Story Update: Forging the Blade, Kithe and Kin, Chapter 6, 1/3
kageorge@EROLS.COM
Thu, 11 Jul 2002 10:02:04 -0700
Forging the Blade, Part II - Kithe and Kin
by MacGeorge
Rating, PG-13
~~~~~
GENTLE READERS: Late, late last night (actually early this
morning) I drafted three emails for re-reading and sending
today, when I had an opportunity to more cogently review
them. I *swear* I didn't hit "send" on any of them, I just
hit "save", as in "save draft of...". Then I immediately
shut the computer down and went to bed. That will teach me
to do *anything* on a computer when I am semi-conscious.
Evidently, the third of three parts went out last night and
for that I apologize all over the place for confusing the
heck out of everyone.
Anyway, here are the other two parts, again with my
apologies.
The html version of the story can be found at:
http://www.wordsmiths.net/MacGeorge/Boardwalk/kithe/kithe6.html
MacGeorge
See disclaimers and acknowledgments in previously posted
Part 0.
Chapter 6
~~~~~~
Being confined in a small space on board ship was a fact of
life, and one to which Connor had long become accustomed.
And living in close quarters with his kinsman and student
was also something that had become part and parcel of
everyday life. But confined in close quarters with a
sexually frustrated man being actively pursued by an equally
frustrated and sexually potent young woman was enough to
drive any sane man to the brink. It was almost as
irritating as being pursued by Brigitte himself.
"How about I just sleep below decks with the crew, and you
and Brigitte use our cabin," Connor groused, already knowing
what Duncan's answer would be. He was tempted to mouth the
words along with his student.
"Och, No, Connor!" Duncan responded predictably with a look
of affronted honor. "Not with the lass' father only a few
feet away. And she is wanting marriage, not just a quick
ride between the sheets." Duncan paced the two strides it
took to get from one side of their cabin to the other. "And
how could you tell her that I was looking for a bride? You
know that's not true, you bastard!"
Connor was sitting on his narrow bunk, slicing and eating a
slightly shriveled apple with his dirk. "I'm really sorry
about that. Must've been Seamus' grog. Didn't know what I
was saying." He didn't meet his student's dubious look,
concentrating diligently on the perfection of his cut of
apple.
Duncan narrowed his eyes at his teacher. "I don't recall
you drinking that much grog, Connor MacLeod."
Connor chuckled. "I'm surprised you recall anything at
all. You were passed out or puking for most of the next
day." He glanced up, and almost chuckled again when his
clansman's complexion faded to distinctly odd shade at the
memory of the aftereffects of Seamus' poisonous brew.
Fortunately for everyone, Seamus and Duncan had consumed the
last of the stuff that first night, or Seamus might not have
survived the trip. "I, however, am old enough that no
amount of grog actually makes me sick," he lied smoothly.
Duncan made a dubious noise and gave him a baleful look, so
Connor concentrated on the last of his apple. His student
was naive about some aspects of life, but he was not
stupid. It was best not to push his credibility too far.
~~~~~~~
The city of Genoa was a riot of color and odor and movement,
warmed and ripened by gentle Mediterranean breezes that had
the crew and passengers of the Brigitte stripping off layers
of clothing. Even so, the Genovese were well wrapped
against what, for them, was a crisp winter chill. Connor
carried his cloak over his arm, but Duncan had gone so far
as to pack his away in the trunks the crew was loading onto
carts to be hauled to a nearby inn.
Normally, Duncan would have been happily chattering about
all the new sights and sounds of the colorful city, but the
lad was still brooding over his difficult departure from
Brigitte, who had been left sobbing in their cabin,
convinced she would never love again. Connor felt a twinge
of guilt at his own less-than-honorable role in her misery
but firmly shoved the thought away. If it hadn't been
Duncan who had been forced to let her down, then he would
have had to do the deed himself, and he had far less ease
and flair with the ladies than did his handsome kinsman.
Brigitte was much better off suffering the gentle refusal of
Duncan MacLeod than the rude, brusque and ill-considered
dumping that Connor would have inflicted on her. Connor
just hoped he lived long enough to have some of Duncan's
finesse with the fairer sex rub off on his all-too-dense
teacher.
But Duncan couldn't stay introspective for too long with the
whitewashed buildings of the large port city gleaming in the
Mediterranean sun, and soon his head began to saw back and
forth as he tried to take in everything at once. By the end
of the half hour trek to their hotel, Duncan was peppering
him with questions and practicing his broad smile and a
friendly "Buon Giorno!" with every passerby.
Connor was just glad to be back in what he now considered
'real' civilization, and as the innkeeper suspiciously eyed
their kilts, he realized they would have to dress the part
of young Continental gentlemen in order to blend into the
crowds. That wasn't such a problem for him, as he still had
some appropriate clothing, but getting his student to wear
European fashions might prove to be a challenge.
"What's wrong with my kilt?" Duncan insisted when Connor
broached the topic at dinner. "It's relatively clean, it's
in good repair, and it is so warm here, why would anyone
want to wear britches? It's not healthy to constrict the
blood flow to certain parts of your body, you know, Connor,"
he added with a wink to his teacher.
"You've worn britches before, Duncan," Connor sighed. "It
is just so you will blend in more easily. No Immortal wants
to stand out in a crowd, and you do enough of that without
scaring half of the countryside into thinking they are about
to be attacked by a godless Northern Barbarian."
Duncan's eyes were twinkling as he eyed his teacher. "I'm
nay godless, Connor, and well you know it. Besides,
methinks yon signorinas might be pleased to be attacked by a
Northern Barbarian, godless or not." Connor turned to find
a cluster of women standing at the edge of the outdoor
eating area, fluttering their fans and whispering together
as they eyed the two unusually attired Scots.
"They're just laughing at your hairy legs, cousin," Connor
smirked.
"I'll have you know many a lass has told me I have strong,
fine legs, Connor MacLeod. Or maybe you should ask one of
them," he nodded again at the small crowd of daringly
dressed admirers.
"I'd be careful of asking them anything, Duncan, since
they're no doubt more interested in your purse than your
legs. And I mean your coin purse, kinsman, not the other
one."
Duncan looked shocked. "Nay. They're not!" Then he looked
more closely at the 'girls', several of whom waved at him
and cocked their hips suggestively. "Well," he sighed with
a twist of his mouth, "at least here they're a little
prettier than the ones in Edinburgh." Then a look of panic
flashed across his face and he ducked his head, finding
sudden fascination in his stew.
"Oh?" Connor asked, and put down his spoon with a clatter.
"And exactly what do you know of Edinburgh whorehouses,
Duncan MacLeod?"
"Mmm," Duncan mumbled around a large mouthful of food, and
shook his head and shrugged his shoulders all at the same
time.
Connor just put an elbow on the table and leaned against his
hand, and waited. Duncan dared glance up once, but returned
his eyes immediately to his bowl, spooning food quickly into
his mouth to keep it full. But Connor just kept waiting,
and finally Duncan was scraping the bottom of his bowl.
"Well," Duncan cleared his throat, and took a drink of his
wine, finishing it off in several long gulps. "That was
pretty good, aye?" he smiled, but it faltered a little when
all he got was a hard glare in return. Connor had been
perfecting the art of the glare for a good long while.
"Duncan?" Connor again asked softly.
Duncan cleared his throat again, shifted in his seat a
little and frowned, his eyes wandering anywhere but to his
teacher's face. "Well, I'm a grown man, Connor. You ha' no
call to treat me like some lad wet behind the ears."
"Then don't act like one. I asked you a simple question.
What do you know of Edinburgh whorehouses?"
Duncan shrugged. "Well, you spent a lot of time at the
bankers and the tailors and writing letters and such,
and...and haring off to Huntly's estate," Duncan waved his
arm dramatically. "You didn't expect me to just stay in
that tiny room, did you? After all, Connor it had been ..."
"I couldn't have left you alone for but a day, cousin. You
must've gone looking for them. Lord a' mercy, I thought you
got enough women for free without having to visit a
whorehouse. Do you know how dangerous that is? Many of
them are as like to slit your throat as bed ye!" Connor
heard his voice rise, and he glanced around to see if they
were drawing attention, but it was a wasted effort. Duncan
always drew attention.
"I'm no' a virgin, Connor," Duncan whispered loudly. "And
your friend Jamie knew the best places to go. It was really
quite fine, like nothing I'd ever seen. I'd have told you
before but Jamie said..."
"Jamie Graham took you to a whorehouse?" Connor again raised
his voice, finally giving up on any attempt at discretion.
"That bastard! And him a married man, although I suppose
among the nobility that's as makes no difference, but I
thought he had a wee bit more sense."
"Jamie's a fine lad!" Duncan vehemently defended the young
Earl of Montrose. "And he said as I was a friend of yours,
he would show me the best of Edinburgh. And so he did,"
Duncan finished with a determined smile. "I don't think
I've ever had so many, uh, adventures in one evening. And,"
Duncan added, leaning closer and with a definite leer in his
eye, "The ladies seemed quite impressed with my stamina."
"Listen to me, Duncan MacLeod," Connor leaned close.
"Whorehouses are notorious hangouts for thieves, brigands
and...Immortals. You weren't to go wandering about the city
without me. You disobeyed me, and could have easily gotten
robbed, killed or worse!"
"And you listen to me, Connor," Duncan whispered back
harshly. "I'm no' a child to be protected from all the
evils of the world."
"No, you're my student, which means you are supposed to be
learning from my experience and following my instructions,
not wandering off with a young scamp like Jamie Graham and
whoring all night!"
"You're just jealous because he didn't take you instead.
Well, you were too busy off hobnobbing and making deals with
the bloody Earl of Huntly to think about enjoying life a
little."
"It's those deals that keep us both clothed and fed, Duncan
MacLeod. Perhaps if you bothered to think about anything
more serious than your next fuck, you might not have to rely
on others." Oops. Once again Connor knew he had
overstepped, trampling Duncan's prickly sense of honor and
pride. Or had he? He had just caught a glimpse of a small,
triumphant glimmer in Duncan's eyes, and realized the
subject had been shifted far from its original topic.
"Well, Connor," Duncan rose to his full height, in what
Connor was beginning to suspect was a masterful display of
deliberately conjured insult, "If that's how you feel,
perhaps I should learn to find my own way!" He swirled and
strode out of the tavern in nothing less than a high
dudgeon.
"Well, I'll be," Connor smiled to himself, picking up his
spoon to finish his meal.
He took his time, savoring the plain but filling seafood
stew and the mediocre wine that was still a vast improvement
over shipboard fare. He paid the bill and wandered out into
the open piazza, where the setting sun was casting long
shadows from the multi-story buildings. He stretched out
his senses, followed his instincts and found his student
just off the square, watching some old men play bocce,
trying with gestures and his few phrases in Italian to learn
the rules.
Duncan glanced in Connor's direction, then turned
expectantly as Connor casually strolled closer.
"So, found a trade yet?" Connor asked, crossing his arms and
watching the bocce game with feigned interest.
Duncan's eyes widened a little in surprise, but then quickly
narrowed and he turned away, mimicking Connor's own stance
as they watched the subtle game of strategy and control. "I
could become a bodyguard to a rich nobleman," Duncan
announced.
"Really?" Connor asked. "You have no experience, no
contacts, and what Italian nobleman would hire a Northern
barbarian dressed in a skirt?"
"A skirt!? And you call yourself a Scot!" Duncan huffed.
They stood in companionable silence for a few minutes until
the light faded too much for the game to continue, then they
wandered away, back towards the inn. "That was pretty good,
Duncan," Connor finally broke the silence. "For a few
seconds there, you almost had me apologizing again."
Duncan's slowly materializing grin was unrepentant. "I did,
didn't I?"
For that Connor cuffed his student hard on the shoulder,
sending him stumbling away. "And the next time you decide
to go whoring, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, you'd
better take me with you!"
"Nay," he laughed, ducking a second cuff from his teacher,
then reaching out to drape an arm around Connor's
shoulders. "You'd scare off all the pretty women!"
~~~~~~~
Over the next several days, Connor got them to a clothier to
purchase some simple attire that was suitable for travel,
and found a coach to take them east to Ravenna. He would
wait to purchase horses there, since he knew the tradesmen
better in that area. But while Connor had not mentioned
Duncan's disobedient behavior in Edinburgh again, he had
nonetheless come to the conclusion that he needed to loosen
the tight rein he had held on Duncan over the past three
years.
The man was beginning to chafe at the restrictions, and
probably rightly so. Duncan truly was a grown man, despite
his relative infancy as an Immortal. It was far from easy,
however, to watch the lad disappear into a crowd of
strangers in his new soft brown breeches and coat, his large
claymore slung at his side, off to just wander the city or
perform some errand. Duncan was picking up Italian
remarkably quickly and within days had begun to grow a small
mustache, similar to what other well-dressed young men were
wearing, and was talking to shopkeepers and flirting with
anything in skirts. Connor feared the lad's open heart and
trusting attitude would surely get him into serious trouble,
but perhaps experience was the only real teacher of life's
hardest lessons. Even as Connor forced himself to give
Duncan more freedom, however, he emphasized to his student
that he expected that what rules he did establish were to be
strictly followed. From the beginning, Duncan had been
independent minded and strong-willed, but now that they were
out in the world, he had to understand its very real
dangers.
Connor felt the wash of Immortal presence from across the
cobblestone street, and headed towards the tavern he and
Duncan had frequented during their week in Genoa, but as he
stepped into the tavern's shadowed interior, a frisson of
unease crawled across his shoulders. The Immortal presence
he was feeling was amplified and disconcerting and he
automatically put his hand on his katana, scanning the room
for threats.
He spotted Duncan, who grinned and waved him over to a table
where several people were ensconced, but then Duncan's
outgoing ways frequently drew a crowd. When Connor frowned
at him meaningfully, Duncan just waved again, that cocky
grin of his broadening even wider. Connor carefully
examined each face as he approached, finally settling on one
that seemed a little more knowing, a little more wary than
the rest.
~~~~~
cont. in Chapter 6, part 2.