Responsible for the safety and well being of Lord Brushgar's demesne, Dubric tried to make his presence felt on a regular basis in all areas of the castle, but as he glanced up from his plate he wondered if he had eaten too many breakfasts alone in the kitchen. The staff gave him a wide and respectful berth as they hurried through their labors but none gave him a second glance. He sighed and dragged the bit of sausage through a puddle of egg yolk. Could they be too used to him? Was that the problem? Maybe so, but he had to start somewhere.

Dubric contemplated the uneaten food on his plate, he watched the kitchen staff, and he glanced out the window at the blossoming dawn. He looked anywhere but at the ghost that stared at him, silently wailing.

He had woken before dawn to find the slashed horror of a scullery maid's corpse standing beside his bed. Her gaping spirit still stood before him in a uniform drenched and dripping with blood. He could not recall her name and had no idea where her body might be. He only knew that she had been murdered, in his castle, and that he would see her pained and tortured apparition until he put the matter to rest. Cursed by the Goddess Malanna after his wife's murder forty three summers before, Dubric had struggled for summers to ignore the horrid images of wrongful death. The ghosts would stare at him, their glazed eyes pleading, as if they knew he alone saw them, saw their torment, and would do his best to avenge them.

The ghosts came to him in the darkest part of night, in the brightest days of high summer, whenever they happened to die. A praying man would thank the Goddess he saw only those murdered within the range of his responsibility and no others. But Dubric had denounced religion the day Oriana died and had never looked back.

The scullery maid was his fourteenth ghost, and he had ultimately solved all of their deaths, except one. He thought of his one failure for a moment, then pushed the guilt away. She had been dead for so long, more than thirty summers, and her ghost would likely walk the castle halls for all eternity.

Dubric sighed and toyed with his eggs, the fork clutched in his burn-scarred hand. In his sixty-eight summers he had found most murders to be violent yet simple affairs. Drunken fights gone awry. Spouses who erred in judgment. Lapses of reason in the throes of extreme anger. Revenge. Uncomplicated crimes of passion, hate, or greed. Hundreds of people lived in and around the castle and occasional bloodshed was to be expected. He had solved the murders quickly, brought the killers to face justice, and continued with happier aspects of his work. But he hated the ghosts. He often wondered if he solved their murders to find justice for their deaths, or merely to get the spirits out of his sight. He hoped it was for justice, insisted in his heart it was for justice, but on this blustery morning in late winter he was far from certain.

He watched the kitchen bustle with activity as scores of folks scurried through their work. A butcher lugged in the third freshly slaughtered ewe of the morning. The herbmonger from the village argued over the price of his spices. Servitors grabbed breakfast trays and dashed away in their hurry to feed their masters. Cooks stirred, fried, and chopped. Scullery maids cleaned. Bakers baked. Dubric watched them all for signs of stress, of nervousness, of someone stealing glances his way. None did. All seemed as oblivious to him and the scullery maid's demise as they were to her ghost.

He glanced at the ghost and wondered what to try next. She had been murdered, that much was obvious, but was not missing. Yet. He did not want to appear crazy, paranoid or, King forbid, guilty, so ordering a castle-wide search was out of the question until someone noticed her absence. Besides, for all he knew, her body had been dumped in a privy or destroyed. She was a scullery maid, he was certain of that, and logically his search should begin in the kitchen. If no one from the kitchen was to blame, then who?

The thought died in an instant and he paused, his fork poised over mangled eggs, as a sharp, cold pain behind his eyes signaled the arrival of a new responsibility. Another ghost, this one a milkmaid, flickered into view beside the scullery maid. Both screamed at him in silent terror. Oh no, not two, he thought. He swallowed and tightened his fist around the fork to keep it from trembling as he looked at the new arrival. The second ghost was Elli Cunliffe, an orphan who had been left on the stoop fifteen summers before.

He frowned, set his fork beside his plate, and wiped his mouth with a fine linen napkin. What a mess, he thought.

"Leavin' already, M'lord?" Pitta, the herald's wife and morning kitchen master, looked at him with eyes as soft as her plump body.

He nodded and forced what he hoped was a calm smile. "That I am. I have much to do today."

She gathered up his mess and smiled as well. "You've never been one to shirk, sir. Hope you have a pleasant day."

"As do I," he said, knowing it was impossible. He took one last sip of his tea and sighed. The dairy barns were on the other side of the castle, outside the west tower. If he hurried, and had any luck at all, the other milkmaids would have overslept and Elli's killer would still be there with the scullery maid tucked under his arm.

Keep on dreaming, you old goat, he thought. About as much chance of that as the cows becoming excellent witnesses.

He set aside his tea, straightened his tunic, and tried not to appear to hurry across the kitchen.

He walked past the butcher, dodged a lackey carrying a sack of potatoes, and paused near the baker's ovens to allow a trio of scullery maids to hurry by with trays of dirty dishes. "Mornin', sir!" a voice called from beside him.

Dubric turned and hid the cringe he felt at the delay. Everyone knew the baker's assistant loved to chat while he kneaded bread. But he was a decent fellow. What could a greeting hurt? "Good morning, Bacstair. How are you this fine day?"

"Doing fine, sir," he said, as he raised his forearm to wipe a sheen of sweat from his brow. The mound of dough flexed, stretched, and rolled under Bacstair's expert pounding. "Otlee tells me you've passed him in history and mathematics. He's hoping to make senior page soon."

Dubric's ghosts looked on as he replied. "He is a smart boy, but he is only twelve summers. He will be a senior page soon enough. Tell him to be patient. It will happen in its own time."

Bacstair massaged the dough with his fingers. "Tis what I tell him, sir, but he works so hard at his studies."

Dubric said, "His marks are excellent."

Bacstair smiled proudly and sifted a handful of flour over the dough. "Thank you, sir. The missus and I were talkin' about it just the other day. Neither of us had a lick of education past the primers. We can write our names, read the signs in the village, not much more..."

Dubric nodded despite his urge to hurry. Basic education was available, and encouraged, for the common folk of Faldorrah. Few continued past the primers though; their families desired income more than knowledge. Even with the certain realization that wisdom had freed the people from the dark's oppression, children were rarely educated beyond their eighth or ninth summer. They went to work instead. A sad fact of life.

"... but Otlee, sir, he was always eager to learn." Bacstair chuckled and shook his head. "'Scuse my blabberin', sir, but we know you had'ta stick your neck out to get Lord Brushgar to approve his posting. Us bein' commoners and all."

"It was no hardship, Bacstair. Really. He is a smart boy. That is all that mattered to me."

Bacstair lifted the dough and slammed it down. A billow of flour coughed into the air around him, dusting his arms and his apron. "I know you've always treated us commoners like we was equal to you and all, sir. You've always been a good decent man. But you've given our boy a grand gift. In a summer or two he'll make senior page. When he's sixteen summers he can squire. At twenty he can be knighted, become a noble. Maybe he'll even be a lord someday. You've opened the world to him, sir." He flipped the dough over itself, pummeling it with his fists.

Dubric chuckled and shook his head as he remembered. The youngest knighting of a squire had happened nearly fifty summers ago. Tunkek Romlin, the man who would later become King, had led a group of squires and pages, including Dubric, to wrestle the land from the dark mages. All had returned to Waterford alive. If anyone had ever deserved to be knighted, Tunkek had. Dubric's hand fell to the hilt of his soldier's sword and his fingertips traced along the pommel. Despite the horror, his sharpest memories of the War of Shadows were good ones. They had been so young then. Seven friends, all squires or pages, on a noble quest. To save the world. But after Tunkek's knighthood, after summers of slogging through blood and death and fire as if they were immune to it all, his friends had begun to die.

Dubric frowned and pulled his hand from his sword. Certainly they had been young. Young, idealistic, and stupid. But that was then, times had changed, and the world had moved on. Otlee might be young and idealistic, but he was far from stupid. His knighthood would reasonably wait until his mid twenties, or later. With luck, Otlee would never have to test his mettle in war or watch someone he loved die on a battlefield. "Twenty is a long way from twelve," Dubric said. "Tell him to enjoy where he is right now and not worry so much about the future."

The head baker rushed past, tapping Bacstair on the back of the head. "Bacstair, quit jabbering with his lordship! Ye've got work to do!"

Bacstair dropped his eyes, his exuberance gone like smoke on a bitter wind. He selected a long thin dough knife and sliced the mound of dough into sections, braving a glance at Dubric. "I will tell him that, sir. But thank you. Thank you for what you've done for my boy. For my family."

Dubric tilted his head in a friendly bow despite the dreadful stares from the pair of ghosts. "You are quite welcome. He is a good lad and does a fine job."

Bacstair rolled the sections into neat balls. "Thank you again, sir, but I'd best be gettin' back to work."

Dubric turned to go. His ghosts followed as he pushed through the crowded kitchen.

Moments later, a sharp eyed, blonde haired senior page ran into the kitchen, scattering the workers like dandelion seeds. Dubric smiled at the welcome sight of him. The son of a neighboring Lord, Lars was a vital member of Dubric's personal staff, and the only page to ever achieve that questionable honor. Although jarring to the workflow in the kitchen, Lars' sudden arrival brought Dubric hope. Perhaps a body had been found.

Dubric brushed past a lackey dragging a sack of flour and hurried across the kitchen while his ghosts trailed behind him. Lars tilted his head toward the door and slipped out to the hall. Dubric followed a moment later.

The service hall was crowded with serving girls carrying trays of hot food to the great hall and scullery maids lugging dirty dishes back to the kitchen. They looked hot, sweaty and tired. Their hair had become plastered to their damp brows and their uniforms hung stained and limp from their sagging shoulders. Food spattered lackeys dodged amongst them with other supplies and tools. Past the congestion of the kitchen staff, Lars waited in a side hall that led to the kitchen storage rooms. Dubric saw the pale flash of his hair in the torchlight and he pushed through to the relative quiet of the hall.

Dubric nodded once to Lars and they walked a few steps away, out of earshot. A moon or two shy of fifteen summers, Lars had nearly reached Dubric's height and he leaned close as he delivered his news. "We've found a milkmaid, sir, outside of the west tower. Murdered."

Praise the King! Elli had been found. He had one less body to worry about this morning. Dubric smoothed his tunic and hid his relief behind the urgency in his voice. "Fetch my cloak and meet me there."

"Yes, sir!" Lars nodded once and hurried to the great hall. Dubric followed close behind as the kitchen workers tried to make room. Lars slipped between a pair of scullery maids and disappeared into the breakfast crowd milling in the great hall. Above them all, as if separate from the noise and rabble, flags of the Lands of Lagiern hung from the beams; their colors gleamed bright in the golden light of dawn. Faldorrah's flag, white sheep and golden grain on a field of rich, vivid green, shone brightest of all. Brighter even than the King's purple standard. Dubric looked to the flags and smiled despite himself. He loved Faldorrah, he loved its people, and he loved its flag.

Dubric closed his eyes for a moment. Murder had come to his castle. He would do everything within his power to bring justice back, ghosts be damned. He ignored the hungry crowd and turned to the left, toward the carved bulk of the main castle doors, and opened them to light snow and a beautiful sunrise. Both ghosts followed him.

The news of the murder drifted through the castle like a swirl of falling snow. Before Dubric arrived at least fifteen people had touched the body or contaminated evidence, damaging his chance to track Elli's killer. He guessed the actual number of gawkers to be close to forty, if the crowd the pages held at bay was any indication, and fresh footprints ran hither and yon in the mud and snow. He stood beside the corpse, his heart thumping in his chest from his early morning run across the courtyard, and he wanted to scream. Elli had been rolled onto her back and her dress trampled into the mud until it tattered. Some caring, idiotic soul had wiped the worst of the muck from her face and had covered her body with a rough wool blanket, as if to protect her from the snow. Every likely clue had either been trodden into the mud or cleaned off the body. He was cold, wet, well on his way to grouchy, and had forgotten about his love of the Faldorrahn flag.

"Watch it you fool!" someone in the crowd behind him yelled, and Dubric snapped his head back to glare at the complainer.

Lars shoved through the crowd, a heavy wool cloak in his hands, and the bellyacher, a groundskeeper named Ord, mumbled his apologies and stepped aside. Six more onlookers burst from the west tower as Lars ran to Dubric.

Dubric took his cloak from Lars. If he had not taken time to chat with Bacstair, some of this bedlam would have been avoided.

"I take full responsibility for the damage, sir," Lars said. "We should have been quicker. Two milkmaids found her. By the time Otlee and I arrived, they'd already botched it."

"Them and the gawkers. Curse our luck." Dubric brushed off Lars' regret. Disturbed murder scenes were common and expected. He fastened his cloak, looking to the growing crowd and the six pages who held them back. "Otlee!" he hollered.

A slender boy ran up, snowflakes dousing his fiery hair. "Yes, sir," he said, standing a little taller as he glanced at Lars.

"Log witnesses and disperse these crowds. They have done enough damage already."

"Yes, sir," Otlee bobbed a quick bow and ran back to the crowd. He pulled a roll of paper and a pressed-coal stick from his pocket, and began taking names.

While Otlee gathered names, Dubric knelt beside Elli and examined her face. Smoky, snow-dusted blue eyes stared at the sky, and smears of mud had congealed beneath her lids. Snowflakes on her eyes flickered like life before they melted to tears on her cheeks. He had always thought Elli had pretty eyes, and he sighed as he closed them. Ever alert, Lars stood beside him and watched the crowd with his hand on the hilt of his short sword.

Dubric checked her hands. Her fingernails were intact, although filthy and worn from regular use. He found no bruising on her mud-smeared face or neck. He nodded to himself and yanked back the blanket.

Gasps rose around him like sparrows taking flight.

Dubric had no time for niceties. "Get them out of here!" he barked to the pages. Lars remained stoic yet observant and Dubric nodded his approval. Few grown men would contemplate a dead bare-chested woman so calmly, let alone a boy Lars' age.

Dubric frowned and resumed his work, his hands gliding swift and sure over her body. Despite the covering of mud, he found no injuries on her throat, chest, or belly. She still wore underdrawers so rape was doubtful. Her legs seemed fine. He checked her armpits for temperature, her breasts for bruising, her belly, and her knees. She was still warm, considering the cold weather, and he found no apparent bruises or injuries.

"Feel here," he whispered, and Lars knelt beside him.

Lars pushed his fingers into her armpit and pressed in to gauge her temperature. "Still warm. Dead maybe a half bell?"

"Maybe. This cold, I would guess a quarter bell."

"Cause of death, sir?"

"I am not yet certain."

They rolled her over, onto the blanket, and Dubric paused to wipe his hands before he reached for a slim leather bound book and pencil he kept handy in his pocket. He refused to endure his duties without paper and pencil, and he had insisted that his staff be adequately outfitted as well, regardless of historical precedent. For centuries the dark mages had crushed literacy on the mainland, wiping out all traces of science and learning, but the island city of Waterford had stood alone against the shadows and kept knowledge alive. Even after the war, they continued to create the finest papers and writing implements in the world.

Beside him, Lars stood and snarled, "So help me, Ulldel, you step past that line again and I'll drag you to the gaol myself."

The crowd grumbled in response then fell silent.

As Lars knelt beside him again, Dubric said, "Ulldel is an idiot."

"He's a drunkard, an ass, and was stealing a scrap of her dress when we arrived. He's already on my witness list."

Dubric nodded and returned his attention to Elli. Her cause of death was obvious, even through the mud. Someone had slashed her back open from her ribs to her hips; the huge gaping hole had filled with muck when she was rolled her onto her back. Tapping the pencil on the page as he considered the information, he scratched a few quick notes, drew a rough sketch, and rubbed his aching eyes while Lars efficiently scooped mud from the wound.

While Lars watched the crowd, Dubric tucked the book back into his pocket and felt along Elli's upper back and legs. He found no other wounds. Expecting to find her skull caved, Dubric examined her head last and found the back of it coated in thick, cloying mud. He brushed the muck away and paused before tapping Lars' leg.

"Oh peg," Lars whispered and Dubric nodded.

Most of her hair and scalp were gone. Her bloody skull gleamed from her crown to her nape and the skin behind her ears was tattered in muddy hair and blood clotted flaps.

"Inform the physician," Dubric said.

"Aye, sir." Lars bounced to his feet and ran to the castle.

As Dubric stood, he glanced at the crowd. He knew all the faces, and also knew it was likely that one had murdered Elli. Fifty, perhaps sixty people to interview in the hope one would say something useful. He wrapped her in the filthy blanket, wiped his hands, and rubbed his eyes. The ghosts flickered but did not leave and he sighed. He felt too old to deal with this. Too old and too tired. But there was no one else, and it was his job.

He hefted his burden and set off to the castle, ignoring the curious stares from the crowd and his ghosts trailing behind him. He felt the loose weight of her body in his arms and he frowned. She was so young. So much had been taken from her.

###

Dubric left Elli with the physician and hurried to Lord Brushgar's office without bothering to clean the muck and blood off his clothes and hands. Unlike the eager onlookers in the courtyard, the people in the 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 jittery prattle of the herald, 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 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 and nodded once, 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 smiled and 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. "I suppose that is true," Dubric said. "Is he in his office yet?"

She nodded. "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 and startled the accountants. The junior accountant behind the door jumped away and knocked a pile 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 amongst 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 accouterments 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' 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. "Here?" he gasped, 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. Dubric nodded once, crisply. "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?"

"No, Milord. I fear there may be more. He cut her up, Milord. Butchered her. I fear he may not stop at one. The staff will be terrified and we must take drastic steps to keep them calm. We have a problem I cannot begin to describe." And one girl still missing, he said to himself.

Brushgar lumbered back to his chair. "I suppose you have no suspects?"

"Not yet, Milord. But I will."

Brushgar lowered his bulk into the chair and it creaked comfortably. He contemplated Dubric for a moment and nodded. "If you're looking for blanket approval, it's yours. You have my full authority to catch the bastard any way you can. Do whatever you need. Take whatever you need. I cannot allow this to happen in my castle."

"Thank you, Milord." Dubric bowed and turned to leave, closing his eyes to the image of the two dead girls. With his eyes closed, he stepped between them and felt them follow, silent and pleading. He did not look at Josceline as he descended the dais.

He hurried across the subdued great hall and although many looked at him, thankfully none dared to speak.