Dubric bowed his head in agreement but said nothing, trying to let his men come to their own conclusions.
"He's definitely educated," Otlee said. "Not only can he write, he writes well." He held the paper to the light, squinting at it. "This is parchment, not paper, right?"
Dubric nodded, checking off notes he had listed upon his initial examination of the package, and preparing to add new ones.
"Who would use parchment?" Dien asked. "We use ground wood pulp for all of our paperwork." He lifted Nella's braid and examined it, weaving it through his fingers.
"The accountants do, too," Lars muttered. "Eamonn uses parchment for some of his maps, I think."
Eamonn, Dubric noted with a slight smile. At nearly eighty summers of age and crippled, the mapmaker barely saw past his drawing boards, but he knew his papers and inks.
"Mostly lamb vellum these days," Dien said, measuring the braid against the loose bit of ribbon. "He says inks shine against it."
"This ink isn't shining," Otlee said, setting the letter on the table. "It's cheap. Cheaper than what we use, at least. It smears and fades as he writes."
Inexpensive ink, Dubric noted.
Dien sniffed the braid. "It smells like soap, even with the decay stench." Setting the hair aside, he reached for the wrapping cloth and paused, looking back at the braid and puddle of ribbon. "Risley's girl's here twice. Her ribbon and her hair. Think that's significant?"
"Maybe the killer's infatuated with her?" Otlee offered. "She is a servant, like the rest. And we still don't know why he didn't kill her."
Dubric added more notes.
Lars fiddled with some small things in his hand. "Ten thin slices of kidney," he said, setting a roundish dark bit of dried mud onto the table, "and one hunk of dirt. The girls and Meiks?"
When everyone nodded, he pulled the next trinket from his palm, a bit of white feather. "This would represent Beckwith, I'd assume." He paused, chewing his lip before dropping a silver coin on the table. "This was mine. I think. It's an old scepter with King Byreleah Grennere on it." He glanced at Otlee and shrugged. "My great-grandfather. I hadn't seen it for a few days, but I honestly can't remember if I had it with me on patrol that night."
"You think he might have stolen it?" Dubric asked, scratching in his notebook. "From your rooms?"
"It's not impossible," Lars said. "We never lock the door, and people are coming and going all the time. Heck, I'm almost never there. I'll check with Trumble. He'd know if other things have turned up missing."
"Is there a way to find out whose parchment it is?" Otlee asked.
"I know how," Dien said, paling. He glanced over his shoulder and said, "That damned mirror."
Otlee tilted his head. " 'Mirror'? What 'mirror'?"
The mirror! Dubric wrote, underlining the word. Why, for King's sake, did I not think of that earlier?
Leaving Dien standing near the table, Dubric walked to his mirror while the boys followed him. "Sett Nuobir made it a long time ago, intending to use it for communication, or to watch over loved ones far away." He pulled the cover off, letting it fall to the floor, and the mirror shone, polished and well-tended. "It was supposed to be destroyed, but Nuobir could not bear to smash it. I have had it ever since."
"How can it show us who this belongs to?" Otlee asked.
Dubric had the boys stand on either side of him. "Like this," he said, holding the parchment in his right hand like an offering. "Show me."
Their reflection wavered, flickering, and seemed to move backward and to the right until Lord Brushgar's image appeared. He lay on a divan with a blanket across his lap and his mouth hanging open, drooling through his snores.
Otlee grinned as he leaned toward the glass. "Who could get parchment from Lord Brushgar?"
Dubric lowered his hand and Brushgar faded away. "I have no idea. To the best of my knowledge, his parchment is in his desk, in his office."
Dien chuckled. "How can you tell he has a desk, let alone parchment? There's nothing in there but a pile of rubble."
Otlee squinted at the mirror. "Could the killer have pilfered it? Who goes into Lord Brushgar's office?"
Dubric considered the idea. "I suppose that would shorten the list considerably." He tapped his chin, thinking. "Josceline cleans for him, and of course the accountants are always there. His squires, Friar Bonne, the herald, Flavin—"
"Don't get too close, Otlee," Dien said. "It's dangerous."
Entranced, Otlee took another step forward. "Amazing! Hey, look! There's something written along the edge of the frame."
"Merely a message left by Nuobir, warning users to be careful," Dubric said.
"It might be 'amazing', but it's not fair to spy on innocent people." Reddening, Lars stuffed his hands into his pockets. "I mean, everyone needs their privacy, don't they?" He walked to the table and started rooting through the clues again.
Dubric glanced at Lars, then looked away. He remembered what it had been like to be young and healthy, and without feminine companionship. The thought of someone spying on his private time would have been embarrassing for him, too.
Turning back toward the mirror, Dubric's attention settled upon a pewter box on his shelf. He nearly stumbled as the realization hit him. The sliver of wood! Goddess damned son-of-a-whore!
"There may be one more thing we can use the mirror to trace." He walked to the shelf and lifted the pewter box. The sliver of wood he had found in Claudette's chest lay inside, tucked carefully in a folded bit of paper. Hope singing in his heart, he turned back to his men.
"I think I found something, too." Lars looked over his shoulder and motioned the others over.
"What is it, pup?"
"A hair," Lars said, flattening the bloody wrapper. "Just one. It's inside a crease." He met Dubric's gaze.
"And it doesn't seem to match any of the victims, or any of us."
They gathered around, examining the bloody cloth and the single nearly-black hair. Too short and too dark to be Nella's, too straight to be Ennea's or the peddler's daughter's, the hair clung to the cloth as if it wanted to hide in the coarse weave.
"Good eye, pup," Dien said, patting him on the back.
Dubric picked the hair from the cloth. It resisted for a moment, then broke free. "Two definite clues and a way to trace them. Perhaps we will finally finish this."
His men standing beside him, he held the sliver before the mirror.
"Show me."
A moment later Dien cursed and pounded the wall. Otlee sagged, shaking his head. Dubric held the hair next, but the image in the mirror did not change.
Lars took a shaking breath. "Now that we have proof, what would you have us do, sir?"
Scowling, Dubric turned away from Risley's reflection. "Capture him alive, and prepare for war."
* * *
Nella, Ker, and Mirri finished the last bed and privy room of the day and they restocked the supply cart for tomorrow. Stef walked by, sneering, with an armload of rumpled sheets, and Mirri stuck out her tongue.
"She's just jealous," Mirri said, returning to the task at hand. "It's not every day one of us gets courted, especially by someone like Lord Risley."
Ker shoved towels into the lowest shelf. "He's nice," she said, "but not as nice as…" She shrugged, grunting.
Mirri giggled, nudging Ker with her elbow. "When are you going to tell us who this mystery fella is? At least we know who Nella's running away with."
Ker said nothing more, but Nella blushed as she glanced at Risley. "We're just going to hear a minstrel in the village. It's not like he's whisking me away to Waterford or anything." He smiled at her, gazing into her eyes, and she felt very warm.
Mirri babbled on, swooning at the notion of being whisked away to Waterford, but Nella barely heard. The memory of the kiss still left her giddy.
In a daze, she walked with her friends back to their room with Risley and the two new guards following them like shadows. While her friends went in and Stef sulked off to gossip and
gripe with others, Risley stopped Nella outside her door and grasped her hand.
"I'll be back in about half a bell or so. Will that give you enough time?" He kissed her fingers and gazed into her eyes while passing maids gave them furious glances.
"I'll be ready," she replied.
He smiled, gently squeezed her hand, and left.
He had taken no more than four steps when someone grabbed Nella's arm and yanked her into their room.
Dari closed the door, cutting off the curious stares of the others. "You must tell us what happened last night."
Nella shrugged and leaned against the wall. "Nothing happened."
"I know that's not true," Mirri said, giggling. "You sat with him at dinner, slept in his suite. Something happened and we want all the juicy details."
"All of them," Dari said, sitting on Nella's bed. "How was it? Was it like you imagined?"
"Did it hurt?" Ker asked, leaning forward.
"Did what hurt?" Nella blinked, shuddering at the repulsive memory of hot fingers snatching at her hair. She knew her friends were just trying to remain distracted from the horror of the past days and she decided that she might as well play along even if it meant certain embarrassment. Not that she had much choice, with Dari and Mirri both badgering her.
"Sleeping with Risley, silly," Dari said. "We've seen how he's been looking at you. The fire in his eyes could burn the castle down. For Goddess's sake, he kissed your hand right outside this door, in front of everybody! The secret is definitely out, Nella. We know you've lain with him."
Mirri lay on her belly, her feet entwining in the air. "In case you hadn't heard, Ker met this guy, and they might, and we, er… she is curious. So tell us, um… her all about it." Mirri tittered her amusement, wriggling on the bed. "If we wait for Ker to explain it all, we'll never learn anything!"
Blushing, Ker smacked Mirri with a ragged pillow.
Nella started brushing her hair. "Honest, there's nothing to tell."
"Oh, there's something to tell," Dari said, leaning forward. "You spent the entire day and night in his suite. Two floor maids told everyone he made them dress you in his shirt and that you were naked in his bed."
Nella stopped brushing, her breath catching in her throat. No one was supposed to know that!
Mirri and Dari burst out laughing. "Goddess, Nella! A goose just walk over your grave?"
She blustered and finished tidying her hair. "Nothing happened, really." Ignoring their curious stares, she slipped off her uniform and pulled on her best dress, a worn and faded garment that had seen better days. "Do you think this will be all right?"
"It'll be fine," Dari said. "And you're changing the subject."
"We didn't lie together," Nella said, fidgeting. "He slept on the divan. Honest."
Mirri giggled, "But you slept in his bed?"
Nella turned, gaping at Mirri's audacity. "I slept. Just slept. It was big and soft, like a giant pillow, and I slept. He never touched me and was a perfect gentleman the entire night."
Dari rooted through a box in the corner, searching for shoes. "But he kissed you, didn't he? At least once?"
Nella's cheeks burned and her lips throbbed for a moment before she licked them. She tied up her dress, then smoothed the skirt. "Can I borrow your cloak, Dari? Mine's rather ragged."
"Sure," Dari said, holding up a pair of shoes. "And he did kiss you. It's about time."
Mirri leapt from the bed, squealing. "He actually, really, truly kissed you?"
Nella shrugged, sitting on her bed to put the borrowed shoes on. "It… I…" She shook her head and tried to compose herself. This is getting too personal. Clearing her throat, she pushed out, "I shouldn't say anything."
Ker sat beside her and Dari sat at her feet, grinning. "How many times? Did you keep count?"
"Just once, but really, considering all that's happened lately, with Plien and all, it's not something—"
Mirri squealed, jumping around the room. "Lord Risley kissed you!"
Dari gave her an annoyed glare, then turned back to Nella. "Just one kiss? And now you're courting? What about the debt?"
"Musta been some kiss," Ker said.
Oh, it was, Nella thought. As she finished getting ready, she tried to fend off the blizzard of questions, pushing aside the dark memories of two nights ago.
* * *
Dubric released the peace bond on his sword. He, Dien, and Lars walked down the third-floor-west hall, fifty lengths or so behind Risley, and the ghosts paraded along behind. Their quarry hurried to his suite and seemed unusually chipper.
Lars and Dien unfastened their swords, as well. "Only one room inside has a lock," Dien said. "His office. It's mostly full of junk, though. A saddle, box of armor, things like that. There's nowhere for him to hide. One razor is in a leather bag in the lowest drawer of his armoire and the other is in the top right drawer in the privy room. He has some papers and a dagger on a bedside table, and all his swords are kept near the entrance. Those are all of his weapons. With luck, he'll be unarmed."
"So once we're in, we've got to get him quickly," Lars said. "Guilty or not, this is not going to go over well with his father, Lord Brushgar, or the King."
"Then we will keep it quiet. They will not need to know until we are ready to tell them," Dubric said, holding out his arm to stop his men. Risley opened his door and slipped inside as if everything were right in his world. He even nodded cheerfully to a passing floor maid, although the girl shied away. Still grinning, he closed the door without a backward glance.
"Bastard sure is confident," Dien said.
"Maybe he's not thinking about the murders," Lars said. "I heard some of the maids gossiping today about Risley and Nella going to hear the minstrel at the Dancing Sheep tonight."
"You think maybe that's why there were so many clues alluding to Nella?" Dien asked. "He's planning on taking her somewhere private to have his bit of fun?"
Weaving slowly between the few people walking down the hall, Dubric said, "While I would not consider the Dancing Sheep to be private, there are certainly a great deal of dark, private places between here and there."
They stood outside Risley's door for a few moments while passersby gave them angry and disgusted looks. "About time," an elderly lady said, tottering past.
Lars glanced her way, then said softly, "I'm sorry, sir, but I can't believe that Risley would harm Nella. I've seen them together. It's just not possible."
"Anything's possible, pup," Dien replied, trying the latch. Unlocked.
"Maybe so," Lars said, "but I still don't think he'd hurt her."
Dubric frowned at the small crowd forming in the hall and sighed, rubbing his eyes. Even his ghosts insisted upon remaining to watch the show. They tried to bother the other onlookers, but succeeded merely in making a few shiver. "We have delayed long enough. Let us finish this," Dubric said. "And break it down. I want to scare him."
Dien kicked open the door and bits of molding flew every which way.
"What in the seven hells?" Risley yelled from the bowels of his suite as the three rushed forward. Stripped to the waist, he burst from his bath chamber with soap on his face and a razor in his hand. His hair dripped into his eyes and he wiped it away with his free hand, standing dumbstruck in the middle of the hall.
"Drop that thing and drop it now!" Dien barked, pulling his sword.
"What? What 'thing'? For Goddess's sake, I'm just getting—"
"Now!" Dubric said, pulling his sword as well.
Risley blinked, astounded, then closed the razor, soap suds and all. "I'm shaving. Just shaving. That's not illegal, is it?" Slowly, his eyes locked on Dubric's, he set the razor on the floor and backed a step away. "Can't I prepare for my evening without you scaring the daylights out of me?"
"Not tonight," Dien said, knocking the razor toward Dubric with the tip of his sword. "Face the wall."
Risley's eyes narrowed. "What? Is this a joke? I have plans for tonight! Can't this madness wait? For Goddess'
s sake, do you have any idea—?"
Dien shoved him backward, spinning him around. "No frigging joke, pretty boy! I said face the pegging wall!"
Risley's soapy cheek smeared the painted plaster. "I don't want to cause trouble. There's been a misunderstanding. No reason to get upset."
While Dien held Risley against the wall, Dubric retrieved the razor and handed it to Lars. "You are hereby charged with murder, and we have eleven damned reasons to get upset."
Lars opened the razor and examined it, wiping the worst of the suds on his trousers. "It's clean."
"Of course it's clean! I've been shaving! And I haven't murdered anyone!"
Dien slammed him into the wall and Risley's ribs creaked audibly. "We've got proof, so shut your fool yap."
Risley pursed his lips for a moment, then said, "Whatever proof you have has misled you. I never received a razor and I haven't murdered anyone. I swear."
"Somehow I don't believe you," Dien said. He leaned close, hissing in Risley's ear, "You liked sending us that disgusting package? Get your jollies off?"
"What 'package'?" Risley's eyes rolled toward Dubric, pleading for understanding. "What is he talking about?"
Dubric stared at Risley without feeling the least bit of empathy. "It is too late for these games. Take him to my office."
"Yessir!" Dien said, shoving Risley away from the wall and sending him reeling down the hall.
Risley caught his balance near his bedroom door and said, "At least let me wipe my face and put on a shirt before you parade me through the castle like a prized goat."
"Lars," Dubric said, and the boy nodded, slipping past Risley and entering the bedroom.
"Oh no," Risley sighed, suddenly deflating, as he looked through his bedroom door. "It's not what it looks like."
Lars came out a moment later with a bundle of papers tucked into a battered leather satchel and a pair of shirts clenched in his hand. One was spattered with blood. "It was laying on the bed," he said, staring at the shirt with astonishment and horror. "Right there, in plain sight."
Handing the bloody shirt to Dubric, he tossed the clean one at Risley. "And to think I've been defending you. You bastard."
Elli and Ennea laughed and pointed at the stained shirt, doubling over in their mirth.
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