Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [187]
“Can they be trusted, though?”
“They know what they’re in for and just how secret this must be.”
“Fair enough.” Jeryd knew he could rely on Fulcrom’s selection. “There’s just one thing we’ve to do on the way.”
Jeryd knocked hard on the metal door of Mayter Sidhe’s house of banshees, as Fulcrom glanced left and right along the snow-covered street. Only a few people were out and about, hunched under so many layers of clothing that you could hardly see their faces.
It took much longer than usual for the door to open. That alerted Jeryd’s suspicions, but he knew something was definitely wrong when Mayter Sidhe answered the door herself.
“Investigator,” she said, her blue eyes a shade dimmer than previously. She glanced nervously at Fulcrom.
“It’s okay, he’s with me,” Jeryd said.
“You’d better come in,” she beckoned.
No fragrance this time, no welcoming fire. The place was as cold as the street outside. A couple of chairs were broken and left in the shadow of the stairway.
“Where are the others?”
She gestured for the two rumel to sit down, but they insisted on standing.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“We just want a chat,” Jeryd said, and told her everything he could about the threat to the refugees, going on to state that he would appreciate it if the banshees would forbear to draw attention to any conspirators’ deaths that might occur during his intended raid on the tunnels.
“This explains much,” she sighed. Her expression was full of sadness.
“Explains what?” Jeryd said.
“Wait here a moment.” She left the room and returned with one of the younger banshees, looking like a smaller replica of herself.
Jeryd was about to say something, but Mayter Sidhe held up her hand to silence him. She turned to the girl. “Show the investigator.”
The young woman shook her head, manically, her eyes filled with a fear Jeryd had never seen before.
“Show the investigator,” Mayter Sidhe repeated insistently.
After a moment, the girl opened her mouth.
Her tongue was missing. Scar tissue had already begun to blossom. Jeryd grimaced, glancing at Fulcrom who also looked appalled. The girl began to sob, then hurriedly left the room.
“A few nights ago,” Mayter Sidhe said calmly, “some masked men broke into our house. They did this to everyone—took the tongues of everyone apart from me. I was the only one not at home. A couple of the girls bled to death on their beds, including my youngest who was only ten.”
“Who did this?” Jeryd asked horrified.
“I wasn’t here to see. And none of them can now tell me exactly what went on. All my girls are forever silenced.”
Jeryd couldn’t find the words to express his disgust.
“So you see,” she continued, “someone has already asked for much the same favor that you did, just a little more forcefully.”
Mayter Sidhe would say nothing further.
Jeryd knew instantly what was going on. Whoever intended to kill the refugees had realized that the banshees would soon raise the alarm over death on such a large scale. Their screams would inevitably draw in someone to investigate.
So the witch women of Villjamur had been made inert, silenced for good.
Jeryd greeted the assembled investigators with a curt nod as they huddled in a damp, mold-covered underground passage. There were a couple of sword tips poking out beneath cloaks, and a ceaseless drip of water somewhere added to the gloom of the melancholy room.
Jeryd had considered it best for everyone to remain anonymous to each other, so he had assigned each of the young rumel a number from one to ten. After briefing them all precisely, he and Fulcrom again consulted some maps. Networks of passageways as old as civilization itself were already committed to memory and the two rumel had discussed the best access routes, the best exits. There was one way out for those refugees who were being brought into the tunnels. Two if you included death.
Jeryd finally checked the crossbow hidden under his cloak, checked the knives tucked in his boots, the small sword that