Ghosts in the Snow Read Free Page A

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