The man snorted at the word though, grinning amicably. ‘A table, please, my love, for me and my friend here.’ He pointed to where the steel-faced man stood near the door. She avoided his gaze. ‘We want hot food, meat and bread. And good ale, if you would – no pisswater.’
She flinched as he took her wrist and pressed something into it. Two silver coins, she saw, looking at them open-mouthed. Silver was a rarity in a dive like this. Men always paid with copper here. She caught more than a few covetous glances at it from the shady patrons lurking around the dingy hall, it was more money than most of them would earn in a week.
‘One for yourself,’ the man said. And then he frowned, tilting his head as though examining her cheek. Her heart leapt, had she not powdered it properly? Genson would be furious if she hadn’t. Damaged merchandise didn’t sell, after all. She hid it with her hand, her eyes on the floor. ‘Take your time,’ he said gently. Ceatha nodded sheepishly, not liking the way some of the men in the room were beginning to eye her now she held so much money.
‘At once, milord, thank you.’ She pocketed one of the coins and showed him to a table in the far corner, where he unslung his shield and propped it against the bench, beckoning his unsettling friend to join him. Ceatha darted back to the kitchen before she had to look at him again.
She handed the order over to Minn and fetched two mugs to fill, passing the silver coin in her palm over to Genson as she passed him. She was at the cask filling the mugs when he stormed up behind her and grabbed her arm. ‘Where the fuck did you get this?’ he raged at her, holding up the silver coin before her face like some indication of guilt. The Marcher King’s grim profile was stamped onto it roughly, ugly as sin. ‘This is good silver,’ Genson went on, ‘more than you’re worth, at any rate. Who gave you this coin?’
‘The two fighting men in black,’ she said, trying to wriggle her arm free. He had a crushing grip. ‘You’re hurting me.’ He growled in her face and let go, beard twitching angrily as he stormed through the door to the tavern hall. He came back in an instant, grimacing in her face, looking her up and down, inspecting his damage from the night before. She stood with eyes downcast, rubbing where he had crushed her slender arm.
‘They’ll have more than one of those coins, I’ll wager,’ he grunted, rough beard bristling, eyes hungry. ‘Get out there and have them fuck you, I want at least two silvers a go.’
‘I’m sore, Genson,’ Ceatha said quietly.
‘I wouldn’t give a fuck if you were a three day old corpse as long as you got me more silver, bitch. Now go serve them and then suck their cocks until they blow silver all over that pretty face, whore.’ He cracked his knuckles pointedly. She nodded and went back to filling the mugs. ‘And hide that purple fucker I gave your right cheek!’ Genson bellowed as he turned to leave the kitchen.
Her face powdered freshly, her lips reddened, Ceatha pulled the top of her simple dress down a bit to make the most of her modest cleavage. The gods hadn’t seen fit to bless her with the gift of teats, but she thought her backside more than made up for what she lacked out in front. She smoothed her dress to try and make it catch the shape of it. The kitchen girls looked at her disapprovingly but said nothing. They were lucky, Genson didn’t make them fuck the locals almost every night, they got to stay in the kitchen and cook for them instead. They knew it too, so they said nothing.
Ceatha took a tray from Minn, stacked with bowls of piping hot stew, grilled lamb, bread and two mugs of ale, two spoons set atop it to give the appearance of classiness – the Singing Lyre was anything but – and strode out into the tavern area, her smile sultry, eyes slutty.
By Béchu’s withered tit, I am not in the mood for this, she thought as she walked towards the two warriors in black. Steel Face and Bald Head, she’d named them in her mind, not knowing or caring for their actual names.
‘Here you are, boys,’ she said, setting the tray down for them with an over-familiar smile, still avoiding the gaze of Steel Face, who sat silently, still wearing his helm, face hidden.
‘Thank you, my dear,’ Bald Head said with the briefest of smiles, tearing a loaf in half and going straight for the stew. Ceatha’s smile faltered. He hadn’t even looked at her.
‘Is there anything else a wee girl from the island could do for you two handsome fellers?’ She pushed her chest out slightly, pouted just a little bit and raised an eyebrow suggestively. Bald Head simply shook his shiny, scarred cranium, busy inhaling his food. She felt Steel Face’s gaze fall upon her and cringed despite herself. The image of Ancu’s face sculpted in steel unsettled her more than it should have. He’d probably killed one of her people and took it, she decided. Probably during a slave raid on the island.
‘That will be all,’ he said, his voice as cold as his metal face. Ceatha opened her mouth to say something, and fell silent, watching him from the corner of her eye, curling a strand of red hair around a finger, more out of nerves than any attempt at seduction.
‘Are… are you both sure, now?’ she stammered, her sultriness failing her, suddenly feeling a silly little girl before them. ‘We have better fare to offer you than simple food and drink, you know…’
She watched Steel Face in the corner of her eye again, as he reached up with gloved hands and unfastened his helm. She wanted to close her eyes as she saw him lift it from his head – imagining some deformed creature beneath that steel shell, but then her mouth fell open.
Long, braids tumbled down his shoulders and back from a dark mane of hair as he shook his head and stretched his neck. His face was pale, hollow cheeks darkened with stubble from days on the road, and beneath one eye a terrible scar ran in a crooked line down to his jaw. He looked at her, irises of crystalline blue shining in the pale light. Young, she thought, examining his face with wide eyes. Twenty summers? A bit more?
Steel Face was a clansman of Luah Fáil and no mistake, judging by his features. He had to be. The hair and paleness would certainly suggest so, and the fearsome helm he wore, he must have brought it to the Marcher lands with him. But if he was one of the clansmen, why did he wear that expensive-looking mail? The clansmen only ever fought in leathers and helm.
Ceatha found herself smiling at him, even as he said again, ‘That will be all.’ She nodded stupidly. He didn’t have the sound of the island in his voice though, she noticed… was she mistaken about him? She hoped not. It had been so long since she had seen any other clanfolk. An idea came to her suddenly, and she spoke to him.
‘Dia dui, cadhair, té sá goma chun bulá ladh.’
It meant ‘hello, kinsman, it is good to meet you’.
Steel Face raised an eyebrow slowly at her, considering her with narrowed eyes. She saw it there, recognition in those eyes like chips of cold, blue crystal.
She lost herself in them, barely noticing Bald Head look up, chewing a mouthful of bread, staring back and forth between them with confusion. Two fierce blue pools, so vivid they almost burned, like flame trapped in crystal.
Steel Face’s brow furrowed before he spoke. ‘Feisig léa, stradhac.’
It meant ‘fuck off, whore’.
Ceatha’s smile vanished and her mouth snapped shut tightly, face flushing with embarrassment, sure to be redder than her hair as it always went.
She stared at the floor, face burning and mouth moving wordlessly as she tried to think of a coherent answer, lost in her thoughts.
She knew it, she had known, he could be nothing else – the hair, the features, the eyes, and he spoke the tongue. She felt a stupid little girl again for a moment, her stomach aflutter at the sight of him. But why did he speak like one of the Marchers? A thought came to her again, and she found herself following the long ropes of hair that fell down his shoulders.
Silver rings. She opened her mouth in surprise, and promptly shut it. Silver? On a lad grown? Has he not earned his manhood? She squinted. Tiny wolves were etched into the metal of them.
She remembered then, as she considered a suitably measured and offensive i
nsult for such a sight, a voice from her dream.
Do you know of the wolf that stalks these lands?
She shuddered. Fluxleaf dreams, Ceatha, nothing else.
‘Must I repeat myself,’ said Steel Face, in his cold voice with his cold eyes boring into her. Does he favour the Marcher tongue? He must be a galloglách. She’d heard stories of some clan warriors who whored themselves out to Marcher lords to fight under their banners, having failed their trial of blood and being shamed. Was he one of them? They called them galloglách on the island. It meant ‘foreign mercenary’, roughly. It wasn’t a nice word.
‘Forgive me, milord,’ she mumbled, gathering up their tray and Bald Head’s licked-clean bowl, blinking back emerging tears of embarrassment. ‘I’m Ceatha, just shout if you want anything else.’ She really hoped they didn’t.
Steel-Face ignored her, tearing his bread in half. Ceatha turned away, feeling foolish, and rushed to the kitchen. Stupid, stupid, stupid girl, she cursed herself, face still flushed redder than her hair. All a-fluster over a braided boy, a silver ringed boy. And what a prick of a boy he is! Stupid girl! Heart beating wild over a galloglách dog!
Mind… was she any better herself? Stuck here, a whore for the Marchers? No, she wasn’t, not really. None of them were, anymore. There was nothing left for them in Luah Fáil, and nothing to gain here in Caermark. The sun was finally fading over the clans.
Why had he felt the need to be so insulting, though? He must think himself better than she as he wasn’t sucking literal cock for a living, only metaphorical.
She wondered though, was she more offended at his rejection of her? Bitter, perhaps? She’d been called much worse than a whore before now. The job kind left your pride hard with calluses when it came to name-calling. She thought bitterness more likely, now she thought on it. She felt stupid again. Ashamed.
‘Why aren’t you upstairs fucking those two?’
Ceatha closed her eyes, trying to summon the last of her patience. Genson was lurking somewhere behind her in the kitchen. ‘They didn’t want me,’ she said with a shrug.
‘Horse shit. If they won’t fuck you, then feed them till they burst. I’m tired of picking up coppers, bitch, I want a lick or two of that silver they’re carrying with them. I’d have a couple of the lads beat them senseless on the road for it, but they look a bit fucking dangerous for those idiots to handle.’
Her head was suddenly yanked back by her hair, and she yelped in fright. ‘If I don’t see more of it you’ll have worse than what you got last night, you little cunt – understand me?’ She nodded as much as she could with him holding her by the hair. He let her go forcefully. ‘Get back to work.’
Ceatha roamed the tavern for a while, serving customers, trying to catch Bald Head’s eye so he would ask her for more ale. He did, once, probably because he was tired of her hovering around their table, peeping over the rims of their mugs. A couple more silver coins came her way. She didn’t keep one back this time, hoping Genson would be kinder to her the more there was of it. Steel Face acted as though she wasn’t there each time she passed.
After an hour or so, the tavern door opened and Sten stepped inside to a much less suspicious greeting than Steel Face and Bald Head – a few glances, nothing more. He grinned broadly when he saw her and embraced her warmly, despite the overflowing mugs she was carrying.
‘I told you I’d come back soon,’ he said with childish enthusiasm. ‘Are you free tonight?’
‘Oh, Sten, you know I’m never free, a muirnín,’ she sighed, hefting the two fat mugs. A customer called to her rudely to hurry up with them. She was barely allowed out of the inn most days of the week, and when she did head into Haverlon, it wasn’t usually long before either Hurn or Denner came looking for her with orders from Genson to get back and get busy. Usually getting busy with a Marcher’s member, more often than not, frequently one who’d specifically asked for her.
‘I need to tell you something though,’ Sten said impatiently, waving away her response. ‘I’ve been planning – we can leave, tonight, tomorrow, whenever he’s not keeping watch on you, I got us a couple of horses, and –’
‘Shush!’ she hissed at him, eyes widening pointedly. Genson would kill her if he heard Sten talking. She took the mugs to the customer, who unleashed a torrent of abuse she didn’t even bother listening too.
Sten cornered her by one of the wooden support beams dotted around the floor. ‘No, listen, I’m serious – I’ve been saving these last months, we’d be fine, we can go south somewhere.’ She shook her head.
‘I can’t, Sten,’ she said sadly. ‘Genson will kill me. Really, he will, y’wee fool.’ She felt tears in her eyes again. He was a sweetheart, he really was, and she felt terrible refusing him. She’d have done anything to leave this place, be anywhere but here. But, Genson… he kept too close a watch on his biggest coin raker.
‘No, he won’t,’ Sten said furiously, he touched Ceatha’s face sweetly and she winced when his fingers met with a bruise. She saw his mouth fall open as his fingers came away with a thin layer of her pale face powder. His eyes grew furious. She hid her cheek and looked away, tears streaming freely.
‘Fucking bastard,’ Sten breathed quietly. He punched the beam and cursed loudly. Ceatha shook her head.
‘It doesn’t matter, Sten. Just go, forget about me.’
‘I’m not going anywhere till I’ve broken every fucking bone in his body! I told you what I’d do if he touched you! It’s bad enough he keeps you here like a prisoner. No more.’ He turned, and made for the kitchen door.
‘Sten, stop! Stop y’wee idiot! Stop! He’ll kill you as well!’ She grabbed his arm desperately and tried to hold him back. Sten shrugged free of her grasp easily and marched on. Ceatha turned away, her face in her hands, praying to every god she could think of that he didn’t do anything stupid. She could feel the customers watching her, muttering amongst themselves, some laughing snidely at her.
There was shouting from the kitchen. Sten’s voice, Genson’s voice. There came crashing, banging, shouts of fury and pain, smashing and shattering as objects were knocked aside and broken, screams from the kitchen girls. Ceatha pressed her face against the palms of her hands, hoping it went no further. It did.
Ceatha heard the kitchen door slam open with a crash. Spinning about, she saw Sten roll across the filthy rushes, face a mask of pain, bleeding from nose and mouth. Genson came roaring after him.
‘Attack me? Attack me! In my own fucking hall! You little sack of shit!’ He kicked Sten hard in the stomach with a booted foot, lifting him off the ground, making the lad vomit and gasp upon the floor. ‘I’ll fucking show you, Sten, I’ll fucking show you what you get for pulling shit like that!’
‘Genson, stop! He’s just a boy!’ Ceatha shrieked, knees trembling. He ignored her, and stomped on Sten’s face, the lad’s nose breaking with a sharp crack.
He grabbed hold of Sten by the collar and dragged him up to his feet, turning him to look at Ceatha through bleary, bloody eyes. Genson pointed at her. ‘Attack me! For a fucking red haired whore! You stupid, wet little twat! Is she worth it? Is she?’ He spun Sten back around and butted him hard in the mouth, teeth splintering. Sten hit the floor with a thud.
Stupid little boy, Ceatha cursed, sobbing into her hands. I told you! I told you! Why didn’t you listen to me!
It was common knowledge in Haverlon that Genson was once a well-known Boggy – what they called a fist-fighter in this town – and one with a fearsome reputation, a prizefighter with a sadistic streak. He’d killed before now in his many fistfights. More than once, they said.
And now it seemed as though the poor boy Sten was to learn what it meant to follow your heart instead of your head, as Genson dragged him through the tavern’s befouled rushes by his bloody collar and launched him through the door, out into the street. He went after him, the sounds of thudding, like something heavy hitting a bag of tender meat, following shortly after.
Genson stepped back t
hrough the door into the quiet tavern, eyes aflame, wild, cruel, staring all about, his breathing heavy and shirt speckled with blood. She saw some smirks amongst the patrons, coins changing hands – they’d put bets on the outcome of the fight. Genson’s eyes fell upon Ceatha, and a growl escaped his throat as he stomped towards her between the tables, customers moving well out of his way.
‘Fucking bitch,’ he seethed, as she backed up against the far wall. ‘Have your little fuckboy attack me will you? You ungrateful bitch. Have I not been good enough to you, your majesty? Has my generosity not been generous enough for you royal fucking standards?’ Ceatha trembled before him, hands raised pleadingly.
‘No, Genson, no – it isn’t like that, it isn’t! He –’ Genson grabbed her by the throat and dragged her to the middle of the floor. There, he threw her to the ground and kicked her hard in the stomach. She coughed and spluttered, one hand raised above her begging mercy. He grabbed it and twisted it back so hard she thought her wrist was going to snap.
‘Set your little boyfriend on me, eh?’ he snorted above her. ‘Dirty, ungrateful island cocksucker! You’re finished now! Fucking finished! Oh, yes! I’ve had my fill of you at last, bitch! You won’t be pulling anything like this again, cunt!’ He yanked her up to her feet by her hair.
‘Anyone fancy a free fuck off this bitch from Luah Fáil? Her cunt’s going free, she’s officially been released from my employ! First come, first served!’ There was laughter. A wall of it. Cowardly. They feared him. He held them in his palm with his anger and violence. Easier to take the side less likely to result in a broken face.
‘I’ll have a go!’ jeered one man, laughing loudly.
‘And me!’ shouted another.
‘We’ll share!’
‘What’s her cunt look like, Genson?’ a voice said lewdly. Genson yanked up her dress and spun her about to show everyone watching. She shrieked, trying to pull it down, cover herself, but his free hand caught her wrist and twisted it painfully behind her back, the other twisting more tight a knot in her hair.
The Shadow of the High King Page 26