The Crowded Shadows (52 page)

Wynter nodded. “That’s right,” she said. “There are copies in every town hall, free and available for any man to read and copy at will.”

“Any man who can to read,” whispered Úlfnaor. He glanced across at Christopher. “Your father teach you to read, Coinín?”

“He did,” said Christopher evenly, his mouth twisting into a knowing little smile.

“Yes,” said Úlfnaor. “
An filid
Garron always much concerned that the Merron learn to read.”

“He was indeed.”

“Your father very strong in this desire,” said Úlfnaor, “He all the time say we never will control our own history until the day we able to write it down. It make him much trouble with the council.” Christopher regarded him silently, that bitter little smile still in place. After a moment Úlfnaor nodded. “Your father was right,” he said softly.

“I know he was,” said Christopher.

“This charter?” said Úlfnaor, turning his attention to Wynter again. “It apply to all?”

“Even the King himself.”

“
Even the King himself?
” repeated Úlfnaor in disbelief.

Wynter nodded.

“It not a trick?” he said. “The King, he not one day say ‘this is law’ and then next day say ‘this is outlaw’ so that you never to know where you stand?”

Wynter exchanged the briefest of looks with Razi.
Not until recently
, she thought. “It is a very new system of governance,” she said, “and so is still finding its feet, but the King is determined to make it work. And so he shall, if things are not disrupted beyond repair by this misunderstanding with his heir.”

“So this what you work for, Tabiyb,” said Úlfnaor. “You work to save this charter.” It was a statement, not a question. Úlfnaor tapped his finger against the folder. “While I maybe work to kill it.”

Razi stared at Úlfnaor, his eyes a little wider. This strange turn in the conversation had unexpectedly swept him from his black thoughts of vengeance, placing him right back into the political and diplomatic heart of things. Wynter could see in his eyes that he was thrown by this, and did not know how to react.

Úlfnaor went on, “I think you very important man, Tabiyb much more than simple messenger. I am wrong?”

Razi did not respond, and Úlfnaor nodded in approval. “If so, I tell you now that
this
,” he poked the diplomatic folder with his finger, “this will be poison to your King’s vision of the future. the future that the Red Hawk so proud of.” He met Razi’s eye. “You tell the Royal Prince that, Tabiyb Razi. You tell your Royal Prince that whatever this
bitch
promise him, whatever it is she ask him for in return, it will to rot him.
Tá go maith?
”

“Why not tell him this yourself?” whispered Razi.

Úlfnaor laughed and shook his head. “I cannot to take the risk. I not know what way the wind it blow today or tomorrow. I only know that my peoples must to depend on goodwill of these peoples.” He tapped the folder again. “I not to risk pissing them off, because they may hold the life of my peoples in their fist… but Tabiyb,” he leant forward, urgent now, imploring, “Tabiyb, in my heart, I hope it you that hold the Merron in your hands. I hope it
you
, and your Good King Jonathon. Because otherwise
…”
Úlfnaor hesitated, afraid to articulate his fears, and when he spoke again his words were so soft as to be almost inaudible. “Otherwise, I think all is lost for us. All is lost for everyone.”

“What do these papers contain?” Razi demanded abruptly, indicating the folder. Wynter winced. Razi was asking the Aoire to betray Shirken’s trust, to violate his duty and break the oath he must have sworn when he undertook it.

Úlfnaor frowned, his lips compressed in disapproval. “Even if I knew this,” he said, “I would not tell you.”

Razi tutted reflexively and sat back, but Wynter knew that he had not really expected Úlfnaor to give him the information.

Úlfnaor gazed down at the folder once more, running his work-roughened fingers across the embossing on the cover.

“In many way I the perfect instrument to carry these papers,” he said softly. “I strong in pride and so will see my oath through to end. I faithful to my own kind and so ask for nothing but chance to negotiate for them. I followed by many loyal warriors who will to die for me if I needs it. And also I
ignorant savage
what cannot to even read my own name.” Úlfnaor slapped his hand down on the folder, his lips drawing back bitterly from his teeth. “Even if I open this folder and break all the pretty little seals within, what could they tell me about the future of my people? Nothing!” He spat the word. “Nothing! I not have the skill to understand them.” He whisked his hand over the folder as if tempted to throw it into the fire.

“Since always my peoples have provided for themselves with these,” he held his hands out to Razi, his beautifully crafted rings flashing in the firelight, his palms ingrained with a lifetime’s work. “And this,” he reached behind him and savagely jerked his sword free of its scabbard, holding it out for Razi to see. “Since
An Domhan
first split itself into man and beasts and trees, these have been the only things we have needed for to survive. The Merron are strong, Tabiyb Razi, we clever, we brave! We needs no one but
ourselfs
!” Úlfnaor shook the sword in his two hands, his frustration and anger breaking from him in a low cry. Then he flung the gleaming blade to the ground at his feet: “But no more,” he said, “not any more.”

He looked over his shoulder at his people. “The world has changed on us,” he murmured. “Our lifes no longer in our own hands.

Úlfnaor turned to look Razi in the eye and his next words chilled Wynter to the bone. “I could to kill you here, Tabiyb. In this clearing, in the middle of this forest I could with no problem crush you. You would be dead, my people would be safe from you. I could do this easy, I know it. But I know also that outside this clearing, when we in camp of Rebel Prince,
you
will to be the stronger man. There,
you
can to crush
me
, and my peoples with me.”

He got to his feet. “By leaving you alive, I put my peoples’ life in your hands, Tabiyb Razi. And so I offer myself to you, instead, as
ceap milleáin
. If you want it. I ask only that I get to finish my work first.”

He waited for a reaction, his face expectant. Wynter regarded the Aoire in confusion. What was
ceap milleáin
? Christopher was tense and quiet by her side, and she did not betray her ignorance by glancing at him.

Razi’s expression did not change and he continued to sit, staring across the flames, his dark eyes hooded, his hands resting loosely between his knees. When he made no move to further the conversation, the big man nodded, sheathed his sword, and gathered up the folder.

“Think about it, Tabiyb Razi,” he said. “My
Fadaí
will support me in this, and so my people will accept it.” He stood for a moment, gazing down at Razi who did not look up to meet his eye. “I understand you hesitate,” said Úlfnaor softly. “I not mean to try and control your need for revenge. I not mean to… limit you. But in my heart hope you accept.” Then the Aoire bowed, an unprecedented move on his part, and crossed in silence to his people.

Christopher released a long shaky breath and scrubbed his hand across his mouth. “Good Frith,” he whispered. “
Ceap milleáin
…”

“What does this mean?” said Razi, his eyes on Úlfnaor. “What is he offering me?”

Christopher hesitated, and Wynter realised that he was nervous of what Razi might do with the information.

“He is offering
himself
,” said Christopher at last. “Úlfnaor is offering himself as
ceap milleáin
… as
…”
he searched for the words. “As… appointed blame? Um… appointed guilt?”

“Scapegoat?” she whispered and Christopher nodded.

“Aye,” he said. “As scapegoat. I’ve never heard of an Aoire offered as
ceap milleáin
,” he said. “It’s huge. It’s powerful, Razi. I
…”
He glanced at the Merron. Nervously, he rubbed his hands on his trousers. He looked frightened. “It’s huge,” he whispered again.

Razi’s face remained hard, his eyes on Úlfnaor. “What does that mean to these people?” he said. “In what way does it affect our situation?”

“It means
…”
Christopher trailed off. He licked his lips, his eyes travelling the knot of glowering warriors across the camp. “They must accept it,” he assured himself. “When you wreak your vengeance on Úlfnaor for Embla’s death, they
must
accept it and wash their hands of any retaliation.” He looked at Razi suddenly, his face sharp. “But the rest are exempt from punishment for her death, Razi! You understand? Everyone is exempt. Only Úlfnaor takes the blame. It’s how the tribes halt feuds that have gone too far. And you
must
let him finish his business,” he warned. “It’s law. You must let Úlfnaor deliver those papers and complete his negotiations for his people and then let the others go home. It’s law, Razi! You
must
!”

“Must I?” said Razi softly. “Really? I
must
?” Wynter turned to stare at him. “And what if I refuse?” he said, his words low, his eyes darkly flickering in the firelight. “What if I refuse his offer, what then?”

Christopher looked shocked. “Then
…”
he trailed to a halt, utterly lost for words. It apparently had not occurred to him that Razi would refuse. “Then,” he said. “I suppose… you
…”
He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he whispered.

“Why would you refuse, Razi?” asked Wynter carefully. “What would it gain?”

Razi stared at the Merron from hooded eyes and she knew why. Razi did not want his revenge meted out like a dose of physic, controlled and curtailed. Razi wanted blood. He wanted
blood
. And only
he
would decide whose blood and how much.

“Razi
…”
she whispered.

“
Razi
,” interrupted Christopher. “This is the equivalent of your father kneeling at an enemy’s feet and handing him his crown. You cannot possibly understand how significant this is to these people.”

Razi stared at him for a long moment, then looked down into the fire and would speak no more.

C
hristopher sat at the campfire with the Wolves and played his guitar. He had, as usual, lost himself in the piece, and his eyes were closed, his pale face rapt as his long fingers moved in nimble precision against the strings. Wynter, chained with the rest of the slaves in the shadows and the cold, sighed, never wanting the music to stop.

The big blond Wolf by Christopher’s side faltered in his attempts to follow the tune on his own guitar, and Christopher stopped playing. Without looking up, he reached across, and gently repositioned the Wolf’s fingers. The Wolf tried the chord again and Christopher nodded, his eyes down. He resumed playing, slower now, pausing between each chord so that the Wolf could follow. Beside him, Christopher’s father sat, stone-faced and unmoving, his mandolin on his knee, waiting for David Le Garou to tire of the lesson and order proper music to start.

Bells tinkled softly in the darkness behind the slave line, and Wynter tensed. They had not prowled the slave lines like this for months, but Jean, in a fit of Wolfish temper, had done away with the last boy. And the girl? Who knew? One morning she just wasn’t there. Now the Wolves’
boys
were once again seeking fresh entertainment for their masters, the bells at their ankles and wrists chiming as they stalked down the line.

Wynter shut her eyes.
Do not let it be me
, she thought.

A familiar voice spoke in her ear. “That’s all right, sis. You’re not one of them.” Alberon smiled down at her. “Come on. You’re in the wrong seat.”

She grinned into his sunny face and allowed him help her to her feet. Behind her, the bells moved down the line and Wynter heard one of the others groan in fear.

David Le Garou bowed courteously as Alberon led her around the fire.

“My Lady,” he murmured.

“Monsieur Le Garou,” she said, favouring him with a gracious tilt of her head.

By the fire, Christopher whispered, “Dad? What’s wrong with my hands?”

“Would you like to lie down in my tent, sis?” asked Alberon, putting his arm around her shoulders. “Have some wine?”

Wynter grinned and said that she would, and some roast beef too, if it was available. She glanced across the clearing to where Razi was standing.

Alberon chuckled at how absorbed he was in the proceedings at the fire.

“Brother!” he called. “Come along. We’ve no time for that! There’s work to do.”

Razi turned, his face uncertain. “But
…”

“No buts, brother. We have business! Come along.” Alberon extended his hand. “Come
along
,” he demanded, his voice deepening.

By the fire Christopher whispered “
Dad?
”

Wynter wanted to go to him, but a voice inside her head, as loud and clear as her father’s voice, said,
he is not so important
. And she hesitated, trying to remember what it was she needed to do.

Alberon’s arm tightened around her shoulders and she shivered at how cold he felt. “These things happen all the time,” he insisted. “We have bigger things to consider.”