each other's company. They both bowed briefly to Jamie MacNeil.
Marc was tall and slender, with a broad, bland face and a cool, unhappy smile.
He looked to be in his late twenties, if you ignored his prematurely thinning
hair, and he wore the latest fashion poorly, as though indifferent to the effect
it was supposed to achieve. He looked like the kind of man who attaches himself
to groups at parties, in the hope someone will talk to him. His handshake was
harsh and perfunctory, and his lips lingered almost obnoxiously over Fisher's
hand. Jamie introduced him as another distant cousin, from Upper Markham.
'That makes him almost a neighbor of yours,' said Jamie, smiling happily at Hawk
and Fisher. 'I'm sure you'll have lots in common to talk about.'
'Oh good,' said Hawk.
Marc sniffed. 'I rather doubt it. No one worth knowing ever came out of Lower
Markham.'
There was an icy silence. Hawk's hand fell to his belt, before remembering he
didn't have his axe anymore. Fisher quickly dropped a restraining hand on his
arm. Marc smiled stiffly, almost as though daring Hawk to take offense at such
an obvious truth.
'That's enough!' said Jamie sharply. 'There will be no duels in the Tower while
I'm the MacNeil. Now apologize, Marc.'
'Of course,' said Marc. 'I'm sorry.'
His tone made the apology sound like another insult, Hawk's scowl deepened.
Fisher tightened her grip on his arm. Hawk bowed stiffly, and turned his back on
Marc to greet Alistair MacNeil. Marc sniffed again, and turned away to help
himself to a drink from one of the wine decanters set out on the sideboard.
Fisher breathed a silent sigh of relief, let go of Hawk's arm, and took a long
drink from her glass.
Alistair shook Hawk's hand firmly, and kissed Fisher's hand with old-fashioned
style. He smiled at them both, an open, friendly smile that did much to dispel
the cool atmosphere left by Marc's comments. 'Good of you to make such a long
journey; it can't have been easy, getting here from Lower Markham at this time
of year.'
'We felt we ought to be here,' said Fisher. 'Did you have far to come?'
'Quite a way. I'm another of those cousins the Family doesn't like to admit to
knowing. I was brought up here in the Tower, but the Family packed me off to the
Red Marches when I was a young man. Got a parlor maid into trouble and couldn't
pay my gambling debts. Nothing too outrageous, but someone thought I needed to
be made an example of, so off I went. Can't say I regret it. I could have come
back long ago, but never saw the point. Lovely area, the Red Marches. Marvelous
scenery, good hunting, and always a chance for some action on the borders.
That's how I heard about Duncan's death. Beastly bad luck, by all accounts. So,
I decided it was time to come back and pay my respects to the new MacNeil. Good
of you to put me up, Jamie. I couldn't stick Haven. Place has gone to the dogs.
Not at all how I remember it.'
Hawk studied the man unobtrusively while he spoke. Alistair MacNeil was tall and
muscular, though obviously well into his fifties. His stomach was intimidatingly
flat, his back poker straight, and if Alistair was carrying a few extra pounds
anywhere, Hawk was damned if he could spot them. His clothes were undeniably
old-fashioned but exquisitely cut, and Alistair wore them with unconscious
style. His iron-grey hair was cropped close to his head, military fashion, but
he had the same beaked nose and piercing eyes as the man in the portrait.
Alistair caught Hawk glancing from him to the portrait over the fire, and
chuckled dryly.
'There is a resemblance, isn't there? You're not the first to spot it. Doesn't
look such a bad type to me. Probably just too much energy and not enough wars to
keep him occupied.'
'Don't glorify the man,' said Marc, staring up at the portrait, a large drink in
his hand. 'A soldier in those days was just a paid killer, nothing more. All his
masters had to do was point him in the right direction and turn him loose.
Probably killed women and children too if they got in his way.'
'They were hard times,' said Alistair coldly. 'The Low Kingdoms faced threats on
all sides. The minstrels like to sing of honor and glory, but there's damn all
glory for the quick or the dead on a battlefield. There's just the blood and the
flies, and the knowledge it will all have to be done again tomorrow. You should
try a spell in the army yourself, Marc. You might learn a few things.'
'If you say so,' said Marc. He turned his back on Alistair, and stared coldly at
Jamie. 'May I enquire how much longer we have to wait before the reading of the
will? The sooner this tedious ritual is over and done with, the better. The
Tower is undoubtedly charming, for its age, but I have business to attend to in
Haven.'
'We'll get to the will soon enough,' said Jamie evenly. 'There are two more
guests to join us, and then breakfast will be served. I think we'll all feel
better for a good meal before getting down to business.'
'I'm not hungry,' said Marc.
'You speak for yourself,' said Hawk.
The door opened, and a faded-looking jester hurried in, unannounced by the
butler. At least Hawk assumed the man was a jester. He couldn't see any other
reason for wearing an outfit like that, short of an extremely convincing death
threat. Personally speaking, Hawk would rather have taken his chances with the
death threat. The newcomer was a rotund little man, brimming with eager nervous
energy. His bright eyes flashed indiscriminately in every direction, much like
his smile, and his quick bow to Jamie MacNeil was little more than a familiar
nod. The newcomer was well into his sixties, and looked it, but his costume
looked to be even older. It had clearly started out life as a bright and gaudy
coat of many colors, but over the many years the colors had faded, stitches had
burst, and a whole mess of new patches, clearly more functional than decorative,
had been added. And then, finally, Hawk saw the guitar in the man's hand, and
his heart sank. Jamie smiled briefly at the man, and then turned to his guests.
'My friends, this is my minstrel, Robbie Brennan. Been with this Family for
almost thirty years, haven't you, Robbie? I have to leave for a moment, so play
something for my guests; some tale of my father's exploits, in his memory.'
Brennan nodded cheerfully, tried a few quick dissonant chords, and launched into
an uptempo ballad. He sang three songs altogether, each of them highly
romanticized tales of Duncan MacNeil's past. They were all cut from the same
cloth, full of great adventures and daring escapes, but though they couldn't
seem to decide whether Duncan had been a saint or a warrior, a mighty lover or a
devoted family man, they all had one thing in common: All three songs were
irredeemably awful. They were badly written, played with no style and too much
feeling, and Brennan's voice was all over the place. He had the kind of singing
voice that made you long for the sound of fingernails scraping down a
