Kings of Clonmel (28 page)

“I have been called that,” Horace told him, neither confirming nor denying the identity. Sean nodded, satisfied with the answer. He glanced at the woodsman standing slightly behind the tall warrior facing him. He frowned. Was there something vaguely familiar about the man?

Before he could frame the obvious question, Horace said casually, “This is my man. Michael.” He recalled that he himself had been Michael earlier in the week. It was a name that got about, he thought, grinning to himself.

Sean Carrick nodded, instantly dismissing Halt from his mind. “Of course.” He glanced at a massive pair of doors behind his desk. “The King has no visitors with him at the moment. Let me see if he’s prepared to receive you.”

He smiled apologetically, then slipped through the doors, closing them behind him. He was gone for several minutes. Then he returned, beckoning them forward.

“King Ferris will receive you now,” he said. “I’ll ask you to leave your weapons here.”

The request made sense. Horace and Halt left their various weapons on his massive desk. Horace noted, with slight misgiving, that although Halt’s throwing knife scabbard was empty, the weapon was nowhere to be seen on the desk. He pushed the moment of doubt aside. Halt knew what he was doing, he thought, as they moved toward the big double doors.

Carrick ushered them into the throne room. It was small as throne rooms went, Horace thought, although he really only had experience of Duncan’s throne room. That was an elongated affair with high, soaring ceilings. This one was square in shape, with the sides of the square no more than ten meters in length. At the far end, on a dais and seated on a plain wooden throne, was King Ferris.

Sean Carrick introduced them and then backed away. Ferris looked up at them curiously, wondering why there was a delegation from Araluen and why he hadn’t heard of it any sooner. He beckoned them toward him. Horace led the way, Halt shadowing him a few steps behind.

As they came closer, Horace studied the King of Clonmel. The relationship to Halt was plain, he thought. But there were differences. The face was fuller, and the extra flesh meant that the features were not so well defined. Ferris was obviously a man who enjoyed the comforts of his table. And his body showed signs of it as well. Whereas Halt was lean and tough as whipcord, his twin was slightly overweight and looked soft.

Then there were the differences of style. As Halt had said, Ferris wore his beard in a goatee, and the mustache above it was trimmed neatly. His hair was pulled back tightly from his forehead and held in place by a worked leather band that went around his temples. And Ferris’s hair and beard were jet black, making him look at least ten years younger than his grizzled, gray-bearded twin. Horace looked more closely. The hair color was artificial, he decided. It was too glossy and too even.

The eyes were different as well. Where Halt’s were steady and unwavering, Ferris seemed to find it difficult to hold eye contact for a long period. His eyes slid away from those who faced him, searching the back of the room, as if ever fearful of trouble.

Horace and Halt heard the door click softly shut behind them as Carrick left the room. They were alone with King Ferris, although Horace was willing to bet there were a dozen men within easy reach of the throne room, all peering through spyholes to make sure no threat was made to the King.

Ferris spoke now, indicating the cloaked, cowled figure beside Horace.

“Sir Horace,” he said. Horace started slightly. The voice was almost identical to Halt’s. He doubted that he’d be able to tell the difference between the two if his eyes were closed. Although Ferris’s Hibernian accent was more marked, he realized. “Does your man have no manners? It’s not fitting that he keeps his head covered before the King.”

Horace glanced uncertainly at Halt. But the Ranger was already reaching up to push the cowl back from his face. As he did so, Horace glanced at the King once more. He was frowning. Something was familiar about the roughly dressed figure before him, but he couldn’t quite . . .

“Hello, brother,” Halt said quietly.

TENNYSON, PROPHET OF ALSEIASS THE GOLDEN GOD, LEADER OF the Outsiders, was in a black fury. He glared at the man who groveled before him, head bowed, unwilling to meet the leader’s gaze.

“What do you mean, they were
defeated
?” He spat the last word out as if it were poison.

The huddled figure before him crouched lower, wishing he hadn’t obeyed the instinct to report the defeat at Craikennis. He had been one of Padraig’s men, and he had a vague idea that Tennyson might reward him for the information. Now he realized, too late, that bearers of good news were rewarded. Bearers of bad news were reviled.

“Your honor,” he said, his voice shaking, “they were waiting for us. They knew we were coming.”

“How?” demanded Tennyson. He stalked back and forth across the inner room of the white pavilion, site of the altar of Alseiass. A low footstool was in his way and he kicked at it in fury, sending it spinning toward the cowering messenger. “How could they know? Who could have possibly told them? Who betrayed me?”

His voice rose in fury and he considered the question. Padraig had not been the most intelligent of men. But he knew his business, and he knew better than to allow advance warning of an attack to reach his enemies. And indeed, there had been little opportunity for it to do so. But somehow, word had got out, and now he was without the support of the eighty men he had committed to the attack. Those who hadn’t died before the barricades or been captured were scattered hopelessly.

Not that that was an insurmountable problem. He had numbers enough now, and the outlaws had served their purpose, creating fear and uncertainty and giving him the opportunity to rise up as the uncontested savior of the kingdom. But the planned massacre at Craikennis had been an important part of his endgame. Now that had been taken away. The unfortunate man before him looked up, saw his leader’s face twisted with fury.

“Your honor,” he said, “perhaps it was the Sunrise Warrior who told—”

He got no further. Tennyson was upon him. His face was dark and flushed as he heard that ridiculous phrase. The messenger had mentioned it before. Now Tennyson let his rage loose as he beat back and forth at the wretched man with his closed fists. Blood flowed from the crouching man’s nose and he huddled lower, trying to protect himself from the savage fists.

“There is no Sunrise Warrior! I tell you he does not exist! If you use that name before me again I’ll—”

He stopped suddenly, the blinding rage gone almost as soon as it had formed. This stupid Hibernian superstition could be a problem, he thought. If people started believing in the Sunrise Warrior, it would undermine his position. His mind was working rapidly. So far as he knew, he was the only one who was aware that there had been no massacre at Craikennis. At least, he thought sourly, no massacre of the villagers. If he moved quickly, he could spread the rumor that the village had been destroyed, all its inhabitants killed. By the time the truth was known, he would be in an unassailable position. He had four hundred followers with him now, all prepared to swear that he had the power to defeat the marauding bandits who were scourging the kingdom.

So, he reasoned, any mention of this Sunrise Warrior must be quashed.

He became aware that the man was watching him fearfully. The blood still streamed from his nose, and one eye was swelling shut where Tennyson’s fists had struck him. Tennyson smiled now and stepped forward, offering his hand. His voice was silken and low, conciliatory.

“My friend, I’m sorry. Forgive me, please. It’s just that I become enraged when Alseiass’s will is denied. I should never have struck you. Say you forgive me? Please?”

He gripped both the man’s hands in his own and looked deep into his eyes. Warily, the former bandit began to relax a little. There was still a shadow of fear behind his eyes, but it was receding. Tennyson released his hands and turned to the altar, where a small pile of offerings to Alseiass was assembled. He selected one, a chain of heavy golden discs linked together. It caught the light and gleamed as it twisted in his hand.

“Here, take this as a sign of my repentance. And as thanks for bringing me this news. I know it must have been a difficult choice for you.”

The man’s eyes were locked on the chain now. The linked discs turned slowly, rich and gleaming and heavy. It was a fortune to a man like himself. He could live comfortably for years if he were to sell that chain. He seized it, marveling at the weight of it as Tennyson released it to him. What were a few bruises and a bleeding nose compared to this? he thought.

“Thank you, your honor. I thought I should—”

“You did your duty, friend. Your duty to me and to Alseiass. Now tell me. What is your name?”

“It’s Kelly, your honor. Kelly the Squint, they call me.”

Tennyson looked at him, careful to keep the distaste he felt off his face. He could see why the man had been given such a name. His eyes wandered in different directions.

“Well, Kelly, I’ll rename you Friend of Alseiass. I’ll wager you didn’t have much to eat on your way here?”

“No, your honor. I did not.”

Tennyson nodded, smiling beneficently at the man. “ Then, Kelly, Friend of Alseiass, take yourself to my tent and tell my man there to serve you food and wine. The finest I have.”

“Why, thank you, your honor. I must say, I—”

Tennyson held up a hand to silence him. “It’s the least I can do. And tell them I said they are to tend your bruises as well.” Tennyson took a fine silk cloth from his sleeve and dabbed gently at the blood on Kelly’s face, tut-tutting as he did so, the very picture of concern. Satisfied that he had cleared most of it, he stepped back and smiled reassuringly at the man. “Now, be off with you.”

He waved a hand in blessing and dismissal, and Kelly the Squinting Friend of Alseiass hurried from the pavilion. When he was gone, Tennyson began pacing again. After a few minutes, he called to one of his massive bodyguards, stationed outside the curtain that separated the inner tent from the main part of the pavilion.

“Gerard!”

The curtain parted and the enormous creature entered. He and his twin were from the western isles. Massive brutes, they were. And killers.

“Lord?” he said.

“Find me the leader of the new men. Bring him here.”

Gerard frowned, puzzled. “New men, my lord?”

Tennyson repressed the instinct to shout at the giant oaf. He remained patient, his voice silken.

“The three new men who joined us two days ago. The Genovesans.”

Gerard’s face cleared in understanding. He knuckled his brow in salute and hurried from the tent to look for the leader of the three Genovesans Tennyson had hired. Originally from a land far to the east, on the northern shore of the Constant Sea, the Genovesans could now be found in all the major kingdoms of the main continent. They were a race of mercenaries, each man armed with a crossbow and a selection of daggers. They were also very efficient assassins, with a comprehensive knowledge of poisons, and Tennyson had decided that it might be useful to have people with such skills working for him. They didn’t come cheaply, but chances were there’d be more than one occasion over the coming days when he’d need to get rid of a troublesome critic. Or someone who simply knew too much—for example, someone who knew about the defeat at Craikennis. Of course, the massive twins could handle that sort of thing with ease, but he felt there were occasions like this one when more subtlety and discretion were needed. And those were not qualities that the hulking islanders possessed in any quantity.

Tennyson waited outside the pavilion for Gerard to return with the Genovesan. He watched a small group of recently joined followers listening to the songs of a young minstrel. He frowned. The singer was a new addition, he thought. He hadn’t seen him around before, and he’d bear watching. Tennyson wasn’t sure that he wanted anyone else commanding an audience among his followers, no matter how small that audience might be. He decided that he’d issue an edict from Alseiass the following morning, banning any music that wasn’t a hymn of praise to the Golden God.

His attention was distracted by the arrival of Gerard with the Genovesan.

“Thank you, Gerard. You may go,” he said. The giant hesitated. Usually he and his brother dogged the leader’s footsteps, their presence adding to his aura of authority. But now, as Gerard hesitated, Tennyson’s brow darkened in anger.

“Go,” he repeated, a little more forcefully. The huge man touched his forehead in obedience and entered the pavilion, leaving Tennyson with the newcomer.

He was slim and swarthy, wearing a wide-brimmed hat with a long feather in it. It was the Genovesan national headwear, Tennyson knew. The man was dressed completely in tight, body-fitting leather, and he had a superior smile on his face. Tennyson was sure that he wore perfume.

“Signor?” the Genovesan asked now.

Tennyson smiled at him and moved toward him, putting an arm around his shoulder. The leader of the Outsiders set great store by touching and laying hands on his followers.

“Luciano, that’s your name, isn’t it?”

“
Si.
That is what people call me, signor. Luciano.”

“Let’s walk awhile, then, Luciano.” He kept his arm on the smaller man’s shoulder and led him away from the tent. Behind him, he was aware of the minstrel finishing a song and the hearty burst of applause from his audience. He scowled momentarily. He would definitely issue that edict tonight at prayers. Then he brought his mind back to the matter at hand and assumed the smile again.

“Well, now, my friend, there’s something you can do for me.” He paused, but the other man said nothing, so he continued. “There’s a man called Kelly in my tent right now. An ugly little person with a terrible squint. My servants are feeding him and tending him. He’s been a little bruised around the face, poor man.”