Mane's eyes grew wide and pale as fried eggs. "But what if-"
Mane didn't have a chance to finish before Enid interrupted, "Oh, I'll do it." She had set the empty milk pail on its end and clambered up to the windowsill before anyone could say a word.
"Enid!" sputtered Mane. When the girl turned to arch a single golden eyebrow at him, he said only, "You be careful, now."
With an exasperated sigh, Enid wriggled through the open window, graceful as a selkie. A few moments later, the front door opened, and the girl stepped back outside.
Ogden nodded his appreciation to the young woman, then entered the cottage. The other villagers pressed forward, and he waved them back. "I'll need the light, now. Stand away until I've had my look around." They mostly obeyed.
Sunlight streamed through the door, illuminating Cole's body and the table where he had died.
On the table rested a book, a tumble of parchment, and three fresh tapers in a candelabra. The rest of the room was comfortably furnished with several chairs, another low table, and a few shelves, one devoted entirely to books and scrolls. Ogden was one of the few people in Myrloch cantrev who had his letters, but even he owned no books. Lord Donnell had a few-chronicles of the first kings, and histories of the Ffolk-which Ogden had read and re-read. The innkeeper was canny enough to suspect where history ended and legend began, but of the realm of magic, Ogden knew blessedly little. He was not eager to open the wizard's librams.
Ogden knelt beside the dead wizard. Placing a hand on Cole's chest, Ogden felt the dying warmth there. The man could not have died last night. He must have been alive not long before Enid's visit this morning.
There were no violent marks on the body, though black ink stained the mage's once fine blue tunic. It pooled on the floor beside the corpse, and a gleaming black trail ran under the table. Ogden followed the trail to find the tumbled ink pot resting against the foot of the table. He left it where it lay and finished examining the body.
Cole's face had frozen in a faint grimace. His black mustache looked crooked against his final expression, and his eyes were closed. His arms and legs were bent as from a fall, but none seemed broken. Ogden noticed a dark smudge on Cole's right hand. He rose to look at the desktop once more.
Cole had been writing letters before he died. At first glance they appeared innocuous, friendly missives to friends or relatives. Ogden noticed that all of them were finished; none ended suddenly, as he had expected. One must be missing.
Someone cleared his throat at the door. Ogden looked up
to see the villagers looking back impatiently.
"Find anything?" asked Old Angus.
"Hmm," replied Ogden. It was a sound to make when he didn't have an answer. He turned his attention back to the body. He would have one more look at it before summoning Megan to wash and prepare the corpse for burial.
Ogden's eyes scanned the room for any clues. He spied a wide blue bowl half-filled with milk near the window. Enid must have tipped it with her landing as she slipped into the cottage, for her small white footprint puddled the wooden floor. The mage's cat would be needing a new home, he thought.
Nothing else was amiss, so Ogden turned back to the body. Gently, he rolled the dead wizard onto his back. There was the missing letter. The lone page had been pinned under the wizard's arm when he fell. It was also written in the wizard's hand, but this one ended in large, crude letters, smeared but still legible. Ogden stared at the message, not believing his good luck.
The last clumsy line read: "Niall Ericson kille…"
Ogden didn't have to summon Megan after all. Word of Cole's death had reached her soon after Portnoy brought the news to Ogden, and she knew when she was needed. Crafty and wise, Megan was something betwixt the ordinary Ffolk and the druids. She knew the tricks of herb and root, and she had a cunning for sewing wounds. When all cures failed, she was the one to wash and bind the corpse before stitching shut the last wound of all: the funeral shroud.
She was also Niall Ericson's wife.
Ericson was Cole's nearest neighbor, living alone since Megan had left him some six years earlier. She had walked out of their cottage the day after their daughter married a herder from a northern cantrev and left Myrloch village behind. Megan's sons struck out on their own soon after, seeking their fortunes in Callidyr and leaving Niall alone on the farm, bitter and angry. No one asked Megan why she left the man, but everyone had a speculation. He beat her, some said. He was cruel to the animals she sometimes kept as pets. He thought her a witch for her healing lore, for the Northmen were a superstitious lot. The jovial suggested that Niall's colossal snoring was the answer to their separation. There was darker gossip concerning the daughter. No matter what one believed, none knew Niall's side of it, for he seldom walked among the Ffolk himself, and they feared him somewhat.
Megan lived nearer town these days, in a small cottage left vacant by its owners' deaths some years ago. Lord Donnell granted her ownership without delay, for he knew the value of a healer. From her own home, now, she exchanged her craft for enough food to subsist and a little more for trade. The other Ffolk brought her something of each harvest whether they had need of her help or not. It was the nature of the Ffolk to put up a little extra yield against the winter.
Megan's hands were brown and freckled against the dead wizard's wan face. Ogden had helped her lift the body to the wizard's kitchen table, where now she finished her examination of the body. She lifted each eyelid and peered at the dead orbs. She pried open his stiff jaw to peek inside his mouth.
"No mark of poison," she said at last. "None of my kenning, at least." Megan brushed a strand of auburn hair away from her eyes. Time had been gentle with her. While she was nearly Ogden's age, the snow had yet to dust her hair.
Ogden grunted in disappointment. He had hoped that Megan would tell him she knew of a poison that would leave no sign, one that she had long ago taught Niall Eric-son. From the moment he saw the wizard's last note, he was all but certain of Ericson's guilt. The problem remained the proof, which he hoped to find before Lord Donnell’s return.
"What do you make of the message?" Ogden expected some reaction from Megan when he read her the words. She had no letters herself, though she was likely the most learned person in the village, in her way.
Megan didn't answer at first. Instead, she walked to the window. Hugging her arms, she looked out at the villagers, who were making a poor show of not peering back at her. As she turned back to face Ogden, her foot caught the cat's milk bowl and set it spinning on the wooden floor. Milk sloshed over its rim and splashed upon her shoes.
"Where's the cat?" she asked.
"It must be outside," he said. He realized then that whatever harm Niall had done her, Megan still cared for the man. This business must be a hardness to her.
"Poor thing," she said. "I'll take it in when it's found." She picked up the bowl and took it to the dish pail. There she rinsed the bowl and dried it with a rag. Ogden waited silently, patiently.
"If you mean do I think Niall might have killed him, then yes. He might have." Megan looked directly into Ogden's eyes. "With his fists, perhaps. Or maybe with a blade. But there's no guile in Niall Ericson."
Ogden nodded. Subtlety was not unknown among the Northmen, but it was as scarce as kindness in the likes of Ericson.
"Would he have had a reason?" asked Ogden.
"It's no secret that Niall had his eye upon these fields before Lord Donnell granted it to Cole. If the boys had stayed with him another two or three seasons, Niall reckoned he could buy the tract outright."
"But they left."
"Aye," agreed Megan. "We all left."
"So, you think he had cause," suggested Ogden.
"Cause enough for him. But only in a rage, I think. Niall couldn't murder this man without a violent hand."
Ogden believed it was true, and so the problem remained. What was the proof?
Ericson wanted Cole's land, so he murdered the wizard. That remained Og
den's theory.
"But why would Niall kill Cole? He could never farm that much land by himself." Portnoy asked the obvious questions whenever Ogden failed to ask them of himself. In his more patient moments, Ogden could appreciate that quality. More importantly, he would appreciate having Portnoy's hulking presence beside him when he confronted Ericson. It was well worth the trip back to the inn to fetch the lad.
"Some men can't own to their own failings," said Ogden!
"But Cole didn't take that land away from Niall."
"No, but Niall might still see it that way. Some Northmen have ice in their hearts, and there's no telling what they'll think is fair."
"That's stupid," replied Portnoy plainly.
"Aye," agreed Ogden. "That it is."
They walked a while in silence, and then Ogden said, "Enid was the one who slipped in to open the door."
"Aye?" Portnoy feigned indifference, but Ogden knew better. Portnoy had been smitten with the lass since childhood. Unfortunately for him, Mane was the most active in courting her attention. Portnoy could never work up the nerve.
"Aye. I'd asked Mane to do it, but he balked."
"Aye?"
"Aye. I think he shrank a bit in Enid's eyes."
Portnoy didn't say anything to that, but Ogden watched him from the corner of his eye. The lad smiled to himself, and Ogden saw his lips silently trace the word "good." He let it lie at that.
As they approached Niall's farm, the first serious doubts began to form in Ogden's mind. If Niall had killed Cole, how had he managed to bar the doors from the inside as he left? And how had he killed the wizard without leaving a mark? Niall wasn't the sort to poison a man he could break across his knee.
By the time Ogden and Portnoy came within a hundred yards of Niall's house, Ogden was sure he had been misled. He turned away from the cottage and began circling the farm. Portnoy followed obediently, without asking why they'd turned. Eventually, they reached the pond behind Niall's farmstead. It was frozen over. The light breeze swept the snow from its face, revealing its smooth, hard surface.
Ogden turned around, and he and Portnoy retraced their steps. Then they walked all the way around the other side, once more reaching the pond. On this side, nearer the house, Ogden saw where Niall had chopped out a block of ice. The flat chunk lay on the ground. The blue shadows of Niall's boot prints lead a winding path from the house to the water's edge, then back.
Ogden winced at the pain in his foot, and Portnoy was puffing with exertion. The boy could stand to lose some of that weight, thought Ogden. Together, they stopped to catch their breaths and observe the snowy field.
"What do you see, lad?"
"Uh… Niall's house? The barn? The well? Those trees?" Portnoy's eyes scanned the field for other guesses.
"Right, but what don't you see?"
Portnoy frowned and stared at the land they'd circumscribed with their path. Ogden studied the lad-for so he still considered Portnoy, even though the youth had grown taller than his uncle-watching for some glimmer of deductive reasoning. Portnoy would never be a village sage, but there was something more than moss growing between his ears.
Or so Ogden always hoped.
"Boot prints!" the boy exclaimed. "They don't leave!"
"Aye," agreed Ogden. "They go from the house to the barn, and then they wind over to the pond." Ogden frowned at the ragged trail, wondering why it was so irregular. He hoped that Ericson wasn't drunk. The man was mean enough sober.
"He hasn't left the farm since last night," added Portnoy. "There hasn't been enough snow since last night to cover up his tracks." The cold had brought the blood to his cheeks, and he beamed at Ogden, watching for some sign of approval. The man rewarded him with a nod, but he frowned.
"Unless Niall has learned to fly, how'd he get to Cole's home and back?"
"It must be someone else," said Portnoy. The disappointment in his voice was obvious, and Ogden knew just how he felt.
"Perhaps." Ogden had been suspicious of Cole's note from the beginning. How would a murdered man find the time to scrawl such a message? And what murderer would leave it behind, even if he couldn't read it?
"Look there," said Portnoy. Ogden's eyes followed the lad's own stare toward the farmhouse, where a fur-clad figure stomped toward them. His breath made plumes in the late morning air as the man approached.
"Well a day, Niall Ericson," greeted Ogden.
"Constable," said Niall simply. His voice was hard as winter granite. His lips were red beneath his dirty blond beard, though his skin was stone pale.
"Will we have more snow tonight, do you think?"
"What d'ye want?" said Ericson curtly. His flinty eyes invited no more small talk.
"The wizard Cole's been murdered," replied Ogden.
"And what does that have t'do with me, then?" The man's tone had turned menacing, and Portnoy began to fidget beside his uncle. Even though the boy was of a size with Ericson, Ogden knew the man must frighten him.
"Maybe nothing," said Ogden. He glanced past the mar toward the house, then met his eyes again. "But the mage wrote down your name just before he died."
Ericson looked genuinely astonished. "Why would he…?"
"You won't mind our looking around a bit, then?"
Ericson stared back at Ogden's face. Ragged lines creased his face, and his eyes narrowed to black slits. Ogden noticed that the clouds of Ericson's breath had halted, and he tensed for an attack. Now he wished he'd brought more than Portnoy with him.
Finally, Ericson sighed impatiently and barked, "All right, then. Make it quick!" He turned quickly and stalked back toward his house. Portnoy hesitated, looking to his uncle for a cue. Ogden nodded, and they both hurried to follow Ericson back toward his cottage.
"You follow his boot prints," said Ogden. "See where he's gone this morning. Then take a look in the barn. I'll peek inside the house."
"Aye," agreed Portnoy. He trembled with the excitement of a wolfhound pup on its first hunt, and off he went.
Ogden followed Ericson to the door of his house, but there he paused. The threshold was swept clear, but to one side a white glaze of ice covered the snow. At least he throws out the spoiled milk, thought Ogden. Ericson must be a better housekeeper than anyone expected. Ogden stepped inside the cottage.
The odor immediately changed Ogden's opinion of Ericson's domestic talents. Even through the wood smoke, the interior smelled of unwashed clothes. To Ogden's left there stood a table cluttered with dirty pots and bowls. One of them, a small shallow basin, was freshly broken. Ericson must use them all before washing any, thought Ogden.
Ogden took a step toward the table and nearly tripped on something that rolled beneath his foot. At the base of the table lay a pile of potatoes, half-tumbled by Ogden's careless step. Behind them, three full potato sacks leaned against the cottage wall.
Ogden stepped carefully away, then turned to look across the room. He saw a pile of furs and blankets covering the lone bed. Beside it, a trio of chairs lined the wall, each piled with smelly clothing. Nearby, the hearth fire snapped and hissed as Ericson stabbed it with an iron stoker.
"I haven't left my land all morning," said Ericson. His tone had softened, but he still sounded gruff and unfriendly.
"Aye, that I believe," said Ogden.
Ericson grunted in acceptance of Ogden's answer, but then he jutted his jaw defiantly. "Then what do you want here?"
"Hmm," replied Ogden, casting about a few last glances at the house. He walked outside once more. He saw Portnoy returning from the barn, frowning with frustration.
"Just sheep," reported the boy. "Sheep and feed and only what else you'd expect to find in the barn."
Ogden only nodded. He was close to reckoning some connection between Ericson's cottage and Cole's. In most ways, the two homes couldn't be more different. Something continued to niggle at Ogden's mind, however. And the man had greeted him as "constable." He knew there was trouble this morning.
"Why would a man ch
op ice from pond water?" Ogden asked, more of himself than Portnoy.
The boy answered anyway. "Yuck. Who'd drink pond water?" Even he knew that still water, even frozen, was likely to make the drinker sick.
"There's perfectly good snow everywhere, too."
Portnoy shrugged and looked at Ogden's face. The man's brow was creased in impatient concentration. Portnoy imitated his expression. The family resemblance was striking, but neither of the Ffolk noted it.
"He didn't want anything from the pond…" began Ogden tentatively.
"… he put something into it!" finished Portnoy, grinning.
"Let's have a look," said Ogden. Both men stepped toward the frozen water.
"That's enough," boomed a voice behind them. They turned to see Ericson, still gripping the iron stoker. Its tip glowed red. "You've had your look around."
"True enough," said Ogden. Now he knew he should have brought more men along. He knew at last how Ericson had murdered Cole, but now he'd let on what he had reckoned. By the time he could return with help, Ericson could destroy the evidence rather than just hide it. If he and Port-noy stayed, however, how would Ericson react?
"We'll be on our way, then," said Ogden. "Come along, lad." He chucked Portnoy's elbow, though his eyes remained locked on the fiery stoker in Ericson's hand. Portnoy followed dully, distracted by the problem of what Ericson had put in the cold water.
They walked toward the pond, the way they'd come. Ericson followed. When Ogden glanced back at the man, he saw that the tip of the stoker whipped up and down in agitation. Ogden instantly regretted bringing Portnoy along for this visit. The big lad's presence might be a deterrent against attack from most men, but Ericson was desperate and dangerous. Ogden increased his pace, and Portnoy did the same.
"That's far enough." Ericson's voice was calm and strong now. Ogden knew that meant he had come to a decision.
"Run, lad! Fetch help!" Ogden shoved Portnoy and turned to face the brawny Northman. He might not be able to disable the man, but at least he could give the boy a good start back to the village. Ericson growled deep and loud. Ogden whirled to face his attacker, crouching low and throwing up his left arm. He felt the blow of the stoker break his arm.
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