Whispers of the Dead (16 page)

She shrugged.

“I don’t know. Something out of the ordinary perhaps.”

Ross sighed.

“We should break for a meal soon. The sun is already at the zenith.”

She nodded absently.

“The Abhainn Mór is a long river, lady.” Ross had a quiet sense of humor. “I trust that you don’t want to explore its whole length? It rises on the slopes of a mountain in the country of the Muscraige Luachra and that is a long, long journey from here.”

“Don’t worry, Ross. Whatever happened to the barges happened before Lios Mór and I think it happened to them before dawn. Whoever or whatever was responsible for their disappearance would not want any witnesses and with daylight would come such witnesses.”

“Well, the next settlement is Conn’s Plot, Ceapach Choinn. It is there that the river makes a forty-five-degree turn towards Lios
Mór. I don’t know whether they could reach that settlement before dawn. Whatever happened to them must have happened long before the river turns.”

Fidelma was grateful for Ross’s knowledge.

They pulled into the bank to take a midday snack of bread and goat’s cheese and the flask of mead. It was a warm, pleasant day, and Fidelma felt herself sinking into a lazy drowsing state beneath the tall oaks soaring up from the bank above her, with the sound of songbirds in her ears.

“We should be on our way, lady,” Ross reminded her after a while.

She started nervously from her reverie.

“I was thinking,” she said defensively. Then smiled.

“No, I think I was dreaming. But you are right. We must press on. There must be somewhere that these barges were taken and hidden before the bend in the river.”

Ross rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“The only place I can think of is where the River Bríd joins this river.”

Fidelma frowned.

“The River Bríd? Of course, I had forgotten that.”

“It joins the Abhainn Mór less than a kilometer from here.”

Fidelma leant forward excitedly.

“We will turn off into the River Bríd and see where it takes us.”

The Bríd was a powerful river, although not so wide as the Abhainn Mór, and it was difficult to negotiate against the surge where it flooded into the greater river, joining its slow progress to the sea. There were tiny whirlpools and currents that sent Ross’s
curragh
this way and that in a helter-skelter fashion. Finally, they broke through to calmer water and began to move slowly through a green plain with distant hills on either side. It was a fertile valley in which Fidelma had never been before.

“Do you know this area, Ross?”

“This is the territory of Cumscrad, Prince of the Fir Maige Féne.”

Fidelma suddenly shuddered.

“They are a non-Eóghanacht people whose prince claims that he descended from Mogh Ruith, a sinister Druid who was a disciple of Simon Magus, the magician who opposed the Blessed Peter, the disciple of Christ.”

Ross grimaced but without concern.

“If it is a villain that you are seeing, you may seek no further that Cumscrad,” he said.

“There is a local chieftain here who acts in his name, Conna.”

“I have not heard of him.”

“He has a small fortress on a rock above the river but it is some way further on. We have to come to the main settlement first.”

“That’s called Tealach an Iarainn, the hill of iron, isn’t it? I have heard of that because it is famous for its wealth.”

“That’s the place, lady. The people extract iron ore and smelt it and trade it. In fact, Olcán trades for iron cargoes here.”

“Does he now?” Fidelma asked reflectively.

They had come nearly three kilometers along the winding river when Ross, glancing over his shoulder, indicated the settlement on the south bank of the river. There were several barges and small boats moored along the riverbank where wooden quays showed that a trade was carried on here.

“We’ll stop here and make some inquiries,” Fidelma instructed, and Ross pulled in looking for a mooring.

On firm land, Fidelma took a moment or two to recover her balance, having been for some hours seated in the
curragh
. She looked about along the line of vessels. Tealach an Iarainn was certainly a busy little settlement. There were a lot of people about. By their appearance it seemed that they were mainly merchants or boatmen. There were a large number of blacksmith forges along the quays as well.

“What now, lady?” asked Ross. “Where do we make our inquiries?”

“Let’s take a stroll along the quay first.”

She was surprised at how busy the settlement was. In the hills behind she realized that people were mining and extracting iron ore. She could see wagons bringing it down to the forges where she presumed the iron was extracted and then sent in the barges to be sold at various destinations. It suddenly came to her memory that the plains beyond this settlement were called Magh Méine, the Plain of Minerals.

“Lady!”

Ross’s urgent whisper made her turn her head.

They had been walking by a series of barges that were being filled with cargoes of iron ore. It was the end one by which Ross had paused. There was no one on board and he had halted and was staring at the bow.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Take a look at the bow, lady.”

Fidelma looked.

The wooden planking of the vessel seemed to have been recently tarred and for a moment she could not see what he was trying to indicate. Then she saw the slight indentations on the wood. Only by looking at them in a certain way, the way the sunlight glinted and formed shadows, could she make out the deep lines that had been seared into the wood.

She turned excitedly to Ross.

“I make out the head of a wolf.”

Ross nodded grimly.

“This was one of Olcán’s barges. They did their best to remove the outward signs and paint over the brand mark with tar… but not quite.”

A sailor was passing nearby.

“Excuse me,” called Fidelma.

The sailor halted and took in her religieuse robes.

“You want me, Sister?”

“Can you tell me whose barge that is?”

“That one? The end one there? Surely I can.”

Fidelma smiled to hide her impatience.

“And to whom does it belong?”

“That is the barge of the merchant Ségán.”

“Ségán, eh? And where might I find this man?”

“Across in that tavern there, I’ll warrant. He’s just loaded a cargo and is probably having a last drink before going downriver.”

She thanked the man and turned for the tavern with Ross in her wake.

Inside, the room was packed mainly with boatmen. Several heads turned as she entered. The landlord, or such she presumed him to be, came across to her immediately.

“God be with you, Sister. We do not often have ladies of your cloth in this poor place. We mainly serve the river boatmen. There is a tavern not far away that I can recommend that is better suited…”

“I am told that I might find a merchant named Ségán here,” she cut him short.

The landlord blinked and then he pointed to a corner where a fat-looking individual was seated before a plate on which the remains of what had obviously been a small joint reposed. He was sipping at a great pottery mug of a liquid, which he was obviously savoring.

With a curt nod to the landlord, Fidelma moved across and took a vacant seat opposite the merchant.

“Your name is Ségán, I believe?”

The fleshy-faced man paused, the mug halfway to his lips and stared at her.

“Why would a religieuse know my name?” he said, a little surprised.

“I am a
dálaigh
and I am here on official business.”

The man set down the mug with a bang, closed his eyes and groaned.

“I knew it. I knew it.” He shuddered.

Fidelma stared at him speculatively.

“Perhaps you will share your knowledge with me, then?” she asked, a little sarcastically.

“It’s my wife, isn’t it? She is seeking a divorce and…”

Fidelma gave an impatient gesture of her hand.

“It’s not about your wife. It’s about your boat.”

At once a look of suspicion crossed the man’s features.

“My boat? You mean the barge? What of it?”

“When did you acquire it?”

Ségán was still frowning.

“I bought it legally. Two weeks ago.”

“From whom?”

“What is this? What are you implying?”

“From whom?” she insisted.

“A man at Conna’s Fortress.”

“Does he have a name?”

“No more questions until you tell me what this is about.”

Two burly boatmen had risen and made their way over to where Ségán was sitting.

“Something wrong, master?”

“Tell them nothing is wrong unless they are also to be charged as parties to theft,” Fidelma said calmly without taking her eyes from the merchant.

The fleshy-faced man’s eyes widened.

“Theft?”

“Your barge and its cargo and crew disappeared two weeks ago. It was then in the ownership of a merchant in Eochaill named Olcán.”

The merchant was shaking his head rapidly. He glanced at the boatmen and waved them away.

“How can you know this?”

“Did you examine the markings on the barge when you bought it?”

Ségán shook his head.

“I know that it had been repainted. There is new tar. What markings?”

“The image of a wolf’s head is branded into the woodwork at the prow. That is Olcán’s mark. Now where did you get this barge?”

“As I said, I bought it. I bought it from a boatman.”

Fidelma frowned.

“And what was his name?”

“Name?” He shook his head.

“There were some boatmen up at Conna’s Fortress upriver and they were trying to sell the barge. I offered them a good price.”

“You bought the barge from someone whose name you do not even know?”

“I know Conna,” replied the fat merchant. “He knew the boatmen. That was good enough for me.”

Fidelma sighed.

“Then we must have a word with Conna,” she said to Ross. Turning back she viewed the merchant with disfavor. “I would advise you not to travel far. The boat you now claim to own was stolen and doubtless its owner will seek restitution.”

The merchant paled a little.

“I bought it in good faith…” he began to protest.

“From someone whose name you didn’t know,” interrupted Fidelma sharply. “You therefore share some of the culpability.”

She stood up and left the tavern, followed by Ross.

“Would it not be wise to keep an eye on the merchant?” the old sailor ventured.

“I do not think he will be hard to find in the future. I am sure that he was telling the truth although I suspect that he probably realized something was wrong with the transaction.”

“Where now?”

“As I said, to Conna’s fortress. How far is that from here?”

“About four or five kilometers.”

Conna’s fortress was perched on a rocky outcrop beside the river.
There were several barges and boats moored beneath its walls and signs of boatmen unloading cargoes. As they climbed out of the
curragh,
with Ross securing it, several armed warriors approached. They were not friendly. Fidelma saw it from their faces and so she assumed her haughtiest manner.

“Take me to Conna at once.”

The leading warrior halted and blinked in surprise, unused to being addressed in such a fashion by someone in religieuse robes.

Fidelma followed the advantage.

“Don’t stand there gawking, man. It is Fidelma, sister of Colgú your king who demands this.”

Nervously the man glanced at his companions and then, without a word, turned and led the way. Ross, following a step behind Fidelma, was trying to hide his nervousness. Fidelma’s royal rank apart, Ross knew that Conna owned allegiance to the Prince of Maige Féine, who was an hereditary enemy of the Eóghanacht kings of Muman.

Their guide had instructed one of his men to run on and announce Fidelma’s coming to Conna.

The chieftain met them at the door of his hall, a thinly-built man with beady dark eyes, like those of a snake. He gave the impression of someone close to starvation, so gaunt and elongated of limbs was he.

“The fame of Fidelma of Cashel precedes her,” he greeted, almost sibilantly. “How may I serve you?”

Fidelma was not impressed with the man.

“You may best serve me by telling me the truth. I have spoken to the merchant Ségán.”

Did a nervous look appear in the man’s dark features?

“You recommended Ségán to a boatman who sold him a stolen barge.”

The features of Conna became immobile.

“I am not responsible for that.”

“If you recommended a thief to persuade another to receive stolen property, then there is your responsibility—chieftain or not.”

“This boatman was trading here at the time. I did not vouch for his character. I simply told Ségán of the fact. Ségán was saying that he wanted to expand the number of barges he had. I introduced them, that is all.”

“Tell me about this boatman.”

“What can I tell you?”

“His name, where he came from, where he is now.”

“His name was Dathal. He came from a downriver port.”

“You say that you had never seen him before?”

“I didn’t say exactly that. I know that he traded along the rivers.”

“You have bought cargoes from him?”

“He was only a boatman. The man he worked for owned the cargoes. The man who imports the cargoes from the land of the Britons or the Franks.”

“With whom did you transact your business, then?”

Conna was hesitant but no match for Fidelma in her most assertive manner.

“I always gave the money to Dathal,” he admitted. “I presumed that he was selling the barge on behalf of his master.”

“Do you know where this Dathal went?”

“Back to Eochaill, I presume.”

Fidelma let out a sighing breath.

“This is not the first time that boatmen have brought you a cargo and then sold their barge before leaving, is it?”

The expression on Conna’s face confirmed the suspicion that was in her mind.

“Dathal sold the barge two weeks ago, is that right?” pressed Fidelma. “Who sold a barge six weeks ago?”