Story Update: Forging the Blade: Kithe and Kin, Chap. 4, 1/3
kageorge (kageorge@EROLS.COM)
Wed, 21 Nov 2001 10:09:59 -0400
Forging the Blade: Part II
Kithe and Kin
by MacGeorge
See acknowledgements and disclaimers in Part 0.
~~~~~~~
Chapter 4
“Duncan, watch where you’re going!” Connor growled over his shoulder in
annoyance as his companion trod on his heels for the second time in the
last ten minutes. When he got no answer, he turned to look, and had to
stop and go back, tugging on his clansman’s sleeve to get his attention.
Duncan ignored him, his face almost slack with awe as street acrobats
balanced three high on each other’s shoulders, the third one managing to
juggle three balls as he swayed precariously high above the crowd while
a hawker passed through with a hat, extolling the acrobats’ antics and
collecting coins from the more generous, or gullible, passersby.
Connor grabbed an elbow and yanked when he saw his student reach into
his sporran for one of the few coins the lad had to his name, and at
last Duncan stumbled after him, casting longing looks back at the
spectacle. “Hurry along, Duncan. If we don’t reach the inn soon, they
will have let all their rooms and we’ll end up sleeping in an alleyway.
And believe me, in this city that is a sure way to loose your purse, or
worse.”
“Did you see that?” Duncan asked, eyes wide with excitement. “How do
they do that? Wouldn’t it be grand to make a living like that?” Ever
since they had reached the outskirts of Edinburgh, his young companion
had been making almost non-stop commentary, asking questions so fast
that Connor could not possibly keep up with any answers. It was
exhausting.
The fall day was crisp and clear, fortunately. Otherwise the hard-packed
dirt under their feet would be a morass of horse dung and mud. Connor’s
nose had gotten accustomed to the clean, clear air of the countryside
over the past year and a half, and even without the rain, the assault of
manure, sewage, unwashed bodies, rancid food and the fumes of strong
liquor that rolled out of every tavern they passed threatened to sour
his stomach. Fortunately, his companion seemed too occupied to notice as
he strained his head this way and that, trying to see every detail of
Edinburgh’s Royal Mile in their struggle through the crowd toward a
small inn Connor had come to know well over the decades.
“You’re a little clumsy to be an acrobat,” Connor snapped, his temper
wearing thin. It had been amusing at first, watching his student’s first
encounter with life in a real city. Duncan had visited some of the
larger villages of the Highlands, and even went with his father once to
the seat of the MacLeod High Chief on the Isle of Skye, but nothing he
had seen to date could compare with the hustle and bustle of Edinburgh.
“And while you will have ample opportunity to pursue whatever occupation
you wish, street performers are only one step above beggars.”
Duncan harrumphed, obviously unconvinced. “That man said they performed
for the Royal Court at the Palace. Is there a Palace here? I’ve never
seen a palace, unless you count Dunvegan, which surely looked like a
palace to me, but they called it a castle, so I guess it wasn’t a
palace. Was he talking about that Castle up on the hill there? Oh, look,
they’re selling swords and dirks! We should stop and…”
“No!” Connor grabbed his kinsman’s arm before he could wander off again.
“He’s probably talking about Hollyroodhouse, there back at the end of
the street,” Connor pointed down the hill.
Duncan strained his neck and stretched up, looking over the heads of the
crowd. “Oh, aye,” he agreed. “‘Tis a verra' grand house, to be sure.
Have you ever been there?”
“A couple of times,” Connor answered, finally turning onto a side
street and heading down some stone steps into a narrow, covered walkway.
“The new king will doubtless be crowned there, provided he ever bothers
to come to Scotland.” The narrow wynd leading down from the Royal Mile
was formed of steep stairs, worn and uneven, but at least Connor didn’t
feel like he had to keep one hand on his sporran and the other on his
dirk all the time. The city was rife with beggars and cutpurses. While
any thief trying to steal from two Immortals in a dark alley might get a
rude surprise, Connor had ended more than one trip through a city crowd
with his money in someone else’s pocket.
Connor had been putting off this trip for several months, despite his
growing need to see to his investments. Taking a new Immortal into a
crowded city made his skin prickle with unease. It was unlikely they
would meet another of their kind, but if they did, Duncan was just brash
enough and arrogant enough to try to take a challenge. If so, he might
lose his young friend all too soon, and that thought was enough to keep
him away until he felt he was at risk of losing decades of investment
efforts.
He had even considered leaving Duncan behind, but his clansman would not
hear of it, and Connor’s own memory of returning to the glen to find
Ramirez’ headless body was enough to sway him. And it had to happen
sometime. Eventually, they would leave Scotland, and eventually young
Duncan would have to face another Immortal in battle. The thought gave
Connor nightmares. Had he trained him well enough? Had he forced enough
knowledge and caution into that thick Scottish skull to give his student
even a little sense of his vulnerability? It wasn’t a matter of
intelligence, certainly. The lad was fast and strong and eminently
teachable, voraciously absorbing everything Connor taught about
swordsmanship and strategy. Duncan’s weakness was his inexperience,
along with his pride and naiveté in his belief that others would act
with the same sense of honor that the clan chieftain’s son wore like a
suit of protective armor.
Well, he would get his business done as quickly as he could, and get his
student back to the safety of their isolated croft. Duncan may think he
was ready for the great, wide world, but the more time passed, the more
his teacher got a sick feeling in his stomach every time he considered
letting Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod loose from the tight leash
with which he had tethered the lad.
Duncan was being unusually silent, and Connor glanced back. Duncan had
stopped at the last landing and was craning his neck upwards. “Duncan!”
Connor was exasperated. “What now?”
Huge dark eyes turned to him. “People live up there? How can they build
up so high? It must be seven or eight houses piled on top of one
another.”
Connor glanced upward, and realized that one of Edinburgh’s most
distinctive trademarks – the many-layered buildings constructed in the
steep streets down the hill from Edinburgh Castle – were not immediately
apparent from the main road, and were something utterly foreign to his
young protégé.
“There are many buildings taller than that in London and in Paris, and
they even build grand palaces right on the water in Venice,” he kept
descending the worn stone stairs, grateful again it wasn’t raining.
These steep side streets were the devil to negotiate when they were wet.
Duncan laughed and followed, closing the distance between them, trotting
down the steep stairs with the carefree grace of a child. “Oh, aye, and
I suppose the beds are stacked one on top of the other, as well, like
sacks of oats, eh?”
Connor didn’t bother to answer, having found the low doorway to the
Queen’s Arms Inn, a small establishment he had frequented off and on for
half a century or more. The woman who led them up the stairs to their
tiny room didn’t recognize his name, for which Connor was grateful. It
had been over a decade since he had last been to Edinburgh, and he never
stayed long. But this place was clean and out of the way of the noisy
streets above.
The room was barely large enough to contain the bed, which was barely
large enough to hold two men of any substantial size. Duncan eyed the
small bed dubiously. “I might do better on the floor, especially given
the way you snore,” he commented.
“I do not snore,” Connor snapped, prompting a derisive snort from his
companion. “You, however, definitely snore loud enough to shake the
rafters.”
“Aye, well,” Duncan looked up at the beams of a ceiling barely high
enough for him to stand upright, “that might be a problem in here, for
certain.”
~~~~~~~
A meal in a tavern completed their day, and Connor enjoyed watching his
clansman exude charm and charisma like most people breathe, eat and
drink. Within an hour, Duncan knew all the barmaids and half the patrons
by their first names, and rarely had to pay for his own drink, which
Connor appreciated, given the current unknown state of his finances.
The next morning, the two MacLeods set out for the Royal Mile again,
until Connor led them to a small shop with thick-paned glass windows
that had George Heriot & Sons gilded in elaborate script across them.
“What’s this place?” Duncan asked.
Connor belatedly realized that his young student’s literary ignorance,
which not been much of an issue in the Highlands, would be more of a
handicap in the wider world. Connor shoved the thought away to consider
another time. He had enough on his hands just pounding basic survival
skills in the lad’s stubborn skull.
“I’ve known George Heriot for half a century. He was an excellent
goldsmith, the only one in Scotland, so far as I know. But he was also a
man I trusted with my financial matters. He moved to London a couple of
decades ago, and now that he is dead and gone, his nephews have taken
over the firm.” Since Duncan couldn’t read the sign, at least Connor
didn’t have to explain that the “& Sons” was just wishful thinking on
George’s part.
A small bell announced their arrival, but it was still a moment before a
tall, lean man with a decided stoop to his shoulders pushed past the
curtain from a back room, and cocked his head at them.
“May I be of assistance?”
“Aye, that you may,” Connor smiled. “I believe you have some
correspondence for me. My name is Connor MacLeod.”
The man’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Oh, aye? Connor MacLeod, is it? And how
would I be knowing that?”
Connor felt Duncan tense and start to push forward, but Connor
restrained him with a hand on his arm. “You’d be knowing that because I
would be giving you the information your uncle sent to you to confirm my
identity.”
The man smiled, showing stained, uneven teeth. “Would you now?” He sat
at a large oak desk in the corner of the small front room, and turned up
the lamp to cast a slightly brighter light in the otherwise heavily
shadowed room. Turning to the warren of cubby holes built into the
shelves behind him, he pulled out a thick ledger, opened it and thumbed
thoughtfully through the pages, running his finger down long rows of
entries, then turning a leaf, and repeating the action. Connor sat in a
deep wingback chair while Duncan paced impatiently back and forth behind
him.
As he searched, eying the long columns down his thin nose, Heriot
murmured, “I certainly recognize the name. My uncle has dealt with a
Connor MacLeod for half a century or more. That would be your father,
perhaps? Or your grandfather?”
“My uncle, actually,” Connor answered casually. “He knew old Mr. Heriot
before he moved to London.”
“Did he, now? Ah, here it is. It arrived almost four months ago.” He
rose, closed the book, meticulously put it away and disappeared into the
back. Connor waited in patient silence while Duncan restlessly continued
to pace the floor. At last Heriot emerged, holding a packet tied in
oilcloth. In another hand, he held a small envelope, which he opened
with irritatingly slow care, then looked up at his customer curiously.
“My uncle has a description here, and it is almost sufficient for
identification, for you must mightily resemble your uncle. But I am told
to ask the question, “Where is Heather?” Heriot looked up expectantly.
Connor lowered his head and took a breath, then placed his hand over his
heart. “Right here,” he said softly. “With me, always.”
With a nod, Heriot left the two men alone, and Connor opened and read
the letters carefully, then folded them back up neatly and tied the
packet closed. “Mr. Heriot!” he called at last, and the man immediately
poked his head through the dividing curtain. “I believe my agent in
Ravenna sent you a letter of credit. I would like to draw out 50 pounds,
please.”
The transaction took only a few moments, and Connor left the small
office feeling weighted down with news and more coinage than he was
comfortable carrying, but there was nothing to be done for it. He
stopped at a small paper shop, purchasing paper, ink and several quills,
and then he and Duncan stopped at an out of the way tavern where they
could get some breakfast and Connor could compose some letters. Duncan
had been remarkably patient throughout, observing Connor’s actions
quietly.
“Is that how fortunes are made, then?” Duncan finally asked as they
waited for a trough of porridge at the tavern. “You just learn who to
ask for it?”
Connor inspected his student, ready for a sharp retort, but realized
Duncan was teasing him by the quirk of a smile on his lips and in his
eyes. “It takes a long time for a man like you or me, starting from
nothing, to accumulate wealth, Duncan. Over the decades I’ve been a
blacksmith, a hired mercenary, a sea captain, done my share of
smuggling, and…oh, don’t look at me like that. Smuggling has been an
honored Scottish tradition long before even either of us was born. Do
you think your father did not hide income from the King’s tax
collectors?”
Duncan looked scandalized. “O’ course! If we did not, there would’na
have been enough to feed the village come winter. But that was about the
good of the people we were supposed to care for, not about our own
wealth. Father barely managed to keep everyone alive from year to year
what with drought one year, and sickness the next, and some war chief
calling up all the men the next.” Duncan shook his head. “T’was a hard,
thankless job to be village chieftain, for certain. And certainly wasn’t
done to gain any riches.”
“Well, smuggling is a hard, thankless job, as well, but it has a few
more rewards. And the King will hardly miss a few shillings from the
fine whiskey made in the Highlands that I ferried to France, and the
villagers who profited from it were able to feed their families a little
more bread, and I was able to save a few pounds in the process. Wealth,
Duncan, breeds more wealth, for without funds, you cannot invest, and
without investment, you cannot acquire any more wealth.”
“So if I have no money, then I can make no money?” Duncan snorted.
“Sounds like the Scots’ way, for certain.”
“It’s the way of the world, Duncan. Money begets power, and power begets
money. The more you have of either, the more likely you are to get more
of both. It has taken me half my life to acquire a small bit of wealth,
and it takes diligence to make sure it does not slip away. I had
invested in a load of silk and spices shipped overland from the Far
East, and was planning to captain a vessel myself, from Morocco to Italy
and France, but…”
“But you came here, instead,” Duncan offered with a frown.
“Aye,” Connor admitted. “I left the arranging of transport in the hands
of one of us. One thing about doing business with Immortals, Duncan,
they know the price of betrayal is very high, and that time is not a
factor. Anyway, Hamza wrote me six months ago to say the caravan had
arrived with the goods virtually intact, and that the load would be on
its way within two months, captained by a man I know well. It should
have arrived by now, and its last stop was London, where the captain was
to contact Heriot and send me the proceeds of the sale of the goods,
after deducting expenses.”
“And?” Duncan prompted, now digging into the bowl of thick
buttermilk-laced porridge that had been placed in front of him.
“And,” Connor sighed, “It seems the captain wanted to use another agent,
other than Heriot, and the message is that I am to contact Lord Huntly.”
Duncan stared at him for a moment before commenting. “Huntly? Now
there’s a man I would’na trust with my slop pot, much less my fortune,
for all that he’s one of the few openly Catholic lairds.”
Connor snorted. “I’d hardly call him a laird, given his hatred of the
clans. The Mackays may have been forced to swear fealty, but none else
will, no matter their titles or their power. But how did you know of the
Gordons?”
Duncan looked mildly insulted. “The scheming and fighting among the
clans is mother’s milk to any Highland son. I listen in the taverns, I
ask questions, I pay attention. I know that Huntly tried to oust the
MacLeods from the islands, and sent some 500 hired swords to do the job,
only to be turned back. I know King James hated his own people, thought
us all barbarians and bloodthirsty savages, that he proscribed the
Gregors and encouraged Argyle and Huntly and others like them to wipe
them and anyone else who wears a plaid from the face of the earth. I
know Huntly is a greedy, malicious bastard who by rights shouldn’a even
be called a Scot. I know…”
“All right, all right,” Connor lifted his hand to placate his clansman,
who was working himself up into a righteous lather. “But Huntly is back
in open favor with the new king, and the person I will have to go see if
I am to receive the proceeds from the shipment. If things went as
planned, it will be enough to live on for years, so it will not do to
deliberately insult the man.”
Duncan made a low noise in the back of his throat that aptly conveyed
his opinion of George Gordon, 6th Earl of Huntly. “Then you’d best not
wear your plaid, for I hear the man fancies himself an English
gentleman,” Duncan advised with a disgusted lilt and a mockingly
effeminate wave of his hand.
Connor smiled. “I think I can manage to impersonate a gentleman, for a
few moments, at least. You, however…”
“I have no desire to impersonate anyone, Connor MacLeod. Certainly not
an English gentleman. And if you expect me to bend a leg to some…”
Connor laughed, and Duncan narrowed his eyes suspiciously at his
teacher. “What?” Duncan asked.
“Don’t worry, I won’t try to dress you up in doublet and hose – yet. But
it is an amusing concept.”
“I’ll amuse /you/,” Duncan snarled as a playful threat, but the humor in
his eyes conveyed that he knew he was being teased.
...Continued in Part 2