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"I dunno what good it'll do you to look," Woodley said, walking across the barnyard. "It's just a pen full of wooly sheep."
"But several are missing, are they not?" Dubric asked, breathing deep. No longer a hot wind from the south, the breeze had shifted and brought cool northerly gusts with the scent of rain.
"Aye. Four of them. Since folks'd been reportin' woolies gone, I do a head count every night when I pen 'em up, then again in the mornin' before I let 'em out to graze." A compact shepherd dog stood and bared its teeth as they approached, growling like a low rip in the evening air. Woodley called out, "Down, Buck. That's a good lad."
Buck wagged his tail and sat, his tongue lolling as he watched them.
They reached the sheep pens, a wide corral with a slat roof and frame walls attached to a high fence. Scores of common black-faced sheep milled together inside. A few turned to look at the men, but most seemed oblivious to their presence.
Dubric tried the gate and found it securely latched.
"Now, milord, woolies ain't the brightest of critters. Hells, they'll walk right in front of a speeding carriage if given the chance, but there ain't no wooly I've seen what can jump a fence as tall as my chin, and the slats is too narrow for them to wriggle through. Then there's Buck here," he said, scratching the dog behind the ears. "He's on guard all night, him and Bess both after full dark. Ain't no strange man gonna climb in there and lift a wooly out without them takin' a bite out of his backside."
Dubric examined the latch and found it to be a simple mechanism; pulling a lever just within reach on the inside released the lock bolt. "How, then, do you believe the sheep disappeared?"
Woodley spat tobacco juice onto the ground. "Haunts. Them's what did it."
"You believe ghosts took your sheep?"
"Yessir. Happn'd before, you see."
"It did?"
"Yessir, lots of folks lose woolies whenever a haunt's loose. Always been that way. Hells, milord, I remember my daddy tellin' of a time when Sweeny's haunt done stole half the flock and left 'em lyin' about, dried up with no blood left in 'em atall."
"Sweeny's haunt?"
"Yessir. Sweeny used to rule these parts, way back b'fore I was born. My daddy and granddad used to tell us kiddies scary tales 'bout the dark times." He spat tobacco juice again. "Anyways, this here ain't no diff'rent, milord. I just hope the haunt don't take half my flock, leastways not before I sell 'em off at the faire. I got taxes to pay."
At her parents' suite in the Families' Wing of Castle Faldorrah, Jesscea Saworth struggled to make sense of mathematics with her hands clamped over her ears. Baby Cailin had colic and had not stopped crying for at least a bell. Unable to concentrate, Jess sighed and stood. "I can take her for a bit, Mam."
Sarea kept pacing across the sitting room, patting Cailin's back. "No. Study. I'm all right."
"You've got to be going deaf."
Smiling, Sarea kissed Cailin's head. "You get used to it."
"If you say so," Jess muttered then turned as the door to their suite banged open. Her older sister, Kialyn, stomped through in a perfumed haze and shoved past her.
Sarea pushed the screaming baby into Jess's arms. "Kia, wait!" she called, following her, but Kia had already entered her room and slammed the door. Sarea sagged. "Kia?" she asked, knocking. "Can I come in?" Jess didn't hear the answer over the baby's cries, but Sarea turned and walked back to the sitting room and held out her hands for Cailin.
"I'm sorry, Mam."
"These past few phases have been hard for everyone. It's not your fault."
Part of it is, Jess thought, but she said nothing.
Sarea resumed patting Cailin's back. "You don't talk much either, you know. How are things? School? Lars?"
"Everything's fine," Jess said, shrugging as she sat at the table again. "There's nothing much to report."
The door opened again and Jess’s younger sister Fynbelle ran through, her face red and blotchy from crying. She didn't bother to close the door, or even look at her mother or Jess; Fyn just hurried into her room, then closed and locked the door.
Dubric pulled his charger to a halt. "Do you smell that?"
"Something died," Dien said, dismounting. "Something big, by the smell." He pulled a battered lantern off the back of his saddle and lit it.
Marsden led his horse to a scraggly tree. "I didn't smell anything coming out."
"The wind has changed," Dubric said. He tied his charger beside Marsden's horse.
Dien held the lantern high and squinted into the evening. "I'm betting on that field, sir."
"Let us go see, then," Dubric said, climbing over the low stone fence.
Letting their noses guide them, they walked across a field of young oats as it sloped down toward a creek. The wind freshened, cool and damp, but the stench nearly knocked them back.
"It's been dead longer than a couple of days, whatever it is," Dien said.
They searched the creek bed but found nothing of interest, then climbed the bank to the next field, this one planted with sorghum. They continued on, the stench growing so strong on the far side of the field that it made Dubric gag. Beside him, Marsden retched.
A scattering of carcasses, dogs and sheep, lay in the rows of sorghum and the brush edging the field. The carcasses were dismembered, their limbs removed, their heads gone, their bodies cut in two. "How many, sir?" Dien asked, holding the lantern high as Dubric glanced back the way they had come. He estimated they were two furlongs or more from the road, far enough for winds to disperse most of the smell.
"I estimate ten dogs and a score or so sheep," he said, kneeling. The nearest carcass, the headless front portion of a half-grown pup, had rotted nearly to bones and dry, matted fur. Dubric checked along the spine but there was no skin there for a mage mark to be written upon and what little remained elsewhere was blackened and in patches. "This dog has been dead at least a phase," Dubric said, standing, "if not two."
"And the scavengers have got to them," Dien said. "There’s not much left but wool and bones."
"But none have been completely consumed." Dubric turned to Marsden. "Have you found any dead scavengers? Coyotes? Raccoons? Weasels? Ravens?"
"Yes, milord, a few, but I never thought much of it. Some folks set out tainted bait. And I never thought much of a few missing dogs, either. They just run off sometimes. I hadn't seen any butchered like this before."
"The meat of these animals may be poisoned," Dubric said, pulling his notebook from his pocket. "But I have no way of knowing if the animals themselves died of poison." He sighed and sketched the arrangement of carcasses.
His sketch finished, he picked his way across the scattered carcasses, looking for anything out of place. Seeing a bit of dark glass reflecting the lantern light, he knelt and wriggled a vial out from beneath a legless, eviscerated dog. What have we here? He held it up to the light.
"What is it, sir?" Dien asked.
"A medicine vial," Dubric replied. "And there is a bit of fluid inside." He uncorked the vial and sniffed, then promptly replaced the cork and pulled an evidence bag from his pocket. "Laudanum."
"That's not something you can just pick up anywhere," Dien said.
"No, narcotics usually are dispensed by a physician." Dubric turned to Marsden. "Tell me about this physician who arrived last autumn."
Jess sat with some noble girls and pages in the castle library, relishing the quiet as she studied for the next day's mathematics test. Behind her, Clintte the librarian fell into a bout of coughing and other students made gagging noises. One said, "What’s that smell?"
Jess just wrinkled her nose. It smelled like something had died. It's not that bad. Try cleaning a henhouse in the middle of six moon or changing a sick baby's diddy.
A girl at Jess's table looked up and covered her nose with her hand. "He's here for you," she said.
Jess turned and saw Lars in the hall outside the door. Grinning, she jumped from her chair and hurried out of the library, reaching for his hand. "Where've you been? Are we going to the village?" Up close the stench was worse, but she didn't care.
"We can, if you want, but I'm still on duty. Get your books, and we'll talk."
She squeezed his hand before returning to her table. As she gathered her things, Deorsa leaned forward and said, "I don't know how you stand it." He lowered his voice. "The things he does. Why, just last phase, he went swimming in a cesspool. He swims in sewage. It's disgusting."
Jess buckled her book satchel. "That was two phases ago, for a case. It was only waist-deep, and the purse was floating. Sort of." She shrugged. Her father had worked under Dubric since before she was born. Sometimes they had to do disgusting things. Sometimes they got hurt. Sometimes they faced problems no one else would and, sometimes, they saved people. "It's just a job."
She returned to Lars. "If you're on duty, we shouldn't go to the Dancing Sheep," she said as they walked, hand in hand, past the scribe and the mapmaker to the back hall. "I'm surprised Dubric and Dad let you come get me at all."
"They didn't, but they're not here and I have some time before reports come back." Lars pushed the door open and stepped aside to hold it for the head accountant, Jelke, who coughed and covered his nose as he hurried past. "We'll have supper here, maybe do something, okay?"
"Sounds great," Jess said, questions dancing in her head. She knew Lars wasn't supposed to talk about active cases, but if he was working under his own supervision, it couldn't be too bad.
They climbed the west tower stairs to the second floor, passing nobles and servants who grimaced and stared. At Lars’s room, clothes, armor and clutter lay on every available surface as usual, and his three suitemates weren't home.
Jess smiled. They were alone. And unchaperoned.
Blushing, Lars knocked dirty socks off his bureau to make room for her books, then emptied his pockets. "Um, I need to get cleaned up. Give me a bit?"
"Of course." She looked away as he searched for clean clothes. She tried not to grimace at the rotten food and muddy clothes on the floor, the rumpled, stained sheets on the beds, or the mold climbing up the corner of the wall. She certainly did not acknowledge the frilly underdrawers tacked on the wall beside Moergan's bed.
Lars excused himself to the privy room, leaving Jess to her own devices. She thought about reviewing formulas again, but decided she'd had enough. The contents of Lars's pockets lay beside her books; his page's file, some coins, an intricate brass buckle, grimy burlap scraps, and a few folded bits of paper. Sighing, she picked up a library book from the floor and climbed onto Lars's bed to open it.
She had just settled in with the book on her lap when the door opened and Lars's roommate Serian came through, lugging armor and a wooden sword.
"Hey, Jess," he said, dropping the mess on the floor. "Hargrove working late again? That why you're frowning?"
She made herself smile. "No. He's taking a bath."
Serian peeled off his filthy shirt. "Ah. That's the new smell in here. Rumor is, there's a body in some pissant town. Dubric probably had Hargrove carry it. He always gets the shit jobs."
"I guess so." Jess shrugged and tried to focus on her book instead of Serian disrobing in front of her, but he was a big lad, nearly as big as her father, and he was difficult to ignore.
"Okay, Jess, out with it. What's got you so down?"
She looked up, then immediately returned her gaze to the book. Serian was discarding his pants. She prayed he'd keep his underdrawers on this time. "Down? I'm not down."
"Yeah, you are. Still having problems at home?"
She tried to focus on the paragraph but it kept blurring. "Some. Fyn and the baby both cry all the time and Kia's her same surly self." She chewed her lip then added, "And she's said some things."
Change jingled as Serian's pants hit the floor. "She still harping that bull piss about Lars using you?"
"Yeah."
"Don't listen to her, Jess. Shit, he's been head-over-ass smitten with you as long as I've known him. There ain't no other girl, anywhere. Never has been, never will be. Kia's just full of herself. And, I think our boy there has hogged the privy long enough."
Jess glanced up as Serian winked and, wearing only his underdrawers, strode to the privy room door and threw it wide.
Lars jumped back, startled, dropping his comb as the towel around his hips slipped. "What the hells?"
"Some of us have better things to do than entertain your girl while you primp, Hargrove."
"I'm not primping, and shut that damned door! For Goddess's sake, I'm not dressed!"
Serian's bulk partially blocking the view, he glanced back at Jess and grinned. "Like she cares about your dimply ass. You knew he has a dimply ass, didn't you, Jess?"
Jess giggled. "You're terrible!"
Serian's grin brightened and he wiggled his wide butt. "Hear that, Hargrove? She thinks I'm sexy."
Moergan came through the outer door. "No one thinks a moose like you is sexy," he said, noticing Jess. "But if you two eunuchs are comparing bits, I'm happy to take care of things out here."
"Oh, we're managing fine." Serian turned his back to Lars and blocked the privy room door. "How are faire inventories coming?"
Moergan flumped onto his bed. "Swimmingly. I got to count tankards for the ale tent, then pigs, then copper pots. A delightfully boring way to spend a day."
"Least you're not on security detail," Serian said. "Trumble and I have to spend the whole faire watching for drunks and thieves."
Lars pushed Serian aside and came out of the privy room with clean pants on, his shirt unbuttoned, and his feet bare.
"What torture has Dubric scheduled you for?" Moergan asked.
Lars finished buttoning his shirt then sat beside Jess to pull on his socks. "Nothing. I have faire day off."
"Lucky bastard. How'd you manage that?" Serian asked.
Lars grinned at Jess. "Told Dubric I needed the whole day."
"Really?" she asked.
Lars beamed. "Yep. Off duty till dawn the next morning. And I got your dad to extend our curfew. We can stay as late as we want at the dance."
Their gazes locked for a moment, but Lars winced and drew away as he had so many times before. Jess wished he'd tell her what was wrong.
"I want to speak with Physician Garrett, then we can rest for the evening," Dubric said, striding to their mounts.
"We're facing another nutter, aren't we, sir?" Dien asked as he untied his horse.
"Perhaps," Dubric said. "But the mage marks on the sheep worry me, as do all of the missing heads." He paused and forced his hands to unclench. "Only a few mages specialized in keeping or destroying heads, and those were the worst of a bad lot."
"It might just be kids killing livestock for thrills," Marsden said. "The marks you found might not have anything to do with that."
Dien muttered a curse. "What if it's Tupper, sir? It all started right after we released him, and we already know he likes to assault young girls. Maybe he just gets off attacking anything weaker than he is. Sheep. Puppies. Pegging bastard, maybe he's molesting the animals, too."
"That is a bit of a logic leap, and there is no reason to jump to such conclusions," Dubric said. "We cannot know for certain what is happening here or who is involved until we learn more about how the animals were killed and why. We have much random speculation, but few facts. Try to keep an open mind."
"There weren't any dead animals until after we let him loose, were there? Hells, he probably did it. So help me, if there are hammer wounds on that sheep, I'll open Tupper's frigging skull." Dien's voice grew low and gravely. "We should've hanged him when we had the chance. So help me, I won't let him beat another girl."
They rode in strained silence back to the village. Eventually Marsden asked, "Not that it's any of my business, but does that boy know you've got such a temper, seeing how he's courting your daughter and all?"
"Lars doesn't worry me," Dien said. "It's the other one."
"Your daughter has two lads courting her?"
"Not Jess. Her younger sister, Fyn, has a castle page after her. His father's a lecher and a sneak. The boy's no better."
"Oh." Marsden guided his horse down a narrow lane. "And does he know about your temper?"
"He's scared to death of me," Dien said. "Which is probably the only thing keeping his filthy mitts off my baby."
Alone again, and he's barely looked at me. Jess slid down from the fence. "I'll help gather your arrows." She picked up the lantern while Lars set aside his bow.
"I only hit six that time. Out of fifty arrows. I'm never going to get promoted if I can't pass archery."
Side by side, they crossed the bow range. "That's better than the previous five quivers," she said, at a loss for anything else to say. "You'll pass."
He snatched a pair of arrows from the ground. "It's rotten, Jess, and I can't believe that you're willing to sit here and watch me waste my time every night."
Jess picked up half a dozen arrows and put them in a quiver, feathers up. "You're not wasting your time - you're practicing. Besides," she said, braving a glance, "it's one of the few times I get you to myself."
He smiled and really looked at her for the first time since supper in the great hall, and she felt suddenly warm. She forgot all about the arrows as he came toward her. The breeze picked up and it ruffled his hair, tugged gently at her skirt, but she barely felt it -- he was reaching for her, and maybe, just maybe, he would take her in his arms, maybe even kiss her, just like she'd hoped.
But he stopped before he reached her, his hands clenching into fists. She looked up, searching his eyes. He started to speak, then seemed to change his mind.
"Is something wrong?" she asked.
He started to reach out again, then jerked back. "No, nothing's wrong."
"Something is," she whispered. "I wish you'd talk to me."
He swallowed. "All right. What do you want to talk about?"
"How about why you won't touch me if we're alone?"
He glanced away. "Oh, Goddess, Jess, don't."
Her throat clenched but she pressed on. "We've been courting a whole moon and you won't even hold my hand if we're alone. There's something wrong."
"Nothing's wrong. I love you. I swear I do."
"Don't swear," she said. "Just talk to me. We come to the targets or the roof almost every night and we barely talk. You barely even look at me."
"Well, we're looking now, and talking," he said as he picked up an arrow from the ground. "Speaking of talking, has Fyn said anything to your mam?"
Jess held out the quiver for him. "No. Did Gilby talk to my dad?"
"I don't think so. I'd have had to clean up the mess. Besides, he's avoiding me. I think he's getting tired of me riding his ass about being responsible. She's thirteen, for Goddess's sake. Too young to do this alone."
Jess found two more arrows. "Well, they'd better do something soon. I'm tired of covering for them."
"I'm just worried about the baby." Lars sighed. "No one's making any plans for the baby. What are they thinking?"
"They're not. Not with their heads, anyway." She held out the quiver for Lars again. "Is that what's going on? Your worry over Fyn and Gilby and the baby?"
"Maybe. Maybe I just think too much. I think about us a lot, Jess. I'm just trying to do the right thing."
"I know," she said, smiling.
"Oh!" he said, reaching into his pocket. "I found something today. Wasn't sure if you'd want it or not. I mean, it's nothing, really, just I know you like belts."
Jess grinned. She loved belts, especially unique ones. "That buckle?" she asked.
He sagged a little as he retrieved it from his pocket. "You saw?"
"Sorry," she said as he set it in her palm. "It was right by my books. It’s pretty, with the carvings and all. Where'd you find it?" It felt heavier than she expected as she turned it in her hand, and still warm from his pocket. A nice solid buckle, perfect for a fabric belt.
"In the mud, actually," he said, "at the bottom of a ravine. Looked like it had been there for a while." He paused and met her gaze. "You don't have to like it."
"I think it's wonderful."
The moment stretched between them and he took a slight step toward her, flinched, then touched her hand before he bent to pick up an arrow. "The faire's in a few days. The dance, the dinner... Have you gotten your dress? Can you tell me what color it is, or is that a secret?"
"It's not a secret," she said. "It's yellow. And sleeveless."
He grinned. "Sleeveless? Well, I'll definitely be looking during the dance, then."
"That's the plan."
"It's a good plan."
Lights shone through Garrett's windows, but no one answered the door. Dubric saw nothing besides a thin strip of wall and the corner of a table past the edges of curtains. He detected no movement within.
He walked to the back of the house and found the lights lit, but the door locked. The silence was broken only by a neighbor's barking dog.
"Want me to break it down, sir?" Dien asked.
"No." Dubric walked to the horses. "We have no cause to burst into a man's home. I merely wanted to assess him."
"Do you think he killed those animals?" Marsden asked.
"I am not certain. The laudanum may have been there by coincidence, or it may have been dropped by accident. A trained physician could surely perform the dismemberments we have seen, and would have access to the drug. He also arrived in town at the proper time. He is by far our best suspect." Dubric glanced at Dien. "More so than Tupper."
"Garrett doesn't do many surgeries," Marsden said. "At least that's what I hear. He’s a tonic and powder man, more likely to make an elixir or an infusion than cut someone open, or stitch them closed."
Dubric hoisted himself up to the saddle "Alas, we will not be interviewing him tonight. It is late and I am fatigued. Where could we find lodging?"
Marsden mounted and reined about. "There’s Vorrle's boardinghouse, but it’s a filthy place, so I'd have to suggest Jerle's."
"Jerle Dughall?" Dien asked, his voice tight. "Tupper's father?"
"He's the largest landowner in town. Owns the worker shacks, the rental houses... Hells, he owns the blacksmith shop, the boot maker's, and the miller's, too."
"I've met the bastard," Dien said. "He tried to buy us off after Tupper's arrest. He wasn't happy that we weren't for sale."
And Tupper, however unlikely, remains on my suspect list. "We probably should decline, if at all possible. If Tupper is involved it would be best for all concerned if we were not indebted to Jerle's hospitality."
"I'd invite you to stay with us, but with the kids there's barely room for Mari and me to sleep." Marsden tapped his fingers on the pommel of his saddle. "You know, Philbe has a couple of extra rooms. Her boy married off last fall, and her granddad passed on a while back. Philbe'd just as likely burn something as cook it, but she'll have a good bed and a clean room. Her shop's on the west end of town, by the miller. Don't you worry, I'll square it with her. She owes me a couple of favors."
"Thank you," Dubric said.
"I'm just glad you came," Marsden said. "And I'm sorry I didn't send for you when the first animals turned up. Honest to Goddess, sir, I thought it was just kids causing trouble."
"It still may be," Dubric said.
They rode in silence for a while, then Dien changed the subject,."How old's your boy now? He was just toddling around, last I remember. So you and Mari have had more?"
"Two," Marsden said proudly. "Ward's going on eight summers and the twins are five. Yours?"
Dien and Marsden chatted about their children while Dubric rode behind them, trying not to let his sorrow show. He had never felt the joys and trials of parenthood, never put his own child to bed or read stories or played. No one would carry on his name when he passed and few would grieve him. His only child had died in his wife's womb more than forty-five summers before. The pain of the double loss still burned.
Despite having love in his life again, he had little hope that fatherhood was within his reach at his age. He would just have to resign himself to the company of other men, other fathers, and their children.
He looked up to the moon peeking through the clouds and sighed. He wanted to go home.
"Come in, come in," Maeve said, ushering Jess and Lars through the door. "Please excuse the mess." Pathways wound like eddies through the chaotic mess of looms, furniture, and boxed belongings in Dubric's suite.
"It's fine," Jess said.
"Let's show Lars the new sitting room," Maeve said. "They just finished plastering today."
Hand in hand, Jess and Lars shared amused glances as they followed Maeve through blankets hanging in the open archway.
No longer merely a narrow pair of rooms along the north-facing wall, the expanded suite engulfed two other suites and extended to the eastern castle wall. Windows were freshly glazed on two walls and the sprawling floors had been partially resurfaced with new oak planks. Everything smelled of linseed oil and plaster dust; Jess felt grit beneath her shoes throughout Maeve's tour. The suite was wide and open and airy, bright and welcoming.
"The only enclosed rooms will be the bath chambers, Dubric's office, and my studio," Maeve said as she opened doors leading to a balcony near the corner. "Everything else will be open, or with wide archways in the support walls."
She leaned against the door frame. "What have you kids been up to?"
"Lars got me a new buckle," Jess said. "I’m going to make a belt."
"It's not new, exactly," Lars said, chuckling.
"It's new to me," Jess said, fishing it out of her pocket and handing it to Maeve. "I think it's an antique."
"I have some woven strips that would work perfectly for it, if you'd like them."
"I'd love that! Thank you!"
Maeve looked at Lars. "You didn't just come to see me at this time of night to tour the suite or show me the buckle, did you?" she asked, returning it to Jess.
"No, ma'am. I came to ask a favor," Lars said. "I'd like to use one of Dubric's, um, investigative tools for a minute. If I could."
Maeve straightened and frowned. "Has someone died? Again? Is that why he hasn't come home?"
"Not exactly," Lars said.
"Who? Where? How many?"
Lars swallowed. "We're not supposed to talk about case specifics. I just want to follow a couple of clues."
They looked at each other for a long time, long enough for Jess to fidget on her feet, but at last Maeve nodded.
"I don't like that thing," she said, her mouth tight. "It's not safe."
"I agree. I'll be careful."
"Thing? What thing?" Jess asked. "What's not safe?"
Neither responded. "Cover it when you're finished," Maeve said, and walked out of the room.
Lars squeezed Jess's hand. "You'd better go with her."
She searched his eyes. "What's going on?"
"You know I can't tell you," he said softly.
"Yes you can. If you're in danger, I need to know."
He led her toward the archway leading back to Dubric's old suite. "I'm not in any danger. Not here. I promise."
Jess bit her lip to keep from arguing. She knew his job entailed secrecy, especially during investigations, but, Goddess, Maeve seemed almost frightened. Jess looked around the suite, noting the carpenters' tools, the plaster trowels, the lumber, and finally the old mirror in the corner by the balcony with a plaster-dusted cloth draped over the glass.
"It's that mirror, isn't it?"
He stopped at the blanket-covered doorway. "It's my job, Jess. I'll be fine. Go on. You don't need to see this."
"Be careful," she said.
He smiled. "I always am."
Jess pushed through the blanket.
Maeve was at her loom with her back to the door. "I hate that thing."
Jess scooped up the cat and sat on a fabric crate. "What is it?"
"An old relic." Maeve passed another thread through, her voice strained. "It shows his dead wife."
"His what? How? Why?"
"I don't understand it, and I don't want to. But he put away all the other magic things, locked them away in the attic. Why not that mirror? Why can't he let that last bit go?"
Lars frowned at his reflection. How could he keep secrets from Jess? How could he keep his promises to her and maintain his duty to the Faldorrahn people?
Lars muttered a curse as he pulled a filthy piece of burlap from his pocket and presented it to the mirror. He hated the mirror, hated looking at it, talking to it, realizing what it could show. "Show me." He half hoped it would fail.
The mirror shimmered, the image shifting out of the castle and through the night. Past field and farm he flew in the mirror's greenish glow, to the sleeping village of Quarry Run. The image moved downward, into a pool of golden light, then through the window of the Twisted Cypress Tavern to center on a man.
Oblivious to the mirror's watchful eye, the tavern keeper filled a flagon with ale, put it on a tray, then filled another.
Lars put the burlap away and his own reflection reappeared briefly in the mirror as he pulled the cleaner bit of burlap from his pocket. Expecting to return to the tavern, he set the mirror on its search, but the image flew past the village, across the ravine, to a large stone-and-brick building, then went no farther.
"It can't ever be easy," he muttered, reaching into his pocket again. He pulled out the slips of paper and unfolded them until he found the scrap he was looking for; a drawing of two triangles, overlapping point to point to create a diamond in the middle.
He held the paper up, facing the glass. "Show me," he said, uncertain if his query would work. "Show me who claims this mark."
His reflection wavered, then the mirror went black, dark and depthless. Not even lights in the room behind him reflected on the surface of the glass. It was an image of nothing. He sighed.
After putting the scrap away, he drew the cover over the mirror. He straightened the cloth, relieved to have the glass covered once again, then slowly drew his hand back as a sliver of reflection peered at him. A reflection not his own. Before he could make it out, the cloth fell with a sigh and covered the slice of dark face, the one wide eye.
His right hand on the hilt of his sword - not that it would be of much use against a mirror - he brushed aside the cloth again.
Just his own image, hard-eyed and unflinching.