The Banshee's Walk by Frank Tuttle Page A

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