But I sure as the seven hells don’t want my daughter associating with a murderer. Grumbling, he stood and drained the last of his ale. Shoving his second thoughts aside, he headed toward his suite.
Sarea and a couple of the other castle women sat near the window working on their mending and chatting while their babies crawled and rolled on the floor. She looked up when he came through the door. “What’s wrong?” she asked, standing.
“Where’s Fyn?”
Sarea glanced at her friends then set aside her mending, stepping over squirming babies as she hurried to him. “She’s been out most of the afternoon. What’s wrong?”
“Just duty, Sarea. Do you know where she is?”
“No, she and Gliassia left together after lunch. I have no idea where she might be.”
He leaned close to his wife and whispered, “Did she mention Gilby?”
“No more than usual,” she whispered back. “Why?”
He sighed and drew her into their bedroom, closing the door behind them. “I need to question Gilby concerning a pending project.”
Sarea took a single step back, her eyes growing wide. “Jelke’s murder?”
“I can’t say. You know that. Just it’s concerning a pending matter. But I need to find Gilby, and soon.”
She nodded, slowly, biting her lip. “If Fyn comes home I’ll keep her here. I don’t know what else I can do.”
He kissed her and smiled into her eyes. “When she comes home, send Jess or Aly for me. They can leave a message at the office.”
Sarea nodded and Dien left, waving a goodbye to the women by the window.
He walked down the hall to Gliassia’s suite, taking a breath before he knocked. Moments later, Lady Hermini opened it a crack and he bowed, trying not to cough at the cloud of perfume oozing from inside.
“Pardon me for interrupting your afternoon, milady, but I’m looking for my daughter.”
Hermini frowned, shaking her wide, multi-chinned head, and opened the door no further. “She’s not here.” She clutched her dressing gown to her throat with thick, sausagey fingers and tossed back her noble ball-shaped head as if she were far too busy to be bothered by the likes of him.
“Is Gliassia home? Perhaps she knows where Fynbelle has gone off to.”
“Yes, she is home but she is napping. A Lady naps in the afternoon, but I don’t suppose you realize that, do you master Saworth?”
Some day’s I’d like to chuck half the castle nobles in a river. Smiling despite his gritted teeth, Dien said, “I apologise for interrupting your nap, milady, but it is most urgent I speak with your daughter. Official business.”
She pursed her lips. “What has your wayward daughter done this time to warrant official business? Dipped her fingers in the coffers? Or have you merely lost track of your numerous progeny and are hiding your belated parental concern behind your office? You commoner beasts breed like rabbits. Despicable, brutish habits, I tell you. It’s no wonder you cannot control your children.”
Dien struggled to keep his voice low and even. “Milady, I can assure you that I am here on official business and if you do not let me speak with your daughter, immediately, I will gladly throw your fat ass in the gaol with the stinkiest, randiest drunk we have. Then, while you rot and await moons for your trial of hindering an official investigation—a treasonous offense for which I guarantee the Council will find you guilty because Dubric’s paperwork will be impeccable—I’ll strap Gliassia’s equally fat ass in a chair and interrogate her until she begs for mercy and makes up stories just to humor me. So, milady, I suggest you either open your frigging door or fetch your daughter yourself right pegging now.”
Lady Hermini drew a sharp breath and took a step back, clutching her dressing gown tighter against her chubby throat. “You wouldn’t dare! I’m cousin to Sir Vittrel of Klandan and Lady Bethani of Fliskke and they would not stand—”
I cannot take another moment of this crap! He shoved the door open. “I work directly for Lord Nigel Brushgar, Lord Dubric Byerly , and the King of goddess-damned Lagiern himself, and none give a peg what Sir or Lady you or your parents fornicated with. You are interfering in an official government investigation and that’s a hanging offense. Fetch your goddess-damned daughter and fetch her now!”
Wailing, Hermini scrambled backward, her belly jiggling like a plate of raw hogs brains, and she stumbled to a closed door. Rapping on it, but her terrified gaze never leaving Dien, she called out, “Gliassia! Please come out, dearest. There is someone here to see you!”
Dien heard a mutter and the door opened. “But, mama! I’m trying to sleep!”
Hermini nodded, her rolls gyrating, and backed away. “I know, dearest,” she said, “but he’s most insistent.”
“He?” Gliassia asked, opening the door, but the hopefulness on her plain, plump face fell when her eyes lit upon Dien. “I don’t know anything!” she said, starting to close the door.
He kicked the door open and stomped into her bedroom as she squealed and scurried away. “Don’t play games with me, Gliassia. Where’s Fyn?”
“I told you, I don’t know.” Not quite as fat as her mother but well on her way, Gliassia cowered in the corner, her plump hands covering her face.
Dien’s mouth went dry as clear fear and anger slid down his throat. “Is she with Gilby?”
Gliassia startled, her hands dropping and her mouth working, and she seemed to look for a route of escape. “How? How did you know?”
“Where are they!?” Dien stomped toward her, his hands clenching and unclenching. “So help me, I’ll kill the bastard! Tell me! Where are they!”
Gliassia squealed and pressed herself into the corner. “I don’t know, not for sure, but they meet sometimes in the grain shed. Fyn—”
Dien lost the rest to a haze of red, pulsating rage.
He found himself outside the grain shed, the red haze thinning but still clouding his vision. He stared at the square, stone building for a few moments, breathing deeply to help clear his mind. I want to kill the boy, forgive me, Goddess, but I do, and if Gilby has lured my Fyn to the shed, has coerced her into... Snarling, he shook his head and tried to shove the worry away. He knew that kids sometimes used the grain shed’s loft for entertaining. Hells, he and Sarea had enjoyed the loft once or twice before they were married, but back then he was seventeen summers, Sarea was sixteen, and they were betrothed, for Goddess sake. Fyn wasn’t even courting age, not for another summer, and Gilby... “That frigging Gilby,” he muttered. “Worthless little bastard’s not good enough for my daughter.”
He reached for the door and paused, wiping the sweat from his brow and unstrapping the sword at his hip. Beating the bastard is one thing, but to run him through would be murder, warranted or not, and I sure as the pegging hells don’t want to get hung. He took another breath an opened the door.
Sacks of grain stacked in neat rows filled the lower level, and the grain-house cat stretched and blinked at him for interrupting her afternoon nap. He ignored the cat and walked between the rows, breathing in the the hot, stale, musty scent of dry grain and cat shit. One dirty window on the far side provided the only illumination and dust motes danced in the gray air, oblivious to his pain.