Andrew Offutt - The Tower of Death

He found he’d been cheated twice.

The man’s eyes were already filmed, and the merest glance from Cormac’s experienced eyes told him his attacker had already poured out over half his blood. He’d never suffer from the peritonitis a belly wound always brought, and he’d never be telling Art’s son who he was or who’d sent him, either.

Cormac cursed sulphurously.

Galicia of the ever-martial Sueves had become ever more martial in appearance. Extra guards had been posted, even at the perimeter of the farmlands whose habitants had been warned. Mounted men rode sentry. From the looks of those horse-soldiers, Cormac thought, they were akin to Wulfhere: they’d love nothing better than to meet more such as those who had attacked the mac Art.

No one could identify the corpse, and no one recognized his horse. The smith was summoned to examine arms and horseshoes. No; he knew them not. He also had work to do, and he returned to his hearth and anvil. (Cormac liked that. A good man, Unscel the Smith , he thought; he has the way of Eirrin about him! )

The dead man was not of the Suevi. Exchanging looks, men opined aloud. Perhaps the attackers were of Cantanabria, though thisun had died far from that neighbouring land of northwestern Hispania.

The horse now belonged to Cormac mac Art, as spoils of combat. No equestrian he, and he impressed all with supposed gallantry; he made Eurica king’s-sister a gift of the animal. And whispered in her ear. And she made gift of it to the widow of one of those dead in the tower; the woman has hardly above a score of years in age, and had six children, all living. Nor did mac Art trouble to mention that he was no horse-lover and was no happy tenant of the backs of such beasts. Cormac far preferred the difficult footing of a rolling deck to the back of an animal to make him sore of rump and thighs.

“You have that of the statesman in you, mac Art,” King Veremund said. They had retreated to the little room of the silver chain, to share a cup.

“Truth, lord King, I like not horses. And were I statesman, I’d not be asking ye again to show me the chain of silver.”

Veremund gave him a look, but conducted him to the treasure room. Cormac was careful to be still, while Veremund showed the Gael the new chain. It had not shrunk.

“Beautiful as ever,” Cormac said, with an affected sigh.

Veremund, wearing a tiny smile, stored away the chain. “You were in truth nervous that some sorcery had faded away the links you saw added.”

“Lord King! How could a sea-pirate far from Eirrin question a king?”

“As easily as he could dissemble to him about a certain young Goth of Nantes,” Veremund said, returning to resume his chair near Cormac’s.

“Sorrow and grief are on me that I gave ye the lie as to Clodia, lord King.”

“Never mind. I knew, in seconds-and have known that you knew I knew-ah, what foolish things come from our lips with this language! Ye but sought to help her. Poor girl, and her father dead or under torture. She’s a pleasant companion. Few would believe how much talking we do.”

True , Cormac thought, for Clodia’s hardly the sort one chooses for converse! It’s not talking that men are minded of, when they look upon her. But then… 1 suppose Kitcat’s not the sort most would talk with so much as I do, either.

The Gael said nothing. The king and his-conversations-were no business of his. Nor were the queen’s, he added mentally; whatever that skinny woman did with herself whiles her lordly husband and Clodia… conversed. But… be there no jealousy on the woman?

“My lady queen has her amusements too,” Veremund said. “We are… not such friends as formerly. Her illness changed her. Ye’ve been told that the lady queen came near to death?”

“Aye.”

“Aye,” Veremund said, echoing him. “I’d ha’ thought ye’d know of that-and many other things as well, belike. Yet ye are silent, answering only when I make query. And then with but a laconic ‘aye’.”

After a time of examining his winecup-which was of silver, and misaffected the flavour of the wine-Cormac said, “I do not discuss queens with their lords, lord King. Nor the trysting of kings, with anyone.”

“It seems very probable that you are a good man, mac Art of Eirrin.”

“So thought I of your smith, King of the Galicians. He is most mindful of his own business.”

The King of the Galicians chuckled, sipped. “Think you wine tastes better from crockery, mac Art?”

“Lord King, I do.”

The two men looked at each other, and they laughed.

“Eirrin. What did you there?”

“Grew up.”

“Oh come-a little more. Your father?”

“My father was the lord Art, commander of an outpost fortress for the King of Connacht. Rath Glondarth, its name. Was my home until I was fourteen.”

“Umm. And you fell into trouble, there?”

“Lord Art was murdered.” Cormac shortened the story, then, just short of total veracity, which had never been a religion with him. “For me it was die or flee. I fled Eirrin.”

He would not say that a nervous High-king feared him for his deeds and his name, which was that of a great High-king over Eirrin of centuries past-and which his father never should have given him. Surely his life had been different, and his father’s longer, had Art called him Conn or Lugh or Conan or Midhir! Even “Niall mac Art” could not have put such nervousness on the High-king, unto treachery. Too, there had been that damned priest. And Bress of the Long Arm. The priest of Iosa Chriost that these called Yesu Christus was nicely dead. As for Bress…

Some day , Cormac thought. Some day, treacherous Bress Cormac-hater!

But had been eight years. Bress might by now be commander of all the armies of Leinster… or dead, morelike, the arrogant supercilious roughshodder!

Veremund was frowning, and Cormac realized from his words that the king was wondering if he’d uncovered cowardice in the pirate called Wolf: “And ye’ve never returned?”

“The slayer of my father was in the employ of the High-king,” Cormac said shortly. “About that craft Wulfhere saw…”

“Think ye they were indeed sirens?”

Veremund had snuffed back in his throat just as he started to speak; he would allow change of subject. Veremund too, Cormac thought, was a good man. One of those precious few on all the ridge of the world who merited the sobriquet “noble,” from the Latin nobilitatas .

“Lord King, I saw the impossible that night, and fought them. Belief’s on me that Wulfhere saw something unnatural. Peradventure the Greeks’ tale of the Sirenes is based in fact. Peradventure daughters of Ran do indeed lurk asea, luring good seamen. Be that as it may, Something is out there that likes not sea traffic-or rather does like it, as prey! It’s minded I am to be offering them some. As bait.”

“Umm. Aye, I see. Were best we-that is, yourself-risked not your good Raven to such purpose. What have ye in mind?”

“One of those scaphae I was seeing in your harbour.”

“Umm. With a tiny crew, to attract the Sirens?”

“Aye, lord King, and weapons ready! My thinking goes thus. The kelp is ghastly, and to be dealt with. Ne’ertheless, it’s surely but a tool it is. Sent by the… wreckers, sirens… sent to darken the true beacon, that they may display their own. It’s the wreckers are the enemy, then. It’s they I’d be going against, direct.”

The king contemplated that for a space, nodding, and then showed his nod to Cormac. “In your hands, mac Art. And next time we’ll have our wine from good fired mugs, umm?” He rose, and the Gael stood instantly. “Irnic awaits outside, I know-with some others. Time I returned to kinging it, whilst you do put a pirate’s knowledge to work against an unnatural enemy!”