by Cherry Potts
Just as Killan sauntered through the gate, the child returned to say that the stable mistress was not within the garth, and offering to take a message. Eachan pressed a scrap of paper into her hand with a rough sketch of Falda’s mark on it.
‘Tell her I would talk to her about any horse she has with this mark, and whether she knows the whereabouts of the woman who bred them.’
The child nodded, and smiled happily when the sketch was followed by a heavy copper coin.
‘I know this mark,’ the child said, ‘I’ll tell her what you say.’
Eachan turned out into the street, his brief glimpse of Killan forgotten.
Sorcha’s yet more discreet enquiries took her places even Eachan would hesitate to search. Sorcha could walk where she pleased, unchallenged, unseen if she so chose, and she walked into many private lodgings, and even into Grainne’s guest hall, where even Grainne went only when it could not be avoided. She found entire households accommodated there, and retinues of bondservants, and some fine horses, many Plains bred, but there was not a hint of Brede’s sister, and she returned dispirited and thoughtful, and would not tell Grainne where she had been.
As she wandered quietly about the halls and garths, Sorcha could not help but notice that there was a certain atmosphere that all these places shared, a feeling that they were waiting for something, that breath was being held. What was being awaited, and why, she could not yet fathom, but she felt it even within Grainne’s walls, even in the courts of the barracks. She felt it from the mercenaries under Maeve’s command, and wished she could ask Maeve what she had noticed, but there was no telling what Maeve’s involvement in that collective held breath might be. Sorcha did not trust Maeve. She could not put her finger on why, but there was something about the gossip in the inn on the corner of the square and the groups that formed and reformed there that made her uneasy. She found herself watching the liaisons and groupings, the pairing and bonding with a fascination that was not solely for the danger they might offer. She saw that she was not the only one watching. She saw Tegan watching, and Ula. And Ula watching Tegan, and watching Maeve. There was something about Ula, something more observant than was called for, something sharp, but at the same time generous, and Sorcha wondered, and watched more closely, so that it happened she was there to witness the making of a particular wager.
Killan put his arms about Maeve’s waist, and kissed the back of her neck. He felt the momentary surprise, then acceptance of her body, moulding itself against his. He sighed, and closed his eyes, drinking the scent of her hair. She twisted about, and pulled out of his arms. He opened his eyes.
There was something about her expression, something cleansed perhaps, as though a threatening cloud had passed. He reached, but didn’t touch.
‘Ah. I feel surplus to requirements.’
Her eyes widened slightly and shifted away from his face. Guilt: he recognised the signs.
‘Tegan –’ she began.
He reached out, shaking his head quickly and placing two fingers against her mouth to still her words. ‘Tegan,’ he said, resignation making his voice atypically dull. When he was certain she wouldn’t try to explain, his hand found somewhere to hide inside his sleeves, as he hunched his shoulders, feeling unaccountably forlorn. He was concerned to find he minded. Maeve had been fun. He tried to find something to say, but his wit and tongue seemed to have deserted him.
Maeve looked anxiously into Killan’s face and found something between hurt and anger there. He turned away sharply, as though it pained him to look into her eyes. Impatience hit her. Surely he wasn’t pretending he cared?
Killan rubbed his chest thoughtfully, then turned his shoulder just sufficiently that they could each pretend they weren’t together, not apart, not – his feet took him to the row of barrels. His hand beckoned the keg mistress, found coins, curved about a mug. The sharp fire of the alcohol hit his tongue, the back of his throat, his chest, his stomach, his mind. He glanced about the tightly packed room, focussing on each face in turn, aware, of a sudden, that he was glowering and made a conscious attempt to stop. Shoulders back and down. Brows up and relaxed, hands loose. His eyes rested on a dark-haired woman he could not place. Her eyes met his coolly and she turned slightly away, almost scornful. He shrugged and he forgot her. There was Ula. She raised her head and met his gaze. He shook his head, found a smile he didn’t know he possessed and bestowed it on the next face that came into focus.
Inir smiled uncertainly back. Inir? Well, why not? Killan shouldered his way to Inir’s side, making his walk relaxed, his body open and welcoming, shedding his irritation and disappointment, thinking himself into another mood, consoling, warm, subtly sexual. Yes, Inir would do.
Ula rose abruptly from her comfortable corner, made an excuse to Oran, and wove her way towards Maeve.
Maeve watched Killan, wondering what the opening comment of that conversation would be. Inir was part of her crew – if Killan had unkind things to say, she would rather they were not to one of hers. She was too hot, an uncomfortable flush on her face, her collar suddenly too tight and rough against her skin. She loosened the fastening, and put the cool metal of her mug against her cheek. A hand touched her shoulder and she twisted in the tightly packed crowd to greet Ula.
‘Did I see what I think I saw?’ Ula asked, with a mischievous smile setting crinkles about her eyes. ‘Did you just let Killan loose?’
Maeve’s mouth quirked uncomfortably.
‘You could put it like that.’
Ula laid a finger gently on the frown that knit Maeve’s brow.
‘And you feel bad about it?’
‘A little.’
‘Don’t.’ Ula sipped her ale. ‘He’ll have a new victim within half an hour.’
‘Victim?’
‘A new intimate friend, then.’
Maeve found indignation welling up at Ula’s low opinion of Killan, and of the worth of her own affection for him, and the effect upon him of her rejection.
‘Nonsense,’ she said sharply. Ula grinned.
‘Then I wager you a measure of best ale if I’m wrong, against a kiss if I’m right.’
Maeve narrowed her eyes at Ula.
‘And I thought you and Oran would grow old together.’
‘We will. It’s just a kiss. I’m no Killan.’
‘You don’t care for him much.’
‘He’s a complete bastard, my love. But he is also a charmer. Everyone loves him, he’s all and everything to whoever he’s with, and that changes so quickly – about now, I’d say.’
Ula waved her mug in Killan’s direction.
Inir bent his head slightly to hear Killan, his hand rising to rest on Killan’s back, below his shoulder blade. Killan’s hand fell against Inir’s neck in something that approached a caress, pulling him into an intimacy that might be secrecy, or something more. Maeve shivered with jealousy, then shook herself out of it – what Killan did wasn’t her concern now.
‘Inir doesn’t count, Killan’s been helping him over Balin.’
‘There’s helping and helping. I give it another ten minutes before they leave together.’
Maeve shook her head.
‘Go and buy the beer, Ula.’
Ula grinned and fought her way to the barrels. Before she was back at Maeve’s elbow, Inir and Killan had gone.
‘You owe me two coppers for the beer,’ she said, ‘and a kiss.’
Maeve handed over the money, and bent her head to kiss Ula chastely on the side of her mouth. Ula moved her head slightly, meeting the kiss full on. She heard Maeve’s intake of breath and pressed slightly harder, feeling Maeve’s almost involuntary response and taking full advantage. Maeve drew back, the too hot, uncomfortable feeling about her collar once more. Ula rested her hand on the back of Maeve’s neck, keeping her close enough that what they said couldn’t be overheard.
‘Whatever it is that Killan has, that draws people to him, you have it too.’
Maeve reached and untangle
d Ula’s hand from her hair.
‘Tegan is back in my life, I’ve everything I want.’
Ula stepped away.
‘Not you, Maeve.’
Maeve frowned, out of kilter and hoping she was still being teased.
‘Don’t flirt, Ula, someone might think you mean it.’
Ula shrugged.
‘So, I can expect Tegan to be less grumpy can I?’
‘Tegan is always grumpy.’
Ula laughed, and Maeve forgot about her rough, too tight collar.
Sorcha moved away, reassured that after all, the complexities of the shifting loyalties of Maeve’s mercenaries were just about whose blankets were currently tangled with whose.
Inir walked, loose-limbed at Killan’s side, more than slightly drunk. His step seemed too light – his heart seemed too light. Somehow this felt like betrayal, but he couldn’t quite place why. Not Maeve, that was certain, he knew better than Killan how irrelevant that anxiety should be now. No, it was Balin he was walking away from, each step of greater significance than the effort of muscle, the compact of foot and shoe leather and cobble. It was time, somehow. Time to let go, time to try again, time to have a little pleasure.
Killan’s lodging was in a tall house that burrowed into the wall of the city, leant confidingly into the stone, a drunk in a doorway. The stairway was no more than a ladder, dark and awkward. But at the top of the stair, beyond a curtain, they came out into light and space. Inir looked round sharply, blinking and appreciably less inebriated. The shutters at the window were thrown back, and the window itself was near as large as a door. A single chair stood in the way of the window, with a small table beside it, and the rest of the room was a substantial bed, and a welter of clothes and gear in apparently random piles on the floor. The table was meticulously clean and clear of everything except a knife, and on the wall above the table a series of shelves held household wares.
Killan grinned at Inir’s survey.
‘This isn’t what I want you to see,’ he said leading the way to the window.
He stepped through, leaning his weight on the open shutter and swinging out of sight. Inir followed cautiously, less certain of the pitch of the roof, and the potentially slippery shingles beneath his feet. As he straightened and got his balance, he gasped.
‘Worth seeing,’ he agreed. The roof of the house came almost to the top of the city wall, and caught the last of the evening sun. Laid out below them, the city sprawled. The lowest reach of the Tower was almost on a level with their viewpoint. The barracks gate was clearly visible. Inir laughed.
‘It feels as though you could step off the roof and be at our gate in a couple of minutes.’
‘It takes a bit longer than that,’ Killan grinned in false modesty, ‘but a lot faster than by road.’
Inir shook his head. ‘What? You’ve taken up flying?’
‘No. But it is just about possible to get the whole way up there on the roofs. Or it would be if it weren’t for the river.’
‘Ah, the river.’ Inir searched the view below him. ‘I can’t see it.’
Killan placed a careful hand on his shoulder, wary of unbalancing him, and pointed.
‘The tall building there, that’s the mill, it’s just beyond.’
‘It looks completely different from here, but now you’ve said it, I can see the wheel, and the weathervane on the inn the other side –’ Inir knelt and peered down into the street below. Killan grabbed a handful of sleeve.
‘Careful, the roof isn’t in good condition.’
Inir moved his hand back quickly, and sat back onto his heels, resting his back against Killan’s legs. Killan smiled to himself.
‘My eyrie, my kingdom.’ Inir glanced up, and Killan offered him his hand, to help him back to his feet. ‘The best view in the city, warm in the sun, and not overlooked.’
Inir glanced up at the wall behind the house. Killan shook his head.
‘The sentries never quite make it up here. The privy is in that tower,’ he pointed to his left, ‘and in winter there’s a fire, so they don’t walk this stretch often, with the river below to keep unwelcome strangers out.’
Inir frowned, trying to work out the geography. The frown smoothed as he fit where he was into his mental picture of the city’s defences. He looked at Killan thoughtfully, aware that his hand was still in Killan’s.
‘Still,’ Killan said, ‘there’s not enough sun left to stay out here long tonight. Shall we go in?’
Inir nodded wordlessly, caressing the base of Killan’s thumb with his own. Killan’s hand tightened about his.
‘Are you staying?’ he asked softly. Inir nodded again. Killan turned immediately, and led Inir in through the window.
Ula and Oran stumbled in through the barrack gateway, laughing and rain-soaked, just as the guard changed. Ula caught Cei’s cold look and sneered.
‘You should get out more, man,’ she said, over-loud. ‘There’s been good sport this evening, even you would have enjoyed it.’
Oran shushed her and pulled her away, still muttering indignantly about people with no talent for enjoyment. They turned sharply in at the doorway to their billet, and found Tegan and Eachan with their heads together. Ula giggled helplessly at the incongruity of what looked like an intimate embrace, and could not be – could it?
‘Hands off, Eachan,’ she said crisply. ‘Tegan’s spoken for.’
She reached out and patted Tegan’s arm, despite Oran’s best effort to intercept.
‘Maeve’s on her way back,’ she said, not entirely sure what motivated her to do it. She knew she was drunk, she knew she was half angry with Maeve, she knew that Tegan distracted was Tegan dangerous, but why she chose to stir in that particular melting pot she couldn’t say. Jealousy? But she was jealous of neither Maeve nor Tegan; and she certainly wasn’t jealous of Killan. She wagged an uncertain finger in Tegan’s face.
‘You’re a lucky woman, lucky to have Maeve, lucky Killan’s so fickle.’ Oran divined disaster in the look that shot between Tegan and Eachan. He pulled his hand-mate urgently away, towards their shared bed. She staggered ahead of him, Tegan forgotten. Tegan snaked a detaining hand after Oran and pulled him back.
‘Killan?’ she asked, Eachan’s report of his unexpected sighting foremost in her mind. Oran was nearly as drunk as Ula; he thought very carefully before saying uncertainly, ‘Inir?’
Tegan let him go. She turned back to Eachan.
‘What’s going on?’
Eachan shrugged.
‘Killan has a way of causing trouble, but it never seems to stick to him. He reminds me of Phelan when he was younger.’
‘Phelan?’ Tegan laughed in spite of herself.
‘Without the leadership skills.’
‘Just as well, Killan with a following is a frightening thought.’
Eachan refused to have his comparison laughed away.
‘Same single-mindedness, same decisiveness – same ability to change direction without losing step. He’s good with people, knows how to charm, and he’s a deadly enemy.’
‘Who are you talking about?’ Maeve asked, as she walked in, rubbing rain out of her hair.
‘Phelan,’ Eachan said quickly. Maeve frowned slightly, then shrugged and pulled Tegan into her arms.
‘What’s your duty for tonight?’
Tegan grinned and kissed her.
‘Whatever you choose to ask.’
Eachan cleared his throat and stepped away.
‘Goodnight, Tegan – Maeve.’
Tegan twisted out of Maeve’s embrace for a moment.
‘Should we be watching him?’ she asked Eachan.
‘I hardly know. Do we have any real cause?’
Tegan resisted a glance at Maeve.
‘No.’
‘Then, no, unless we find something more. Goodnight.’
‘Sleep well, Eachan,’ Tegan called softly, as she followed Maeve to the ladder that led up to their private quarters.
Chapter Tw
enty
Eachan listened to the hurried footsteps out in the stable yard. He did not care to hear urgency. His hand strayed to the hilt of his dagger, but then he heard his name called.
Riordan blinked in the darkness of the stable.
‘Eachan, there is a Plains woman at the gate asking to speak to you.’
Eachan put his head on one side considering what that might mean.
‘What did she actually say?’
Riordan thought about it.
‘I hear that the Queen’s horse-master has been asking after Plains bred horses.’
Eachan turned sharply into the light, and gestured Riordan away.
‘Good. Let us find what she has to say for herself.’
Once in view of the woman waiting beyond the pale, he slowed his walk, suppressing his excitement.
As Eachan reached the gate, he scanned the woman eagerly, taking in the good horse at her shoulder, the dark hair, the height, the hawk-like profile, and the age. Too young, surely? He hid his disappointment, and looked closer. A half-hidden bond-collar, and a tattoo on her right temple. Not entirely what he had hoped for.
The woman waited whilst he inspected her, seeing the disappointment, the assessment of her as a source of information.
‘You were asking after Wing Clan. I might know what you seek.’
Eachan listened to the hint of Plains accent.
‘You aren’t Wing Clan yourself?’
She shook her head.
‘I’m just unlucky. Do you want to hear?’
‘This isn’t for me – tell me the basics, then if it’s what I hope for, I’ll send for the one who’ll know for sure.’
‘The mark you were asking after, It’s Wing Clan. I assume you knew that? There was one in this city had a Wing Clan woman within his garth. She used that sign.’
‘What else do you know of her?’
‘Taken at the Gather. She had a child of an age for her to have been carrying her at the time.’