The Banshee's Walk (18 page)

“Well, it’s either a friendly ghost what misses the happy things it left behind, or it’s a complete bastard, trying to be smiles and music until you get close enough to be grabbed and gutted. I reckon it’s probably the last.”

I was impressed. I opened the door and held it for her.

“You have the makings of a great finder,” I said. “Now let’s eat.”

The smell was heavenly, though. The table didn’t sport the same volume of food it had that first night, but it was ample nonetheless. Lady Werewilk had decided not to employ her hexed hearth again, which meant none of the candles were melting from the heat.

We sat, and dined. Marlo’s customary chair was empty. Lady Werewilk gave me a quizzical raised eyebrow look from her seat at the end of the long table, and I replied to it with a smile and a nod.

The conversations, of course, all centered on the killing spell at the empty camp, the banshee and the likely whereabouts of Weexil’s ripening remains. The story of the day’s events certainly had the staff spooked—even the gardeners and the stable hands were wearing swords, and there were a dozen halberds, flails or just plain wooden clubs leaning against the wall near the door.

Every metal surface sported rust. Few attempts had been made to remove it. The soldier in me cringed.

I was asked a few times what I intended to do about the situation. I replied with vague affirmations that all would be well between mouthfuls of beef.

No one mentioned anything helpful about a Faery Ring, and I decided not to ask.

The artists were the least concerned of the bunch. None carried so much as a dagger. They were far more interested in beer and Serris, who joined the meal late, looking pale and tragic in a flimsy lace gown that suggested far more spirited activities than mourning the passing of a lover.

She didn’t look at me once during the meal. She avoided speaking to Gertriss too, which I found odd. Gertriss just shrugged when her calm greeting wasn’t returned. If they’d had terse words during the day, Gertriss hadn’t told me.

The food vanished, forkful by forkful, and the crowd with it. After a time, no one was left but Lady Werewilk, Gertriss, a few artists and myself.

The artists were arguing about something artistic and sloshing beer on the floor. Lady Werewilk finally had to get up and lead them both out by the elbow, much to Gertriss’ amusement.

She closed the door behind them, then took the seat beside me.

“So, Finder. What now?”

“We call the Watch.” When her brow furrowed, I spoke quickly. “Marlo isn’t going to get any help. I was right about that. Because he won’t be telling the right things to the right people. Hear me out, Lady Werewilk. It was your library that gave me the idea.”

“What did you find?”

“I think I found what your sneaky stake-layers were looking for. It was mentioned in a couple of old books, and they had maps. The Faery Ring? South of here? Ever hear of it?”

She shook her head. “I’m ashamed to say I haven’t, Mr. Markhat. Or if I have, I’ve forgotten it. What is it?”

“The books didn’t say. But it was located right on the banks of the old creek the clandestine surveying crew was staking out. It can’t be coincidence. Your forebears said the place was dangerous. I’m thinking an Elvish burial site, maybe. Or something worse. But what it was doesn’t matter—the fact that it’s there at all is what I’m counting on to get you out of this mess.”

She figured it out. “I forget the name of the Act. It’s the one in which the Crown—the Regency, I mean—assumes control over any site believed to be Elvish or pre-Kingdom sorcerous in nature?”

“The Regency Archeological Preservation Act,” I said. “Look. The last thing these people, whoever they are, want is for the Regent to send a few hundred soldiers and half of a dozen Army sorcerers down here with shovels and spells. Because as soon as the Regent’s sorcerer corps show up, there’s no chance anyone else will ever get their hands on whatever they think is buried out there.”

“You don’t think they have it yet?”

“Not if it’s Elvish they don’t. They didn’t have time, once they found the creek. The Elves buried their dead deep. And our friends from the camp didn’t have enough men or equipment to start a major excavation, much less finish one. Twenty men couldn’t possibly have been enough.” I caught my breath. “Either they found what they were looking for, or not. But either way, once the Regent gets involved, no one else does. Which means you and your house will be safe.”

She nodded. She wasn’t sold yet, and I didn’t much blame her.

“I know you’re thinking the Regency will come in here and make a huge mess and dig up half your estate and take whatever they find without so much as a thank you,” I said. “And that’s exactly what they’ll do. But at least they’ll make some compensation for the dig, and they’ll fill in the holes when they’re done, and while they’ll be a pain in the ass they won’t knock down your doors and cut all your throats in the night. Which, Lady, I do believe the other bunch might just do.”

I let that sink in.

“There’s something else, Lady. And if I’m right, it isn’t good news either.”

She sighed. “Go on.”

“The paintings. I said before they were masterpieces.”

“They are. What are you suggesting?”

“I’m suggesting that the inspiration for these masterpieces might have its origins in something other than pure artistic talent.”

“Nonsense!”

“Maybe. I hope so. But Lady—have you seen those kids, when they’re working?”

“Yes. They’re focused. They’re artists.”

“They’re kids,” said Gertriss. “Half of ’em drunk. The other half hung over. Now Lady, I reckon you know your business, and I reckon they can paint, drunk or sober. But the Sight runs in my family, and it’s as old as yours. And my Sight tells me there’s something in that gallery room that ought not to be.”

“Please don’t be insulted if I find that hard to believe, dear.”

“I don’t. But I’m telling you plain there’s something else here. I don’t know what it is. And I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. But it’s here.”

I nodded. “Lady Werewilk, if it’s true there’s something worthy of a sorcerer’s attention in the old Faery Ring, you’ve got to at least consider the possibility that it’s influencing your artists. It wouldn’t be the first time something old or something Elvish gave people close to it nightmares or visions.”

“And now you believe it’s expressing an interest in oil paintings of the School of Realism?”

I shrugged. “I’ve seen stranger things, Lady.”

Her expression told me plainly the she hadn’t, and she doubted that I had.

“Look. Forget what might be buried under the Faery Ring. Forget what it might or might not be doing to your painters. The fact remains that someone who’s proven they’re willing to kill—more than once—may be sneaking toward your door. And I say the only way to stop that is to get the Regency involved.”

Lady Werewilk deflated.

“On that, Mr. Markhat, I’m afraid we agree.”

Gertriss spoke. “Is it too late to send somebody back to Rannit now?”

I’d dreaded this discussion. “We can’t send just anybody. It’ll have to be me. And I’m going alone. On foot. No horse, no stable boys.” I looked Gertriss in the eye to let her know I meant no assistants too.

“Look. I can march into House Avalante and have a chat with a halfdead named Evis. Evis has pull. An hour after I speak to him, he can have the Regent’s top archeologist sitting in his office. I can wave a few maps around and make mention of unauthorized artifact hunts and I’d bet my favorite boots we’ll be headed back here an hour after that with fifty troops and a pair of Regency sorcerers, with another two hundred men on the road by daybreak. Without Evis and Avalante, all that could take days. Maybe a week. And that’s just too long to take chances.”

“Alone? Are you crazy, er, boss?”

“I can move faster and a lot quieter by myself. It’s maybe fifteen miles to Rannit. I can do that on foot in seven hours, even moving slow and keeping the noise down. I can stay off the road. If no one here knows I’m gone, well, I should be perfectly safe.”

I wasn’t convincing anyone. But I reminded myself that as the boss I didn’t need to convince Gertriss. And Lady Werewilk might not like it, but she was biting her lip and being quiet.

“So it’s settled. I’ll sneak out right after breakfast. Dawn is a good time for sneaking. Anybody asks, I’m up in my room, pondering my misspent youth.”

Gertriss opened her mouth. I prepared myself for a tirade, having recognized the slight creasing of her forehead and the way she made her hands into fists from Mama’s similar habits.

At that moment, though, Buttercup let loose a long, plaintive cry from somewhere out in Lady Werewilk’s overgrown lawn.

We all bolted for the door. Artists and staff were already in the hall, on the move, though every one of them stopped well before the doors.

Buttercup’s howl rose up and up, growing louder and clearer with every passing moment. Gertriss brandished her new sword, but I put the blade down with the palm of my hand.

“No need for that, Miss,” I said. My words barely rose above the banshee’s wail. “I don’t think she means us any harm.”

I reached the door. I had my hand on the latch when Buttercup’s cry rose sharply and took on a certain unmistakable urgency.

I opened the door, poked my head just around it.

There was no Moon. The torches on either side of the doors illuminated a semicircle of weeds and cracked flagstones, but only for a weak stone’s throw. Beyond that was shadow and forest and night.

One moment, shadow and forest.

Blink.

The next, shadow and forest and Buttercup, at the edge of the lawn. She was wild-eyed, and her hair swirled around her as though she’d just paused in the midst of a spinning dance step.

Her right hand moved, the motion so fast it was only a blur.

When I could see her hand again, it held a crossbow bolt. A black one, twin to the one I’d pried from my boot.

Blink. Buttercup and bolt were gone.

But from the trees came the sound of horses. Fast cavalry mounts, not any of Lady Werewilk’s plodding mules.

“Stay put.” I pulled Toadsticker from my belt. I expected Gertriss to argue, but she just nodded and took the door. “Douse the lights so you don’t make a good target. Get ready to open the door if I need inside in hurry.”

And then I was on the move.

I wish I could say I glided ghostlike from shadow to shadow. Truth is, I was too full of roast beef to do much more than shuffle and grunt. But I managed to shuffle my way across the Werewilk lawn without being seen or shot.

The crape myrtle in which I’d left the blanket and corn bread was empty. I hid myself beneath it, taking advantage of the weeds and the moonless night. The horses were close, still running at a suicidal gallop through thick forest, and I wondered just what kind of madmen they bore.

Buttercup cried out again, from just inside the trees. I saw a hint of motion, wild hair in the starlight, and then she was gone, but the horses were nearly on top of us.

The first of the horsemen broke from the trees.

I very nearly failed to bite back a curse word.

Black mare. Black saddle. Rider small and slight, swathed in black robes, black hood, black sleeves and gloves and boots. Had there been daylight, I might have glimpsed the black mask he wore, with its careful slit for the eyes.

A sorcerer. Worse, a sorcerer who’d sidestepped the arduous and expensive process of being vetted and named by Rannit’s established sorcerous corps.

Which made him a doubly dangerous man, in that his life was already forfeit by law and the ire of beings like Encorla Hisvin and all the other monsters who had survived the War.

He held a staff. Atop it was a glowing blue globe that hissed and sparked.

Buttercup howled, appeared maybe fifty feet from the horseman, and did that odd little side-step that had been, until then, the very last thing I saw her do before she vanished.

This time, though, she fell.

The sorcerer bore down on her, calling out to his comrades, who were so close to the tree line I could hear the strained breathing of their mounts.

She rose, but the blue light played oddly about her, and she struggled and fell again, as though fighting her way through a briar-patch.

She looked back at me. She wasn’t howling anymore. She was screaming, but it was just a scream, with none of the volume of her eerie howls.

I cussed and charged out of the myrtle tree, Toadsticker held low, my supper weighing me down like a belt made of stones.

I’d never reach the sorcerer in time. I knew that. He’d be able to run Buttercup down half a dozen times before I huffed and puffed half the way to him.

And to make matters suddenly worse, four other black-clad sorcerers burst from the trees. Each carried a glowing staff similar to that of the first. When the light from them all fell over Buttercup, her scream fell to a whimper and she sank to her belly and pulled my plain grey blanket over her and began to cry.

The first sorcerer reached her, pulled to a halt, and kept his staff over her huddled form. He barked something to the others, and they turned their black mounts to face me.

I stopped. I went quiet. I was too far from the Werewilk house to make a run for it and too far from the woods to escape there either.

I was in the middle of a patch of knee-high weeds with a short sword, facing five outlaw sorcerers armed with the kind of nasty that only outlaw sorcerers can offer.

Crickets sang. Horses shuffled. The rogue sorcerers sat and stared. One chuckled and muttered something unintelligible to his fellows.

“I’ll give you boys one chance to surrender,” I said, after a time. “After that, things are going to get ugly.”

One of them barked something, and his blue staff blazed blood red, and he pointed it at me.

I raised Toadsticker. I know I did, because Gertriss saw me do it from the door. I only vaguely remember my arm going up, and what little I do recall makes it feel as if the sword moved on its own, and my hand and arm merely followed.

The sorcerer’s red-globed staff flashed, and the lawn lit up bright as day, and a crack of Heaven’s own thunder picked me up off my feet and threw me back a dozen long strides and dropped me on my ass right in the middle of a razor-thorned wild rose bush.