by David Waid
He gestured to Corc who extended the wicker box to Eamon. For a moment, the young brigand refused to let go. He held on while Eamon pulled, then released it, smirking as Eamon stumbled back.
Nairne knelt by her son, hands hovering as though afraid to touch him. But she did. It took little for her to understand he was dead. She said nothing until Caitlin put a hand over hers. With her body swaying side-to-side, she tipped her head up. Her eyes were open now and her hair stood out like bristles, wild and unkempt. The rims of her eyes were red, but the eyes themselves were as milky and dead as they’d ever been. And yet they found Corc’s direction well enough in the suddenly quiet room.
“On the boy who killed my son I pronounce a malediction,” she said. No one moved to stop her, no one dared breathe. “Consumption and ague, carry a mother’s quarrel.” Corc’s face blanched white and his wobbly smile fell away. “Before the sun rises, boy, ye’ll crouch on the endless plains, eatin’ of dust and death.”
Nairne clutched Caitlin’s hand. “Bring me to Duff.”
They rose and walked and none in the house would stop them. The old woman found the wound Mabon’s blade had inflicted just below the ribs. Turning Duff on his side, she found its twin where the steel had emerged.
“Higher or lower and he would now be dead,” she said.
Rummaging in the wicker box, Nairne pulled out what things she needed and sent Eamon to start a fire beneath a pot of water.
Corc found a ceramic jug of Baodan’s liquor and the brigands took turns with it. Though Nairne’s curse still hung above the gathering, their confidence began crawling back. The bandit chief got himself seated again, lifting his wounded leg onto a second chair, and Eamon could feel the man’s eyes on him.
“How is it ye knew our names?” Cahill asked.
The boy made no reply.
“I asked ye a question, lad. Just because I’ve a sore peg, doesn’t mean I can’t box yer ears.” He jerked a thumb at his comrades. “Remember, I’ve got four more arms and legs, besides.”
“Why did you follow us?” Eamon asked.
The giant man, Mabon, paid no attention to their exchange. The shy smile remained on his red lips, but he held a giant, unsheathed blade. It was hard for Eamon to tear his eyes away. Mabon had been leaning against the wall by Nairne’s bedroom, but now pushed himself off. With an absent air, he ambled along the length of the table and came around it.
Cahill massaged his propped leg, careful to avoid the wound. “The village priest sent us on yer road,” he said.
Without thinking, Eamon snapped a glance at him. “That’s a lie!”
“Quiet, boy,” Nairne said.
Cahill, ignoring the old woman, gave Eamon a flat, half lidded stare. “It’s many a time a man’s mouth broke his nose, as ye may learn to yer own dismay, scrawny lad though ye be.”
As Mabon came round the table, he spotted Caitlin on her knees, and for some reason that vision of her looking up stopped him. The smile dropped away from his face and he stood perfectly still, just staring. Every eye looked at him and whatever Cahill would have said next trailed into nothing.
“Oh, shite,” Corc said. He laughed, addressing Cahill. “Your ox has come un-yoked again.”
It was not clear to Eamon what was happening, but the hairs on his neck stood up. He crossed the room to stand between Caitlin and the giant.
“What’s happening?” said Nairne.
Mabon sheathed his sword and approached. Caitlin and Eamon backed away until they ran up against the bags stripped from the wagon. Reaching past Eamon, the giant man grabbed his sister’s arm and effortlessly pulled her around to the front.
“Ow, you’re hurting me!”
The brigand bent down, his face inches from hers. Letting go of Caitlin’s arm, he began to stroke her pale hair. He tucked an errant strand behind her ear, traced a large finger down her jaw line to her neck. The smile came back to his face, less tentative than before. Corc was still laughing and even Cahill had a smirk on his face.
“Eamon, what is happening?” Nairne tried to stand, but Corc’s blade rasped from its sheath and pricked her neck.
“Save yer curses, woman,” he said.
“What are ye doin’? Leave them alone.”
Mabon took Caitlin by the hand and started to walk away. She looked over her shoulder at Eamon and all he could think of was the two dark bedrooms, one containing his mother’s corpse and the other an empty bed. The little skinning knife weighed heavy in his sleeve and Nairne’s words echoed in his mind. He who is not strong must be cunning.
“There are only three of you!” Eamon barked at the giant’s back. “Father Rhys was right.”
The man stopped and looked back, but said nothing. It was Cahill who replied.
“Oh, aye? What exactly did the priest say?” He asked the question lightly, yet something in his voice set Eamon’s teeth on edge.
“Eamon…” said Nairne from her seat on the floor. The edge of Corc’s sword touched her neck again.
“He knew you were coming,” said Eamon. He paused, heart pounding in his chest, imagining what would come next. “Father Rhys said there were many in your band.” The words now came in a rush. “He said you were cowards, hiding within a pack. That you’d crumble as soon as anyone stood up to you.” Heat rose from Eamon’s neck into his face. “All your friends are dead in Eniskeegan. I know it, sure as you. You’ve got nowhere to hide, do you? Everyone in the mountains knows you can be beaten, you can be—”
Corc crossed the room fast, face twisted in anger. Whipping the sword over his left shoulder, he brought it down, pommel first. Eamon ducked and it caught him a glancing blow to the head. Reeling backwards, he fell, tripping on the pile of goods from the wagon. His head struck the stone floor and he might have died there, dazed, Corc’s sword in his belly, but the fall knocked loose one of the parcels Father Rhys had loaded, wrapped in a dirty cloth. The rag fell away and a cup rolled onto the open floor. The sight of it froze the blood of every person in the room with eyes to see.
The cup was made of gold, studded round the lip with colored stones, engraved from lip to stem. Eamon, clutching his head, was no less surprised than the others. That one cup was worth more than his entire village. Never had he seen such wealth in the priest’s little mountain church, or anywhere else. On even the holiest of days, mass was celebrated with pewter. And for most of a day he’d ridden with this princely treasure lying within arm’s reach. With that thought, his eyes flitted to the pile of other rag wrapped items.
He was not alone. Corc had picked up the chalice and stood staring at the pile as if he could peel the wrappings with his eyes. Mabon made some moon-calf noise and let go of Caitlin’s hand. The bandit chief stood abruptly, the pain in his leg forgotten.
“The Devil!” he said. “This is as fine a salmon as ever jumped.” The man winked at Eamon. “Here’s an instance in which we’re glad to run in small numbers — fewer ways to divide the spoils.” To Mabon, he said, “Draw your weapon and kill any that moves, do ye hear me? Corc and I are goin’ to sort this heap.”
The two tore at the wrappings, casting dirty pieces of cloth aside. Some few of the items, Eamon saw, were the simple belongings of his family and these they threw off without a second glance, likewise with crackling parchment scrolls from the church, tied with leather cords. But several of the things were items of such beauty they took the breath away and left eyes goggling.
Corc laughed and Cahill whistled to himself, running both hands through his hair. Out of the wrappings came a slender box whose lid was inlaid with ivory, strips of lapis, stamped with a coat of arms in silver. They found a small tabernacle made of cunningly wrought gold and a piece of rich, green velvet that unrolled to reveal tear-shaped amethysts and a large emerald egg with candlelight dancing in the dark clarity of its depths.
On the floor with his mouth open, Eamon sat and wondered how these treasures could have made their way into the packs. He thought of Father Rhys, he of the pe
wter vessels for the host and the wine, he who chopped onions for thin stews made by the cot-hearth. Father Rhys.
The world shifted. He didn’t know the man’s story at all. Had never known it, in fact. Nothing about the life he’d led before coming to Eniskeegan. A recollection of dream came, a snippet of Father Rhys dressed in armor, fighting in the village with a saffron colored surcoat snapping in the wind. Had Eamon not already been sitting he would have fallen.
As soon as the sorting was finished, the brigands placed their small, improbable trove on the table. Silence stretched on as everyone absorbed the scope of wealth present. Before them lay a treasure a great lord might not blush to possess. Cahill looked around the room and in a soft voice said, “This changes things.”
15. Events at the Mahogany Table
Pisa
Lady Benedetta Tummia glanced up from her repast of mutton haricot, calf mesentery and fresh lamprey in galantine. She gasped in surprise, pressing a hand to her throat. Next to her stood a man she knew: barrelchested, bearded, ripe with the smell of sweat. A thick cape had been thrown back over one of his shoulders to reveal a sword at his hip.
Her gaze darted around the room. No other patrons sat in this chamber of the city’s finest inn, but a second, younger man stood in the doorway, pale faced and grim, wearing armor with one white-knuckled hand clutching his own sword’s hilt.
“Are you here to kill me?” she asked. “We Maleficarum do not die easily.” Her head tipped back to meet the bearded man’s eyes, flesh rolling at the back of her neck.
“I could ask the same question of you.” He spoke Florentine with just a trace of accent, though she knew the man to be English. “Many of our order,” he continued, “have been murdered by their brethren before reaching the sanctity of a conclave. And here you sit engorging yourself on the path I follow to that most important gathering of all.”
The man smiled. There was no humor in his watchful eyes, yet he sat. Without looking at his fellow in the door he called out, “Paolo, fetch the pannier of food and a bottle of my wine.”
Seeing the look on Tummia’s face, the bearded man laughed. “You cannot possibly believe I would eat or drink at an inn that serves vipers. I bring my own food when I travel, for just such occasions. And you? Are you here to make an attempt on my life or off to some new parlay of your grubbing merchants?”
“We are headed to the same place and well you know it, mercenary.”
He seized her forearm in his powerful grip and turned it over. On the corpse-pale skin of her inner wrist she bore an elaborate scar in delicate lines. “The Amentia Umbras,” he said. “Shadow Madness. How you turned your piles of coin into such knowledge is a story, no doubt. One I’ll wager involves treachery.”
“There are many paths to enlightenment, Englishman.” With her other hand the woman pointed at the scar he bore on his own thick, sun-dark wrist. “Conscivit Arbor,” she observed. “The Suicide Tree. Blood-soaked condottieri also make unlikely cabalists of the Maleficarum.”
The man pursed his lips, releasing her hand as his servant returned. “You know nothing about me,” he said.
Cutting away the seal on a bottle, the young man poured his master a bowl of wine, then placed an unbroken round of cheese on a wooden board beside a dark, gnarled sausage, bread and a knife.
Eyeing that knife, Tummia said, “Killing me would be foolish, John Arrow. The Maestro cannot perform this rite alone.”
“True. But he needs only five of the Maleficarum to siphon the geistmage’s power — one for each point of the pentacle. By my count, you make six.”
“You mean seven.”
“I mean six. What? Is there information that has not reached your spider hole in Florence? Isabeau Moragne was denounced in Languedoc as a witch and heretic. Seized by the Inquisition, burned alive. Someone, it seems, told them precisely where to find her secret texts.”
Air hissed through Tummia’s teeth as Arrow quietly coughed into his fist and smiled. “Yes, the timing of her denunciation is suspicious, don’t you think?” He wadded thick slices of bread, cheese and sausage and wedged the pile into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed. Holding up his hand, the man cleared his throat, coughed and continued.
“Fat and old as you are, woman, you always have information others do not. Paolo has that skill as well. It was not happenstance, but intelligence from my man that brought me here today. You’re alive because he believes you have information about the Maestro’s pet conjurer.”
“And if I tell you, you will have me killed.”
“Maybe. But I will certainly kill you if you withhold the information.”
“I am rich. Perhaps I will bribe your man to betray you.”
Arrow threw his head back and laughed. “Few things are sure in life, but Paolo is one of them. Not only do I pay him excessively, but if anything happens to me, his wife and four children will die badly.” Swallowing another wedge of cheese, the man followed it with wine. He called over his shoulder. “How old is your firstborn, young man?”
“Five, my lord. A boy. And the youngest yet a suckling babe.”
“There, you see?”
“It would have to be a large bribe, certainly,” the woman replied. She smiled. “John, you have a little blood, just here.” She pointed to her lip.
The man coughed again. He wiped a hand across his mouth and it came away red. “What . . . ?” Eyes widening, he stood, his chair fell over backward, clattering on the floor. “What sorcery is this?”
“No sorcery. Poison.”
“Impossible!”
The woman’s eyes twitched to Paolo and John Arrow stumbled around to face him. The bearded man spat blood. Through red teeth, he gritted his words.
“How could you do this? Your family is dead!”
The younger man made no reply, but the woman stood, shrugged. “As I said, it was a large bribe.”
Arrow had grown unsteady. With one hand he held the table.
“I brought about Isabeau’s death, too,” the lady continued. She leaned toward him. “But you…you I just had to see for myself.” Gone was the softness that had been in her face only moments before. Her lips grew thin with anger, the flesh under her chin trembling with it. “You have been answered, John Arrow, for every insult you have given.”
She stepped back and waved Paolo forward. “Poison alone is not enough. You must finish the job.”
Arrow groaned, clutching at his sword pommel as Paolo drew a dagger. The younger man rushed forward plunging it into flesh until Arrow dropped to one knee. Paolo continued piercing the man’s hip, his back, stabbing until Arrow fell forward on his hands and then his face. With brutal efficiency, Paolo pulled his former master’s hair, lifting his head and stroking that blade across his neck to complete the deed. The stink of blood filled the room.
Silence descended, the only sound Paolo’s breathing. Tummia clapped her hands together once and barked a name. “Mina!”
As a dark haired serving woman entered, Paolo stood aside. This new creature was tall, with lithe, muscular limbs, moving with a fluid grace that belied her size. Yet her head jerked and pulled as though with palsy. She knelt to examine the corpse.
The young soldier saw no communication pass between lady and servant, but Tummia nodded as if it had.
“Well done,” she said to him as she crossed to the doorway. “Your young family is dead, but there is time for another.” She paused and glanced back to where Paolo stood looking at all he had wrought.
“It is good to be rich, is it not?”
16. What Befell the Brigands
Leinster
“It’s warmth and sleep we need.” Cahill looked at his fellows. “I’ve no desire to lie among the dead, so I’ll thank ye to take these bodies out to the barn and tend our horses.”
“And leave ye alone with all this?” said Corc, pointing to the riches.
“Where exactly is it ye fear I’ll be goin’ with these beauties on a frozen night, through the snow, with
a wounded leg, a bit hand and the two of ye standin’ by the nags?”
Corc mumbled a word or two with his eyes cast on the floor, but all Eamon heard was, “. . . and we’ll do the slog while yer camped in a chair by the fire.”
Cahill stared hard and the younger brigand colored, but didn’t return the look.
Mabon said nothing. He slipped his fingers around one of the dead hounds’ collars, did the same with the other, dragging them in a bloody trail to the door with their tongues lolling. To Corc he said, “You take that,” and nodded to Baodan’s corpse.
The bandit chief’s lips quirked up. “Ye’ll come back for the woman in that room, won’t ye Corc, m’ lad?” He laughed. “And make sure the door’s closed behind ye, boy, it’s damn well freezin’ outside.”
Corc muttered under his breath, but didn’t argue. He grabbed two fistfuls of Baodan’s shirt and tugged him through the door.
“Now, old woman, mayhap yer a witch and mayhap not, but yer going to care for this wound or ye’ll be no use to me at all. And that is a dangerous thing to be.”
While the bandits had rummaged the bags Father Rhys sent, Nairne had cleaned and dressed Duff’s wound. Now she gathered her things. Cahill had become merry with the drink, but he studied her, then turned a bright smile on Eamon.
“Accidents have been known to happen when strangers practice leechcraft. I once watched a man bleed to death because a careless hand cut where it shouldn’t. Why don’t ye just come stand beside me, boy-o? Faith, havin’ ye close at hand might steady the old woman’s nerves.” He reached out and grabbed the jug of spirits. “For the sake of me own nerves, it’s a swig of poteen and a laugh for the jolly god.”
Cahill slid a long, wicked knife from the sheath at his belt. “And just so there’s no confusion upon the p’int,” he said to Nairne. “If ye hurt me, the boy’ll make the long journey and small blame to me.”
Nairne looked up with her blind, milk-white eyes. “It’s you that holds a knife and it’s only you who can end this.” She stared like that for a moment and it almost looked as if a smile trembled at the corners of her mouth. Cahill and Eamon now stood together and there was no telling to whom she addressed the words.