Anlaida sent twenty gold pieces to Allim’s family with the official condolences of the Baron, who had not known that Allim existed. Olaine hired a new aide, an expert in neither cookery nor disappearing. Clentos examined the village people and learned that Allim had enjoyed noodles.
“Buried in a hurry,” said Arran, one-handedly unwinding Anlaida’s woolen yarn.
“Clentos thinks that he panicked.”
“Or he’s not from this place at all.”
“A traveler, do you mean?” she said.
“Perhaps.” Arran frowned at the wall. When he frowned, he looked uncommonly like Uliath, although she had not the heart to say so. “Or one who held a grudge against her and lives at a distance. Jilted lover, perhaps.”
“Or an sluggard who didn’t care to dig a hole.” Anlaida cast several more stitches and stopped. “Clentos keeps questioning the village people. Says he was told that Jaron was the only man she ever saw. He lives a space away, but he spent that day in the mines, and hardly a minute of it alone. The poor man was so broken up over Allim’s death that he could hardly talk.”
Arran hunched his shoulders. “Feels like snow.”
“How can you tell?” Anlaida asked him, exasperated. “We’re on the third floor of a castle, who-knows-how-many feet off the ground.”
He shrugged, and the movement jerked the wool in his hands.
“Arran!” Anlaida’s knitting flew to the floor.
“Sorry.” He picked it up, awkwardly. Tolar had said that his arm should heal in several more weeks, but at present, it was worse than useless. Merely getting it into his shirt was a daily ordeal.
She grasped her needles again, and their clicking resumed. “Soldor still intends to marry. This spring, he told me.”
Arran unwound another length of yarn.
“Well?” She flashed her needles twice more, casting stitches, and then turned the piece.
“What do you mean?”
“Being the wonderful kind understanding dutiful little sister is not working.”
Arran nodded. “But being the plotting scheming difficult noodly little sister would.”
She sighed. “Allim had no enemies so far as I know.”
“No,” Arran said. “I wonder—”
Clentos, it appeared, was wondering over the same question. He laid his final report before Soldor and Anlaida the next night. “She did serve at the castle, Baron. So far as I can ascertain, she had no enemies. You, on the other hand—”
“Pointless,” Soldor interrupted, jabbing his empty quill at the table. “Murder a kitchen aide—leave no message to indicate the reason—explain how that directly threatens me. The truth is this, Clentos. We have no idea why she died—an insane killer, perhaps? But we know nothing. Nothing. We must remain alert, of course, but there’s little more any of us can do.”
Clentos continued, ignoring Soldor, whose pessimism no longer fazed him. “You, on the other hand, have an enemy. He attempted to bribe Arran into poisoning you; then he attempted to threaten Arran into poisoning you; and, when all else failed, he tried to kill Arran. If he—”
“Hadoth is dead,” Anlaida pointed out.
“Remember that whoever hired him is most likely still living, Lady.” Clentos set a hand on the hilt of his steel sword. “If the man hired someone else—or came himself—he may have thought that a servant would be less likely to refuse than Arran, who shares your blood. A kitchen servant would have direct access to your food, Baron. Say he promised money to Allim if she would use the poison—money enough to allow her to marry Jaron and live comfortably. But she refused, knowing his plans and perhaps his identity. At that point, he panicked, and—”
“Speculation,” Soldor said, tugging at his tunic.
Anlaida watched her brother. “Exactly how likely do you think it, Clentos?”
“At least as likely as it having been a random murder. Most likely more.” His deep-set eyes searched her face. “The Baron is right; it’s speculation. But I think it a probable explanation.”
“And doubling the guard would do little good,” Soldor murmured.
“I can at least examine the servants,” Anlaida said, “and discharge those that have not proven themselves trustworthy.”
“Perhaps.” Clentos straightened his broad shoulders. “For your sake, Baron, I certainly hope that this is all idle speculation. If not, I will at least have doubly alerted the men.”
“Thank you, Captain.” Soldor picked at the feather of his quill as Clentos bowed his head in respect and strode from the room. Anlaida saw the leather thong about his hand and thought of Allim and felt that Arran was right. Snow was coming.