Next, from the ruined road that lead south toward Wardmoor, a pair of skinny, cloak-clad teenagers trotted up, jaws agape, their pimpled expressions those of confusion giving quickly way to fear.

Finally, and much to my relief, dogs started barking. Out of sight, but close and loud and getting closer and louder. I knew the Watch uses dogs outside the old walls, and I knew my crossbow-fancier knew that too.

The kids stopped, eyed my sword warily. The bull calf snorted at me and without slowing, ambled past, passing so close I could have patted his muddy head had I been so inclined. I suppose bleeding man, indifferent cow and upraised sword made quite a scene, because the youths exchanged looks and took a step back before speaking.

Neither held a crossbow. Neither would have known what to do with a crossbow had they held it.

“We’re looking for a Mr. Markhat,” said the taller of the two. He had long greasy hair and his boots didn’t match. “We’re supposed to meet him and take him to Wardmoor.”

“We don’t have any money,” said the other kid, quickly. “And we didn’t see nothing, either.”

I listened. Wind and trees and barking dogs. No telltale whisking of bolts through pine needles, no clunk and throw of a Stisson. But I did hear the rattle of a wagon, just around the bend, and a man urging on a horse and another man yelling something as he laughed.

“Gertriss,” I said.

“I’m here,” she replied. I didn’t think she’d taken more than four steps despite my shove and my warning. She had a big stick in one hand and what appeared to be one of Mama’s well-worn kitchen knives in the other.

“Come on out,” I said. “Let’s get moving. It’s bad business to keep the client waiting.”

“So you’re Mr. Markhat?” asked the tall kid. He didn’t try to hide a frown. “We made it over the old Bar bridge after all, got further than we thought. What happened to you?”

Gertriss stepped out into the road, her hands suddenly empty, pine needles in her hair, dirt on both the knees of her good new britches.

“Nothing,” I said. A fat drop of blood formed at the tip of my nose, and I wondered just how deep and long my new scratches were. “The cow made lewd remarks about my apprentice. We had to have words. How far to House Werewilk from here?”

The wagon rolled into view. Two men rode the wagon, one driving, one stretched out in the back with his hat covering his face. By now I was sure that my new friend with the crossbow and the grudge was halfway to the cattle-road if not already across it. Three barking jumping mutt-dogs followed, nipping at the wagon wheels and yelping at each other and even though they were not and would never be huge somber-eyed Watch dogs, I could have hugged them all.

“Not far,” said the greasy-haired kid, who was already eyeing Gertriss with the kind of leer she’d teach him to regret if she caught him in reach of those finely sharpened claws of hers. “You and the lady can ride.”

I hefted my rucksack, and only then did I discover the crossbow bolt lodged deep within it. I’d later find it had penetrated two boot soles and a book before stopping, as well as my best white shirt and a wool sock embroidered by Darla with my initials.

The kid saw and went pale. I shrugged. Let them think I spend every day casually picking crossbow bolts out of everything from my laundry to my oatmeal. If I needed to shake in fear, I’d do so later, in the privacy of my own locked room.

Gertriss came to stand close to me and wiped pine needles and loam off her knees. “They’re gone?” she whispered.

I nodded. “For now.”

I could tell by her look she was having second, third, and possibly fourth thoughts about life as a highly paid finder. But in the end, she picked up her bag and made for the wagon, giving the leering kid a good hard country glare as she marched.

I followed, and we got ponies and dogs and wagons turned around then headed down the ruined road toward the Banshee’s Walk.

The ride was slow and rough.

The sun peeked through, but not often, and as we entered Wardmoor proper the high, thick boughs overhead blotted out even the narrowest shafts of daylight.

And naturally, in the shadows, the huldra came out to play.

I saw shadows flit and tumble between the limbs and the massive black trunks. I heard whispers and sighs just beneath the soft rush of the wind and the ever-present scratching of branch and leaf. The deeper we went, the louder the whispers became. The closer they came to forming words. Strange words, words not spoken in Kingdom, words that only a sorcerer or their dark kin might understand.

It’s been that way since the night I held the huldra. Even though I broke it, even though I let it fall from my hand, I cannot deny that I told it my name. And even broken, even burned to ash in Mama’s black iron cauldron and scattered over an ogre’s manure-cart, the huldra still has a hold on me, at least in the dark.

The wagon jerked. Gertriss fell against me, and caught my hand. At once, the tumbling shadows vanished, and the whispering was just the wind.

“I am awful sorry about that,” she said, looking at the deep scratches she’d raked across my face when I’d tackled her. Although most of the bleeding had stopped, I could feel them oozing and beginning to itch. “I just didn’t know what had got into you.”

I shrugged and forced a grin. “I’m just glad you didn’t whip out that knife. I need both my kidneys.”

She blanched and bit her lip.

“Not much farther,” said Marlo, the wagon driver. “Round the bend and across another creek. Might have to wade the creek-hard enough on the ponies without a load.” Marlo turned around and regarded us quizzically from beneath his furry white eyebrows. “Now, what you reckon is a’ goin’ on with the Mistress and them there surveyin’ stakes?”

I wiped fresh blood from my chin and pondered my reply.

I don’t generally like to talk shop with the hired help until I get them all in the same room. That way they hear the same thing, and I eliminate the inevitable wild rumors that fly when private conversations get retold a few dozen times.

I gave Gertriss a sideways glance that I hoped meant here’s an old finder’s trick.

“Too soon for me to have much of a reckoning,” I said, amiably. “But you live there. You see everything, hear everything, know everybody.” I tilted my head just so, furrowed my brow with just the right mixture of interest and concern. “Why not tell me what you reckon is going on?”

Marlo laughed. “Now what makes you think an old dried up road apple sech as me knows anything ’bout the goins’on in that there House?”

“You’ve got a good pair of eyes and a sharp pair of ears. I bet you knew about the stakes on the grounds before the Mistress did.”

That made sense. It would be a gardener or a stable boy or a driver who found the first surveyor’s stake. I doubt Lady Werewilk, or any other Lady, did much traipsing around in the weeds as a part of her daily routine.

Marlo chuckled and turned back toward the road. “It were Skin what found them first stakes,” he said. “Dern fool didn’t know what they was. Brung ’em in for kindling-wood.”

“Skin?”

“He keeps the bees,” said Marlo. “I reckon Skin might be a bit tetched. In the head, you know. But he’s a deft hand with them bees.’

“How long ago did he find the first stakes?”

“Reckon it were the first of the month. Yea, that would be right, it were payday.”

I shot Gertriss a look. Lady Werewilk had put the discovery of the stakes only two weeks past-as usual, the communication between masters and servants was showing a few holes.

Gertriss nodded, understanding.

“How many times since then?”

“Damn near every other day,” grumbled Marlo. “Never in the same place, you understand. Sometimes here, sometimes there. Onced they was right in the middle of Skin’s beehives. I thought he was gonna bust a gut, made him so mad, them messin’ with his bees.”