Requiem for the Wolf

by Tara Saunders

  The Tánaiste killed by a baneling? Fodhla would laugh himself humpbacked.

  “Pity to waste her like that, she’d have been useful. I see she was nursing. Will I send a man for the litter?”

  “Send Connlech.” Carad flexed the muscles of his cheeks and fisted his hands around scarred palms. “Tell him to take a dagger and stop their hearts. There’s no escaping bad blood.”

  * * *

  Carad, bathed and fresh-dressed, descended the inn’s staircase to the common room where Nuada waited. There had been no shameful scald of waste when the animal attacked, but even so Carad felt the urge to be rid of his tattletale garments.

  Old habits.

  The innkeeper hovered at the foot of the stair, his florid jowls quivering and his cupped hands nursing a smug little paunch. The squint of anxiety in his eye might have been fear of the Brotherhood. Then again, it could have been worry over the impact their stay would have on his trade.

  Careful, man. I have a poor history with ‘keepers.

  “Is there anything I can do to make your stay easier?” His voice was near as threadbare as his pate.

  “Nothing but your absence.” Carad put none of the morning’s playacting into his voice. “And you will address me as Tánaiste.”

  The innkeeper paled and nursed his belly closer. “Pardon, Tánaiste. I meant no disrespect.”

  He would have said more but Carad cut his jabbering short. “I won’t be disturbed.”

  The innkeeper nodded and retreated towards the kitchen on noticeably shaky legs. Seething, Carad pushed into the common room where Nuada straddled the fire, a well-picked platter at his elbow.

  “What news?” Carad was in no mood for chatter.

  “The Allsayer sends word that the boy gave nothing new. He’s working on Raghlan now.”

  “He better not get over-zealous with this one. We don’t want information dreamed up for the sake of answers.”

  “Your instinct was right about Raghlan.” Nuada had no trouble deciphering Carad’s mood. “He did run.”

  “I expected him to take them a warning.” Carad clarified. “That’s the trouble with these men of faith. No sense of proportion. Who’s best of the trackers?”

  “Draioch was the one who found Raghlan’s trace. Came highly recommended.”

  Recommended. Carad’s temper bubbled again into his throat. “Send Draioch forward along his trail, see if there’s any sign of the Northman or the guard. And send a company of soldiers to back him up. Time they did their share.”

  “Think it’s a coincidence he ran towards Dun?”

  Carad thought a moment. “No place better in the Tiarna for a man who wants to disappear. We’ll see what the Allsayer digs up for us.”

  The possibility of ending up back in Dun, with Fodhla there to witness every twitch and whimper, was appalling. Best to focus instead on what needed to be done here in Dealgan.

  The sound of raised voices in the entrance hall pulled Nuada from his comfort. His hobnailed boots scraped across floorboards that had never before been so insulted, and as he threw open his door Carad saw the innkeeper wince.

  “What’s this?” Nuada’s voice blasted with the full force of his barracks training.

  “You weren’t to be disturbed, sirs.” The innkeeper had the look of a man who wished he had followed his father into the glue trade. “This individual refuses to wait.”

  The individual was a man, barely older than the newest supplicant, clothed in military blues, his hair fastened by a blue-dyed band of leather. Carad’s first impression was that the soldier stood wider than he was tall, a notion reinforced by an attitude of puff-chested belligerence.

  “I’m expected.” The soldier’s voice shrilled, spoiling the effect of his swagger.

  “He can come in.” Nuada stepped back to allow the soldier through.

  “I told you to send for him in the morning.” Carad ignored the man, his mood worsening. “Now is not the time.”

  “I have information that won’t wait,” the soldier interrupted. “I would have come earlier but I was called out of town.”

  Carad was torn between dropping his jaw in amazement and backhanding the insolent pup from the room. “This had better be good.”

  “Chent’s cleared out. He’s a herb-seller and by his own word knows a thing or two about Lupes. He’s known to have talked with the Northman. Questioning him would be worth our while.”

  “Picked him up already, boy.” Nuada’s voice held a dangerous edge.

  “’Worth our while’, you say.” The young cockerel’s bluster edged Carad towards amusement. “Do you think you’re one of us?”

  “Pardon, Tánaiste, I meant to start with that.” The youngster flushed. “I’m well thought of in the military, but I aim for more than a dead end post in this here small town.” He took a long, slow breath. “I want to be considered for the Brotherhood.”

  A favour requested by many. Every other time Carad had answered with a flat negative and a sharp reproof, but something in this braggart appealed to him. “You’ve come begging favours, boy, and you haven’t even offered me your name.”

  The surprise on Nuada’s face would have reassured the soldier if even a crumb of his attention had been free to notice. Instead, he poured all he had towards Carad.

  “My name’s Aod, Tánaiste, and I swear I’ll serve you well. You won’t regret taking me in.”

  Carad believed him. There was a hard edge to the man; something cold and sharp and hungry.

  “You only have a single chance to impress me.” Carad ignored Nuada’s lurch of surprise and Aod’s spew of gratitude. “I’ll permit you to stay with us until we’re back in Shand. If you acquit yourself well then I’ll nominate you to novice. Until then you’re just a soldier. Understand?”

  “You won’t regret it.” Aod bubbled with triumph.

  The door creaked open again, this time with no warning from the innkeeper, and the Allsayer pattered into the room. His attire was, as always, pristine. Neither his soft, white hands nor the perfect blue of his tunic showed any sign of his dedication to his craft.

  “Tánaiste, our supplicant had confessed.” The Allsayer’s voice was soft and respectful. “The Northman and his hangers-on flee to Dun. They plan to lose themselves in the masses.”

  “I had thought--“ Aod began to speak, but fell silent under the full force of the Allsayer’s gentle brown eyes.

  “There’s more.” The old man sounded truly sorrowful. “Tánaiste, it grieves me to bring this to you, but this burden is mine to carry. The Northman pretended to be one of us. He made a false claim to the Brotherhood.”

  Rage seared through Carad, burning away the good spirits that had returned with the bantam cock soldier. The Brotherhood of the Lone Man chose one in a thousand to train as a novice. Fewer made it to full disciple. Carad had stolen, wept, and murdered--and other acts less savoury--to earn his place. The thought of a stray claiming the Brotherhood on a whim burned like quicklime in his belly.

  “We’ll ride for Dun with first light.” Respond fast and hard to the insult. Dealgan would still be there when it was done. No way better to annihilate the guard than to ride back with their leader dragged behind a horse.

  Best to focus on the Northman’s sins, and push aside the idea of a return to Dun for the first time in thirty years.

  “Pardon, Tánaiste.” Aod was oblivious to the skin pulled tight over Carad’s cheekbones. “They aren’t travelling to Dun.”

  The Allsayer’s silence held a frigid warning.

  “I watched them leave two days ago.” The boy’s words tumbled out gracelessly. “They went west, towards Macha. I’ll bet they’re aiming for Ullach.”

  “The supplicant confirmed that, impertinent boy. They left a trail south, plain to find, then cut west when the sign was set.” The Allsayer brushed an invisible speck from his cuff. “He was most . . . convincing.”

  “We travel to Dun at first light.” Carad reiterated his decision. “Leave
now. I have much to consider.”

  * * *

  They rode out south and west, a full division streamed in a ribbon of dazzling white and the blue of a summer sky. A solitary figure trailed behind, struggling to hold to the saddle.

  Behind, a signpost leaned slightly, its arm nonetheless pointing true. Its tilt was intensified by the bodies that swung slightly in the strong harvest breeze; a man in hunting leathers, no longer recognisable. And a black gadhar, her two cubs sheltered in her lee.

  7

  Sionna gagged. She clapped both hands over her nose and mouth, and attempted not to breathe in any of the stink.

  This place provided a good opportunity to test the shape of a swear-word she’d picked up from a mendicant monk during the ferry crossing. It felt strange and uncomfortable in her mouth. Her eyes fixed on Tarbhal’s back. Now there was a man whose tongue could blister stone.

  Maybe he could give her lessons.

  This town of Macha must surely have the foulest air in any of the four Tiarna. Tarbhal had explained that a port city must have boats, and that fishing boats invariably stank of rotten fish. Logic, however, made no headway against a stench so thick it had a weight and, almost, a colour. Greenish brown, maybe, or a putrid yellow.

  Sionna side-stepped a greasy puddle, careful not to notice the swollen rat-corpse swaying gently at its centre. She did not like Ullach.

  The journey’s beginning had promised much. They had walked to Amhan through hills mottled green and russet with heather, moss and short mountain grass. The land rippled sinuous as a cat or stoat, close-dressed in a fur of dense vegetation.

  Freedom felt good to Sionna. She knew she was safe with Tarbhal, and leaving Dealgan behind had been her deepest wish through all her years with Proinsis.

  Amhan was a town too similar to the one she had left to offer anything of colour or adventure, but the crossing was everything she could have hoped: choppy waves, dour ferryman, creaking craft, and the guard standing strong between her and the world.

  Here in Macha the dream fell asunder.

  Rotting fish, filth in the street, too many bodies in too small a space. Gap-mouthed fishermen consumed her with insolent eyes and hands that strayed where they shouldn’t. Pinch-faced matrons carried covered baskets and closed minds. Young girls stared from behind old eyes. In Macha, every man watched his neighbour, and watched his step.

  Not the place of a girl’s dreams after all.

  At least Tarbhal was still with her. He had been due to leave them in Amhan, and the prospect had scuffed all the shine off her grand adventure. But he was still by her side, and Sionna had no intention of questioning why.

  Without Tarbhal there would only be him.

  The Lupe. Breag.

  It hadn’t been difficult for her to figure out, not after living with Proinsis for so long. Raghlan had been generous with his clues the night that Cú came to them.

  Yet again, an animal controlled her life completely.

  “This way.”

  The animal grabbed her with his rough fingers and turned her onto a side-street. Panic rose in Sionna’s throat, and only the tightest control kept her from wrenching loose to run. Run so fast that nobody could follow.

  Tarbhal leaned just inside the street’s narrow mouth, his back to a crumbling wall so as not to stopper the flow of passing Uls. Breag’s hand felt like a manacle as he guided her to the guard.

  “You walked right past us.” The guard’s voice was tinged with humour. "Did you think you’d lose us so easily?”

  Sionna knew he didn’t mean it as a reprimand, but she cringed all the same. “Not so easily, Tarbhal.”

  Not him at least.

  The rucksack at Tarbhal’s feet squirmed, reminding Sionna that she wasn’t the only one who hated Macha. The stink of fish was sure to insult Cú’s nose more than it did hers, even when it was blunted by wet canvas. Cub that he was, his legs were still too long to fit comfortably in the pack, and she had noticed Tarbhal grimace when he picked it up.

  They would need to find another solution soon.

  “He’s just as unhappy as we are.”

  Sionna startled to hear her own thoughts come from Breag’s mouth. Since when did he consider anybody else’s feelings?

  “Third on the left after the fishmarket, the ferryman said,” Tarbhal reminded them. “We’ll be out of Macha before we know it.”

  Not quickly enough. Sionna’s shoulders ached under the townspeople’s sideways, suspicious looks.

  The next place would be better.

  She hoped that rounding the corner of the narrow, twisty street would bring them out of town and into open country. Instead it was just more puddle-pocked cobbles and slab-fronted buildings, with doors fastened tight and windows barred against the light. The occasional hunch-shouldered man or faded woman shuffled along, heads down, careful to avoid notice. Regardless of the activity on the wharves, Macha was a town where life was lived behind tight-closed doors.

  “I hate this place. How can they survive like this?”

  A man hulking towards her caught her eye with his. Maybe he did it deliberately when he heard what she said, but more likely her carelessness just made a bad situation worse.

  Tattered green trousers and bare feet. A billowing tunic more grey than yellow. A mouth running heavy on sneering and light on teeth. The air of a bully, familiar through long experience.

  “Don’t you like us then, girlie?” A grin split his face like a rotten apple.

  Sionna knew this game. She had danced it with Proinsis more times than she could remember. It didn’t matter now what she said or didn’t say. The man would play it out as he pleased.

  Tarbhal, a half dozen paces ahead, turned at the sound of the hulk’s voice. So did the bald-headed man behind him. Sionna particularly noticed the way he moved. Sneaky. She watched from deep inside herself as the guard started back, his hand raised in friendship.

  Where was Breag?

  “A skinny girl and an old man.” The hulk seemed to be speaking to himself. “Hardly worth the effort.”

  Sneaky sidled between the grimly unobservant townsfolk until he stood directly behind Tarbhal.

  Why was she not warning him? Sionna’s throat locked.

  Sneaky raised a lumpy drawstring bag in both hands.

  Shout, curse you! Sionna managed only a strangled squeak.

  Sneaky slammed the bag into the back of Tarbhal’s head. Sionna’s stomach curdled at the crunch. The guard gave a single, surprised grunt and crumpled.

  The hulk in front of Sionna gifted her again with his rotten-apple grin. “So what do you think of us now, girlie?”

  The street had emptied. The three were strangers, and their trouble was their own. Apart from the hulk and Sneaky, only two lingered, and they watched with much too particular an interest. Sneaky came to stand beside the hulk, mirroring the insolence of his over-familiar stare.

  “Get over here!” Breag was there, standing over Tarbhal as the guard tried to climb back to his feet. His left hand rested on his knife-hilt, still sheathed at his belt.

  “Are you deaf, girl? Get over here!”

  Sionna startled to realise the hissed words were for her. How strange to have somebody watching out for her.

  The hulk heard too. Sionna dodged a meaty hand and scuttled behind Breag before he could try to grab her again.

  Tarbhal struggled to his knees and shook his head, his hands clamped over his temples. He didn’t seem able to stand, let alone fight.

  “This is more like it!” The hulk’s smile was back. He swaggered in their direction, trailing Sneaky and his two cohorts in his wake.

  “Let us pass and there won’t be any trouble.”

  Surely Breag knew that reasoning with men like this was useless. Begging never changed anything.

  “After all the trouble I had hooking this little fishie?” The hulk’s eyes flickered to Sionna. “I don’t think so.”

  This was her fault.

  Breag drew his k
nife. The scrape of metal on metal rang loud enough that the hindmost man slowed, reconsidering.

  The hulk’s grin widened. It didn’t throw off his swagger in the least to reach under his tunic and slip free a black-handled blade, long as a child’s forearm and wickedly curved. The hulk ran his tongue along the blade, his eyes fixed on Sionna’s.

  The hindmost man slowed, backed away, and slid back around the corner towards the fishmarket.

  One less to worry about.

  Sionna wrapped herself in a calm as warm and comfortable as an old blanket. So many times she had fought to find a way out of her nightmare. Pushing back against it just made the punishment worse. Better to stay small and go deep and wait for it to be over.

  The muscles bunched on Breag’s shoulders and thighs. He clenched the ugly bone hilt of his knife. He knew as well as she did what would come next.

  Sionna turned her head a last, desperate time. No rescue from in front or behind.

  The moss-painted wooden door to her left had been shut tight before. Now she could see a hairsbreadth gap. As she watched the crack widened slowly, slowly.

  Breag’s attention remained fixed on the hulk, and the hulk watched Breag. The pair of backup thugs hung back, waiting for leftover gobbets to squabble over. The prickle of violence burned acrid in Sionna’s nose.

  The door eased open wide enough for her to see a face inside, white and fear-pinched.

  “Take a last look at your girlie, shore-boy.”

  The hulk threw himself into the conflict, the black-handled knife leading. Breag side-stepped easily. He didn’t speak, his blade slightly raised and ready.

  Tarbhal still wobbled on his knees, struggling and failing to find his feet. The satchel by his side thumped and twitched. Cú’s instincts were good, but the cub would hinder more than help. Breag fought for all of them.

  Silent now, the hulk slashed upwards at Breag’s belly. Breag stepped close. He grabbed the hulk’s rising elbow with his right hand and jerked it upwards and out. With his left he sliced across the hulk’s unprotected gut. Fat droplets of blood splattered from his knife as it arced free from the tangle of fabric.