The Year's Best Science Fiction, Volume 29

must push himself forward, if to step back is death.”

* * *

David went off by himself the next morning to watch the sun come up over Cill Cluanaigh on the eastern shore of the lough. The breeze, smelling of fish and the damp, whipped his cloak about him and he gathered the edge of it in his hand. A party of horsemen breasted the horizon, paused, and disappeared on the farther slope. Normans—perhaps Mac Costello’s men. David spat over the wall into the waters that lapped against the foot of the fortress. Or a party of king Aedh’s men, or even Leyney men sent south by Conner god o Hara. Outriders? Or were rumors spreading?

Below, crossing the courtyard, o Tubbaigh carried slop buckets to the midden. David whistled and the man looked up. For a moment the two locked gazes, then o Tubbaigh put the slop buckets down and climbed the ladder to the parapet. David mimed smoking the bowl-and-pipe, but when the other drew it out made the negative gesture of passing the hand back and forth across his lips. He pointed to the horse carved into the bowl and said in Danish, “Saga horse sing.” The previous night Thorfinn, through Olaf, had described how the Red Foreigners esteemed the horse above all beasts, and o Tubbaigh seemed from his bow-leggedness a man who had spent most of his life astride one.

O Tubbaigh thought for a moment and his lips moved, as if he were puzzling from the Danish to his own tongue. Then he shrugged and began to speak in a sing-song voice. David began to walk slowly around the parapet and the Red Foreigner walked beside him, singing in a high nasal whine. David understood not one word of it, but that was not his purpose.

At one point in the song o Tubbaigh gnashed his teeth, then rubbed his stomach and pointed to the horse carving. Then he waved his hand before his mouth, by which David understood that at one time his people had eaten horse meat, but did so no longer. The Normans had a similar taboo, and small wonder. Eat all your mounts and what do you ride? A chevalier in armor would present less fearsome a prospect astride a cow. The miming with which o Tubbaigh accompanied the song suggested the capture and breaking of horses, but he rode his imaginary steed with a wilder abandon than the Norman kettle-heads and he mimed the shooting of a bow and not the lowering of a lance.

At that point, turning the corner of the parapet, they came face to face with the o Gonklin chief Tatamaigh and his woman about their own morning circuit of the walls. Tatamaigh halted and stared with onyx eyes at David and o Tubbaigh. The gilly, who had been in the midst of loosing one of his imaginary arrows, smiled and released it directly at the chief’s chest.

Tatamaigh snatched at his sword-hilt, but the gilly said, “Hahkalo iss’ubah, sachem. Sa taloah himonasi,” and bowed most insolently. Then he grinned and made riding motions, biting imaginary reins in his teeth and loosing another bow shot. The o Gonklin affected not to listen, but his woman, standing a pace behind him, watched o Tubbaigh’s rolling hips with her lower lip caught between her teeth.

Tatamaigh released his sword-hilt—and David heard the subtle sound of other swords sheathed a few paces behind him. Gillapadraig, as always, his shadow. But the chief reached out and snatched the smoke-pipe from o Tubbaigh’s hand.

O Tubbaigh cried out, but Tatamaigh fended him off with a sharp blow that rocked the gilly’s head back. Then, holding out his palm, the chief spoke sharply. David heard “tzibatl” but it sounded no more at home on this man’s tongue than it had earlier on his servant’s. Possibly it was a word of the Aire Bhoach folk, those who grew the leaves. O Tubbaigh snarled something that David had little trouble interpreting as a refusal, slapped his chest and said, “Mingo-li billia!”

The o Gonklin chief grabbed his sword-hilt again and might have drawn it this time, but that his woman put a hand on his arm and said something soft. Tatamaigh shrugged her off without looking, but nevertheless unhanded the sword. “Tzibatl,” he said again, holding his hand out. Two of his guardsmen had come up behind him and watched the servant with smoldering eyes. David crossed his arms and leaned his back against the parapet, waiting to see how it would play out.

The moment stretched on.

Then o Tubbaigh sighed and reached into his cloak and fetched out the bag of smoking powder. He held it for a moment, and David thought he might throw it over the wall in spite. Then, he handed the pouch to his chief saying something that David thought might translate as I hope you choke on it.

David noted how both men’s hands trembled while handling the powder and he thought that the white smoke might exert some powerful influence over them, as whiskey did over drunkards. Before he had even departed with his retinue, Tatamaigh had filled the bowl with the powder and had sent one of the guards to fetch a coal to light it with.

“They didn’t fight,” Gillapadraig said. He had come to walk beside David and spared now a backward glance at the departing eagle-chief. “I thought you said they would fight.”

“Not yet,” David told him. He turned to o Tubbaigh and said, “Mingolaigh. Chief?”

“Mingo, chief Muisce o Geogh,” he said. “Sachem, chief al-Goncuin.”

David repeated the name more carefully. “Al-Goncuin, is it? Are they Saracens, then?” But ‘saracen’ meant nothing to the red man and David did not press the matter. What concerned him was less whence the red men had come, than whither they might be going.

When they turned onto the parapet overlooking the lough, David found Donnchad o Mulmoy and Olaf the Dane waiting, as he had arranged.

“How many?” David asked Donnchad, indicating the cog moored below them.

“Three-and-twenty,” o Mulmoy told him, “though it was a hard count, seeing how they all look alike. About half wear iron shirts. The others climb the ropes, so I think they must be the sailors. There are always two on guard but they don’t keep good watch.”

“They believe themselves among friends,” David said.

“More than friends. A couple of o Flaherty’s scullery maids have gone inside on one errand or another— mostly the other, I’m thinking—and they have a Pictish woman that they must have captured when they fought the o Malleys.”

David turned to the Dane. “Olaf, do you have any friends yet in Galway Town?”

The Ostman shrugged. “Does a man with a price ever have friends? I suppose you could call anyone who hasn’t yet tried to slit my throat a ‘friend’.”

“What if you could promise them a ship faster than any they’ve known?”

“So…” Olaf’s eyes dropped to the alien ship. “She needs a proper keel. But I know a man at Bordeaux who would do it.” His eyes danced along the masts. “A dozen to sail her, I think, though the rigging be strange… and we would need to…” He stopped and nodded. “Ja. I’ve cut ships out before. It can be done.”

“Good. Make a list of the men you want and give it to o Mulmoy. Donnchad, ride for Galway Town. You know the town. Find the men Olaf names and bring them here by stealth. You may encounter o Dallies down that way, and there is nothing ill between them and us; but if deBurgo is abroad take care. Travel unseen.”

Donnchad smiled. “One o Mulmoy is worth ten Burkes.”

“Then take Kevin with you. I think there are more than ten.”

Donnchad left. Olaf lingered a moment longer, gazing at the cog and rubbing his hands together. Then he too left.

A silence passed before David said, “Tatamaigh home sail, warriors bring. Take you?”

O Tubbaigh laughed bitterly. “Chief al-Goncuin. No more.” He slapped his chest. “Muisce o Geogh all chief now. Town, stronghold, how say?” And he mimed the striking of a flint, the lighting of a fire.

“Burn,” said David.

“Town, stronghold al-Goncuin burn. Women…” And he thrust with his hips.

“Books, too?” To the gilly’s puzzled look, David mimed reading and o Tubbaigh shrugged.

“Pfft.” His fingers fluttered like smoke.

“Ochone. They do burn easily, do they not?” David said. He wondered if there were any monks in that New- Found Land. He wondered if they would catch whatever they could on their parchments before all the learning ran through their fingers like so much sand. He thought about the saints of Aire Land scratching away with quills in the