Whispers of the Dead (14 page)

Brehon Morann gave a soft sigh, a quiet hiss of breath that seemed to indicate his displeasure.

“Fidelma, today was the appointed day for your final examination in this series. The result of this day will determine whether you
achieve the degree of
Dos,
the minimum graduate degree. Those that pass this degree can continue their studies, and should they pass six to eight more years of study here, then the accolade of
ollamh
might await them at which they could sit with the High King himself and speak a judgment even before he speaks. But the person who has the quickest hand, let them have the white hound and the deer in the hunt. So let me remind you of certain facts.”

Brehon Morann paused, his eyes piercing upon her.

“Certain facts?” murmured Fidelma, trying to concentrate.

“Knowing these things, you came late to your examination. Did you not attempt to make an excuse for doing so?”

Fidelma hesitated for a fraction of a second and then said: “There was no excuse.”

“You came here and instead of responding to a direct question, you began to question a
Druimcli,
someone who has achieved the seventh and highest grade of wisdom and your questions have been… severe and condemning in tone. Let us put it this way, Fidelma, you have not set out to win our approval and yet the decision whether you obtain the degree of
Dos
lies in our hands.”

Fidelma flushed.

“I did not think that obtaining a degree lay with attempts to win approval from anyone. I thought it depended on an assessment of my knowledge of law,” she said quietly.

“Of law and your ability to apply it. Do you feel that you have displayed the knowledge that is relevant to judge the question that has been put before you?” Morann replied, his tone not changing.

“A very wise judge once told me that one should not give their judgment on hearing the first person’s story but to wait until one has heard the other side.”

Brehon Morann, in spite of his gravity, looked amused.

“Are you now trying to win my approbation by quoting me?”

“Not at all. What is true is true no matter whose mouth gives it utterance.”

“So you are saying that you cannot make a judgment?” intervened the
Druimcli.

Fidelma turned to him and shook her head.

“I cannot make a judgment on the particular case that I have heard but I can make a decision on the judgment given by the Brehon in that case.”

Druimcli
Firbis sat back with a half smile and made a gesture of invitation with one hand.

“You have a choice—the choice between
firbrith
or true judgment or
cilbrith
or false judgment.’

Firbis put the choice in the correct legal terms.

“I say that the judgment given by the Brehon in this case was
cilbrith
—a false judgment. I also believe,
Druimcli,
that the blemish rests on you; that you were the Brehon in this case.”

Firbis’s eyes narrowed a fraction.

“Why do you say this?”

“Because you seem to have an extraordinary knowledge of why the judge did certain things in this case. I also take into account the manner in which you selected the evidence, always in the judge’s favor, to present to me. You frequently showed how protective you were of the Brehon. That is, as I say, because I believe that you were the Brehon.”

Druimcli
Firbis smiled.

“Belief is not evidence.”

“No. But you are a
Druimcli
at Ardagh, which is the principal town of Tethbae where you said this case took place. In your haste to defend the Brehon in this case you also mentioned that he came from Ardagh. There is one conclusion to all these things. You spoke with the authority of the Brehon involved in the case and therefore you were the Brehon.”

Firbis’s expression was, curiously, one of approval.

Brehon Morann was smiling with equal accord.

“Well, Fidelma…”

“There is one thing more,” Fidelma interrupted.

Morann hesitated and raised an eyebrow in query.

“Something more?”

Fidelma nodded.

“This entire case was a fiction. It never happened. The reason why Firbis spoke with the authority of the Brehon in the case was because he invented the whole story and developed it as we went along as a means of testing me. No one of Firbis’s attainment would have acted in the way this Brehon would have done and yet, it was clear, that the Brehon involved was none other than Firbis. What was I to make of that? Feranaim, indeed! They very word means ‘Man without a name’! This was a test. Therefore, I concluded that Firbis invented the story to test the student.”

Brehon Morann was smiling.

“You are the first student that has ever seen beyond the nature of the test to that fact,” he said.

“The first student that has even spotted the identity of the Brehon,” agreed Firbis. “Most students try to make a guess answer at the moment that I ask the initial question.”

“But some others demand more knowledge?” queried Fidelma.

“Others do, but when we,” Firbis motioned to Morann, “argue and try to dissuade them from pressing their questions, they usually give up long before you did so. You kept on tenaciously. You have a good inquiring mind.”

“The purpose of this test is not only to show an inquiring mind and not spring to snap judgments,” Brehon Morann explained, “but to show to us that you have the tenacity in the face of opposition to carry on against odds, against authority, in your efforts to seek out the truth. Truth might be great and always prevail, but sometimes it needs someone who is tenacious in the face of apparently insurmountable barriers to prise it out of its hiding places. You have done well, Fidelma.”

Fidelma stood up looking from Firbis to Morann.

“Does that mean that I have passed this test?” she inquired blandly.

Brehon Morann almost grinned.

“The results will be announced in the morning assembly. You shall hear the result then—that is if you are not late again.”

Fidelma nodded, her gesture encompassing both Morann and Firbis.

At the door, she paused and turned back to them with a thoughtful expression.

“Will you also tell me tomorrow whether I passed today’s other test?” she asked brightly.

Brehon Morann regarded her warily.

“Other test?”

“I presume that locking me in my room on the morning of this test so that I might be late and therefore distracted was also to test my tenacity and whether I would function under stress?”

The expression in Brehon Morann’s face told her that she was correct in her assumption. With a mischievous, almost urchin-like smile, she closed the door quietly behind her.

I
have come to you in order to seek compensation for the loss of my goods.”

The man with the moon-like face stood before Fidelma in the court of the Brehons of Dair Inis with such an air of woe that he looked almost comical. Distress did not sit easily on his almost cherubic, virtuous features. His blue eyes stared as if in wondering innocence and his lower lip protruded slightly like a child expecting an admonition from an adult.

“Abaoth’s claim is without foundation,” interrupted the second man, who stood at his side.

Sister Fidelma did not like this thin, wiry individual. His voice grated in her ears with its high-pitched, almost whining note. He
was richly, almost ostentatiously, dressed and wore too much jewelery. Rich clothes ill became his physical appearance. She suddenly smiled to herself as she realized that his name suited his cunning looks. Olcán, the very name meant a wolf. He had the appearance of a scavenger.

Fidelma had been staying in the abbey established by Molena on Dair Inis, the island of oaks, standing in the waters of Abhainn Mór, the great river, not far from the trading settlement known as Eochaill, the yew wood, which guarded the estuary of the river. It was a busy port and Fidelma had often passed through it. She had only been in the abbey one night, when Abbot Accobrán had succumbed to a fever, which caused him to retire to his bed. He had requested that Fidelma, being duly qualified in law, take his place as Brehon and deliver the judgments during the court proceedings, which were due the next day.

Now Fidelma sat, trying to suppress her prejudice, as she viewed the two merchants from Eochaill making claim and counter-claim before the court.

“I seek compensation for the loss of my goods,” repeated Abaoth stubbornly.

“And I reject it,” replied Olcán with vehemence.

“The
scriptor
has already informed me of the nature of your claims,” replied Fidelma sharply. “However, I am lacking in details. Let us begin with you, Abaoth. You are a merchant in Eochaill?”

The round-faced man jerked his head in assertion.

“That I am, learned
ollamh,
” he replied in an obsequious manner.

“I am not an
ollamh,
” retorted Fidelma. She was sure that the man knew that fact. “I am a
dálaigh
but still qualified to hear your case. Proceed with the details.”

“Most learned
dálaigh,
I trade with the lands of the Britons, Saxons and Franks. I have a small fleet of trading vessels that take leather goods and the skins of otters and squirrels especially to the lands of the Franks and they return laden with corn and wine.
My ships off-load their cargoes at Eochaill where I hire the barges of Olcán to transport them along the Abhainn Mór to Lios Mór.”

“So you sell your goods to the abbey there?”

Fidelma was acquainted with the abbey founded thirty years before by Carthach and which was now a prominent center attracting religious from all five kingdoms of Éireann.

“Some portion of the goods are sold to the abbey,” nodded the merchant, “but most of the wine is purchased by the Prince of the Eóghanacht Glendamnach.”

“Very well. Proceed.”

“Learned
dálaigh,
on the last two occasions, Olcán claims that he has lost my cargoes. He refuses to pay me for that loss. I am not so rich that I can sustain the loss of two cargoes. The goods were lost while being transported by his barges. He is responsible for compensating me.”

Fidelma turned to the wiry-faced man with a frown.

“In what manner have the cargoes been lost?” she demanded.

Olcán made a gesture as if dismissing the matter.

“On two occasions my vessels have set off up-river for Lios Mór and disappeared,” Olcán replied. “My loss has been greater than Abaoth’s loss.”

Fidelma raised her head in surprise to study the man’s face. He was serious.

“Disappeared?” she echoed. “In what way did they disappear?”

“Having taken Abaoth’s cargoes onto my barges—these are the rivergoing vessels crewed by three men—the type known as
ethur
. . .”

“I am acquainted with such vessels,” Fidelma intervened with weary tone.

“Of course,” the man acknowledged. “The cargo was loaded into the barges. They set off up the river to Lios Mór and did not arrive. This has happened twice. The barges have disappeared. If anyone should be compensated it is I.”

Abaoth broke in with almost a whimper in his voice.

“It is not so. The Prince of Glandamnach is refusing to trade further with me because I do not deliver the goods he contracts for. I am not a rich man, learned
dálaigh.
Two cargoes lost in as many months. It is clear that thieves are at work and I must seek restitution.”

“What of the crews on these barges? What do they say?”

Again the thin-faced merchant shrugged eloquently.

“They have disappeared as well.”

This time Fidelma could not conceal her surprise.

“Six of your men have disappeared. Why was this not reported before?”

The merchant shuffled his feet in response to her sharp tone.

“I do so now in my counterclaim for compensation for my lost barges and…”

“These men might be dead,” she broke in. “I presume that you are looking after their dependants?”

Olcán grimaced irritably.

“I am a merchant not a charity… .”

“The law is specific,” snapped Fidelma. “You should know that you are responsible for all those who work for you, especially their medical expenses if injured in your employ. It is clearly stated in the
Leabhar Acaill.
I can only think that you are more concerned with your lost barges than the disappearance of your boatmen.”