The port of Corrán stank, but it wasn't the smell of the ocean. No, this town stank like human ambition.

  Cú Dubh guided his boat into the harbor, keeping to the smaller berths where the fishing vessels clustered. Stone buildings climbed the hillside in uneven tiers, slate roofs dark with rain. Above it all, perched on the cliff like a carrion bird, sat the manor house of Lord Tighearnán.

  And in the deep water near the harbor mouth, three longships sat at anchor. They were Norse with dragon prows and square sails furled. However, these were not raiders. They were flying parley flags, white cloth snapping in the wind.

  Interesting.

  He tied off his boat and climbed onto the dock. Heart-B sat heavy in the satchel at his side, pulsing faintly. Cú Dubh wasn't sure if he could feel it because of their tenuous connection or if anyone could. He hoped to keep it his secret either way.

  No one looked at him directly, but everyone saw him. The yellow eyes and the dog's head. He was used to it.

  Humans in the Drowned Isles knew that duine sí existed, the fairy-people, but they lived in the woods and oceans. Rarely did they interact with people and never did they walk into a human settlement like this.

  Cú Dubh liked the fear he stirred in these monkeys.

  He found a tavern near the docks and took a seat in the corner. The owner and his daughter just stared at him, but did not approach. It was fine, he wasn't there to order anything. He came to listen.

  The tavern had been silent, even after he had taken a seat, but conversation soon began again after the curiosity had subsided.

  Cú Dubh closed his eyes and angled his ears. He began to pick up the conversations until he found one he was looking for. Two male voices, talking in hushed tones.

  "He's going to sign it. Mark my words. By sun up, we'll be sharing the Isles with Norsemen."

  "Can you blame him? Fifteen years of raids and losses. Villages burned up and down the Isles. That patrol in the spring, what was it, twelve boats sunk?"

  "Fourteen."

  "Fourteen, gutted on the ocean like fish."

  "Losing boats ain't the same as losing land."

  "So Tighearnán gives them land. Better than us going off to die fighting them."

  "Aye, maybe. And maybe this'll just be somewhere to winter." A pause, the sound of spitting. "But next year they'll want more. And the year after that. And after that."

  "I get it, truly, but what else can he do? Fight them with what? Every farmer holding a spear is a field gone fallow. Fishermen round here can only do so much."

  "I'm not saying he's wrong. I'm saying it's shameful. His father would have died before he signed."

  "His father did die. To a Viking axe no less. Tighearnán is trying to make sure we all don't meet the same fate."

  In his timeline, this conversation would have never happened. He'd spent years making sure of it. He burned Norse ships, killed their raiders, and taught all that the Drowned Isles had teeth. Tighearnán had never faced this choice because Cú Dubh had made sure he never had to.

  It had never been a favor to Tighearnán or humanity, but it had allowed Cú Dubh access to the Lord's manor and everything that meant. The soldiers and spies. It's what had led him to the Knot in the first place.

  But here, the Loom had slept. The Hound had never hunted, and the Norse had learned that the Isles were soft.

  He left coin on the table and climbed the cliff road.

  The guards at the manor gate were distracted, eyes flicking between him and the main doors. Something was happening inside. They crossed their spears and demanded his business.

  "I have information for Lord Tighearnán. About the Norse."

  "His lordship is occupied."

  "I'll wait."

  They looked at each other, and one shrugged. They let him into the courtyard and told him to stay there.

  He didn't.

  The manor was old money pretending to be older. Tapestries on the walls, weapons too clean to have seen use. He followed the sound of voices to a receiving room on the second floor. The doors were open. Guards flanked the entrance, but their attention was on what was happening inside.

  Cú Dubh found a place against the wall where he could see without being seen. The lighting was flickering and the walls were dark. His black armor blended in with the dark stone. He observed the scene before him, and the room was tense.

  Tighearnán sat in a high-backed chair. He looked older than Cú Dubh expected with a scar across his cheek. The time losing to Vikings had clearly left its mark on him. A document lay on the table before him. The treaty.

  Across from him stood the Norse delegation. Four men in travel leathers, axes on their belts. The one doing the talking was young, maybe twenty-five, with a blond beard and the easy confidence of someone who thought they'd already won. This would be the Viking ambassador. Cú Dubh didn't know if he had killed this man in his timeline, but he definitely fought the man behind him.

  Leif, the Unbroken. He was the youngest son of a jarl. One that couldn't inherit so he went out to fight. Apparently, he was escorting the ambassador. Cú Dubh had fought him twice back in his timeline. Both times, the man had escaped the final blow. Unbroken didn't mean unbeaten, apparently.

  And standing behind Tighearnán, arms crossed, face carved from stone, was Fiachra, the captain of the Fianna. He had been twenty when Cú Dubh had first met him, already a prodigy. Now, he was older, with a scar across his nose and cheeks. He stood with a knight's stillness, but his presence filled the room like a held breath.

  He didn't like this. Cú Dubh could see it in the set of his shoulders, the way his eyes tracked Leif's movements. He was a man watching his lord make a mistake and unable to stop it.

  "The terms are generous," the ambassador was saying. "My king could have taken twice as much. He respects Lord Tighearnán's position."

  "Your king respects that I still have enough men to make taking it costly." Tighearnán's voice was mild, but the edge was there.

  "For now." The man said with a thick accent. "Ships can always carry more men. How many can your islands raise? How many seasons can your stores save you when you have no more men to push plows or raise nets?"

  "We're aware of the mathematics."

  "Then sign. Take the generous terms. Let us be neighbors instead of enemies." The man spread his hands. "It's not so bad, being friends with the Norse. We make loyal allies."

  "And hungry ones."

  Fiachra let out a noise. It was quiet, but it cut through the room.

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  Both the lord and the ambassador turned. The smile didn't waver, but something behind it sharpened. "The captain has concerns."

  "The captain has eyes." Fiachra didn't move from his position behind Tighearnán's chair. "A foothold becomes a beach. A beach becomes a port. A port becomes a kingdom. Same thing they did to Offset Isles and half the archipelago."

  "Ancient history."

  "History has a way of repeating."

  "Only for those who can't adapt." Leif took a step past the ambassador and toward Fiachra. The guards at the door shifted. "Your lord understands the situation. Perhaps you should trust his judgment."

  The ambassador held out a hand and Leif paused. Cú Dubh had known these two to dislike each other, but Fiachra had held the Unbroken with a special regard. A mutual respect of martial prowess.

  "I trust my lord. I don't trust you."

  "Fiachra." Tighearnán's voice carried a warning.

  "My lord, I've held my tongue through six weeks of this. I won't stand here and pretend this is anything other than what it is." Fiachra's jaw was tight. "They're not offering peace. They're offering a leash. The moment we put it on, they'll start pulling."

  Leif laughed. "A leash. Is that what you think?" He looked at his ambassador and then at Tighearnán. "Your dog has strong opinions."

  "My captain speaks freely. It's why I keep him."

  "Perhaps you keep him too freely." Leif's eyes hadn't left Fiachra. "In my father's hall, a man who spoke to guests this way would answer for it."

  "We're not in your father's hall."

  "No, not yet." The smile again, sharp as a blade. "Something to consider, Captain. When the treaty is signed, we'll be returning often. I'd hate for our friendship to start on poor footing."

  Fiachra said nothing. His hand rested on his belt, inches from his sword.

  Cú Dubh watched. The tension was a living thing now, coiled in the space between the two men. Leif was pushing and enjoying himself. Fiachra was holding, but only barely. A soldier's discipline kept him still when everything in him wanted to move.

  All it would take was a spark.

  "Perhaps," Tighearnán said carefully, "we should take a recess. Tempers are high. The treaty will still be here in an hour."

  "Of course." The ambassador gave a shallow bow. "We'll wait. We're patient men." He turned to rejoin his delegation. Leif stood firm, just looking back at Fiachra.

  "I wonder, Captain, when your lord signs away his pride, piece by piece, how long before he signs away you? The Norse have no use for dogs who bare their teeth at their masters' friends."

  Leif's hand was resting on his axe, and Fiachra's was holding his hilt.

  Cú Dubh moved.

  He crossed the room in silence until he was behind the Norse contingent and positioned himself next to a heavy black drape. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the knife coated in a venom he had learned from a village of duine sí just before he wiped them out. Unfortunately, their village held no secrets for the Weaver, but vials of their poison remained.

  With a subtle flick, he sent the small throwing knife across the room. Before it found its target, he ducked behind the drape and listened.

  He heard it bury itself deep into Tighearnán's seat. He had missed, but only just. Enough to make it look like a real throw coming from the direction of the Norse contingent. He looked out once he heard the first sword leave its scabbard.

  Fiachra reacted on instinct. A soldier's instinct. His sword cleared its scabbard and came down on Leif before the words left his mouth.

  "You dare…" Leif began.

  But Fiachra was already swinging.

  "Stop!" Tighearnán was on his feet. "Both of you, stop!"

  No one stopped.

  Leif swung his axe, and Fiachra parried. The other Norsemen were reaching for weapons. The guards at the door were shouting. The room collapsed into chaos.

  Cú Dubh watched for two heartbeats. Then he drew his scythe and went to work.

  Fiachra and Leif were locked together, blade against blade, too focused on each other to see him coming. He took Fiachra first, the scythe opened his throat from behind, quick and clean. The captain made a sound like a question and fell.

  Leif had half a second to register what had happened. His eyes went wide. He tried to turn.

  Cú Dubh's blade took him across the chest. He fell across Fiachra's body, and they died together on the stone floor.

  The other Norsemen were slower. They'd drawn their weapons, but they hadn't expected the fight to come from the side. Cú Dubh moved through them like wind through wheat. One, two, three. The scythe rose and fell. Blood sprayed across the tapestries, across the scattered treaty, across Lord Tighearnán's frozen face.

  Then it was done.

  Cú Dubh stood in the center of the room, breathing evenly. Four Norsemen dead. Fiachra dead. The parley dead.

  The guards at the door had their swords out, but they hadn't moved. They were staring at him like men who'd seen a wolf walk into a sheep pen and didn't know whether to run or fight.

  Tighearnán stared at the bodies. At the blood pooling on his floor. At the treaty, now soaked red and illegible.

  "What..." His voice was barely a whisper. "What have you done?"

  "Solved your problem." Cú Dubh cleaned his blade on Leif's cloak and sheathed it. "You were about to give away part of your domain to men who would have taken the rest within a decade. Now you don't have to."

  "You've killed them. You've killed a diplomatic delegation under parley. You've…" Tighearnán's voice cracked. "The ships. When the ships find out…"

  "The ships are next."

  Tighearnán went still.

  "Where I come from," Cú Dubh said, "the Norse know their place. I taught them. Spent years teaching them, in fact. Fire and blood. The only language they don't forget." He stepped over Fiachra's body, moving toward Tighearnán. The lord flinched but didn't retreat. "I can teach these ones, too. By morning, those longships will be kindling, and their crews will be feeding the fish. The jarl will hear about it eventually. By the time he sends more, this will all be but a bad dream. I swear it."

  "I don't doubt your prowess with a blade, duine sí, but why?" Tighearnán's eyes searched his face, looking for something human. They didn't find it. "Why would you do this?"

  "Because I need something from you. Something small."

  "What could you possibly…"

  "Men. A small force. Not for the Norse, I'll handle them myself before sunrise." Cú Dubh stopped an arm's length from the lord's chair. "I'm looking for someone. A fisherman's son from a village near Ballinacor. His name is Oisín. Your men know the coastline. They can ask questions and close the net quicker than one creature such as me. Find me this boy, and I'll make sure the Norse never trouble your waters again."

  Tighearnán looked at the bodies on his floor. At his dead captain. At the blood on his walls.

  "That's all you want? Help finding some fisherman's boy?"

  "That's all."

  "Why? What is he to you?"

  "My business." Cú Dubh smiled, and it was not a pleasant expression. "Do we have a deal?" He extended a furred hand.

  The silence stretched. Tighearnán was calculating, and Cú Dubh could see it behind his eyes. The lord was already complicit in the murder of a diplomatic delegation. His captain had disobeyed orders and was dead because of it. The only person who could save him from the consequences was the creature before him. He did not know he was the same creature that had pushed him into that fire to begin with.

  He didn't have a choice. He knew it. They both knew it.

  "Find the boy," Tighearnán said quietly. "Bring him to me, and then do what you promised with those ships."

  "The ships first. Then your men help me find the boy." Cú Dubh turned toward the door. "I'll need quarters, someplace to set my things. The east tower should give me a satisfactory view of the harbor."

  Tighearnán eyed him suspiciously. "The east tower? You know my manor well?"

  "Aye, my Lord, I have been here many times, but you have never seen me once. Tell yourself what that means."

  Tighearnán just nodded at that. "I'll… have it cleared."

  "Good, and bring me a map with the local fishing villages outside Ballinacor."

  He walked past the guards, who parted for him like water around a stone. Behind him, Tighearnán was already calling for servants, for someone to clean up the bodies and to begin gathering troops for the search.

  Cú Dubh climbed the stairs to the east tower. The harbor spread out below him, grey water under a dark sky. The three longships sat at anchor, their crews unaware that their delegation was dead, that their jarl's son was cooling on a stone floor, that everything had changed.

  The wooden door soon rattled with a pounding. Cú Dubh opened it to find two people on the other side. A young man with dark curly hair, brown skin, and a short beard. His armor was mismatched, a single pauldron on one shoulder, worn leather, and a short sword at his hip. A mercenary. He held a rolled map in one hand and kept his eyes fixed somewhere around Cú Dubh's chest.

  Beside him stood a serving girl with a tray of bread and cold meat.

  "Your map," the mercenary said, holding it out. "And supper."

  Cú Dubh stepped aside to let them in. The mercenary entered first, then moved to the window, putting distance between himself and the doorway. The serving girl crossed to the table and set down the tray. When she turned to leave, the mercenary was in her path.

  The stairwell door was narrow. She waited for him to move. He didn't step aside so much as flatten himself against the wall, arms pressed to his sides, chin tucked, like proximity to her was something physical he needed to avoid. She gave him an odd look and squeezed past. Even then, he twisted away from her, shoulder blades scraping stone, as if her sleeve brushing his arm would burn.

  Cú Dubh watched this performance with mild interest. He knew this soldier from his time working with Tighearnán back in Timeline-A. He was the same there. Whatever had splintered the timelines hadn't changed his damage. This one's was peculiar, but not his concern.

  "Your name," Cú Dubh demanded, already knowing the answer.

  "Kiran." The mercenary straightened once the girl was gone, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.

  "Well, Kiran." Cú Dubh took the map and crossed to the table. He unrolled it and studied the coastline north of Ballinacor. A dozen small villages dotted the shore, fishing communities that probably hadn't changed in generations. The boy was in one of them. He just had to figure out which. "Make sure no one disturbs me until morning. I don't want anyone approaching this tower while I'm away."

  "Understood." Kiran nodded and disappeared down the stairs.

  He listened to the feet descend the stairwell before he drew Heart-B from his satchel and held it with both hands.

  The ships first. Then the boy.

  He set it down on the satchel and descended the stairs. The night's violence had only just begun.