Ghosts in the Snow Read Free Page B

of papers, scrolls, and books onto the dusty wooden floor, then shot a nasty glare at Dubric. When he tried to control the avalanche, he only made the problem worse.
    Dubric hid a smile as he stepped inside. After fifteen summers of fruitless struggle, Josceline's mother had admitted defeat when faced with the ever-expanding mess of the office. Dubric doubted if anyone had cleaned it for two decades or more. The chaos of written records scattered among piles of antique gears and levers barely left room to stand. Jelke, the head accountant, gave Dubric a grim nod and continued his diatribe.
    Nigel Brushgar slouched behind the mountain of papers on his desk, which were weighed down with a rusted, tubular bit of archaic machinery. He had always shown an interest in the mechanisms and accoutrements of the ancients, preferring collecting over actual use and research. Wire spectacles twirled in his thick fingers, and he sighed and waved Dubric in while Jelke warbled numbers and pointed to marks in his ledger.
    Jelke's voice trembled against the papers on the desk. "I tell you, we have to raise taxes! Now. We're forty thousand crowns behind expected levels—"
    "We've had a harsh winter, and are running low on supplies as it is," Brushgar muttered as he examined a speck on his lenses. "I'm
not
raising taxes in the middle of a harsh winter."
    "Spring's only six, maybe eight phases away," the accountant by the door said as he shoved the pile of papers under the chair. "The winter will be over by the time the people pay."
    Brushgar slammed his fist on the table and the papers tottered but did not fall. "When will you get it through your skulls that
I'm not raising taxes
!"
    Jelke fluttered his hands near his face and leaned forward. "You haven't raised taxes in
five summers
, my lord. We are falling behind in income projections. Even Pyrinn has more income than we do and our land is much more prosperous."
    Brushgar lifted his paperweight and absently opened and closed the rear lever with his thumb while embracing the crumbling grip in his palm. "Egeslic taxes his people to death. They're starving, for Goddess's sake! Starving and dying, all for taxes and fees. I will not do that to my people, projections be damned. Haenpar taxes
less
than we do and Lord Romlin manages just fine. If we need more money, find a way for me to breed meatier sheep or harvest more grain. Malanna's blood, find more uses for granite or wool; Goddess knows we've got plenty of both around here. I don't care what you do, but
do not under any circumstances
raise taxes." He waved the mechanism toward the door, shooing the accountants like geese. "Now get out of my sight. Dubric needs to speak to me."
    Brushgar dropped the artifact on his desk and lumbered to Dubric. "A problem?" Brushgar asked as the accountants gathered their ledgers and closed the door behind them.
    Dubric stared forward and he snapped to attention with his feet spaced apart and his back straight. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword and he noticed Brushgar glance at it. Knowing that Brushgar would read trouble in his deliberate stance, he had hoped to brace his lord for what was to come. The last murder, nearly five summers ago, had been a simple domestic problem. Dubric had handled it quietly, with minimal fuss. It had not required this level of notification. A possible repeat murderer was a different matter entirely, and the victims were members of the castle staff. "Yes, milord," he said, his voice calm and steady. "Murder."
    Brushgar stopped. His right hand reached for a sword he had stopped carrying forty summers ago. He drew in a breath, his eyes wide and startled.
    Dubric knew Brushgar was not the only one who had preferred to live under the belief that nothing bad ever happened in Faldorrah. "In the courtyard. A milkmaid. Elli Cunliffe."
    Brushgar took a breath and gathered his bulk as if for a fight. "That's not all, is it?"
    Dubric took a breath, considering his answer. "No, milord.