“So, Ciara,” says Brigid to me on the first morning, as we go through this story, “let’s say some fellow takes you aside after the evening performance and puts his hand down your bodice or gropes your rear. What do you do?”
I know what I would do in real life; it would be swift, decisive, and painful for the man in question. But Ciara would not be as strong as Liobhan, or as quick. And she surely wouldn’t be as bloody-minded. “Slap him in the face,” I say. “And scream for Uncle Art.”
“And if Uncle Art is not within earshot?”
“A knee to the privates, hard enough to hurt but not to do lasting damage. And I’d say, Just wait until Uncle Art hears about this.” I ponder this for a moment. “But I wouldn’t let it happen in the first place. No ducking off into dark corners with strange men.”
“Your first response to some man’s crude approach might come before you remember the part you’re playing,” Brigid says. “You might act quick as lightning and cripple the fellow, thereby providing a startling demonstration of your fighting skills, which is just what we don’t want. It’s one thing to tell me what you would do and another to put that into practice. On the other hand, anyone can see you’re a big strong girl, and with luck that’ll make them cautious.” She turns her gaze toward Brocc. Brigid is a woman of about forty, lean and well muscled; when she looks at a person, it’s as if her gaze goes right inside. How she does that, I have no idea. If I’m chosen to stay on Swan Island, I hope she’ll teach me the trick of it. “So, Donal,” she says crisply. “If some stranger makes advances to your fellow minstrel here, what is your response?”
“I give Ciara a chance to deal with it herself. But I keep an eye on what’s happening, and if the man in question looks in my direction he’ll see I’m angry. When and if Ciara asks for my help, I give it. I don’t get into a fight. I have a stern word with the man concerned. Perhaps threaten him with Uncle Art.”
“What, you wouldn’t take matters into your own hands?”
Brocc returns Brigid’s stare, cool and calm. “Not unless I really think Ciara’s at risk. I know she’s well able to defend herself. If that paints me as a coward in the eyes of the assailant, so be it. Ideally neither of us would get into a fight. And nor should Uncle Art. You don’t go punching someone during the day, then using your hands to play music in the evening. Though since we’ve been on the island, that is pretty much what Liobhan and I have been doing.”
There’s a telling silence.
“I mean Ciara, of course,” Brocc says.
“Don’t slip up again, Donal. The smallest error can see you all in deep trouble and your mission in jeopardy. That would reflect very badly on Swan Island and its leaders. We’re taking a calculated risk in entrusting this to you, untrained and inexperienced as you are.”
I see the expression on Brocc’s face—he’s disappointed in himself—and feel obliged to speak. “We’re beginners in spy-craft, yes, but as musicians we are neither untrained nor inexperienced. And we’re not bad fighters, the two of us, should those skills be required at any point in the venture.” I hate to see my brother judged for such a small mistake. “What about Dau? He’s no more trained and experienced in secret missions than we are. And he’s not even a musician.”
Brigid regards me intently. Brocc looks down at his hands. I realize I’ve just made an error far worse than his.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble. “That was inappropriate.”
“But timely in its way,” Brigid says. “An illustration of how easy it is to lose your self-control. Explain to me why that was an error.”
“I’m a newcomer to the island, exceptionally fortunate to be given this opportunity.” I do my best to sound contrite, though mainly I feel angry. Not with Brigid; there’s nothing wrong with her self-control. Angry with myself, for not knowing when to keep my big mouth shut. “It’s not for me to question the decisions of my elders and betters.”
Brigid surprises me by bursting out laughing. “Come on, Ciara, you can do better than that. Don’t insult my intelligence with anything less than an honest answer, please.”
“The first part was true, about being new and appreciating the opportunity. I understand that on a job like this the mission leaders, and those like you who prepare us, have the experience to make sound choices. Those choices include who’s selected to go and what they do. I shouldn’t have said anything about Dau, or challenged anything about how the mission will be carried out.”
“That’s better. At least you made your point now, in the security of the Barn. Don’t even think of saying such a thing after you leave. The same goes for you, Donal. We make our choices carefully. We weigh up the risks and the advantages. Each of you has a weak spot. Even the most seasoned of us does. You must set aside the fact that you’ll eventually be in competition for places in our community, and do what you’ve been trusted to do—execute this mission with the skill, discretion, and good judgment we expect of all our people. Did I mention cooperation? That, too. As for Dau—Nessan, that is—he will be permitted to explain his role to you before we leave. The backup team will travel to Breifne separately; having you together on the road might draw attention. Once you reach court, you keep out of each other’s way. It will be necessary for your uncle Art to exchange information with the temporary farrier, Eoan, once or twice, and of course the second team will be ready if he calls them in.” She pauses as if considering what to say next. “Your trainers mentioned that you have a habit of speaking your mind, and I see they weren’t wrong.”
That isn’t fair at all. What about Dau? If anyone has a habit of going right ahead and saying what’s on his mind, it’s him. Maybe what I’m thinking shows on my face, though I hold the words back, for she adds, “That is a reasonable concern, Ciara. You’re known for being blunt. So is Nessan. But the role he’s playing will make it easier for him to exercise the required discretion.”
“Because he’s shut away in the stables?” asks Brocc.
“No,” says Brigid. “Because, for purposes of this mission, Nessan is mute. He won’t speak a word to anyone.”
5
DAU
Day sixty-seven. I am on the mainland and preparing for a mission. An opportunity to be dreamed of, but why must they give me such a wretched role in it? I do not complain. Every word we utter, every move we make must count toward our future chances. Besides, I can see the strategic value of a mute. A man who cannot speak cannot pass on what he hears. Furthermore, it will be assumed that a farrier’s assistant cannot read or write. Folk will be careless about what they say in his presence. They may even assume that he is a little slow in his wits.
Will it be bearable? In view of what hangs on this, I must indeed bear every moment of humiliation. I imagine Liobhan grinning; Brocc concocting some humorous song about my plight. I think of them mocking me in whispers. Then I consider the possibility that some spoken message, something the speaker never suspects I will hear, let alone pass on, may provide the vital step toward solving the mystery, finding and restoring the mysterious harp, and returning to Swan Island covered in glory. Though in fact we are more likely to slip back unobtrusively, as ordinary folk going about their usual business. The disappearance and restoration of the Harp of Kings will be a tale known only to the regent and his close confidants. And to the five of us, of course; but we will keep our counsel.
I am determined to say nothing of the unfairness of our roles, even to myself. I will not consider that Liobhan and her brother are already accomplished musicians, and that all they need do at the court of Breifne is be themselves and keep their ears open. I will not compare that with the job I have been given: impersonating a half-witted yokel. I will ignore the inequity of the situation and play my part perfectly. If there is any natural justice in this, I will acquit myself so well that Archu cannot fail to give the island elders a good report of me later. I will swallow the desire to see Liobhan make errors. That
might reduce her chances and bolster mine, but it could also lead to the failure of the enterprise for which the regent has hired us. Besides, I am almost certain Liobhan’s thoughts run on the same path as mine. I have seen in her a fierce will to excel. Almost equal to my own. But not quite; after all, she is a woman.
And Brocc? Brocc will do what Brocc does: sing like an angel, touch the harp and make folk weep. It could be that he will uncover clues more readily than either his sister or me. There is something about him that draws folk. Of the three of us, he is the one people are most likely to confide in. Perhaps Brocc will excel on this mission. Most certainly, he cannot be discounted.
We rehearse our stories endlessly. Our trainers surprise us with questions when we are eating, when we are preparing for bed, when we are concentrating on a task. I have heard both Liobhan and Brocc make errors, responding to their real names. My enforced silence makes it easier—I may turn my head or make a movement when someone says Dau, but that need not mean I think it is my name. From our second day at the Barn, I’ve been forbidden to speak, with the proviso that up until the day we leave I may do so in an emergency. Also, on the last evening here, I will be permitted to talk at suppertime. It follows that when I ride I must control my mount without the use of my voice; it is just as well I am a horseman of some skill. And it means I cannot question Illann—Eoan, from now until the mission is over—about the use of tools or anything at all about the work we are to do together. I will cope; I must. I will employ gestures, grunts, grimaces, whatever will serve best. This guise might have been invented for the sole purpose of making me look foolish.
* * *
* * *
I wake in the dark of night, aware of something wrong, though there is no sound in the sleeping quarters but Brocc’s slow breathing. I sit up. A moment later, someone rams a cloth into my mouth and holds it there, hard. I gag and choke, fighting for breath. His other hand is tangled in my hair, pushing forward. I kick and twist with all my strength, and then a second man is there, grabbing my legs, hauling me off the pallet. My heart is a wild drum; cold sweat breaks out on my skin. They’re quick and silent, dragging me toward the door. My shout comes out as a muffled groan. Brocc stirs. Beyond the screen Liobhan, half-asleep, mutters, “Shut up!” and falls silent again.
Almost through the doorway. My mind whirls. What is this? Attack or test? Do I keep fighting or let this happen? We’re along the hallway in the dark and into a chamber, and I hear the iron bolt go across the door, and in the uneven light of a single candle I see two people in hooded cloaks, with cloths masking their features. That makes four of them. No hope of overpowering them all, even at my best. Curse Brocc and Liobhan, and curse the long day that left them too weary to wake! The three of us together could have done it.
The hand comes off my mouth; the cloth is removed, and I can breathe. An instant later something goes over my head, a bag, a sack, and I can’t see. The men holding me release their grip. Before I can do anything, someone seizes my wrists and binds them together behind my back. Right—it’s a training exercise. A raid on the Barn by outsiders wouldn’t end here in this little chamber, with Brocc and Liobhan unharmed in their beds, still within earshot. Not to speak of Archu and the others.
“Speak up!” someone barks. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”
I work on my breathing. I straighten my back and hold my head high, under the dark covering.
“I said speak!” An open-handed blow on my cheek, through the cloth, sharp enough to sting. This is somewhat harsh, even by Swan Island standards. I grunt in response, as Nessan might. What comes next? What do they want from me, tears? Screams that will bring Brocc and Liobhan to my aid? If I give a wordless shout and they come rushing in to save me, will that mean I pass the test and they fail?
A matching blow for the other cheek; my neck hurts, and so do my wrists. The restraints are painfully tight. How am I supposed to do a farrier’s job with my flesh rubbed raw? I make another noise, louder than the first. With my wrists bound I can’t use gestures to explain that I’m dumb. It’s a trick, Dau, I tell myself. Remember when your brothers locked you in the old chest? Or when they helped you climb to the top of the big elm tree then left you there? Or the time they marooned you out in the middle of the marsh? Your wits saved you then. Use them now.
But I don’t need to, because someone starts hammering on the door and shouting.
“What are you doing?” It’s Liobhan. “Uncle Art! Come quickly! Donal! Donal, where are you?”
Morrigan’s curse, she sounds terrified. That’s surely no playacting. But it must be. Because she used those names. I bow my head and start a wordless sobbing. If nothing else, the distraction might give her time for whatever it is she’s planning.
Someone pulls the bolt aside. Whoever was hitting me has stopped, for now at least. I gather myself and prepare to move, bound wrists and all. If I can get to my feet, I can smash my head into a man’s face and break his nose. I can kick his legs from under him. I can—but no. Liobhan’s voice comes again—she’s surely right in the doorway—and I remember that I’m Nessan, and I’m so scared I won’t get up and fight, not even for a woman in trouble. Instead, I do what a terrified mute man might do at such a moment, which is to release a stream of urine down my own legs and onto the floor.
“What are you doing?” Liobhan’s voice is quavering, thready, barely recognizable. “Why has he got that thing over his head?”
“None of your business, girl,” says one of the men. “Go back to bed, forget you saw us. If you know what’s good for you.”
“I won’t go, you can’t make me!” Her voice goes up a notch, as if she’s so scared she’s lost touch with common sense. “Why’s that man tied up? Why are you here in the dark, in the middle of the night?”
She must be planning something, or she’d retreat and let them get on with whatever they intend, perhaps to beat me to a pulp before they tell me it’s all some kind of act. Though that would be stupid if they really want me to ride to Breifne in a few days and put on a convincing show when I get there.
Someone makes an abrupt movement. There’s the sound of a slap, and a whimper from Liobhan. “You can’t do that,” she says, and now her voice is like a hurt child’s. “You can’t hit me! I want Uncle Art.”
“Ciara? Are you all right?”
Through the bag over my head I discern more light. That’s Brocc coming in, and he must have stopped to pick up a lantern on the way.
“What is happening here?” he asks.
“Cease.” This voice I know; it’s Brigid’s. The covering is removed from my head, and I can see again. Liobhan’s in the doorway, with a shawl thrown over her night-robe. There’s a red mark on her cheek where they struck her. And there’s a knife in her hand, not quite concealed by the folds of her skirt—the light draws a telltale glint from it. That means she was prepared for both possibilities, test or real attack. Beside her is Brocc, holding up the lantern, and although his manner is calm, his face is sheet white. I had wondered if the two of them were party to the whole thing. But it’s plain this was a test for all three of us.
Archu and Illann come in; the others, apart from Brigid, are Swan Island men we did not know were on the mainland. They seat themselves at the table. I’m shaking; I can’t seem to stop. I order myself to breathe slowly. Liobhan’s expression is like a storm front waiting to break. She strides over with her knife in full view and cuts the bonds from my wrists. As she steps back I see her nose wrinkle. Fair enough, since I stink of piss. There’s plenty I could say—to her, to Archu and Brigid, to all of them—but dumb Nessan doesn’t speak a word.
“I won’t offer an apology,” says Brigid, casting her eye over the three of us in turn. Liobhan and Brocc are still standing. “You all recognized quickly that this was an exercise, not an attack; that is what I would expect of you, even with your somewhat limited training. Ciara, you look a littl
e put out. Something to say?”
Liobhan’s jaw tightens and so do her fists. She shakes her head.
“Let’s hear your opinion of how the three of you performed just now,” Archu says. “What did you do right? How could you have done better?”
Liobhan sucks in a big breath and lets it out slowly. “I didn’t see what happened to Nessan. I only woke up fully after he was gone from the sleeping quarters. I heard a disturbance. Sounds that told me it wasn’t simply someone going to the privy or heading out for a stroll because they couldn’t sleep. I didn’t know at that stage whether it was a test or something else. It sounded as if Nessan was in trouble, perhaps being beaten, so I followed the voices and footsteps here. I thought before I came in that it must be a test, because who would create such a disturbance right inside the Barn, with people sleeping so close by? For a moment, when you opened the door, I wasn’t quite sure.” The ferocious look is back on her face, though she’s trying to stay calm. “It looked uncomfortably real. I didn’t like what you did. But that’s not relevant. It was a test. I responded in character as Ciara. I screamed for help. I called the others by their correct names.”
“But?” Brigid sounds stern; no trace of sympathy there.
“Did you want me to act more like a girl?” Liobhan answers iron with iron. “I could have woken Donal, told him I was scared, sent him instead of doing it myself. I could have stayed in bed with the covers over my head. But just because Ciara’s female and a musician, that needn’t mean she has no backbone. I’ll be more convincing in the role if I don’t have to pretend I’m a wilting flower of a woman.”
The Harp of Kings (Warrior Bards) Page 4
