Firebrand (12 page)

‘Remember what Leonora said, that night you came spying? It’s true, we
need
the Veil. The full-mortals are easily whipped to fear, and from there it’s only a step to hatred. Destroy the Veil, you destroy the Sithe. In the end you do.’ He shook his head. ‘I like to think Kate doesn’t understand that. Hasn’t thought it through, you know? Why would she do such a thing to her own people?’

‘Cause she fancies some full-mortal boy?’ I thought about the pretty girl in the marketplace, and my groin ached. ‘I’m with Kate.’

It was supposed to be a joke. Partly. But his voice was frosty when he said, ‘You’re my brother, Murlainn. I want you on my side.’

I stared at him. I could barely believe he would even question it.

‘Always,’ I said. ‘I will always be your bondsman, Cù Chaorach. I’ll never let you down.’

He glanced up, searching my eyes, then gave me a troubled smile.

‘I know that, Murlainn,’ he said. ‘I know that.’

‘Ah, your brother. He’s hard on you, isn’t he? I think perhaps he has to be, my beautiful boy.’

I blinked at my filthy whisky, then raised my glass to eye the speaker through its murky filter.

So I’d finally been noticed. And she thought I was beautiful. Unfortunate, then, that my new admirer was the old crone who ran the place. She was leaning on the chair Conal had left five minutes ago to do some business with the miller. I’d stayed to sulk. It seemed ironic that I couldn’t now get any peace to do it.

Her name was Sinclair. Her principal business was the brewing of ale, but she also paid men to turn beremeal into whisky up in the hills. The laird turned a blind eye, or he simply didn’t care, or the arrangement suited him as well as it did everyone else.

‘Hello,’ I said. ‘What do you want?’

She sniffed and gave me a haughty look, but pulled out Conal’s chair and slumped down anyway, leaning her bare sinewy arms on the table. ‘Too old for you, am I? And here was me thinking you wouldn’t be that fussy, seeing as you never have a girl in your bed.’

I felt my jaw sag, so I shut it with a snap. ‘Look, no offence, but…’

She gave a raucous howl that I decided was a laugh. ‘Oh, don’t panic, laddie. You’re a youngster and I’m not after your body. Fine as it is.’ Her wink was so suggestive I laughed.

‘And how would you know?’

‘I’ve seen it,’ she said briskly, and poured herself a dram of the whisky I’d paid her good money for. ‘I go up the hill by way of that linn under the waterfall. I’ve seen you and your brother swimming of a morning.’

‘The cheek of you,’ I said.

‘The cheeks on
you
,’ she said, and let out that barking howl of a laugh again. ‘Fine pair of backsides you have, you and him. And more. If I was twenty years younger…’

‘Aye, right,’ I said. ‘Forty maybe.’

She guffawed into her whisky, then downed it in one and wagged the glass at me. I was grinning, but her eyes glinted with seriousness.

‘I know what you are,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen your kind before.’

Pushing my glass away, I got to my feet. ‘I’ll be going.’

‘No.’ Her claw of a hand was round my wrist, and surprisingly strong. ‘I don’t mean you harm.’

‘Is that right? You tell me something, then.’ I shook her off, but sat down again and glared at her, one hand possessively on my whisky bottle. ‘Why are you talking to me?’

‘I told you. I’ve seen your kind before. I know others don’t see you so well.’ There was a note of pride in her voice. ‘They say I’ve a bit of the blood myself. I have the sight.’

‘The
sight
indeed.’ But I stared at her. Behind the crumpled skin and veins and tiny sprouting hairs there were bones like a lovely rockface, high and prominent
and well-defined. ‘Aye, maybe, but a
bit
would be right. And don’t believe everything you hear. Two sights! Prophecy! It’s horseshit wherever you get your blood, lady.’

‘And see? You’re calling me a lady.’ Her cheeks dimpled with her huge gold-toothed smile. ‘That proves it, then.’

Exasperated, I rolled my eyes. ‘Is there a point to this conversation? Seeing as you don’t want my body?’

‘I’m telling you to be careful.’ Her sudden plummets into seriousness were unnerving.

I hesitated. ‘We keep our heads down.’

‘Aye, your brother’s a wise man. You’re less so, but then you’re only a boy still.’ Her gilded grin took the barb out of her remark. ‘And I’m not the only one who sees you well.’

A little shiver in the nape of my neck. ‘Is that so?’

‘That’s so. And you know who I mean and all.’

I did know. There was one otherworlder who never failed to notice us, one man who always acknowledged Conal with an unsmiling nod: the man who’d given us our sorry strip of land and the right to farm it. Our laird, our new chief, our landlord. The MacLeod.

Conal said we had to be grateful to him for a place to live and work. I wasn’t, but luckily we didn’t see him often. Occasionally he rode through the clachan with his men, collecting rents or judging disputes or sentencing thieves and cheats. He was an earl and a clan chief, one of the old Mormaers who had controlled these otherworld lands for centuries and had never bowed to interfering kings. It gave him an easy authority
that I resented; I’d have liked to slap his complacent face, to let him know I was at least his equal, that I was the son of a dun captain, the scion of a powerful Sithe clann. But it would have meant nothing to him, and I’d have ended up flogged or branded or kicked out of our meagre home, so I kept my resentment to myself.

Anyway, Conal liked him. Conal liked most people, whether or not they noticed him.

I didn’t want to encourage Ma Sinclair and her gossip, but the curiosity was killing me. ‘The MacLeod.’ I cleared my throat gruffly. ‘What? He’s got the blood too?’

‘Him? Never!’ A raw whoop of mirth, then she lowered her voice, all conspiratorial. ‘But they say he’s had
dealings
. With you. With the People of Peace, I mean.’

‘If you knew that much about us,’ I said, ‘you wouldn’t be using that expression.’

‘Well.’ For the first time she looked offended. ‘He’s had a lover among you. That will explain it, you see. The MacLeod knows how to see you. Be careful. That’s all I’m saying.’

She stood up, whisking away my half-full bottle and shuffling back to her counter. I was so startled by her nerve I could only gape at her swishing grubby skirts, but all she did was dump the bottle on the dirt floor and rummage on a shelf for another. That one she brought back and clanked onto the table in front of me.

‘There,’ she whispered. ‘It’s better, that one. And I’ll be giving you that, you and your brother, next time you come, and all the times after.’

I cocked a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Why?’

She winked again; for her age she had a real way of looking lascivious. ‘Because I’m superstitious, my beautiful lad? I’ll be staying on your good side if I can.’

‘Nice. So long as you know it won’t do you any good. You won’t be finding your chores done in the morning and your enemies’ cows won’t be running dry.’

‘I have no enemies, laddie, and I’ve had all I wanted from your kind. You taste that second bottle and you’ll see. And I know some healing ways. They were taught me by someone like your brother.’ A lustful nostalgia misted her eyes. ‘
Thirty
years ago. So no more cheek from you.’

I laughed, and taking the whisky I rose to go after Conal, but she tugged on my sleeve again.

‘You tell him to be careful, mind. With his healing.’ Her eyes were pale and watery, but that wasn’t all that made them so cold. ‘It’s all fine and well when it goes as it should. Wait till it doesn’t, and you’ll see less gratitude.’

I gave a short laugh, bewildered now and cross. ‘Is that a threat?’

‘It’s a warning, my lad. You’re too beautiful to burn.’

The silly crone had too much time on her hands. I’d seen this before with women in the marketplace: she was old, and lonely, and thirsty to make excitement out of thin air. It wasn’t till I opened the whisky later that night that a chill set into my backbone.

It wasn’t that the drink was bad. It was too good, and I could taste the truth of her words, and I realised she knew what she was talking about.

* * *

I tried to forget what Ma Sinclair had said. Conal was already too careful, too nervous for my taste; I almost yearned for a decent bar brawl to brighten up my life. There seemed no need to pass on any extra warnings, and besides, I could keep an eye on him. That was what I was here for, after all.

‘I’ve wondered about the MacLeod,’ I told Conal one cold and damp spring dawn.

‘I know you have,’ he said. ‘Me too. But he’s a born reiver, and I don’t want to get involved in wars here. He’s always away on raids. Taking cattle. Picking fights.’

That was kind of my point. ‘He’d take us on as professional fighters. You know that.’

Like the other chiefs, he’d call up the men of his clan—only the men!—if he went to serious war with a neighbour, but for his regular raids and small quarrels the MacLeod kept around him a small band of well-paid men who were not even of his own family, but who were fiercely loyal and fought like demons with a grudge. The gods knew where they came from, those private mercenaries of his. They were his personal bodyguard, and they were the terror of the glen because they had no allegiance to any clan member but its chief. Why did he need them? The ordinary clansmen could fight, and very much liked to, dashing off at the drop of a whisky flask to snatch their weapons from the thatch of their hovels and fling themselves into battle for the head of their clan and its honour.
But the MacLeod’s guard lived better than any clansman, in their captain’s castle; they were a privileged elite, and they existed only to fight. I liked the sound of the job.

‘It would be a better life than grubbing in the dirt,’ I said. ‘Half what we grow we have to turn over to the laird anyway.’

‘Don’t exaggerate.’

I wasn’t exaggerating much. ‘We can fight. We’re born fighters too. We’d be valuable to him, we’d be rewarded. And see that last scythe you made? It was crap.’

He gave a small amused gasp, his fingers flicking out lightning-fast to clip my ear.

‘I’m not a farmer, Conal. I’m a hunter. I’m a fighter.’ I was sick of tilling a pathetic rig of land with a borrowed horse and a community plough. I was meant to trade for grain and bread, trade for it with wild meat and the farmer’s guarantee of my sword arm in his defence.

‘Ach, you’ve a long life ahead of you, if you’re lucky.’ Conal gave my arm a mock punch that hurt quite a lot. ‘You’ll learn to do most things. Fighting all the time dulls your mind. Sometimes it’s good to sit still and work at a trade.’

‘You sound like Kate,’ I said. ‘As if it’s good to be humbled. I never saw her humble herself.’

‘I’ll not argue with that,’ he said with a roll of his eyes. ‘But it’s not about humbling. It’s about learning patience.’

‘Yes, and I’ve done that,’ I snapped.

Conal laughed.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘If you don’t know, I can’t tell you. Anyway, we hunt, don’t we?’ He tugged his bow out of the thatch, bringing down a light rain of mouse droppings. ‘Speaking of which, I’ll get breakfast.’ With that he slouched out into the early morning darkness.

I had a job coaxing the smoored fire back to life, but I didn’t think I’d lost all track of time, so I was shocked when I heard Conal curse foully enough to make me wince. Back already?

The door slammed open. He didn’t have his bow in his hands, or indeed any breakfast, but a parcel of some kind.

‘What am I supposed to do?’ he barked. ‘What am I supposed to do?’

With gentleness he laid the bundle on the table, and the filthy rags that bound it fell away, and I saw what it was. So I don’t know why I said: ‘What the
hell
is that?’

There were tears in his eyes, but still he gave me a dry look.

I took out my knife. ‘We have to kill it.’

Violently he struck the knife out of my hand. ‘It’s a baby!’

‘It’s a dying baby! Have you gone mad? It’s in pain, look at it!’

‘It wouldn’t be dying if some poverty-stricken cur hadn’t left it out all night!’

‘Well, they did! That won’t survive.’ I took a step back from it as if its inevitable death would be catching. Conal took one look at me, a look I did not like, and took the creature into his arms. It didn’t cry; I
wondered when it had stopped crying. Some time last night, I thought. If it ever had the strength to cry at all.

I think it breathed its last even as we watched. It was a rickle of bones anyway, and probably diseased, because it stank. Conal didn’t put it down even when it was dead. He stroked its hollowed cheeks, and brushed its thin eyelids down over sunken eyeballs, and then he shut his own eyes and pressed its fragile dead face into the hollow of his throat. As if it could feel anything now, as if he could make up with a little belated affection for its brief hideous life.

‘Jesus, Seth. Jesus.’ He’d taken to barking their god’s name when he was angry or upset. ‘This isn’t ancient Greece, it’s the back end of the sixteenth century.’ He opened his red eyes to glare at me. ‘Who are these people?’

‘Just what I keep asking you.’ I shrugged. ‘We need to, ah…what is it they do?’ I took as little notice of their rites as I could, but I was pretty sure they didn’t give their dead to the raptors and the wild beasts.

‘I don’t know,’ he said, and then, ‘They bury them.’

‘In the ground?’ I tried not to raise my eyebrows. Different people, different cultures. ‘So what do we do? You’d better put it in fast, or it’ll rot.’

‘But it needs…it would want…’

I gave him a droll look. ~
It isn’t capable of wanting
.

‘I know, but…’ Carefully he laid it back on the table and unfolded the remaining rags, gave the tiny naked corpse a brief glance, then covered it again. ‘It’s a girl.’

‘So?’

‘I didn’t want to go on calling her
it
. Listen, we can’t
just…put her in the ground. We need to get the minister.’

‘Are you
mad?
’