11
Dughuilas dropped a handful of coins on the table without counting them, drew his cloak over his shoulders, and stepped out into the second-floor hallway. He did not look back. The girl was hardly worth it, and certainly not worth more than a fraction of the price the mistress of the house asked.
There must be something to be said for her, of course. Otherwise she wouldn’t have been whoring long enough to have a maid of her own. The maid was a little blonde who would have been lovely but for her broken nose. Probably a war orphan, and Dughuilas suspected she’d have been more interesting than her mistress. However, old Echenia wouldn’t let such things go on in her house, and that was an end to it.
Dughuilas tasted sour bile. The war would begin in less than a ten-day, and it was wrong. Far wiser to let the Romans tear each other like hungry stoats in a cage. Why couldn’t Drumold understand that? Fascinated by the warlock son-in-law, the upstart.
And I must follow him! A coward, who has never proved himself in battle. Even in the Roman battle—yes, yes a great victory for the Lord Rick—even there he avoided combat. He raced for the pikemen rather than falling upon the Romans like a man!
Dughuilas shuddered at that memory. The Lord Rick shamed him before a whole army, firing his star weapon to startle Dughuilas and nearly bringing him off his horse. He’d felt fear—real fear—and of Rick, a man whose blood would turn to water if he ever got within sword’s reach of a proper battle. He ruled from Tylara’s bed, not from the saddle, and what sort of chief was that for a man to follow?
At least they’d had a scare at the University over the sky-machine! Whatever Corgarff might have said under torture, it shouldn’t be enough to allow a trial of Dughuilas before the other clan chiefs. At worst, he could demand right of trial by combat against his accuser, and since that would be Lord Rick or perhaps Drumold, neither of them his match—
Something struck Dughuilas hard in the side of the neck. It hurt like a rat bite, and when he put his hand up to the pain he felt blood trickling and the tip of a dart. Some child’s prank with a crossbow. Curse Madam Echenia, she couldn’t keep order in her own house! She’d get no more custom from him or his clansmen.
He took another downward step, but unaccountably his foot came down on empty air. He fell forward, swallowing a shout and throwing his arms out to break his fall. He didn’t want anyone to see his clumsiness.
Pain shot up his arms and he didn’t quite protect his head. He tasted blood where a broken tooth had gashed his tongue, but somehow it didn’t hurt as much as he’d expected. In fact, nothing felt quite normal any more. His tongue seemed thick and swollen, filling his mouth. Now he tried to shout, but only a croak came out.
Poison.
Poison on the dart.
The High Rexja’s men, a plot to ruin Tamaerthon! He had to live, to warn Drumold before it was too late—or could it be—
He couldn’t finish the thought. He rolled over to draw his dagger, but fell heavily on his back, his arms unwilling to obey. Above him the light from the candle on the stair landing shone on blonde hair. Another shape bent over him, and hands fumbled at his purse and sword. Dimly, as if from the bottom of a well, he heard leather tear and thongs snap.
Then a small hand in a glove clamped down over his mouth. He tried to bite, got a mouthful of leather, felt his stomach heave. Something cold struck him in the eye and he floated away on the pain until it and everything else ended.
✧ ✧ ✧
“The dagger in the eye went straight into Dughuilas’s brain,” said Tylara. “Instant death. His killers took his purse, sword, and boots. They must have been well away before anyone found the body.”
“Is it known who did it?” asked Rick, as his head popped out from the fur chamber robe. The messenger with the news of Dughuilas’s death had arrived as he and Tylara were getting ready for bed.
“The maid to one of the women of the house has disappeared,” said Tylara. “She may have been working with the killers, or she may have been slain as well. She was only a half-grown girl, so she could hardly have done the work herself.
“Beyond that, who knows? We know that both the High Rexja and Flaminius have spies among us. Dughuilas was a champion and clan leader, a bannerman. But more like, it was some enemy. He had enough, and all knew how he spent his nights before going to war.”
She says the right words, but she does not seem upset, Rick thought. One of our officers dead . . . a man I never liked. “He was an important leader, and his clan will demand blood,” Rick said. “A proven captain in war—”
Tylara stared. “A proven captain in the kind of war we used to fight! The kind of war which would have destroyed us a year ago. For the kind of war you have taught us, the fewer like Dughuilas we have, the better.”
“Perhaps, up to a point. But I cannot be everywhere at once—”
“The more reason for not having Dughuilas in any of the places where you are not.”
“Are you then glad that he is dead?” Rick demanded.
“I am not as unhappy as you seem to be. Why, I cannot understand. He was no friend to you or your cause.”
Ah, but you do understand, my love. Don’t you? “He was yet a brave man. A proven leader, a man of courage . . . and if we seem to care little for finding the killers, people may wonder why. You say Dughuilas had enemies. This is true. He also had fellow clansmen, who will be at my back on campaign.”
“The Guardsmen can keep watch.”
“How many of Clan Calder can we afford to kill?”
“None. But I doubt we must kill any. Dughuilas’s killers will be found.”
“And if they are not?” Rick asked.
She shrugged. “It is in the hands of Yatar.” She wriggled into the bed and pulled the covers about her. The bed was large, so that there remained a little distance between her and Rick. “Vothan One-eye has done us no ill turn by this.”
“Exactly what everyone will be saying. He was our enemy, and he is dead. It is not much of a secret that Dughuilas is suspected of planning the balloon accident.”
“It is also not much of a secret that Dughuilas has been the leader in half of what the knights and bheromen have done against you. Do you care so little for your plans that you will fret over the death of one of their worst enemies?”
“I do not. But there are honorable and dishonorable ways—”
She looked ready to spit on the floor, or even in his face. “You are not the only judge of honor here. I also have to judge what honor demands, for us and for our plans and for our children. Have you forgotten that? Or was Andre Parsons perhaps right? Are you too soft toward enemies to live long among us?”
“Enough!” Rick leaped from the bed. “I will go to my rooms. I have never laid hands on you, but by Christ—” He stalked toward the door, then stopped and turned. “I’ve lived longer here than Parsons,” he said. “But then perhaps this is because I’m a coward. Go on, you can say that. Everyone else has.”
He fumbled with the bolts of the heavy door. Can’t even make a decent exit, he thought. Crap.
“My love.” She stood next to him, and her face held grief. “My love. Forgive me.” He gently gathered her into his arms and held her while she cried into the fur of his robe. Her hair had its old silky springiness back, now that she’d completely recovered from Isobel’s birth.
“Forgive me, my love,” she said finally. “Nor I, nor anyone doubts your courage or your honor. Only you. You have doubts enough for all of us, foolish doubts, for you are the bravest men I have ever known.”
“Not likely—”
“Enough for me, then. Now come to bed. How can we let a man like Dughuilas ruin our last nights together? Come to bed, my love . . .”
Later, after they had made love, he woke and lay sleepless. In a few days he would lead an army to war. Vothan One-eye would be loose in the land again. And how many soldiers have told themselves that what they do is right? All of them?
Now I’ve got to fight, and if I’m killed, will any of my plans be carried out? I think I’m indispensable. Necessary. Have to stay alive or no one will. Easy thing to talk yourself into. Easiest thing in the world.
Reasonable. Makes sense. Hah! The man who wondered if he was a coward because he had gone out for track instead of football in college still lurked inside the Eqeta of Chelm. Not very far inside, at times like these.
I can change what they think. I can prove myself. If I don’t—
Dundee. John Graham of Claverhouse, Viscount Dundee, the only man since the Bruce to unite the Highlanders; the man who might have kept Scotland independent of England and the Stuarts on its throne. He’d known he was indispensable. So had the chiefs.
But at Killiecrankie, Dundee personally led the army. “Once,” he promised his allies. “Once only. But until they know I am worthy to lead them, I cannot lead them where we must go.”
And he’d fallen at Killiecrankie, ending the Highlander cause . . .
I have to win their respect. How, I don’t know. But I have to do something . . . with Dughuilas dead by assassins it’s even more necessary. Reasons of state. And I have to live with myself as well.
She stirred slightly, and he covered her bare arm, resisting an impulse to waken her and lose himself in her. Then he stared at the ceiling again.