The Banshee's Walk (10 page)

“So we’re really being watched. By someone with eyes.”

She nodded, took a deep breath, closed her eyes.

I’ve seen Mama do the same thing over and over. But when Gertriss did it, the wind suddenly bore whispers, and the shadows around us began to dart and scurry.

The huldra. Back again, risen from its hiding place.

“There,” said Gertriss, pointing, but my eyes were already fixed on the spot.

Ahead of us. Two hundred feet, maybe. Call it thirty feet off the ground. My eyes told me there was nothing there but the same shadows that enveloped us, but the remnant of the huldra saw something else.

“What is it?”

“It watches,” replied Gertriss. Her eyes were still shut. Her hands were outstretched, moving, as though performing some intricate unraveling of the empty air before her.

I shook my head, willing the huldra’s dry crackling voice to be silent.

“Does it have a crossbow?”

Gertriss opened one eye.

“You are not going to just go stomping up to it, are you?”

“Not if it has a crossbow. Is it an it or a he or a she? Or a them?”

Gertriss started moaning.

I whirled. Her eyes had rolled up, so that only the whites showed. Her hands twitched and groped. She took a step forward, and I caught her by her elbows.

She tried to keep walking. Her moaning rose and rose, becoming a shriek.

A shriek to match the one now sounding through the blood-oaks.

I felt it too, now. Eyes, eyes upon me. The huldra’s ghost gibbered and screamed, telling me words I didn’t know, urging me to hurl magics I no longer commanded.

“Sorry,” I said.

And then I grabbed the back of Gertriss’ hair and yanked.

She erupted into a whirlwind of claws and knees, but her howl died and her eyes rolled back down, wide and angry and hurt.

The shriek in the trees died with hers, choked off just as suddenly.

Gertriss stopped struggling, grabbed my hand and charged for the House, dragging me along after.

I didn’t resist. Much. One-man charges against unknown foes may be the stuff of legend, but then so are gruesome deaths and shallow graves.

We hoofed it back to our side door and didn’t stop until it was securely closed behind us.

We leaned on the walls and panted. Gertriss wrapped her arms tight around her chest and fought back a serious case of the shivers. I patted her shoulder in a fatherly there, there fashion and tried not to shake myself.

“I begin to see why the staff doesn’t line up to patrol the grounds.”

Gertriss nodded.

“Any idea at all what that was?”

She shook her head.

I gave up trying to coax words out of her just yet. But of course there was only one word on both our minds anyway.

Banshee.

What else lurks about, ready to issue its trademarked plaintive howl upon being spotted? The howl, together with Gertriss’ earlier sighting of a near-naked woman, certainly suggested it.

But even Mama had scorned the idea of a real banshee. Mama, who routinely trafficked with everything from haints to clover-fairies.

But something had been in the trees. Something had howled. Something had nearly drawn Gertriss into a trance that would have sent her stumbling blindly into the woods.

A Banshee. Or some sort of sorcery.

“Take your pick,” I muttered.

“Pick of what?”

“Bad or worse. You all right? What happened out there?”

“I saw something, Mr. Markhat. So I looked closer, and then it saw me.”

She shivered again. I urged her down the hall, away from the door. Just in case.

“Male or female? Armed, unarmed?”

“It was the same woman I saw on the way here,” said Gertriss. She set a brisk pace and impressed me by lowering her arms to her sides and forcing a deep breath. “Unarmed. Watching. No, more than just watching. I think…I think she’s looking for something.”

We were back in the painting room. There was no sound from the hall, so I hoped our arboreal howling witch had decided to remain outdoors.

“Any idea what?”

Gertriss shook her head in an emphatic no. “As soon as she knew I saw her, she just…took over.” The second dinner bell rang out, and I heard footfalls and voices throughout the House.

I stopped, faced Gertriss.

“All right. We’ve got something in the forest. Something strange, something that may be dangerous. Neither of us goes out there alone. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Now it’s time for dinner. And questions. So I need you to forget about what just happened, until we have time to think about it later. Can you do that?”

She nodded, managed a weak grin.

“Good girl.”

We followed the hall and the noise. The dining room wasn’t hard to find.

The big oak double-doors, which were worked with carved dragons, were open. The aromas of fresh hot bread and roasting beef poured from between them, along with a blast of noon-day heat.

The dining room at Werewilk probably seated sixty with room to spare. As it was, maybe a dozen seats were empty, and they were the ones closest to the monstrous fire roaring in the cavernous fireplace that dominated the north end of the room.

I was mopping sweat before I’d taken a dozen steps.

Chapter Eight

“Welcome to House Werewilk, Mr. Markhat, Miss Gertriss,” said Lady Werewilk. She was again wearing black—black trousers, black waistcoat, black gloves—but tonight’s ensemble was more mannish than provocative. At her words, the entire assemblage stood, and a more miserable lot of sweaty-faced dinner guests I have never seen.

I recognized a few faces, of course. Marlo and Gefner, Scatter and Lank. Emma and Ella, looking wilted from the heat. I assumed the grizzled, stooped old man next to Lady Werewilk was Singh, and the vacant-eyed man who had to be prodded into standing by a poke in his ribs was Milton, Lady Werewilk’s War-broken brother.

“We thank you for your hospitality,” I said. Lady Werewilk made a small nod, and the gathered sank into their seats. I watched Singh lower Milton into his chair with gentle pressure on both his shoulders. Only when he was seated did Lady Werewilk take her own seat.

The enormous table was laden with a feast. Meats sizzled and smoked. Bowls of fresh-cooked vegetables simmered and steamed. Flagons of lovely golden beer sparkled in the candlelight. Markhats sweated profusely and sought out empty chairs.

We’d been placed at the head of the table opposite Lady Werewilk. That put the raging inferno close at her back, though she remained miraculously unfazed by the heat it poured forth. Napkins started mopping at faces, though, as we lesser beings began to slowly succumb to the heat. I had to bite back the helpful observation that food was customarily cooked in various ovens before the meal was served, not atop the table as people ate.

I took in the faces, the expressions, the postures. Most exchanged what-the-hell looks and mopped sweat. A few looked down or away. Milton’s gaze fell on his empty plate and remained there, unmoving.

“This is Mr. Markhat,” said Lady Werewilk, above the crackle and roar of the fire. “The finder from town. You will answer, honestly and without regard to my presence, any question he puts to any of you. Failure to answer, or to answer truthfully, will see you removed at once from my House. Is that clear?”

A chorus of “Yes ma’ams” sounded in reply.

Lady Werewilk nodded. “Good. I would be remiss if I failed to remind you all of the curse laid upon this hearth by my great-great-great grandfather Lint, which describes a variety of unpleasant demises that will pursue anyone who speaks a lie while basking in the warmth of his fire.” She smiled. “And as I see you are basking, we may begin. You may dine as we speak.”

Forty-five forks clattered on forty-five plates. Mine was not among them.

“We’ll start by going around the room,” I said, over the din. “Say your name, how long you’ve been here and what you do here. I’ll start. Markhat. I’m a finder. Been here three hours.”

I nodded at Gertriss. She introduced herself, and then the fun began.

I won’t bore you with the repetitions of forty-five names, except to say that Skin the beekeeper spoke in such low tones his every word had to be repeated aloud by Marlo, and Milton Werewilk would only speak his own name when prompted by Singh the butler in the same coaxing tones one might use with a shy child.

The rundown revealed the same names and times that Lady Werewilk had provided back in Rannit. I wasn’t expecting anything different. I just wanted to put names to faces. And to pick up any oddities the speakers might present.

I got a couple of those before I speared my first slice of crisp red apple.

The second of the artists to speak was a buxom, dark-haired beauty named Serris Eaves. Serris was maybe seventeen. She managed to state that she was a painter of the school of Wiltic impressionism, and that she’d been at Werewilk for a year. Then she choked up and had to fight off a bout of crying. Her unhappiness would have been obvious even if her voice hadn’t betrayed her. She’d made efforts to conceal her distress, but her eye-liner was running and her nose was red. She kept making both worse by dabbing at her eyes and nose with her dinner napkin.

Gertriss shot me a look. Weexil’s lady love?

I nodded in response. We’d see.

Milton Werewilk was the other oddity. He was a small man. Pale. Well-groomed and well dressed, unlike the Broken you can find collapsed in any ditch in Rannit. But what he shared with those men were the eyes.

Vacant. Oh, his eyes were fixed on something—a bowl of mashed potatoes, a bottle of wine—but he wasn’t really seeing it. His eyes just happened to be fixed there, while his mind was somewhere else.

I wondered where. I saw swords upraised. The huldra let me smell smoke, and I decided I probably knew.

He had Lady Werewilk’s dark hair and delicate features, but none of her animation. Singh fed him with a spoon. He chewed, but only as long as Singh mumbled to him.

I turned away.

“All right,” I said, as the last artist pronounced his name around a mouthful of green beans. “We all know each other. You all know why I’m here. So here’s my first question—where is Weexil Treegar?”

Serris Eaves broke out bawling. The pair of male artists flanking her laid hands on each shoulder and glared at each other while making soothing noises at Serris. I chuckled at the folly of youth.

Heads shook. Faces fell down, fixed on their plates.

I sighed.

“I know Weexil left early this morning,” I said. “I know his belongings were rather carelessly left in a cook stove fire. What I don’t know is who this Weexil was or what might have caused him to suddenly leave such lovely company and strike out for parts unknown. So someone tell me. Who was Weexil?”

The eager young painter seated on Serris’s right was the first to chime in, earning him a glare from the young man on her left.

“Weexil Treegar was a poser,” he said. “A poser and a cad.”

Serris burst into full-on hysterics.

“So he wasn’t an artist.”

My eager young man, who had introduced himself as Nordred Vasom, had a lot to learn about women.

“Weexil was a tradesman.” He sneered. “He fetched us things from town. Paints, canvases, brushes.”

Serris whirled on him, eyes flashing.

“He’s more than that,” she said, her voice ragged and quavering. “He has the soul of an artist. His songs…”

“His songs were stolen,” said the would-be suitor on her left. I glanced at Gertriss, who mouthed his name “Calprit Homes”.

“Stolen?”

The young man rolled his eyes. “Everyone knew it, Serris. He just took old ballads and made your name fit.”

Serris shrieked, flung a full beer into his face and fled the room. I made to signal Gertriss to follow, but she was already halfway out of her chair.

Laughter rose, quickly silenced with a sweeping, icy stare from Lady Werewilk.

“Continue, Mr. Markhat.”

I nodded. Calprit Homes mopped beer and blushed and glared at Nordred Vasom. I wanted to tell them they’d both better give Serris a wide berth for a long time or they’d get worse than beer in the face, if her expression as she fled was any indication of her fury. But some lessons have to be learned the hard way.

I put my fingertips together and assumed my All-Knowing Finder expression.

“Weexil’s departure makes me wonder,” I said. “It makes me wonder what else he did here, beside fetching you brushes and paints and canvases.”

“He did Serris,” muttered a painter, from behind his napkin. Nervous titters sounded, but quickly died.

“Which was apparently common knowledge,” I said. “So let’s talk about other happenings that were also common knowledge.” I leaned forward. “Let’s talk about the woman in the woods.”

Someone dropped a fork. Someone else coughed and choked. And not a single man-jack nor lady lovely in the entire blazing room would so much as meet my eyes.

Except, of course, Lady Werewilk.

“Those are mere legends,” she said, after a moment. Her tone made it clear my subject for dinner conversation failed to please her. “They were born before Rannit was walled. Perpetuated by a hundred generations of fearful peasants all eager to embrace any excuse to get them home and inebriated before dark.”

Marlo made a wordless gruffing sound. Lady Werewilk did not turn to fix him in her glare, and I gathered that was because she knew it was a contest she’d probably lose.

“Them what lives in the Wardmoor been seein’ that there woman for twenty-five, thirty years,” he said. “Them what lives here say she comes around when Death is a fixin’ to visit.”

“She ever been known to give Death a helping hand?” I put the question to Marlo, while keeping my eyes on Lady Werewilk. She still wasn’t happy, but she kept her lips tight together.

“Not that I know of. Reckon she just knows when to be, and where.”

I nodded, not committing to anything, hoping Marlo would go on.

Instead, he shrugged and filled his mouth with an enormous chunk of Lady Werewilk’s finest roast beef.

I watched Skin for a moment. The man was just pushing perfectly good food around on his plate. He hadn’t taken a bite since sitting. He was gaunt, tall and thin as a stick, and I suppose now I knew why.