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.”
