The merchant looked back from the bow of his ship at the three men in the belly honing knives with a care that seemed exaggerated. The hooded, secretive man who had come to him in Brí Chualann had given him three cumhals in silver to carry these three across the sea to Ynys Môn, with no questions asked. The man had not said he was from Nuadu Necht, but the merchant was not still squalling in swaddling to be fooled by the hood and the whispered request. The number of men in the kingdoms of Ireland with enough silver to pay three cumhals for a sea crossing could be counted on the fingers of one hand, luckily for Nuadu. The number of men who had enemies in Alba worth paying three cumhals for was one, and it would not need the wisdom of a druid to know which one.

He had accepted the bags of silver with a nod, a smile, and a thought, which he would never voice in the hearing of any who supported the High King.

The new High King, anyroad.

Nuadu was not a popular leader among the merchants, and for good reason. Since assuming the throne, he had forced merchants to reduce the price of goods being landed at Indber Colptha, and ship owners like Dyfed had to accept their losses with goodwill, or face retribution. So, any extra silver was a welcome bonus, even with no questions asked.

It was not only the merchants who were unhappy. Nuadu had proven to be a leader of little imagination and even less patience. Like many a High King before him, he was petulant when getting his way. He would go to any lengths to ensure that what he wanted happened, including reducing the prices of food delivered to the harbors of the Five Kingdoms. He was not reducing the prices to make goods more accessible to the people but to make his profit margins greater. Silver was getting scarce, and hunger was creeping into the people’s daily lives. Despite the threat of retribution, people were voicing whispers of discontent.

Whispers that are being heard. Still, who’m I to complain? Dyfed did not let the market’s day-to-day swings worry him too much, especially not now. Despite his new wealth, he’d always remembered his father’s favorite words: Why worry about that which you cannot change?

Despite not being worried about money, he was concerned about the three men in the belly of his longship. He knew that one cumhal each was a lot of silver, even for him to carry unknown knifemen, which meant the targets were important. Therefore the element of risk was high.

He looked again at the men and shuddered. There was something inherently evil about men who would kill without giving their victims a chance to defend themselves. Men with knives hidden in the shadows and killing without compunction made him retch. But putting the morals of assassination aside, these three individuals looked like the spawn of Fomorian demons. To a man, their long hair was lank, and Dyfed thought they only had six teeth among them. However, he could not be sure because their mouths were hidden in the shadows of their hooded capes when boarding the ship, and their smiles since sailing had been non-existent.

Dyfed thought he could make a good guess about who the targets were. He was native to Alba, Ynys Môn as it happened, but he had heard the rumors coming from the Five Kingdoms. Rumors of dissent and how the exiled warriors, Macc Cecht and Dond Desa, had run with the bastard son of Buachalla. By all reckonings, Buachalla was a beauty, and running with the fugitives.

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Buachalla and the boy both.

Dyfed knew it to be a rule of nature that no one could hide a beauty of that magnitude for long. And when that beauty was twofold, he supposed time would be halved.

The word in hostel common rooms was Nuadu had a price of ten cumhals on each of their heads. No one seemed interested in claiming the reward despite it being a good deal of money. Enough to last a frugal man most of his life. But for ordinary men, any attempt to kill Macc Cecht and Dond Desa would make that life very short. No, it would take a warrior of exceptional skill to accept the challenge, Conall Cernach, maybe. Most warriors of the required level had too much respect for the fugitives to do anything other than dream of the bounty.

A highly skilled warrior like Conall, or a knifeman or three honing knives in the belly of a longship, the merchant thought, while turning away from the men and looking at the approaching coastline.

He sighed. Thirty cumhals would sorely tempt most knifemen, he knew. Thirty cumhals would sorely tempt those who didn’t know Macc and Dond. Ordinary men like him—who did know—would dream for a little while and then turn their minds back to the simplicity that was their lives.

Dyfed was not dreaming of the bounty. Instead, he was thinking of the safest way to increase the three cumhals Nuadu had paid him, without delivering his cargo of bog creatures to Caergybi. It was less than honest, but he did not worry about robbing the High King. If rumor was to be believed, Nuadu would not last long. Someone would heed the people’s complaints and do something about it. Crossing the High King was not the danger. No, there would be more risk involved in crossing the druids. He called Olwen up to the prow and spoke to him at length with a lowered voice.

As night was beginning to fall, one of the three killers called from the belly of the ship, “When do we arrive at Caergybi?”

“We beach just before full dark,” Olwen called back. The man nodded and returned to honing his already sharp knife.

“Lower the sail and man the oars,” Olwen ordered as he walked back into the belly. None of the knifemen noticed the captain’s mate nod to three crewmen seated towards the back of the ship. Despite not having been told, the men knew what was expected. Each of them pulled a camán from under their rowing bench before creeping toward the belly of the vessel.

A short time later, the crew rowed the longship hard towards the beach below Caergybi. They would be on the sand around a night fire long before Dyfed’s prediction of total darkness. The merchant was happy enough. The crossing had been uneventful; his prayers to Manannán the night before, answered in full. No doubt aided by the sacrificial piglet he had thrown into the sea from the cliffs beside Brí Chualann. It always made him inexplicably sad to hear the squeals of the piglets as they tried to swim against the waves and avoid the rocks.

The following morning, the merchant jumped down from the beached ship and looked at the hillfort of Caergybi. He motioned for Olwen to throw him down the leather sack.

“I will hire a horse at the fort,” he said as he hefted the sack onto his shoulder.

“How long will you be?” Olwen asked.

“If I am right, and they are at Caer Leb, then I should be back for the early tide tomorrow.”

“Keep safe, Dyfed,” Olwen called as he turned away.

“Olwen,” Dyfed shouted to stop him. The captain’s mate turned back. “If I am not back by the evening tide, the ship is yours.”

The mate nodded, turned, and returned to the belly to resume his broken sleep.