“You’re not fine!” Alannah grabbed her trews, struggling to pull them on over her wet legs. “And I warned him.”
“You promised not to overreact.”
Alannah tugged her léine over her head, giving her loose hair a good swish to get it out of the way. “I’m not overreacting. I’m reacting appropriately. Stay here.”
Ignoring Emer’s continued protests, Alannah took off toward the causeway.
And vengeance.
Chapter Eleven
The blacksmith’s workshopwas built of stone on the far eastern edge of Ath Luain, placed far from any other buildings to prevent the spread of fire. The packed earth floor was littered with tools that Conan didn’t know the first thing about. A fire-filled forge took up the back left corner of the square cottage. On the right side of the room, lit by a window and the door, two anvils sat waiting, hammers perched atop each.
Conan tested the weight of the example dagger the smith had handed him. “What’ll it cost to have the handle laid with gold filigree?”
“An extra three ounces of silver.” The smith’s thick, grey beard moved as he rumbled his reply. “And it’ll add two days’ time.”
“That’s no trouble.” In fact, it was perfect. They needed the dagger to be complex enough that it took the better part of a sennight, giving them several days of excuses to cross the causeway and wander the eastern shore.
Conan handed the dagger back to the smith, along with the first two ounces of silver—a full forty silver pennies, half of the cost of the elaborate dagger. Before he could ask the smith when they could expect it, Emer tumbled through the open door behind them in her underdress, wide-eyed.
“Conan!” She leaned against the door frame, catching her breath. “Alannah’s going after Oran! She went to his hostelry. You’ve got to stop her.”
Swearing under his breath, Conan bolted past Emer. While he didn’t disagree that Oran deserved to have his arse handed to him, Alannah had no business attempting that alone. Unprovoked, he could try to exact a fine from her—if he didn’t beat her, that was. Alannah was fierce, but untrained. Without more practice, she’d not be able to win against Oran.
Luckily, Oran’s guesting house was a few buildings away, just south of the smithy. He heard shouting the moment he stepped out into the glaring sun. The door to the large, wooden building was already open, the cries from within escalating to screams as he stepped inside.
And came to a full, sudden stop.
Two men who looked as though they had piles of rocks where their minds ought to be held a struggling Alannah back by her arms.
And his brothers held back Oran.
Conan’s pulse raced so fast that he thought his heart would give out. Glancing about the room, he noted that it wasn’t just Cormac and Diarmid. Broccan and Brian stood inside the common room as well, no doubt investigating the commotion.
God’s bones they must’ve been passing through when Alannah came in here. At least it hadn’t been Teague or his father. But still, this was a far more delicate situation than he’d expected. If Alannah discovered that he knew any of them, their ruse would be compromised, along with the mission.
Diarmid noticed Conan first, his blue eyes widening beneath dark brows. He nudged Cormac, who turned a similarly shocked expression on Conan. Broccan picked up on the change in the room, as did Brian, who both turned to watch Conan approach. Brian’s face was unreadable. Broccan’s was furious, though that likely had little to do with Conan. Broccan seemed more angry than not these days.
“Apologies for the interruption,” Conan began, stepping in between the squirming Alannah and a scowling Oran. “Alannah, Emer sent me to make sure you didn’t get yourself killed.”
“You know this woman?” Brian demanded.
“I do.” Conan turned toward his king. “My friends and I have been staying at her guesting house while we perform in the area.”
“You’re—what—bards, then?” Broccan demanded, knowing full well the ruse they’d planned.
Conan nodded once. “We are. And if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to get my gracious host back to her hostelry.”
“I’m not leaving until he’s dead!” Alannah shouted unhelpfully.
“I’m afraid there won’t be any killing today, young lady,” Brian chuckled. At least he found this all amusing. “What manner of dispute do you have with this man, to attack him in his own home?”
“He attacked my sister!” She groaned in frustration when the men yanked her further from Oran. “She’s covered in bruises!”
Conan’s stomach dropped. “What?” He drew his sword, stepping toward Oran.
“Ah.” Brian called, the sound clearly intended to halt Conan.
