Kushiel’s Dart

They got on well enough, I daresay; sailors are a garrulous lot, and more used than most to the barriers that language presents. We feasted well, for Alba is a fertile land, and the Dalriada boasted of the wealth of it. Simple fare, by D’Angeline standards, but in abundance; venison and fish stew, spring greens, a curded cheese that was surprisingly sweet, pottage and crude wine. There is a drink they make too, uisghe, that burns at first with a fiery harshness, but is smooth at the second sip, tasting of peat and herbs.

As the night wore on, the uisghe flowed freely, and the bards of Dalriada entertained us with long poems that I translated for the D’Angelines. They are mighty talkers, the Dalriada; I understood Grainne’s insult better. Then Quintilius Rousse, ruddy with drink, responded with a D’Angeline sailor’s song that I blushed to translate. If I was unsure before then, I’d no doubt when it was done; there was no shame among the Dalriada or the Cruithne as regards such things. They clapped their hands and shouted, picking up the chorus.

It reminded me, a little, of the Skaldi, but it was different, here. If naught else, I noted that the women were as bold as the men, eyeing the D’Angeline sailors with undisguised interest. No few of them left ere the night was over, Rousse’s men following where they led with willing grins, or at least those with a taste for women. D’Angeline, Dalriada; it mattered naught, for they’d been a long time stranded in Kusheth, with no company save each other.

When Rousse’s song was done, Eamonn’s champion, Carraig, a Dalriada warrior who towered over the others, made a half-jesting challenge to Joscelin, poking with amusement at his vambraces and gesturing, then clearing a space in the center of the hall, drawing his sword and waggling it tauntingly.

The Twins shouted approval, quaffing uisghe; Dalriada and D’Angeline urged the fight. The Cruithne looked amused. Joscelin, with considerable forbearance, glanced at me with raised eyebrows.

On a whim, I looked to Drustan mab Necthana.

As before, there was understanding between us. I read the query in his dark eyes, so oddly grave in his blue-marqued features. Can your man win? I nodded, imperceptibly. His shoulders lifted in a faint shrug, one hand cautioning temperance. I rose to my feet and addressed the Twins.

"Let it be seen, then, what manner of sword the D’Angelines bring, my lords," I said, uisghe rendering my tongue fluent. "But let no blood be spilled, to stain our quest! Let he who is disarmed surrender with honor!"

They accepted the terms with cheers, and Joscelin rose smoothly, bowing with crossed arms. Quintilius Rousse made his drunken way to my side.

"Thought Cassilines only fought to defend," he said, slurring his words a little.

I shrugged. "The Prefect of the Cassiline Brotherhood abjured him. Joscelin’s blade is sworn to Ysandre."

"Ahhh." His eyes gleamed, and we watched.

Carraig swung his sword over his head in a blur, roaring; it descended as he rushed forward, mountain-tall. Joscelin’s daggers flashed free of their sheaths, crossed hilts catching and deflecting the blade. The revelers laughed as he spun gracefully out of the way, and Carraig staggered, gathering himself for a second charge. Steel clanged; the sword slid harmlessly off one vambrace. Joscelin moved sideways, evasive as water, reversing his grip; with a motion too subtle for the eye to follow, he brought the hilt of one dagger down on Carraig’s sword-hand, which opened in anguish, while he swept his leg against the back of the Dalriada’s knees.

It made a considerable clatter, Carraig falling, sword spinning from his grip. By the time he realized he was on the floor, Joscelin’s crossed daggers were at his throat. Eamonn’s champion yielded with better grace than I’d expected. When Joscelin bowed and sheathed his daggers, Carraig rose, seizing him in a roaring embrace and pounding his back.

"We’ve impressed them with that, at least." Hyacinthe appeared at my elbow, a lopsided grin on his face, black eyes bright with uisghe. Not an ounce of jealousy in his tone; I saw why, clear enough. Moiread stood at his side, calm and smiling. A waking dreamer, indeed. The daughters of Necthana had an interest in him. He swayed a little on his feet, looking at me as if he wondered whether I would bid him stay or go, and not sure which he hoped.

"We have that, at least." I brushed my hand over his hair. I’d drunk too much, or not enough, to have it out with him. "Go where you will, Prince of Travellers," I said, with scarce-impaired dignity, or so I thought. "I’m about the Queen’s business." His eyes gleamed, and he made a bow, disappearing with Moiread.