainwater and shedding stains—once dried, most fell off as dust or were easily brushed away—it provided a unique perspective on living things.

They glowed.

While wearing the cloak he could see any detail he wanted: bare skin behind clothing, internal organs, the flutter of a frightened heart. No one knew, no one noticed. Who would give a man in a humble woolen cloak a second thought, or glance?

Grandfather had enjoyed entertaining the children by using the cloak to tell what trinkets they had in their pockets or how many fingers they held behind their backs. His best trick though, the one that made the children clap with glee, was when grandfather, and everything he held, disappeared.

Grandfather had been a fool. A kindly, shortsighted fool. Such tricks were not meant for entertaining children.

Such glorious colors
, he thought with a smile,
all because of the cloak
.

While wearing it, he saw every blue-tinged bone, every crimson muscle, even the flow of golden blood through their veins. Perfectly lovely, all these beings wandering through their meaningless lives. The things he could see! Not ten lengths from him, Lady Ellianne Thremayne talked with Lady Melline Jespert over dinner and brandy. Lady Thremayne was perhaps three or four moons pregnant. An unmarried lady—such a scandal! He hoped she wasn't drinking the brandy on purpose. Brandy did such unfortunate things to babies.

He smiled and resumed eating. Despite the scandal, ladies and their problems did not interest him; they were simply not worth his trouble. Servant girls, however, were perfectly wonderful to behold. A pair of serving wenches walked by and he watched them. One had lost three back teeth on the left side, above her cracked jaw bone. Likely the fault of her easy-to-anger suitor, the damaged jaw surely made speaking painful. He wondered how well she could scream and he smiled as he added her name to the list in his head. He sought out other girls, adding names as he saw fit, and smiled at a group of linen maids who had settled around a table not far away.

He knew the six girls of this group quite well. One was already prominently featured on his list, and another, a dark-haired morsel and surely the prettiest girl in the castle, had captivated his attention and desire since he first saw her. He licked his lips as he looked at her, then drew his attention to other servant girls before she noticed his amorous stare.

They glowed beautifully in their youth—the power of their organs pulsating in their bodies, their bones straight and strong. Nella laughed over her meager supper tray, her face golden with all the blood rushing to it. The plump, giggly girl at the end of the table pretended to swoon, fanning her face, and he felt a flash of sadness that she would not be on his list in the foreseeable future. Surely a plump girl would be tasty. Sweet and tender, not salty.

He watched them as he ate, and sought other girls just as delightful. What a pleasant supper in the great hall. Such perfect variety. Such succulent morsels. He looked all around him, adding this girl and that to his evolving list until he finished his supper and could linger no longer. Before he stood, he glanced at his feet.

A shadow of stain from two drops of blood on the toe of his left boot remained, even though he had wiped them off before coming to supper. They glimmered gold and dim against the green boot leather. That snot-nosed page Lars had missed them during questioning, but they had been there, plain as day. Two spots. Fytte's blood. Dubric wouldn't have missed them. The bastard might be old, but he was a long way from dumb.

He shrugged as he stood, and looked at the perfectly delightful banquet of girls in the great hall. He smiled and ran his tongue over his lips. Dubric had left the questioning to Lars, and Lars had not noticed. All the more perfect luck for him, and for the girls on his list.

* * *

The night spread out before him, cold and blue purple, no different than daylight with the cloak. The horse beneath his backside glowed golden and red and its breath plumed green. The cottage lay ahead, a delicious blackness peeking between blue trees.

The horse shied, tossing its head, but he didn't care. "Get a move on!" he said, slamming his heels into the beast's flanks. The horse jumped, took a few awkward steps, then whinnied in fear. "Damn wretched beast!" He cursed and kicked it again, gaining three more steps toward his goal.

Near to panic, the horse refused to go farther despite the beating, so he slid off with the reins clutched in his hands. Cursing under his breath, he tied the useless beast to a tree and set off on foot. Only a couple of hundred lengths to go, all of it sloppy with mud and half-melted sleet. Explaining the mess might prove bothersome, but no matter. He could not stay away, not tonight.

The blackness of the cottage blossomed gloriously and he smiled. He opened the door and peered inside, the stench like perfume. He paused long enough to light a lamp, delaying his visit by moments, then strode to her.

He had met her on the road, a thief, a strumpet, a gypsy, sweet and dark and comely. She had showcased her wares, then refused to deliver on their promise. A mistake she would never make again.

She lay among the desiccated corpses of a few dogs, a rabbit, a suckling pig—creatures he barely remembered—her once beckoning body graying and cold. Since she resembled the castle's prettiest girl, he had granted her request for a ride to town. But he did not offer rides for free, not even to a shining smile, and he had demanded a trade. A ride for a ride. Laughing, she had refused him. Her, a worthless road whore! He licked his lips as he remembered the spasm in her throat. She had fought while he took her payment, until he showed her the knife. Then she had screamed.

"I had to choke you," he muttered, kneeling beside her. "You left me no choice."

She made no reply, just continued to stare at the ceiling with her one remaining eye. The other was long gone. It had tasted delightful, like a candied pecan.

He stood again and stretched. All those summers of watching girls like her, disgusting, cheap whores, and then the excitement he'd felt when he finally dared to make her pay. But she had ruined the moment. She had fought, and died, far too quickly.

And he, lost in his passion, had missed it.

Her death had not made him whole, but instead had left him wanting, starving. The filthy whore.

He pulled his blade from his pocket and peered at it for a moment, the blood-crusted steel brightening in the lamplight. His gaze moved to the sagging, ashen skin of her face, to her bruised and crushed throat. "I am improving, despite your failings."