Page 22 of Fletcher

“For that, ’twould need swim around the island.” The captain set aside the quill and tapped the site of the first attack. “With your leave I’d go here with Jamaran, and see if ’tis any trace of the mortal killed by the white-mouth here.”

Connal wanted to refuse his request, but Nyall was as comfortable underwater as any Finfolk. He also knew it was important to discover more about the man-killing shark before it attacked again.

“Take Shaw with you,” he finally said. “I ken you wish go only with your friend, but white-mouths can grow as large as horses, and swim faster than anything in the sea. Should the beast attack, ’twill take all three of you to counter.”

The captain didn’t look happy, but inclined his head. “Aye, my lord.”

After Nyall left, Connal finished his work, adding one more scroll to the pile. He then summoned his cote keeper to dispatch the replies he’d written to the village headmen about the spring planting, and the one additional message that needed to be taken by boat to the mainland.

“For the ferryman,” he told the vassal. “Bring to me any reply he wishes make at once.”

The cote keeper touched his brow before he hurried off, leaving Connal to brood about their new guest, the strange threat to the island, and how the druid council would react to news of the enchantress and her band of shifters leaving Aberdeen. He knew of only one man among the MacMar who might be able to give him some answers.

The door to the infirmary stood open, and when he looked inside he saw Duncan watching over a sweet-faced farm maid, who sat weeping and holding the hand of an old man on the pallet by the window slit. The patient’s yellow-gray skin and the smell of hovering death made it obvious this was not the time to talk to his healer, but as soon as Duncan noticed him he came out and closed the door.

“Old Gilroy’s at his end, my lord.” He leaned back against the wall, sweat gleaming on his brow and upper lip. “’Twould seem he held on only so he might see his daughter one last time. How may I serve?”

At least dealing with the patient after he died would release Duncan from his torment, Connal thought. He and the rest of the clan pretended not to notice how the healer’s mortal weakness caused him to suffer the same pain as those he treated, but everyone knew how much he suffered.

“I need your advice.” He related what had happened in Aberdeen, and then asked, “You spent much time with the druids when they sheltered on Caladh, and still consult them now and again. The tribe outside Aberdeen, ’twas one of the oldest in Scotland, with many counted among the first of their kind. What reckon you their council shall do once I tell them what’s happened?”

Duncan sighed. “The magic folk take much pride in keeping peaceful ways. They came here so they might avoid warring with the Romans. You ken they never truly die, but return to live again in those born after their end. As such, ’tis possible the council shall do naught.”

“Yet if they choose act?” Connal persisted.

“They shall gather the most powerful among them.” The healer dragged a hand through his silver-streaked hair. “’Twould happen only if the council issues an edict demanding justice for those slain. Each tribe sends their shaman and defenders to hunt and punish those responsible. ’Twas said one such hunt resulted in the Ninth Legion vanishing overnight. More than five thousand Romans, never again seen.”

In the garrison hall, Fletcher watched Shaw’s hands as he sorted through the lamb bones. “What reckon you?”

“’Twas no’ done in anger, though ’twould seem a hasty business.” The chieftain picked up one broken trotter and held it up to eye the hollow center. “No’ a scrap of marrow left in any of them.”

“The remains sat at the bottom of the cove for a day, at least,” Fletcher told him. “Mayhap the sea washed them clean.”

“Mayhap. ’Tis strange so many of the wee beasts fell in the water together. Did you see sign of collapse on the banks?” When Fletcher shook his head Shaw’s gaze shifted over the pile. “From the number of trotter pieces I count five—no, six—different animals. A starved shark, ’twould tear apart the wee thing first, and then swallow the pieces. Plenty of time for the others clamber out from the water.”

Some of the patrollers gathered around them as the chieftain continued his inspection. Fletcher couldn’t see their faces, but the way they held themselves told him they were all worried.

“We need patrols watch the shorelines,” Shaw finally said as he bundled up the bones and regarded the men. “If ’twas a white-mouth did such, then ’twill come back and try again. Arm everyone with harpoons instead of spears.”

“Cannae we ask the Finfolk hunt for the facking thing?” one of the men demanded. “They share the sea with these beasts.”

The chieftain shook his head. “’Tisnae attacking their settlement. Our troubles, they’re our own to manage.” As some of the men reacted to that with angry mutters he folded his arms so that his Pritani skinwork showed plainly. “I’ll meet any lazy bawbag that disagrees in the lists.”

No one ever willingly chose to face Shaw in the sparring quad, and a few moments later the room emptied out completely.

“Slothful, our brothers, yet still wise,” Fletcher said as he took the bundle of bones from him. “You dinnae seem convinced ’twas a shark did thus.”

“The missing marrow, ’tis what puzzles me,” the chieftain said. “Each of the bones, ’tis cracked, and I see how with time the currents might scour the bones clean. Yet they rested on the bottom of the cove, in largely still water, for but a day, mayhap two.” He removed one of the trotters, placed the broken end near his lips and made a sucking sound. “A shark cannae do thus. A man fond of marrow may, or mayhap something that possesses the same mouth as a man.”

Dread swamped Fletcher. “Finfolk eat only kelp and fish.”

“So they claim, and I agree, ’tis unlikely. Yet such, ’twould cause trouble between the laird and our vassals, which the fishy bastarts may like enough that they may develop a taste for lamb.” Shaw sighed. “A pity we maynae brace that white-haired finned Francian that tag-tails after Nyall. He’d do anything for the kind. I’d hold him down while you check his teeth for bone slivers.”

“You’ll do naught,” the captain said as he joined them at the table, and regarded the chieftain. “The laird wishes you and I search the waters round the island, and no one kens them better than Jamaran. Fetch three fishing spears from the armory. Seneschal, you need warn our vassals so none dally in the shallows or tide pools.”

Fletcher thought of the maids who often collected shellfish from such spots for Brochan, and the salt makers, who daily tended the huge pans in which the sea water they collected evaporated. Being reminded of the later made his gut clench, but for different reasons. “Aye.”

“If ’twas a shark, I’ll eat a lamb raw,” Shaw muttered.