No, no one had seen any strangers about the place in the last few days. Nor in the woods, but you’d have to ask Treuch. Who had gone off there to continue his fox-thinning project. Was this unusual? No, not especially. Wouldn’t winter be better for pelts? Well, yes. Did Treuch live in the main house, too? Oh, no, not the forester; he had his own little cottage, pointed out a double-hundred paces away at the edge of the woods. It looked more like a hut to Pen, but no shabbier than the other old wattle-and-daub structures scattered about the grounds. No, Treuch had no wife nor children, never had. No skill at courting, when he was younger, though he would have it that the girls were too picky and proud; the housekeeper sniffed. Oswyl, rather than cutting off this discursion, led them on to gossip about the absent man for a bit, but what he made of it Pen could not guess.
They grew, oddly, less gossipy when asked about the three-year-old tragedy of the slain baroness. The two youths had not worked here then, but the old couple had, and had apparently suffered their fill of interrogation about the crime at the time. In any case, they added nothing new or startling to the tale already told. Though the housekeeper sounded grateful to the Temple sensitives who had removed the ghost from the premises, as if it had been an infestation of some especially appalling vermin. Wegae’s mouth twisted— remembering his aunt as a person, perhaps.
They were all squirming when Oswyl finally released them back to their labors. The housekeeper did not look too pleased when he assigned Thala to look about inside the manse, taking the grounds for himself. Penric returned to the stable yard where Inglis had been organizing his squad of shamans for a search of the woods.
“Are you sure you should split up like this?” Pen asked dubiously upon hearing the plan.
“We’ll be able to cover more ground, faster,” rumbled Nath.
“I was thinking of the dangers of perhaps surprising a desperate murderer,” Pen said. “He could still be about.” Something, certainly, had to account for Treuch’s out-of-season fox-obsession. Or someone? Oswyl himself had not yet closed off the notion of more than one man—person—being involved.
“Penric,” said Inglis patiently, “we’re shamans. Would you consider yourself in danger?”
“Er… not forewarned, I suppose. But I have certain physical powers that you all do not possess.”
“And we have certain mental ones that you don’t.”
Penric increasingly wanted to do something about that lack before this trip was done, if he could. But that would require some canny negotiating with the princess-archdivine, and was not the meal upon his plate this day. “Well… be careful, anyway. If you run across any strange men in the woods, don’t approach them. Come back for reinforcements first, eh?”
There was a general, unreassuring meh in response to this.
“Oh. And if you encounter the forester Treuch, send him back here. Tell him the baron wants to talk to him, but don’t mention the Grayjays yet.”
It was decided to begin with the sections to the north and west of the house first, in the general direction of the village of Weir, and all meet back here in about three hours to eat and plan the next cast. Unless someone found the demon, in which case they were to inform Penric in the most expedient way they could. They all fanned out and plunged into the tangled green shade.
Two hours of blundering back and forth through his assigned sector brought Pen no prizes, although he did find and spring an iron leg-hold trap baited with pork fat, and two snares. Might the demon-ridden fox have a more-than-natural wariness of such hazards? Pen hoped so.
Casting around the woods with his Sight fully extended was a strange experience in its own right. He could have used it when hunting as a youth, except… it was so overwhelming. It wasn’t like ghosting along with his bow trying to pick out one tasty target, disregarding all the rest; rather the reverse. The whole tapestry of the forest’s life folded in upon him, its intricacy interlocking in finer and finer stitching, so that the mere perception, after a time, grew exhausting. His range was short, half-a-hundred paces, or this god-sight would be entirely too god-like. What kind of Mind was it that could hold the whole world like this, all at once, all the time? Could the gods ever close their Eyes and rest from it, even for a short while? And what would happen if They did?
Also, if he were ever the-gods-forbid by some accident blinded, could this substitute for his lost eyesight? He was in no hurry to find out.
Aside from that, Des grew replete ingesting the life from more biting insects than Pen thought possible, and bored enough to attempt exploding a scampering shrew, a pastime he caught up with just too late. He stared down with some disgust at the splatter across his boot. “Really, Des. Are you a two-hundred-year-old woman—”
“Women,” she corrected, blandly.
“—or an idle village lad? Even I never pulled the wings off flies.”
“Somehow, I am not surprised, dear Pen.”
And he was reminded, again, that beneath the two centuries’ accumulation of human experience and knowledge that she shared so generously with him, she was a chaos demon. Which made him wonder, again, what must be going on right now with the other chaos demon, thrown so violently backward into worse disorder.
Hot, sweaty, and hungry, he turned his steps back toward the kin Pikepool manor. His pace quickened as he found yesterday’s path. Perhaps one of the others had come upon something. Perhaps they were impatiently waiting for him.
He found Oswyl and Thala sitting on the bench by the back door, though with no sign of impatience. Inglis and Kreil lounged cross-legged at their feet, sharing around a pitcher of well water and some of the food they’d brought along. Inglis looked glum and Oswyl grim, but since both were their natural expressions, it didn’t tell Pen much.
They all looked up as he trod near. “Ah,” said Oswyl. “Find anything interesting, Learned?”
Pen sighed and joined the pair on the ground, grateful to be handed down a cup. “Not so far. How about yourselves?”
Inglis and Kreil both shook their heads, but Oswyl confided, “Treuch’s hut shows signs of hosting a visitor. There was a bedroll, and maybe a few too many cups and plates scattered about.”
Thala put in, “The housekeeper notes he’s had a hearty appetite of late. Since he brings in game for the table to keep the other servants in meat, she can’t exactly complain, she said. While complaining.” Her lips twitched back in a brief rare smile—she seemed to be sopping up the sober demeanor, as well as the tips on their trade, from her mentor. “Since he keeps to himself by habit, and is not of a cheerful disposition to start with, no changes there.”
“Huh,” said Pen. “He’s not come in yet?”
“Not so far,” echoed Kreil.
One could not accuse Treuch of lying about seeing strangers lately, since he hadn’t yet been asked. It wasn’t odd for a man to have a visitor. It was odd to keep his visitor a secret, however. “It couldn’t have been a woman, in the hut?”
“No signs of such in the clothing or clutter, no,” said Oswyl.
“That’s very interesting.”
“I’d be willing to call it so,” Oswyl conceded. Which, from Oswyl, was something like a large signal flag. Not that he’d admit to such a thing. But Pen bet he’d be keeping an eye on Treuch’s hut.
“Where’s Wegae gone off to?”
“Looking over household accounts, and inspecting the place,” said Thala. “He seemed to think it was expected of him. I’m not sure his servants appreciate his conscientiousness.” Inglis snickered, and tore into his bread and cheese. Penric put down his emptied cup and waved a hand, and Thala portioned him out a share.