Текст книги "The Banshee's walk"

Автор книги: Frank Tuttle

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Chapter Twelve

Lady Werewilk’s rooms took up the entire second floor of the House. Her bed was the size of a wagon. Both Gertriss and I pretended not to see the toe of a Marlo-sized man’s boot peeking out from under it.

The library was a single square room set into the southwest corner of the House. The windows actually let in light, and there were three big comfy leather chairs and three plain but sturdy reading desks, all arranged to take advantage of the sunlight. There was even a fancy globe of the world mounted in a shiny brass apparatus that allowed it to spin at the touch of a finger.

The globe was pre-War. It still showed human cities and settlements out East. It’s all ghosts and ruins out there now, and even if the Trolls let us move back that way it’ll be decades before anyone dips a toe in the Great Sea again.

The walls were covered in shelves, floor to ceiling, and the shelves were stuffed and crammed with books.

Lady Werewilk paused and considered the books, forefinger to her lips.

“Yes. I believe this series is a good place to start.”

With that, she walked to a shelf, removed half a dozen massive old tomes, and plopped them down on the nearest desk.

I carefully took up the oldest one. The leather used to bind it threatened to flake away into dust before my eyes. I took it to my desk, carefully opened it and began to educate myself concerning the Auspicious Origins and Heroic Deeds of the Mighty House of Werewilk, est. in the Year 453 of the Kingdom of Man.

The light from the windows had faded and died before I closed my last book.

Gertriss was bleary-eyed and yawning. Lady Werewilk had retired an hour ago, citing some pressing House business.

But I’d found what I was looking for.

The stakes had been laid out right in the bed of a creek that once cut right through the Werewilk estate. The creek was gone now, and had been for a century, sipped empty by a series of irrigation canals north of here. The tiny trickle that remained fed into the cornfield and never emerged.

But it had been mapped, in those first books. And there was no mistaking it. The surveyors had even marked the creek’s four small tributaries, one of which ran through the very spot where Skin would one day tend his precious bees.

The creek had meandered on, heading South, ending or joining a bigger one somewhere well beyond the concerns of any ancient Werewilk.

What Lady Werewilk’s forebears had mapped was intriguing.

There was the creek. There was the Old Road. There was an old quarry, abandoned even before the first Werewilk laid claim to the oaks.

And there was something else, a place mentioned only twice in the fifteen old tomes we’d read.

They’d just called it the Faery Ring. Called it that, and then issued some pretty stern warnings about “Disturbing, Molesting, or otherwise visiting or Trespassing on this ancient and malevolent Site.”

Literal shivers had run up my spine when I read those faded old words.

Instantly, I wondered who else had read them. During the War, as one old estate after another fell to the Trolls, the Regent made it law that scribes could come in and copy any private library, belonging to anyone, at the whim of the local governor. Even after the War, the law stood, the intent being to prevent unique historic treasures from being eaten by termites. I’d heard getting scribes in to some private libraries required troops and scuffling.

I asked, keeping my tone casual, if the Regency had ever copied the Werewilk books.

“I told them library was destroyed in a house fire a century ago,” Lady Werewilk replied. “The bastards,” she added.

I grinned. The Faery Ring was right on the creek the mystery surveyors were mapping. In fact, I was nearly ready to bet my good boots that the Faery Ring was what they’d been looking for all the time.

Which meant that whatever once lay within that Ring might be more than just a local legend. Someone else out there had a map, a map that hadn’t been drawn by a Werewilk. Even Weexil had never dared Lady Werewilk’s rooms-of that she was sure.

The light had nearly failed. Lady Werewilk took her leave, citing the need to oversee the preparation of the evening meal. I suspected she was instead dying to know whether Marlo had actually taken Burris and headed for Rannit, despite her directives to the contrary.

I figured he’d done just that. I pondered that dark, narrow path beneath those shadowed boughs and I wished them both well.

Gertriss was seated close beside me. She’d been marking our maps with the stake locations and the route of the old creek.

She stabbed her pencil down in the center of the Faery Ring she’d just sketched.

“I don’t think there’s enough daylight left to head out today.”

“We won’t be heading out at all, Miss. Not there, anyway.”

She frowned.

“Why?

I rose and stretched my arms. “Let’s say we’re right in this. Our camping friends have sorcerers in their number. They left a killing trap in a campfire. What kind of nasty surprises do you think they might have hidden at the location of the buried treasure?”

“You think it’s old gold?” She was perking up.

“I have no idea what it might be. I know some very determined and well-financed people want it, and they want it badly enough to kill for it.” I rubbed the bruises on my neck. “Marlo and his axe might not be enough, next time.”

Gertriss rose and joined me in a round of pacing. I reflected that my office back in Rannit was too small to accommodate us both this way.

“So what’s next, boss?”

“Supper. Afterward, we speak alone with Lady Werewilk.”

“About?”

“About our clever plan to keep her and her household safe. Now scoot. Check on Serris. Find Lady Werewilk. Get her permission for us to enter the gallery. I want to look at those paintings. All of them. And, Gertriss, bring me more corn bread. Buttered, of course.”

“Coffee too?”

“Beer.” I stood in the dying sunlight, let its feeble rays cast a barely perceptible warmth over my face. “And bring me a blanket. Nothing a dog has slept on. Wool. Plain.”

She made a puzzled face, but nodded and closed the door softly behind her.

Alone at last, I rolled my neck around on my shoulders and worked the pops out. Then I took my boots off and engaged in some first-class sock-foot pacing, trying to put together the clever plan I’d mentioned to Gertriss before Lady Werewilk came around eager to hear it.

I had my beer, my cornbread, and my blanket. I put my boots back on, combed my hair, and even shaved. My fresh scratches gave me a faintly piratical appearance.

I knew Lady Werewilk would insist on speaking after the evening meal. That suited me just fine. It was much lighter outside than indoors, so I spent some time before supper wandering around the borders of the House lawn, whistling and generally making my presence known to any spectral howling ladies who might be hiding just inside the ranks of massive blood oaks.

I selected a spot not far from the angelic statue I’d used before. I folded the blanket and placed it in the crook of a crape myrtle, and I left the cornbread on top, wrapped in one of my own linen handkerchiefs. I also left a small bowl of beer, in case Buttercup fancied an evening nip.

I sat under the spreading branches of the myrtle, for a while. I talked, about nothing, about everything, on the off chance my voice was being heard. I got no replies, but wasn’t expecting any.

I did draw numerous odd looks from a couple of gardeners, but they scurried away whispering when I waved at them.

I was ready to head inside myself when Gertriss came out to fetch me. If she had opinions about my preferred method of banshee hunting, she kept them to herself.

“That clever plan you mentioned? Got it all plotted out?”

“Indeed I do, oh junior member of the firm. Plotted and hatched. Another mystery made mundane, another client rendered a bit poorer but far wiser.”

Gertriss frowned at me. We were walking toward the big doors, and she stopped and stopped me by taking hold of my elbow.

“Really? You know what to do next?”

I adopted an expression of deep hurt.

“Have you truly known me long enough to have arrived at such a low opinion of my skills already?”

“You know what I mean, boss.”

I grinned and motioned for her to start walking. “I know. But my answer is the same. There is a way out of this, a way that protects Lady Werewilk and her House and, incidentally, you and I.”

“Which is?”

I was at the door. I put my hand on it but didn’t open it.

“You know you and I can’t take on a small army with sorcerers in the ranks.”

She just nodded. Her relief was obvious.

“We’re not going to just walk away, either. But there’s another way. You’ll see.”

I opened the door. It still wasn’t locked. The sounds of the kitchen staff setting out plates and utensils while engaging in hushed conversations filled the hall.

“Let’s go see the paintings, first. Did Lady Werewilk have a problem with us looking?”

“She told me ignore anyone who protested our presence. Well, she used different words, which I won’t repeat, but that’s what she meant.”

I chuckled. “And Marlo? Did he leave?”

We made for the big gallery room. A pair of curious dogs followed us, just in case we happened to drop baked hams.

“He took Burris, a wagon and two ponies.” Gertriss lowered her voice to a whisper. “She’s mad enough to choke a wolf.”

“Think she meant what she said about not letting him come back?”

“She meant it, boss. At the time. But she’s already watching the doors and keeping track of the time. She’ll forgive.”

We were at the gallery door. I pushed it open. The dogs trotted through first, tails in full wag.

The room was dark. But it wasn’t empty-a full dozen of the artists were there, silent, each so intent on their canvases none acknowledged our presence or that of the dogs, who ran from place to place to finish the abandoned, half-eaten meals that littered the place.

Gertriss frowned. We both halted just beyond the door.

“How do they see anything?” whispered Gertriss.

“I don’t know.” There were lamps and candles aplenty, but only one lamp, just to our right, was lit. The sunlight that managed to creep in over the windows was yellow-pale, more like bright moonlight than day.

But brushes moved, scrape-scrape, scrape-scrape.

I picked up a five-candle candelabra and lit each white candle with the lamp.

Still, not a single face turned toward us.

“Look, I have beer.”

Still, no acknowledgement.

I motioned Gertriss ahead. She went, keeping close to me, her left hand on my arm. She hadn’t done that outside in the dark of the night.

We reached the first painter. Her name was Lissa. Her young face was a study in rapt intensity. She painted left-handed, and though she held the brush awkwardly there was nothing awkward about her painting.

I brought my light up close to the canvas.

Gertriss gasped. I may have too. I can tell you that we saw young man and a donkey standing at the edge of the field they’d come to plow, early on a bright spring morning. I could tell you about the wild daisies at their feet, tell you about the young man’s vivid blue eyes and hay-colored hair and the set of his strong country jaw, but unless you’ve seen the same painting you just won’t understand.

Lissa, I recalled, came from a middling rich family in Rannit. She’d never in her life seen a field being worked. I doubted she’d ever seen a donkey fitted with a harness and a plow. But she’d painted them perfectly, flawlessly, right down to the kind of knots in the harness and the wear on the plow-handle from hour after grueling hour of being pushed down by the plowman.

“Beautiful,” I said aloud, to Lissa.

She didn’t hear me. I said it again, louder.

She made an ugly smudge near the donkey’s tail and whirled toward me, startled.

“Didn’t mean to scare you, Miss,” I said. “I just wanted to tell you how much I love your work.”

She stammered a thank you. Her eyes went back to her canvas. She frowned at the smudge, and her brush dipped into paint, and she was gone again.

Gertriss pulled me away.

“Something ain’t right.”

“Something isn’t right.”

She glared. “Either way. You know this isn’t natural.”

I nodded. “I don’t need Hog sight to see that. Let’s see if the others are the same.”

They were.

I lifted the drop cloths off the works in progress that weren’t being added to. Each was a masterpiece, at least to my untrained eye.

We were still stalking around when the dinner bell rang. The artists kept dabbing. The dogs, sated but hoping for handouts of leftovers, followed us out.

“Mister Markhat, there’s something going on in this place.”

“Really? You mean aside from banshees and walking corpses?”

She poked me in the ribs with her sharp Hog elbow. “Hush, Serris might hear.”

“You mean something back there, in the gallery.”

She nodded.

“I think so too. Think about all the paintings we saw. What did they all depict?”

“Depict?”

“What were they all of. What did they all show. How did every one of them make you feel?”

We were nearly to the dining room. Voices and even the odd laugh rang out.

“Happy. Or sad, but sad about good memories-does that make sense?”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself, Miss. Now then. If some mysterious force makes people see happy, good things, what does that tell you about this mysterious force?”

We paused at the door. Gertriss thought for a moment.

“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.

And as I flew, the lightning fell. It came crackling and flashing, blinding bright. Long burning white arms of it reached down from the sky and plucked the sorcerers from their mounts and took them up and up and up, robes and staves and screams and all.

And then it was over.

The weeds broke out into a dozen small fires. The five black mares scattered, hooves thundering, bridles dragging. A hot wind thick with smoke began to blow.

I tore myself loose from the rosebush. Toadsticker lay at my feet, the blade smoking, the hilt so hot I couldn’t hold it.

I left it there, dodged fires, found Buttercup’s blanket, heaped amid the weeds.

I spoke the name I’d given her, but she didn’t stir. I lifted the blanket.

She was gone.

But from the trees, I hear a cry. Not a scream or a howl, just a wordless proclamation that let me know where to look.

Motion, a flash of dirty white arms, and she was there.

I balled up the blanket and threw it to her. She caught it in the air, and made that diving half step, and she was gone.

The lawn was a few good puffs of wind from being engulfed in hungry flames. I yelled for Gertriss, yelled for help.

I didn’t think we’d need to worry about mere archers when the skies themselves were out plucking sorcerers from their mounts.