The Crowded Shadows (21 page)

T
he sandy-haired man bowed slightly and touched his chest, flashing his charming, gap-toothed grin. “Allow me to say to you that I am Sólmundr an Fada,
mac
Angus an Fada,
Fear saor
.”

Christopher glanced sharply at him, his eyes widening. “
Fear saor
,” he whispered. Sólmundr offered him his hand and Christopher shook it vigorously, a stunned smile on his face. “Well met, Sólmundr.”

Sólmundr faltered at Christopher’s intense look, then moved on to offer his hand to Wynter and to Razi. He turned and introduced them to the male twin. “This,” he said fondly, “is My Lord, Ashkr
an Domhain
.”

Ashkr leant forward, his bracelets flashing. Despite his soft skin, his handshake was firm and strong.

“Well met, Ashkr,” said Razi.

Ashkr’s sister smiled expectantly and Sólmundr introduced her as the Lady Embla. She nodded at Christopher and Wynter, then turned all her attention to Razi. “Tabiyb,” she said, her voice rich and low. “At last, we know each other’s name.”

She leant across the table, her pale hair swinging forward like a veil of flax and Razi shook her proffered hand, staring without speaking. Wynter cast a smiling glance at Christopher, expecting him to be amused, but his attention was still, inexplicably, on Sólmundr.

Embla clasped Razi’s tough, dark hand between her own soft ones and tilted her head. A slow smile spread across Razi’s face. He held Embla’s gaze and ran his thumb against the soft white flesh of her wrist. There was a moment between them that seemed to suspend the room.

After a long silence, when it seemed that neither Razi nor Embla were inclined to separate, Ashkr snorted and poked his sister in the side. She broke away with a secret smile and Razi rubbed his palm dreamily, as if feeling the memory of her touch. Embla drifted slowly down into her chair.

Sólmundr cleared his throat and raised his arm to formally introduce the black-haired man. “Respected people,” he said, “allow me give you the honour of naming our
Aoire
—our Shepherd—Úlfnaor,
Aoire an Domhain
.”

Unlike the others, Úlfnaor did not offer his hand, but no one seemed to take exception to this. Instead, Christopher bowed with grave formality, a proper bow, deep and lingering, his tangled hair swinging forward to hide his face. Razi and Wynter quickly followed suit.

“We are honoured,” they said.

“The honour is mine,” rumbled Úlfnaor.

With that, the Merron relaxed into such a sudden and unexpected informality that Wynter was left reeling.

“Sit! Sit!” urged Sólmundr. He leant across, gesturing to the stools that dotted Wynter’s side of the table, then pushed at Razi’s shoulder and pressed Christopher down. Embla offered a bowl of olives to whet their appetites, and Ashkr called to the landlord to bring more tankards and a pitcher of wine. Úlfnaor leant back and murmured to Wari, who quickly left and returned with the meals that Razi and Wynter had ordered.

Wynter took her seat, still dazed by the sudden turn in atmosphere, and all the Merron laughed at their guests’ confusion. Sólmundr, having ensured that everyone was sitting comfortably, went to take his own seat. He was lowering himself into his chair and turning to Ashkr to make a smiling comment when Wynter saw him blanch, and he froze, half-in, half-out of his seat. He bent over with a grunt and gripped the table, gritting his teeth against what looked like sudden pain.

Ashkr clutched his friend’s arm and bent to get a good look at the other man’s face. “Sól!” he said in concern, “
an bhfuil drochghoile ort arís?
”

Sólmundr bowed his head, nodding, and his knuckles whitened against the table.

Razi half rose from his stool. “What is it?” he said.

“Sól has
…”
Ashkr spun to Embla and asked her something in Merron.

She ran her hand over her belly. “In his guts,” she said. “He is bad. Only this three day.” She stood and looked into the crowd. “I will to get Hallvor.”

“My friend is a doctor,” exclaimed Christopher. “He can help.”

“We have own healer!” snapped Úlfnaor.

“And a wonderful one, no doubt! But my friend is a
physician
! Of the blue robe!” Christopher held up his hands to demonstrate, the long, clean scar of his left arm a testimony to Razi’s skill.

Sólmundr bent lower, his eyes widening.

“Get Hallvor!” cried Ashkr, rubbing the small of Sólmundr’s back.

Wari and Úlfnaor began to scan the crowd, but Sólmundr relaxed suddenly and straightened from his pained crouch. He stood for a moment, his hand pressed against the base of his stomach, and then he grinned.

“It gone again,” he said, blushing in sudden embarrassment.

Ashkr continued to gaze up at him, his face drawn, his hand on Sólmundr’s arm, and Sólmundr tutted. “It is good, Ash.” He grinned around at the company. “I tells you, it this rotten Southlander food. It not suit my gut.”

Ashkr nodded reluctantly, watching his friend as he took his seat.

Razi sat back down, studying the man’s face for further signs of pain. “Where is the discomfort, Sólmundr?” he asked, “when it comes.”

Sólmundr tsked impatiently and waved his hand to divert all attention from his stomach. He leant across and tapped the table in front of Christopher. “Coinín,” he said. “You stare at me all the time. Why for?”

My God
, thought Wynter.
These Merron! They are so direct!
Now she knew where Christopher got it from. Sólmundr rapped the table again, insistently.

Christopher hesitated, then he said, “I, too, am a free man.”

Sólmundr frowned, not understanding, and Christopher reached over and pressed his fingers to the scars on the man’s wrist. He repeated himself in Merron. “
Is fear saor mise freisin
, Sólmundr.”

Sólmundr’s frown deepened and Ashkr grew solemn. To Wynter’s surprise, he reached for Sólmundr’s hand. Their fingers entwined for a moment on the table top, Ashkr’s smooth hand squeezing Sólmundr’s roughened one, and then Ashkr released his grip and sat back, looking at Christopher.

“Who took you?” he asked quietly.

“The Loups-Garous.”

The Merron winced at the dreaded name.

Christopher lifted his chin to Sólmundr. “You?” he asked.

“Barbary Corsairs.”

Razi groaned, and Christopher nodded.

“They sell me for… um
…”
Sólmundr murmured something to Embla. She thought for a moment, then shrugged apologetically.

Úlfnaor, reaching for an olive, glanced up and said, “Galley slave.”

Sólmundr nodded his thanks. “They sell me for galley slave,” he said. “I galley slave for
…”
he held up two fingers.

“Two years?” asked Wynter, aghast, and he nodded again. Two years chained in the dark, in his own filth, toiling day and night without respite. Wynter looked at his good-natured face and couldn’t imagine it.

“Then, one day
…”
Sólmundr made a whistling noise, his hand flying through the air to represent a cannon ball or some such thing, and then he hit the table with a loud
bam
! The hounds jerked, growling at the noise, and Sólmundr grinned at them. “Oh, shush,” he said, “Stupid fellows!”

“Sól swim,” continued Ashkr gravely. “He swim many distance and then he come to shore. He walk home many distance, after many year.” He looked at his friend and shook his head. “Many year.”

Sólmundr sucked his teeth in dismissal and tossed Ashkr’s hair. “Yes, yes,” he said. “I wonderful. Strong and beautiful. Rising from sea like a God.”

Ashkr snorted. “Like dead fish!” he said, fixing his hair.

“There is no slaves here. In this Kingdom. This is what I heard.” Úlfnaor gazed earnestly at Christopher when he said this, and Wynter realised that he was asking a question.

“That’s what I’ve been told,” said Christopher quietly. “That the King here is opposed to slavery.”

“And you,” Úlfnaor asked Razi. “You of colour.” He tapped his face, in case he wasn’t making himself clear. “You too are accepted?”

The irony of that had Wynter ducking her head to hide a bitter smile.

Razi nodded. “For the most part,” he said carefully.

Úlfnaor sat back. “And faith?” he asked.

Razi frowned questioningly. Úlfnaor looked to Embla for help; she creased up her face in an attempt to find words. “People of religion,” she said, glancing warily at Christopher, “of
different
religion. They are accepted?”

“It depends,” snarled Christopher.

Razi frowned at him. “No, it
doesn’t
,” he snapped. “Yes,” he said to Úlfnaor. “Yes, my fa… The King is very clear on it. Yes. All faiths are accepted.”

Christopher shook his head angrily and looked away. Úlfnaor leant back in his chair, looking very thoughtful, and Sólmundr and Ashkr went quiet. Embla just watched Razi’s mouth, her finger tracing a languid figure of eight on the table top.

Wynter looked at Úlfnaor’s pensive face and it dawned on her.
They are thinking of relocating
, she thought.
They want to move their people South!
Her heart sank for them. It was unlikely that the highly structured society in the Kingdom would suit a large tribe of nomads.
You have been misled, I think, as to the likelihood of being accepted here. Someone has made you promises they are unlikely to fulfil
.

Wynter glanced at Christopher. He was glaring out into the crowd, his lips tight, but the disapproval rapidly drained from his narrow face, and his mouth curved into a wistful smile as he watched the Merron dance. The music had whipped up into a mighty frenzy. The crowd spilt into groups of four and began to weave in and out, forming and reforming intricate knots and patterns. Suddenly, someone in the centre of the group leapt like a fish and Wynter gasped as his hand slapped the smoky beams of the high ceiling. The crowd whooped. Christopher and Wari yelled and clapped their hands, once, in a formal expression of praise.

Embla reached across the table and tugged Razi’s sleeve. “You dance, Tabiyb?”

Wynter snorted at the thought, but Razi’s mouth hooked up at the corner and he gave her a very smug look. “Actually,” he said, “I do!” He leapt to his feet, holding his hand out to Embla with a flourish. “Coinín taught me!” he yelled.

Wynter looked on, amazed, as her pirate swung his pale lady out onto the floor.

“Christopher Garron!” she yelled, thumping the quietly grinning young man on the shoulder. “What have you done to my brother?”

“It’s a rajput katar,” said Christopher as Ashkr examined his unusual belt knife, admiring the etchings in the steel. “Tabiyb bought it for me when he got the matchlock. He thought it would be easier to use for
…”
Christopher held up his brutalised hand and stiffly waggled his fingers. “He felt it would be much easier to keep a grip.”

“And is it?” asked Sólmundr, glancing at Wynter who gestured that he pass the knife across the table to her. She slid her hand into the metal brace, closing her fingers around the grip inside. It was very stable, like replacing her fist with a sword, but there was no fluidity to her wrist.

As if reading her thoughts, Christopher said, “I still prefer my dagger. Better freedom.” He made some swift, lethal movements with his arm as if striking quickly with a blade, and Wynter saw the Merron eyeing him thoughtfully. She smiled to herself. She would not like to face Christopher in an even match—mutilated hands or not, he would be a sly opponent, and quick. She was pleased to see this realisation dawn in the big men around her.

Wynter passed the katar to Úlfnaor just as Razi and Embla returned once again from the dance floor. Razi pulled a stool to the head of the table and Embla tugged Sólmundr’s hair and gestured that he move. Sólmundr and Ashkr moved up a seat so that Embla could take the chair beside Razi. As they shifted about, the men clucked softly under their breath in that suggestive, teasing way of theirs, and Embla tsked and hid a grin.

As he took his seat, Razi watched Christopher pass the falchion sword to Ashkr. The tall blond man turned the sword over and ran his hand down the blade, his navy eyes grave with admiration.

“It is Indian steel,” said Razi, “just like the matchlock and the katar.” He paused to drink from a beaker of cordial. His hair was so damp that he looked as though he’d been swimming. “When I bought it,” he gasped, passing the beaker to Embla, “the smith demonstrated cutting through a pig’s leg. It sliced through the bone in one blow. It keeps an edge on it like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

“They are tremendous weapons,” said Wynter.

“Aye,” sighed Razi, watching as Úlfnaor took the falchion and balanced it on his hand. “Aye. But in the end, they are just weapons. I’d rather
…”
he cleared his throat and shook himself. “Aye,” he said firmly. “They are marvellous. The men who made them were wonderful craftsmen.”

Úlfnaor glanced at Razi. He swung the blade around his shoulders, swiping it through the air with great skill and control. He grunted in approval and ran his thumb carefully across the edge.

“The Southlands is very strong in weapons,” he said. “This what I hear. There much powerful weapon here.”