“Sir, you cannot expect me to believe—”
“Believe what you will. I see bashed heads, slashed throats and mutilated bodies. Ghosts of their corpses. They follow me until they receive justice. It is my curse and I have borne it more than forty summers. I will bear it until the day I die. Reason dictates Jelke was murdered, but in this case reason is incorrect. He has no ghost therefore he cannot be murdered.”
“Sir, surely you cannot...” Dien paused. Perfume. He smelled perfume. The same perfume he had smelled near Dubric in the dark days before they had found the castle slasher. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Dien swallowed and stared at the old man.
“Ah, our guest has arrived,” Dubric said, smiling. He stood and pulled out a chair then pushed it back in, as if a Lady sat upon it. Smiling toward the chair he said, “Dien thinks I have gone mad.”
Dien heard nothing but the scent shifted, as if whoever wore the perfume moved. He stared at the chair.
Dubric chuckled and shook his head. “She seems to say that it is impolite to stare. Hard to tell for certain since I cannot hear her.”
Dien’s mouth had gone dry. “Who?” he asked, his voice hoarse and cracking.
“Lady Brinna,” Dubric replied, taking his seat again. “I have kept company with her ghost for more than thirty summers.”
Dien scrambled to his feet, shoving his chair back to the table. “This is madness! You’re not going to draw me into your insanity, sir! What you’re saying is—”
Something cold touched his hand, like chilled, dead fingers. Dien snatched his hand away.
“Brinna says there is nothing to fear.” Dubric smiled, his glittering eyes watching Dien’s. “Do you believe me now?”
Dien backed away, his gaze darting between the chair and Dubric. “Ghosts are fiction. A story told to delight and terrify young children.”
“I wish you were correct, my friend, I truly do. But I know better. And since I can still see Brinna, I still suffer from my curse. Jelke cannot have been murdered.”
“He was murdered, sir. Ghosts or no peg—“ Dien paused to lower his voice, “or no ghosts, he was murdered.” Peg! Now I’m watching my language around a symptom of Dubric’s madness!
Dubric nodded once, slowly, his bright gaze never leaving Dien’s. “Reason demands it. I know. So, if we can reasonably deduce he has been murdered, why do I not see his ghost? There must be a reason. And, whatever that reason is, we must discover it and soon. I cannot abide murderers in our midst nor justice undone, whether I see ghosts or not.” He contemplated Dien a few moments more then stood, pulling Lady Brinna’s chair. His arm offered in a formal escort, he walked from the great hall without looking back.
Scowling, Dien finished his ale in a gulp then headed back to his borrowed suite. What the bloody hells do I do now?
Village of Durrel
“Diddy boy, if you don’t shut off that pegging light I’m gonna throw it out the window.”
Otlee frowned and turned toward the two senior pages in the bed. Stuck with Moergan and Serian by lot, they had left him the floor to sleep on. “I’m studying and I can’t read while on horseback.”
“Like I give a peg,” Serian growled.
“Will the two of you shut the hells up?” Moergan snapped, rolling over.
Serian grunted. “You know I can’t sleep with a light on.”
Otlee turned to the next page of his alchemy book and smiled. Sleeping Potions. What he wouldn’t give for some feverfew, red clay, and mealybugs right now so he could have some peace and quiet. “If you close your eyes you won’t see the light,” Otlee muttered, reading the formulae over again, committing it to memory. He grinned. The red clay was just for color, any clay would do. Dandy!
Serian growled, rolled over, and punched his pillow.
“Otlee,” Moergan said, yawning, “please blow out the damn light. If you don’t, none of us are going to get any sleep. We’ve got a lot of riding ahead of us tomorrow.”
Sighing, Otlee extinguished his light and settled into the tangled pile of blankets. As he drifted off, he thought of formulae and when he would get to try one.
Village of Middern, central Gattol
Kramoris the Wanderer staggered back to his wagon while shucking up his loose silk pants. Gattol had the best damned whorehouses in central Lagiern and the good ones served free ale. Ah, what a night, he thought. A short man, thick across the chest and sporting a curly black beard over his brightly colored silks, he stopped in the middle of the road and broke wind, grimacing as he pushed the bubble free. Shucking up his pants again, he chortled and continued on.
Burping and scratching his privates—it would just be his luck to get bugs from one of the whores—he climbed into his wagon and dug around for something to eat. He located crusty bread and a hunk of cheese in short order. Grabbing a knife, he turned and shuffled toward his bunk then stopped, dropping his burden on the floor. The knife clattered beside his foot but the cheese landed on his toes and he cursed, kicking it away, his eyes focused on the dim glow hanging near the ceiling.
“Blasted son of a pig riding whore,” he muttered, reaching up to grasp the rock and the leather lacing it hung from. “And to think I was having a perfectly good night.”
He held the stone in his palm and blew on it. “Update my ass.” The light brightened. “What?!” he snapped.
The face within blinked, smoothing a few lonely strands of hair over a bald pate. “You have two items we require.”
“Fine!” Kramoris muttered, breaking wind again as he knelt to retrieve his cheese and bread. “I’ll be in Pyrinn in about three moons. You know my schedule.” He blew on the stone and the light faded but did not go away.
He intended to hang it up again and reached upward, searching for the hook with his fingers, but his hands started shaking and he clutched the stone in his fist instead. “Why did I ever agree to this goat dung?” he muttered. “I used to be a free man.” He sighed at the stone and fell sitting onto his narrow bed. Frowning, his hands trembling, he blew on it again.
The bald man blinked. “You acquired a dagger and a mirror from an associate at Castle Faldorrah.”
Although it was not a question, Kramoris nodded. “Sure, I collect things from Jelke every time I pass through. Money, information, whatever. You know that.”
“Our Liege desires both the dagger and mirror. Immediately.”
Kramoris scratched his privates again. Damned buggy whores. “I’ll be there first moon of summer. I can hold them until then.”
“Immediately,” the stone said then turned dark.
Cursing, Kramoris threw the stone into a corner and resumed looking for the dropped loaf of bread.
Village of Durrel
Finally asleep, he thought as he slipped from the bed. His bed mate rolled over and grunted, but did not wake.
Smiling, he slipped into his shoes and grabbed his cloak and weapons, feeling the thrum of the scry stone in his pocket. A blur in the dark inn, he hurried down the stairs and across the empty common room to the door.
Clear, cold, night air caressed him and he trotted around to the back of the inn, to the privy. He pulled the stone from his pocket as he closed the door. The stench was horrid but survivable.