“We know.”
“They’ve broken camp, I presume?”
“Nothing left but trash on the ground. Tents gone, wagons gone, horses gone. Just trash. And Weexil.”
“Round up some shovels. One for me too. Meet back here as soon as you’ve had some water and calmed down. Gertriss. Go fetch Lady Werewilk, please. And Marlo. I think we’ll ask Marlo to join our little picnic.”
“Mister. Weexil. Why’d they kill him, like that?”
It was Lank who spoke. I could see by his pale face and wide eyes he was reliving the moment he’d stood over poor dead Weexil.
“I don’t know yet. I hope to find out. Now scoot.”
Not exactly profound words of comfort, but they were the best I had to offer.
Chapter Ten
I rummaged around upstairs while waiting for my army to assemble. Toadsticker I’d take, of course, but I secreted a few less obvious instruments about my person as well. I’ve got a pair of Army flash papers left over from the War, and they went in my pocket. I have no idea what they’d do if I tore them now, so many years after the company sorcerer put his spell on them, but if I ever needed a quick distraction maybe I’ll find out.
While I was sorting through brass knuckles and short daggers, I found something else.
Darla had somehow snuck a letter into my bag. To this day, I have no idea how or when she did it. I’ve got to stop surrounding myself with women who continually outwit me.
I sat and unfolded the letter and read.
Darling, it began, and I smiled at the word. If you’re reading this, it’s because you’re arming yourself. This is not a happy thought for me.
That said, though, if you’ll look in the right toe of the nice new socks I gave you, you’ll find something that I hope you’ll never need to use. Yes, I know it’s illegal. Yes, I was very careful about buying it. You’ll know what it is when you find it.
There was more, but it was largely concerned with herb-gardening and would be of very little interest to anyone but Darla and me.
I burrowed through socks until I found one with a lump in the toe. I turned it inside out, and there was Darla’s charm.
I whistled. She’d paid dear for it. Your run-of-the-mill alley wand-waver hangs their charms on sticks or scribbles them on paper or weaves them into cheap jewelry-anything that can be easily torn or broken to release the hex.
There was nothing cheap about the charm Darla had sought out.
Take a hex. Work it inside a globe of blown glass. Enhance the hex further by covering the tiny globe in silver letters that crawled and spun when looked at. Throw in the odd bolt of miniscule lightning from deep within the roiling hex trapped by the glass and the silver.
I’ve always known Darla is good with money, but I’d never dreamed she could afford a rich man’s charm like the one I held.
Someone knocked at my door. I wrapped Darla’s charm in a clean handkerchief and put it safe in my right front pocket.
“Finder? It’s Lady Werewilk. She wants to have a word.”
“Coming right down.”
I made a few final adjustments to my gear and then tramped downstairs to get my little expedition on the trail.
The entire house was assembled at the foot of the stairs. I could hear Serris sobbing from the couch, flanked by a mob of cooing females.
Lady Werewilk met me at the foot of the stairs.
“I gave instructions that Serris was not to be told,” she said.
“She’d have found out sooner or later.”
“Once we were sure, yes. But I would have preferred you verified the story first.”
I shrugged. Scatter and Lank may not be finders or even shaving regularly yet, but I had no doubt they knew a corpse when they saw one.
Lady Werewilk let out a long sigh. “So you believe this encampment to be the one used by the surveyors?”
“They found a few bundles of fresh stakes there. Makes sense. They’d need somewhere to make up maps, plan their next survey.”
“And exactly what, Mr. Markhat, were they looking for?”
I had an audience.
“Best we talk about it later.” It sounded better than I have no idea. “Right now we need to get going. Is Marlo ready with the horses?”
“Ready and waiting,” replied Lady Werewilk. “I am of course going as well.”
“You are of course not doing any such thing.”
“Marlo has already tried and failed to dissuade me, Mr. Markhat. I will remind you as I reminded him-I am the Mistress of this House. I control not only its direction but its payroll. Is that clear?”
“I’m telling you it’s a bad idea.”
“I acknowledge that. But I’ve stood back and allowed assaults on my House for long enough. I will not hide in my dressing room if one of my own has been murdered.”
Serris let loose a fresh howl.
“Gertriss?”
“Yes, Mr. Markhat?”
“Was there another leather shirt up there, one that would fit Lady Werewilk?”
Gertriss had the good sense not to grin. “I believe there was.”
“Would you go and fetch it for her while we get saddled up?”
“Yes, sir.”
Lady Werewilk rewarded me with a single curt nod.
“Singh,” she said. Her voice carried above the rising din of the artists. “You’re in charge until I return. Keep the doors locked. And keep the staff inside their homes.”
Singh nodded and toddled off, Milton shambling at his side.
My mount was named Lumpy. Lumpy was a mule, as were all our mounts, and after we found the barely visible game trail that led to the encampment I realized why mules were the order of the day.
Mules, unlike horses, can see all four of their feet at the same time. That makes them ideal for any trail that involves negotiating steep hills or winding around narrow high passes, and we did both, one right after another, the whole trip.
The forest was ancient. I ducked under boughs and reflected that the trees around me were older than anything I’d seen outside the East. Hell, Elves might once have sneaked about on various murderous errands beneath these very behemoths.
Marlo led the way. Scatter and Lank were right behind him. Then there was a husky carpenter named Burris who was said to be an expert bowman and then Lady Werewilk, Gertriss and finally myself atop my majestic steed Lumpy.
The forest floor was wet loam. None of us spoke. Aside from the faint stretching of leather or the occasional soft snuffling of a mule, we made our way like a bevy of spooks.
Marlo stopped and dismounted, as did Scatter, Lank and Burris. They’d crouched down in a circle around a featureless patch of loam to exchange whispers and nods. I was about to dismount myself when Scatter came tip-toeing back to explain that they’d found sign of a man on foot, a day or two old.
The spot they indicated looked like every other bit of ground in sight to me, but I didn’t argue the point.
It took us a little over an hour to get near the camp. Finally, Marlo raised his hand, listened for a long minute, and signaled for us to dismount.
We tied the mules, and crept up the last ridge on foot.
Marlo was the first to pop his head over. He looked, and we listened.
Squirrels chattered and leaped. Birds sang. Crickets and cicadas chirped and sounded.
“Let’s go,” said Marlo, rising. “Camp’s empty. They’re gone.”
And they were. Even my city-bred eyes could see where the camp had been, could tell there had been tents and a corral and half a dozen campfires. I wanted to try and get a rough count of the camp’s population, but there was time enough for that after we found Weexil.
Scatter and Lank pointed out Weexil’s resting place, but refused to return to it. The spot they indicated was right behind a thick copse of chokeweed, at the base of a lightning-struck blood oak. It wasn’t in the camp proper, but it was right where I’d put a latrine, if I was the one arranging secret camps.