The Year's Best Science Fiction, Volume 29

“And might such a chief not fear equally to draw near your enemy?”

The o Flaherty said nothing, but yanked his pony’s head round and rode off. Turlough lingered while his brother remounted. “Do you think them cowards?” he asked.

“I think they may not be what they seem. Do you truly believe their king will send his chivalry across the entire Western Ocean when William the Marshall need only crook his finger to fetch Normans by the boatload across the Irish Sea?”

GOLTRAI

Though lowborn to a Connemara clan, the slain beater had served faithfully for many years, and The o Flaherty Himself was lavish in his praise and in the gifts he bestowed on the widow. Mourners were brought in and they set up a caointeachan around the corpse, taking turns wailing and crying so that none would tire too soon. Their keenings writhed through the gathering dark, echoed from the vises and empty passages within the chapel, and came upon one from unexpected directions.

David had gone to the chapel to pray for the dead man’s soul and stood on the flagstones before the altar, wondering what he was supposed to tell God that God did not already know. In the end, he prayed not for the servant, but for Connaught, that she not be ruined between the powerful allies of rival clans. O Conner had fought o Conner since time’s birth. It was in the nature of things, like the rolling of the heavens in their crystal spheres. But now each faction would bring in Iron Shirts, and that would be the end of it all.

With such grave thoughts he turned away and found that the sons of Rory had come into the chapel. David said nothing, but stepped aside that they might approach the altar. Little Hugh stopped to speak to him.

“You didn’t save my life, you know.”

David nodded. “I will remember that, the next time.”

The remark puzzled Hugh, but Turlough turned about and gave him a searching look. David saw in that look that Turlough knew that he would not come over. And if not David, then not The McDermot—and the clans of the Sliabh ua Fhlainn and the clans of the Mag nAi would fight for Aedh, and that meant a bloody time in the West. “He’ll ruin the country,” Turlough said, and David knew he meant king Aedh.

“Only if there is a fight,” David said. “Otherwise, why call in the Foreigners at all?”

“Should I wait for him to die, then?”

“Patience is a virtue in kings. The wait may not be long. Wives have husbands to defend their honor, and Aedh may cuckold one too many.”

Turlough’s eyes retreated from his face, as if they looked on some inner struggle. His mouth turned down in a grim line. “And after Aedh, Felim. Aedh may be weak and foolish. His brother is neither, and while I may wait out one of my cousins, I have not the patience for two.”

Little Hugh stepped close to David, though he had to stand a-toe to do it. “If you fight us, we’ll destroy you, now that we’ve the Red Foreigners on our side.”

David looked over the younger man’s head into Turlough’s eyes. “I pity Felim the foolishness of his brother.”

Turlough understood and put a hand on Little Hugh’s shoulder. “Come, we’re here to pray for a good man, not to quarrel with an old one.” He gazed at the body on its bier before the altar, washed and wrapped in a winding sheet. “He, at least, had no part in the quarrels of kings.”

When David stepped outside the chapel, Gillapadraig was refastening the thong on his sword-hilt, David grinned. “You thought they would attack me in a holy place, and myself under The o Flaherty’s protection?”

Gillapadraig grunted. “My blade wanted whetting, is all.”

“It might have been interesting if they had,” David mused. “I could have goaded Little Hugh into it. Then o Flaherty would have had to kill them to save his honor. Would that have been too high a price for peace in Connaught?”

“Not if you could be sure you had actually purchased so elusive a thing.”

David laughed. “And what is that foreigner gilly doing over there by the stables?”

“Oh, him. He’s trying to rewind his headscarf.”

David clapped him on the shoulder. “Come. Let’s see if he can tell a tale as twisted as his hat.”

“But we don’t speak the o Gonklin tongue.”

“Nor does he.”

The man saw their approach and watched with calculation. He had obtained somewhere a needle and thread and was mending the long scarf. He studied David’s face, then grunted and pulled the thread through his teeth and bit it off.

“I hate it when they fawn all over you,” Gillapadraig said. “I suppose it wasn’t much of a life, if that is all the thanks you get for the saving of it.”

“It was the only one he had.” David stepped to the drinking barrel that the stable-hands used and pulled out a dipperful, which he offered to the Red gilly. “Akwa?” he said, employing an o Gonklin term he had learned.

The squat man stared at the dipper for a moment, then raised his eyes to David’s face. “Oka,” he said distinctly. He took the dipper from David’s hands and sipped from it.

“I’m glad he cleared that up,” Gillapadraig said.

“He speaks a different tongue than the other Red Foreigners.” Then he squatted on his heels directly before the other and said in his halting Danish, “Who are you?”

The red man showed surprise for just an instant before his face reverted to impassivity. “Warrior,” he said, in a Danish even more awkward.

“A warrior servant?”

Incomprehension was evident. David turned to Gillapadraig. “He understands only a little of the Ice Land tongue. I understand only a little of the Galwegian tongue. Between the two of us, we understand only a little of the little. But I must know what to tell Cormac. I don’t think The o Flaherty knows as much as he believes, and I don’t think that Tatamaigh fellow will be telling him.” Facing the gilly, David pointed to himself and said, “David mac Nial o Flynn.” Then he pointed to the gilly.

After a moment, the gilly slapped his chest and said, “Muiscle o Tubbaigh.” He put his mending aside and reached inside his robe, to emerge with a small bowl made of briar and carved into the form of a rearing horse. Yet such a horse David had never seen before, with a broader face and shorter muzzle and with shaggy hair almost like a dog’s. The bowl had a long, gracefully curved handle. Into this bowl, the man poured a small measure of powder or ground-up leaves from a cloth pouch he carried and which was tied up with a drawstring around its mouth. O Tubbaigh gazed wistfully at this sack. “Tzibatl,” he said. “Tzibatl Aire Bhoach achukma. Much good.” He hefted the sack once or twice as if gauging its weight before returning it to one of the numerous pouches sewn into his robe. Lastly, he lit a straw from the brazier the stable-hands used and with it, set fire to the leaves in the bowl.

The handle was actually a pipe, David now saw, one end of which was fixed to the bowl enabling o Tubbaigh to suck the acrid smoke of the leaves into his mouth. When o Tubbaigh handed the bowl to him, David took it and, following the prompting of the gilly, sucked also.

The smoke seared his lungs and he coughed convulsively. The foreigner smiled a little, but did not laugh. He made puffing sounds with his mouth, then, with a negative motion of his hand across his mouth, mimed a deep breath. David understood and took the smoke only into his mouth, holding it there for a moment before expelling it. After several puffs, a curious tingling sense of alertness came over him. He could hear the harp playing in o Flaherty’s hall and the high nasal singing of “The Lament of the o Flahertys.”

Clan Murchada of the fortress of hospitality

Was governed by clan Flaherty of swords,

Who from the shout of battle would not flee…

Except that they had fled, westward from the Foreigners to these dreary shores —and the fair, former lands of clan Murchada were governed now by the o Conners, who had been content to gather up the remnants after the Foreigners’ withdrawal. O Tubbaigh, his head cocked, also listened to the faint