The White Spell (Nine Kingdoms #10)(21)

Interesting, though, the twistings and turnings of Mistress Léirsinn’s family tree. If she was Fuadain’s niece, why was she in the barn? If her grandfather was up at the house, why wasn’t Fuadain seeing to his care? Unless the man was not a father but a father-in-law and Fuadain was absolutely without any sort of conscience.

“Oh, you are useless,” Fuadain snapped suddenly. “Slaidear, take this horse away from her!”

Acair watched as who he had come to learn was the stable master walked out onto the field and took the rope away from Léirsinn.

“’E gives me cold chills and no mistake.”

Acair had to agree with his rustic companion that that was indeed the case, but he did so silently. There was something about Slaidear that was . . . unusual. It was obvious he wasn’t in his position because of any affinity with horses—something Acair could understand rather well at present—which begged the question of just why he was there.

It didn’t take a Cothromaichian lad’s powers of observation to see that there were foul things afoot—and that wasn’t just the pile of manure Acair realized he was standing in. He rolled his eyes. Would the indignities never end?

Slaidear continued to make a great hash of working that mare and Fuadain continued to berate Léirsinn for things she wasn’t doing. A first-rate bastard, that one, far beyond the behavior a petty lord in an insignificant port town might allow himself. Léirsinn was good at swallowing all manner of insults, perhaps either because she was too stupid to know she’d been insulted or perhaps she was simply too accustomed to being treated like a slave.

In time, Fuadain seemed to grow bored with his sport, Lord Cuirteil announced the need for sustenance, and Slaidear apparently realized he was about to be trampled if he didn’t find someone else to see to that horse. Léirsinn led the mare out of sight until the men had left the arena, then she brought the horse back into the arena to work it herself.

Acair remained in the shadows for quite some time, listening with half an ear to the whispered babbling of his new friend and mulling over what he’d seen.

Intrigue and the possibility of mayhem. He had a nose for that kind of thing and what he was smelling at present was rank indeed.

“We’re headed to the pub up the way,” the lad said suddenly. “Comin’ along, are ye?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Acair said. “You go ahead and I’ll catch up.”

That seemed to be answer enough. The lad departed for more promising locales, leaving Acair to his thoughts. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the wall, settling in for a proper rumination.

Doghail took the mare away and soon brought Léirsinn that damned stallion she seemed to think was so marvelous. Acair thought the beast was a demon, and he’d had experience enough with the latter that he thought he might not be overestimating his ability to recognize the same.

There was a bit of a battle of wills, it seemed, before Léirsinn reasserted her authority and the stallion did as he was told. He was, Acair had to admit, a handsome beast as far as horses went. He trotted, he pranced, he raced about as if he would have preferred to be flying. And all the while, Léirsinn stood in the center of his world, turning with an almost imperceptible motion, demanding the horse change gaits with a whistle or a click.

Corr, indeed.

He continued to watch until he grew tired and thought he might like to sit down somewhere. Unfortunately, the only ones who seemed to get any rest in the place were the horses. He wasn’t sure if he envied them for it or loathed them for the same. He didn’t particularly like horses, which he imagined Soilléir and Rùnach were still giggling over, but he had to admit the past se’nnight had given him a different view of them.

Fortunately for them all, Doghail came to lead the horse away. Léirsinn waved him off, but Acair supposed he should have expected that. She seemed like the sort of lass who liked to do things herself. He followed her at a safe distance—safe meaning, of course, too far away to be called on to do any labor—then found himself a bale of hay to sit on. Congratulating whatever enterprising soul had determined hay was best used as a seat by gathering it together in a cube, he then sat, leaned back, and promptly fell asleep.

He woke only because he had spent decades honing the ability to know when his quarry had escaped. He pushed himself to his feet, suppressing the urge to groan, then looked for his missing horse gel.

“She went that way.”

He shot Doghail a look. “Never know what sorts of lads might mimic their master’s ways, would you agree?”

“Protective.”

“Looking for better ale than you serve, actually.”

Doghail smiled briefly. “She won’t appreciate it, but I’ve done it as well. Off you go. And as repayment, I’ll see to your stalls for you.”

Acair blinked, not exactly sure what he should say. “Well,” he managed finally.

Doghail shook his head and walked off.

Now he was certain Soilléir and Rùnach were sipping sour wine from Penrhyn and laughing their arses off at him, no doubt having scryed the entire scene in whatever bloody glass ball Soilléir was using these days for the conjuring up of his visions.

He shrugged off the vague feeling that he should have said something polite, then set about his normal work of poking his nose where it absolutely shouldn’t go.