Ghosts in the Snow

by Tamara S Jones

  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.

  "That's just the way it is," Lars finally said without rubbing at his leaking eyes. "We'd better get back to work."

  "You listen to me, pup—" Dien started, but Otlee burst through the door.

  * * *

  This is impossible! Lars thought, trotting down the hall with Dubric's pants clenched in his hands. No one except Nella has visited Risley, and she's searched every time she leaves. If not her, who told the Romlins?

  He rounded a corner and skidded to a stop. A pair of maids were chatting with the herald, giggling at his awkward flirtations.

  What luck, Lars thought. Beckwith delivered the message to Dubric. Maybe he knows something. "May I speak with you a moment, please?" he called out, moving forward again.

  Beckwith turned, grinning. "Of course, young Master Hargrove. What service may I provide?"

  Lars sidled close to Beckwith and the maids gave him a curious yet mildly annoyed glance. "This is a private conversation, ladies," he said, calmly waiting for them to depart.

  One put her hand on her hip and the other frowned, but they left. The first looked over her shoulder and said, "See you later then, Lander. Have fun with the boy."

  Beckwith watched them go, sighing, then returned his attention to Lars. He looked Lars over top to bottom and sneered. "Is there a particular reason you're carrying a pair of trousers about in public? It is most unseemly. Surely you are old enough to control your bladder without carrying around spare clothing."

  Lars felt his smile freeze upon his face. Bladder control, my arse. You're just miffed because I chased off the girls. "No, there's no particular reason. You delivered a message to Dubric a short time ago. Who gave it to you?"

  Beckwith contemplated him, and one eyebrow raised in an arc that mimicked the feather curving from his hat. "I do not see how that is any of your concern. Messages are private matters, after all, and our castellan's correspondence deserves discreet handling. I was not aware he'd made you his secretary."

  "I am his page," Lars said, wondering if Dien would receive this level of asinine behavior. "And despite what you may think, I am authorized to throw people who refuse to answer my questions in gaol, especially those with snobbish attitudes who have information I require. So, Mister Beckwith, I suggest you tell me what I need to know or I may be forced to inform your wife of your incarceration along with your animated conversation with those two maids." He smiled brightly and added, "All in the interest of our continuing investigation, of course."

  Beckwith's gray eyes grew cold but his sneer never faded. He stared at Lars for a long moment. "Of course," he said at last, licking his dry lips. "The message was brought to the castle by a man in gray robes. I did not see his face and he did not speak, but he rode a large horse. A warhorse, if I am not mistaken."

  Lars resisted his urge to take notes. "Did you notice anything about his horse?"

  "No," Beckwith said, staring at Lars. "Are you finished with me?"

  "You may go."

  Gesturing grandly with his hat, Beckwith bowed with a flourish until his immaculately combed blond head nearly reached the level of Lars's knees. He backed away, bowing again and again, while nearby people snickered.

  Arrogant idiot, Lars thought, then he continued to Dubric's suite.

  * * *

  " '… whereupon Garian looked into the faire poise that w
as Liria's countenance. How may well he guide this girl into the nadir of the abyss, yet how may well he abscond her? He felt a love for her that had not breathed life for aeons long past. Her tresses were reminiscent of the rays of the setting sun, her skin silky as a tranquil mere. She moved with the elegance of breeze, and her tone was the soundest instrument.

  " ' "I cannot consent your leave, by foot or by heart," Garian spoke at long last… ' "

  Nella paused, yawning, and turned the page.

  Risley squeezed her hand. "You should go to bed, love," he said. "Get some rest."

  Her backside felt cold and her neck and eyes ached. "I'd rather stay here."

  "Go to bed, love," he said, releasing her hand and standing. "I'll be all right."

  Sighing, she stood and popped her back, pulling her hand from the slot along the bottom of his door. She had swept the length of floor before his cell clean of straw and muck, but the cold dampness, and the encroaching bugs, made her shudder. She could return to normalcy and dry the seat of her dress and wash her hands whenever she wanted. Risley had no such luxury.

  "Is there anything you'd like me to bring tomorrow?" she asked, smiling at his partially obscured face.

  "No, you're doing too much already." He grasped her hand and held it to his lips, kissing her fingers. "Goodnight, love. Sweet dreams."

  "You, too," she replied. With one last glance, she tucked the book under her arm and walked to the door.

  She pounded, three firm taps, and the guard pulled it open.

  He looked at her grimy hand and damp dress. "Now, missy, ye sure yer all right? He didn't hurt ye none?"

  "I'm fine, really," she said. "Mister?…" She waited, hoping he'd respond, but he didn't. He had never told her his name and it felt odd to not know it.

  He frowned, stepping aside to motion her through the door, then closed and locked it. "Dubric said to let ye do this, but it worries me greatly, missy. That it does. He's kilt purty girls like you. Nearly a dozen, I hear."

  "I know." She sagged against the door and sniffled back a sob. "He won't hurt me, but if he does, it will be my own fault."

  "Oh, missy, don't ye be cryin'," the gaol keeper said. He wrapped his arm over her shoulder and led her through the gaol. "I never meant to make ye cry."

  "I'm all right," she said, offering him a hesitant smile. "Can I keep the book down here again tonight?"

  " 'Course ye can," he said. Taking it gently from her hands, he put it on a shelf in his room. "Be right here by the door when ye come tomorrow."

  She nodded her thanks and wiped her nose. Her hands shaking and her head held high, she left the gaol and hurried up the stairs. She wondered if Risley would live through tomorrow, for the gallows in the north courtyard were nearly completed.

  * * *

  Pants in hand, Lars entered Dubric's suite. "I ran into Beckwith on the way here. The note came from a gray-robed man on a gray-covered warhorse."

  Dien frowned at Lars. "We know who it's from, pup."

  Lars's face fell and he handed Dubric the pants. "Oh. Well, who's it from?"

  Dien checked the sword at his hip. "Never you mind. You and Otlee stay here."

  "What? Why?"

  His knobby knees respectfully covered again, Dubric said, "Because we said so." He grabbed his sharpest sword and strapped it to his hip. "If we do not come back, Otlee knows what to do." Looking at Dien instead of Lars's bewilderment, Dubric asked, "Are you ready to go?"

  Dien clenched a fist, pushing on the fingers to pop his knuckles. "Yes, sir."

  "Then let us get this madness over with."

  "No," Lars said, gritting his teeth, his hands balling into fists. "Why can Otlee know but not me? Who the heck is it?"

  "No one you need to worry about just yet, pup," Dien said, patting Lars on the shoulder. "Let us deal with it first."

  Dubric felt a flash of sympathy for Lars's confusion and anger, but the lad had no business being where they intended to go, let alone seeing who they were going to see. "We will be back within a bell or so," he said, clasping on his cloak. "You will know soon enough." Without looking back, he left the suite and Dien followed behind him.

  Flavin held two horses ready at the main doors and both men mounted, reigning the beasts around in the courtyard. South they flew, through the gate and down the merchants' road to the village, while gritty snow fell stinging from the sky.

  They reigned in at the Dancing Sheep. The air near the alehouse was filled with golden light and golden music.

  After tying his horse, Dien popped his knuckles again. "Don't you worry, sir. I'm sober. I won't kill the bastard."

  Dubric clenched his teeth. "Business or personal first?"

  "Personal." Dien shoved through the door while countless eyes turned to look at him. "Marlee!" he shouted over the bard's music. "Pour me and the boss a cider tonight, willya?"

  The bar matron laughed, tipping her pipe toward him. "Sarea keeping you on a short chain?"

  "Yep, and I'm a damn lucky man," he said, lumbering through the crowded room with Dubric walking in his wake.

  They spotted their quarry, a compact man in nondescript gray robes, standing in the back corner and smoking. The man nodded their way, then disappeared out the back door.

  Dubric and Dien followed.

  * * *

  Bostra emptied his pipe and slipped into the shadows near the privy. "Thanks for coming so quickly. We're hoping this negotiation will be mutually—"

  Pain shot through his mouth and he found himself on the wet, freezing ground, his pipe landing Goddess knew where. What the peg?

  Dien took a single step forward, yanking off his sword belt. "Get your ass up. You've got about two blinks before my patience runs dry and I decide to kill you." He threw his sword to Dubric and balled both massive hands into fists.

  Dubric calmly walked back into the Dancing Sheep, closing the door behind him.

  Bostra shifted his jaw around. He tasted blood and it felt like several teeth had been knocked loose. "What are you—?"

  "Get up."

  Bostra clenched his aching teeth and stood slowly, watching Dien. "Do I get to know why you've decided to assault me?"

  "Because you're a goat-raping bastard," Dien whispered.

  Bostra tried to block the blow and deliver one of his own, but Dien was amazingly fast for a man of such bulk. Bostra barely stood upright before he found himself in the muck again.

  "Damn it, Dien! What's this about?" he snapped as he spat out a mouthful of blood.

  "Get up. Only two down. I still have four more to go."

  Bostra wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "The seven hells, I will." Watching Dien, he reached for his dagger.

  "Suits me," Dien said, snatching Bostra from the ground as if he weighed no more than a mug of ale.

  Goddess, he is fast, was all Bostra had time to think before the backhand sent him flying against the side of the privy. The dagger clattered away.

  "Halfway there," Dien muttered, moving close. He kicked the dagger and it skittered into the dark. "I should have known you'd try to cheat. After what you did."

  Bostra shoved himself to his hands and knees. His vision faded to nothing, flickered, faded, then came back again. He panted and turned his head, hoping it stayed attached to his neck. "What in the hells did I do?"

  Dien cracked his knuckles. "It figures you've gone soft. Never met an archer who was worth his spit in a fight, but you being a castellan and all, I thought you'd put up more of a ruckus. Guess you disappoint me again."

  "Are you going to tell me what I did or not?" Bostra asked, spitting blood again. He ran his tongue over his teeth and so far they all seemed to be attached. His eyes rolled to Dien. "We've been friends for what, fifteen, twenty summers? Can you at least tell me why you want to beat the living daylights out of me? For Goddess's sake, I came here to avert a war!"

  Dien's eyes narrowed. "Get up. I've still got three to go."

  Bostra took in a breath, let it out, and
took in another. "Tell me what I did."

  "Get. Up."

  Bostra shook his head and the world swam before his eyes as fluid in his skull sloshed from one side to the other. "What did I do? I've never, ever, done anything to you, or your family—"

  Dien stepped forward, snarling. "This has absolutely nothing to do with my family, but everything to do with yours." He paused, his hands clenching and unclenching. "I'm not about to kick a man who's down, so I suggest you stand before I drag you to your feet."

  Bostra rolled and fell backward, onto his backside, his eyes never leaving Dien. Not that watching him would make much difference. He thought about his family. Jhandra hadn't left Haenpar for summers and Maura tended the sick and poor in southern Lagiern. He frowned. Only one supposed member of his family had been anywhere near Faldorrah. He had been living here for nearly six summers, in fact.

  His eyes widened. Six summers, six blows. Great. The blasted kid. "What did the boy do? Is he causing trouble?"

  Dien shook and dark anger loomed dangerous in his eyes. "Can't even say his name? Your own damned son and you can't even say his name."

  "His name's Lars." Taking a breath, he added, "Despite what you think, he's not my son. I washed my hands of him when I—"

  Dien growled and grabbed Bostra by the throat, lifting him from the ground.

  He fought, struggling against the fingers crushing his larynx, trying desperately to pull himself free, but Dien snarled and threw him aside.

  Bostra hit a wood fence and broke through, his body on one side, his legs hanging out the other, and his face in a drift of muddy snow and slush. His balance tottered and spun, making him dizzy. Goddess, he thought, spitting out the filthy wetness, he's going to kill me!

  "That one didn't count." Dien grabbed him by the legs and dragged him out of the fence, over broken wood and muddy snow. "You asked for it all on your own."

  "Wait! Wait! I can explain," Bostra coughed out, holding his hands up in warding.

  "Explain what?" Dien snarled, flinging Bostra against the alehouse. "All these summers I thought you were a decent man, but then I learn you've tossed aside your own flesh and blood like a wad of used paper." Dien moved forward, balling his fists again. "Get up."