Maggie gaped at him, astonished. “Now don’t take it so hard, darlin’,” Thomas offered. “It’s true that I didn’t split my britches running to your side after your mother’s death, but you were fourteen, old enough to work, and there’s nothing that will build character in a person faster than having to look after one’s self. Besides, did you ever know a teenager who wanted an obnoxious old man like me hovering over her shoulder? Oh, I’ve worried long nights about you, worried that you might make wrong decisions or worried that you might take sick, and I exchanged letters with your old employer, John Mahoney, on the subject. But I knew you were in the hands of a good, saintly person, and you didn’t need me to meddle in your affairs. But now things are different.”
Maggie wondered what he meant, when he said that now things were “different.” Were things different because she was wealthy, or was he planning to meddle in her affairs? Or maybe both.
Thomas leaned back, smiled a charming smile, as if considering what to say next. “By God, you’re a beautiful young woman, Maggie,” Thomas said, condescending, and she remembered an old saying: compliments are so cheap to give that only a fool would hold one precious. “I can tell that John Mahoney cared for you well. He said in his will that you were a special kind of person, one who doesn’t let life just happen to her, but one who would likely go out and make a good life in spite of what happens. He had faith in you.” More compliments, she mused.
He glanced at the wedding dress spread out on the table. “So, when are you planning to marry?”
“Our wedding is set for Saturday,” Maggie said, not sure what else to answer.
Thomas frowned. “And when did this Gallen O’Day propose to you?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“The day John Mahoney died?” Thomas looked skeptical.
Maggie nodded.
Thomas gazed at his hands, cleared his throat. “It seems that he decided to fall in love with you at a very convenient time—just when you were ready to come into a nice, juicy inheritance.”
Maggie said nothing at first, couldn’t quite think of what she should say for there was too much to be said all in one breath. Neither she nor Gallen could have known anything about the inheritance, and there were so many things that Thomas didn’t know. She’d spent time on other worlds, risked her life fighting the dronon to save rascals like her uncle.
“It’s not like that at all!” Maggie said. “You—and you don’t care about anything but my money! In all these years, you’ve never so much as written me a letter—but now that I have an inheritance you come banging on my door! I should sic the sheriff on you, you nasty old lecherous thief!” She threatened him with the law, suspecting that she couldn’t legally get rid of him, but willing to give it a jolly try. Still, she wanted to frighten him.
She saw a flicker in Thomas’s gray eyes, a slight flaring of the nostrils as he drew breath. She knew she’d struck him right. “You plan on moving in here, don’t you?” Maggie said. “You plan on coming to the inn to lord it over me until I’m old enough to toss you out on your ass.”
“That’s not a fair assessment,” Thomas said calmly. “I’m well-known as a minstrel. Many a satirist my age takes up a winter residence in a hostel, and we enrich the landlords with our talents. I’ll earn more for you than my keep.”
“So you admit it: you plan to live here—for free—while you lord it over me? My mother wouldn’t have made you my guardian. You must have forged that letter.”
Thomas licked his lips, stared at her angrily. Obviously, he had not expected her to see through his ruse, and he hated having it discussed openly, here in front of everyone. He called himself a “satirist,” but he was a professional backbiter. He was used to bullying others, pouncing from behind like a wolf. He’d tried to put her on the defensive, keep her mind occupied. Now she was turning to attack. “I’ll thank you, Uncle Thomas,” Maggie said, struggling to sound calm, “to take your wagon and ride out of my life forever!”
“I don’t begrudge you your hard feelings,” Thomas said. “If you were a filly that I’d left in the pasture for three years, I expect that I would have to use a strong hand to break you. And, alas, that is what I intend to do now.
“Maggie, darlin’,” he said, “whether these magnificent stories told on your beau are true or not, your name—our family name—is mixed up in this scandal. I’ve heard you spoken ill of fifty miles away. You’re running about, making mad resolutions that will most likely ruin your life, and I have to step in. I’m afraid I can’t allow you to marry this Gallen O’Day.”
Thomas pulled at the wedding dress on the table, as if he’d take it, and Maggie grabbed it from his hands.
“There will be no wedding,” Thomas said, slamming his fist on the table. “How could there be? What kind of priest would perform a marriage for a girl so young?” His tone made it sound as if he were naming her a dreamer or a liar. It was true that she was young to marry.
“Gallen’s cousin—Father Brian of An Cochan!” Maggie said, feeling a thrill of victory by being able to name such a priest.
“Father Brian, eh? Not without my permission, I’ll wager.” Thomas glared at her coldly, and Maggie realized he’d just tricked her into telling the priest’s name.
He reached into his purse, and tossed a shilling to a boy of fourteen. “You’re a bright-looking lad. You look as if you know where the cat’s hid its kittens. I want you to carry a message for me: run to An Cochan and tell Father Brian that Maggie’s wedding will have to be called off for the time being. Tell him I’ll arrange a suitable donation to the church in order to … compensate him for his trouble.”
“Don’t do this,” Maggie said.
Thomas stiffened at the dangerous tone in her voice, and his own voice took on a hard edge. “I didn’t come all this way just to acquiesce to your wishes, child. And I’ll not haggle about it. The wedding is off!”
“You can’t,” Maggie cried. “Gallen’s a fine man. I love him!”
“This isn’t about love!” Thomas shouted. “This is about judgment. Judgment—a damned fine quality that you’re too young to have in abundance. So the wedding is off! Your mother gave me the right and the moral obligation to use my judgment in raising you, and I’ll exercise that right now. And quit giving me the evil eye!”
“I’ll not let you do this—” Maggie hissed. She shook with rage, and her jaw was set. She thought of the big carving knives in the kitchen. She could hardly believe that a stranger would walk into her life intent on causing so much trouble. It was like getting mugged, only Thomas was doing it legally. She wondered if she should get that letter from Thomas, try to prove that the will was a forgery; but she suspected that it was real, that in a moment of despair her mother really had sent the letter to Thomas, asking his help. And if that were the case, Maggie would be stuck in the boiling pot, certain.
The butcher Muldoon came in through the front door—apparently having heard that Thomas Flynn was in town. Both Maggie and Thomas had lapsed into silence, and Muldoon called, “Give us a song, Thomas!”
Thomas got up, went to his mug of rum that had warmed on the fire, and he took a few stiff drinks, then got his lute out of its case and began plucking strings.
Maggie sat numbly, wondering about her options. She could stay here and put up with this man, which seemed impossible. Or she could get a knife and stab him—which right now felt like a desirable thing to do, though she didn’t like the thought of getting hanged afterward. Or she could try to talk Gallen into running away with her, and she wished that right now Gallen was here instead of being off in the woods.
Maggie’s attention was suddenly caught as Thomas began his song. In his youth, Thomas had had a famous voice. Maggie had a handbill that she kept in a box upstairs, advertising one of Thomas’s performances. On it, another bard said that Thomas’s voice was like a mountain river, all watery and rippling light on the surface but with deep currents that could sweep you away, and beneath it all was a rich
and abrasive gravel that could cut a listener to the bone.
And so in a moment, Thomas sang to the local fishermen an old ballad called “Green,” the tale of Claire Tighearnaigh in her green days of love, raising daisies and sweet red roses on the hillsides to sell in the gray streets of Finglas. Thomas had the finest voice that Maggie had ever heard, and she tried to shut it out, but he sang the ballad with warmth and richness, so that she could almost feel the sticky flower stems in her hand and bask in the scent of bloody-colored flowers.
And when he sang of Ian Phelan, who loved a good fight as much as he loved his young fiancée, Thomas let his melody wend its way around the hearts of his listeners, sucking them down into a turbulent morass where their bodies were constantly spinning in the eddies and whirlpools, torn between the worlds of water and sky.
And when Thomas sang of how Ian Phelan was brutally stabbed at the hands of a jealous suitor, Thomas let his voice become gravel, so that his listeners could see how Ian’s corpse had been left on the rocky hillsides above Finglas, his lifeblood leeching into the green flower beds of Claire’s youth, the reds and greens tumbling together like lovers rolling down a hill, caught forever in a place where pain and beauty fuse into one.
When he finished, every rugged fisherman was weeping into his drink, and someone cooed, “Ah, now that was worth missing a day’s work for.” Several folks called loudly for another song, but Thomas refused, saying, “Come back tonight, and I promise you’ll tire of listening to this old voice croak out its songs.”
And Maggie saw that despite her personal problems with Thomas, he was already winning over the hearts of the townsfolk. Sure, and many of them would agree with Thomas, that Maggie was just too young to marry. They’d take his side.
He asked Maggie to escort him to his room. She led him upstairs to a cozy room above the fire, and opened the door for him. “I’ll expect you to behave as any other guest, Thomas Flynn,” she said. “No sleeping on my clean sheets with your boots on.”
Thomas went to the edge of his bed, set his lute on it, and looked up at her. “Well, Maggie,” he said conspiratorially, “how do you think they liked our performance?”
“Our performance?” she asked.
“Aye. We gave them a good fight, and a grand song. I swear, the inn will be full tonight. You’ve never seen such drinking and carousing as you’ll see tonight. I’ll make you a fortune, sure.”
“What?” Maggie asked, taking a deep breath. “You mean that was all an act?”
“I know about love,” Thomas said, and from the way he had sung, Maggie knew it was true, and she wondered if he secretly intended to let her marry Gallen after all, but his next words dashed that hope. “But it’s for your own good that I’m keeping you from your beau.”
“For your profit, you mean,” Maggie grumbled.
“That, too,” Thomas said honestly. He watched her for a reaction, but she didn’t give him the pleasure. “Maggie dear, if you live long enough, you’re going to find that sometimes you have to play the villain in another person’s life. It’s just the way of things, that sometimes our goals cross. You’ll have to spoil someone’s plans, ruin their day—maybe even stick a dagger in someone’s back. Just remember this: when that day comes, make no apologies for what you’re doing. If you must play the part of the villain, play it with gusto. It’s one of the sweetest sensations in life.” He held his breath a moment, then said, “At least, that’s how I intend to play it.”
Then he lay down on the bed, put his dirty boots on the blanket. “Now there are rules in this world that tell us .how to get along in polite society. I didn’t make those rules, but we have to live by them. One of those rules is that we don’t go marrying children. So, you’ll wait to get married, till you’re the proper age. That’s final.”
“What if Gallen and I don’t follow your rules?” Maggie said. “What if we marry, and run away?”
“Think about what you would be giving up, woman: your young beau has won himself a reputation as the finest bodyguard in seven counties. Rumor says that he’s killed as many as forty highwaymen. It’s a grand reputation, a romantic reputation.
“And as if his reputation as a fighter weren’t enough, now folks are saying that angels—the Angel of Death himself, by God—have come down from heaven to help Gallen O’Day drive Satan from the village of Clere.
“Why, with such talk, Gallen could find himself sitting in the seat of the Lord Sheriff of Tihrglas in a year, and in five years he might be Lord Mayor of the whole land.
“But on the bad side, Gallen has also been accused of consorting with devils, and for that he could be hanged.
“Now, I doubt both stories. But, as they say in the south, ‘You could spin the wool from a whole flock of sheep and never come up with such a marvelous yarn.’“
Thomas sat up, leaned closer. “In any case, the wedding must be canceled for now. If things go ill for Gallen, then your good name won’t be besmirched. There’s not a man or woman alive who didn’t fall in love at your age, and they’ll forgive you for your wrongheadedness. On the other hand, if things go well, then Gallen will need to wait to marry you, if only to enhance his political career, and in another year you can marry the man you love, and someday you’ll find yourself living in one of the finest houses in the land! Oh, oh, oh, wouldn’t that be grand?”
Thomas smiled and shook his head. “Och, I think you’ve got a future, darlin’. I can hardly wait to meet this Gallen O’Day.”
Chapter 3
That afternoon in a forest glen high above Clere, Gallen O’Day practiced fighting alone with his knives. He wore some attire he’d earned while fighting off-world to save the Lady Everynne: a robe woven of thread that held small nanotech machines that could change colors to fit with any background, and others that could mask his scent; tall black boots and gloves that had a selenium matrix worked into various parts of the toe, heel, palm, and fingers so that his blows carried more punch. And most importantly, he wore his mantle, a personal intelligence made of small black metallic rings, strung with silver knowledge disks.
As Gallen practiced, the mantle fed him images that he could distinguish from reality only because the mantle fed him no audio: five swordsmen with sabers and small shields swirled around him in a fevered dance. They wore white robes that swished silently as they leapt over the forest floor, kicking up humus, grimacing and sweating with every slash and thrust.
Gallen leapt and ducked, weaving between them, seeking to block or avoid their blows as much as possible, slice them with his own daggers. “When he scored a hit, his blade would mark them with blood, so that after hours of practice, the swordsmen now appeared as gory apparitions.
Yet they were extraordinary swordsmen, each man fighting in a different style, using his own tactics. One was a whirling madman whose sword blurred in continuous motion; another stood back and studied Gallen, seeking to strike only at the most opportune moment, then jab with deadly precision. Another used the cutting edge of his shield as much as he did his sword, while the other two seemed to change fighting styles to suit their needs.
Gallen was struggling for air, sweat pouring from his body. Yet his enemies showed no sign of slowing due to fatigue. Gallen had wanted to stop for nearly an hour, but he was trying to build his endurance, so he kept up the gory battle. Time and again, his foes stabbed him, and each time, the mantle sent him a searing phantom pain at the point of impact.
“When Gallen’s arms were impossibly heavy from fatigue, his mantle suddenly dispersed the image of the fighters, and Gallen stood panting. “Why did you stop?” he whispered.
“You have an incoming message from the Lady Everynne,” the mantle whispered. “Are you ready to receive it?”
Finally she sends word, Gallen thought, after two weeks. “Yes,” he answered, and Gallen sat down in the shade on a rock encrusted with yellow lichens. He closed his eyes, stilled his breathing, waited for Everynne’s image to appear.
Instead, the sky dar
kened, as if it were covered with a curtain, and he heard the rumbling of thunder in the distance. His heart pounded in terror, and he found himself in a strange city on a cobbled street, leaning against a stone wall in an alley.
What’s this? he wondered, willing his head to turn and look about. But the view did not change. Instead, he only saw the view as if he were staring ahead, and Gallen realized that this vision of another world must be a part of Everynne’s message.
He looked about, watching the narrow streets to his right, the smooth stone buildings with enormous doors and huge windows set high off the ground. He was in a business district of a large city, and all the shops were closed for the night. The black cobblestones gleamed wetly. Through the thick storm clouds, he could make out the muted light of three separate moons, and dim lights shone from a few windows down the street. But the alley behind him was dark and sheltering. He looked farther down the street to his left, hoping for more darkness, but there was a tavern there with a lantern burning from a hook outside its doors. He couldn’t run that way. The light would show him up.
Not again, not again! he thought, and his lips emitted a high whimper. Yet Gallen knew it was not his own thoughts or words, but the words of someone else. The fingers that clutched the edge of the stone wall were slender, on pale feminine hands, and Gallen felt the unfamiliar weight of a woman’s breasts on his body, and wondered at it.
“I am feeding you the memories of a dead woman. This is Everynne’s message to you,” his mantle whispered.
Off in the near hills, light flashed in the clouds, then thunder snarled and echoed, washing away all sound. He waited breathlessly, listening for sounds beneath that booming echo. Down the stone street, around a corner, he heard booted feet thudding against stone, saw three men rush into the square. Their sabers were drawn, and they silently moved into the shadows, scanning ahead.
Gallen—or the woman whose memories Gallen was reliving-moved farther back into the alley, suddenly looking about for safety. There were no windows, and the lip of the roof was ten feet above her head. Her only hope lay behind a heavy oak door.
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