Tigana (74 page)

Baerd forced himself to avert his gaze before the Barbadian’s glare. He knew he had made a mistake, knew this was a mistake he would always make if he wasn’t careful. He had been too euphoric though, rushing too fast on a floodtide of emotion, seeing this marching column as dancing to the tune he and Alessan had called. But it was early yet, far too early, so much lay unknown and uncontrollable in the future. And they had to live to see that future or everything would have been wasted. Years and lives, the patient conjuring of dream into reality.

He said, eyes cast down, voice low, ‘I am sorry if I have offended. I was only marvelling at you. We have not seen so many soldiers on the road in years.’

‘We moved aside to make way,’ Sandre added in his deep voice.

‘You be silent,’ the Barbadian leader rasped. ‘If I wish to converse with servants I will inform you.’ One of the others sidled his horse towards Sandre, forcing him to step backwards. Catriana, behind him, felt her legs grow weak. She reached out and gripped the railing of the cart; her palms were damp with fear. She saw two of the Barbadians staring at her with frank, smirking appraisal, and she was suddenly aware of how her clothing would be clinging to her body after her swim in the pond.

‘Forgive us,’ Baerd repeated, in a muffled tone. ‘We meant no harm, no harm at all.’

‘Really? Why were you counting our numbers?’

‘Counting? Your numbers? Why would I do such a thing?’

‘You tell me, merchant.’

‘It is not so,’ Baerd protested, inwardly cursing himself as an amateur and a fool. After twelve years, something so
clumsy as this! The situation was careening out of control, and the simple fact was that he had indeed been counting the Barbadian numbers. ‘We are only traders,’ he added. ‘Only minor traders.’

‘With a Khardhu warrior for guard? Not so minor, I would say.’

Baerd blinked, and clutched his hands together deferentially. He had made a terrible mistake. This man was dangerously sharp.

‘I was afraid for my wife,’ he said. ‘There have been rumours of outlaws in the south, of great unrest.’ Which was true. There were, in fact, more than rumours. Twenty-five Barbadians had been slaughtered in a pass. He was fairly certain Alessan had been there.

‘Your wife or your goods?’ one of the other Barbadians sneered. ‘We know which you people value more.’ He looked past Baerd to where Catriana stood, and there was a loose, heavy-lidded look on his face. The other soldiers laughed. Baerd quickly lowered his head again; he didn’t want them to see the death that was in his eyes. He remembered that kind of laughter, the resonance of it. Where it could lead. Had led, in a square in Tigana eighteen years ago. He was silent, eyes downcast, murder in his heart, bound close with memory.

‘What are you carrying?’ the first Barbadian rapped out, his voice blunt as a trowel.

‘Ale,’ Baerd said, squeezing his hands together. ‘Only barrels of ale for the north.’

‘Ale for
Ferraut
? You
are
a liar. Or a fool.’

‘No, no,’ Baerd said hastily. ‘Not Ferraut. We got a very good price. Eleven astins a barrel. Good enough to be worth taking all the way north. We are bound for Astibar with this. We can sell it for three times that.’

Which would have been true, had he not paid twenty-three astins for each of these.

At a gesture from the leader two of the Barbadians dismounted. They cracked open one of the barrels, using their swords as levers. The pungent, earthy smell of Certandan beer surrounded them all.

The leader looked over, saw his men nod, and turned back to Baerd. There was a malicious smile on his face.

‘Eleven astins a barrel? Truly a good price. So good, that even a grasping merchant will not hesitate to donate them to the army of Barbadior that defends you and your kind.’

Baerd had been half expecting this. Careful to stay in character, he said, ‘If … if it is your desire, then yes. Would you … would you care to buy it, at only the price I paid?’

There was a silence. Behind the six Barbadians the army was still marching down the road. It had almost passed them by. He had a decent estimate of how many there were. Then the man on the horse in front of him drew his sword. Baerd heard Catriana make a small sound behind him. The Barbadian leaned forward over the neck of his horse, weapon extended, and delicately touched Baerd on his bearded cheek with the flat of his blade.

‘We do not bargain,’ he said softly. ‘Nor do we steal. We accept gifts. Offer us a gift, merchant.’ He moved the blade a little. Baerd could feel it nicking and fretting against his face.

‘Please accept … please accept this ale from us as a gift to the men of the Third Company,’ he said. With an effort he kept his eyes averted from the man’s face.

‘Why thank you, merchant,’ the man said with lazy sarcasm. Slowly, sliding it along Baerd’s cheek like an evil caress, he drew back his sword. ‘And since you have given us these barrels, you will surely not begrudge us the horse and cart that carry them?’

‘Take the cart as well,’ Baerd heard himself saying. He felt suddenly as if he had left his body. As if he were floating above this scene, looking down.

And it was as from that high, detached vantage point that he seemed to see the Barbadians move to claim their wagon. They attached the cart-horse to the traces again. One of them, younger than the others, slung their packs and food out on to the ground. He looked shyly back at Catriana, a little abashed, then he mounted quickly up on the seat and clucked at the horse, and the cart rolled slowly away to where the tail of the Barbadian column was moving along the road.

The five other men, leading his horse, followed after him. They were laughing, the easy, spilling laughter of men among each other, sure of their place and of the shape of their lives. Baerd glanced over at his bow again. He was fairly certain he could kill all six of them, starting with the leader, before anyone could intervene.

He didn’t move. None of them moved until the last of the column was out of sight, their cart rumbling after it. Baerd turned then and looked at Catriana. She was trembling, but he knew her well enough to know it was as much with anger as with fear.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, reaching up a hand to touch her arm.

‘I could kill you, Baerd, for giving me such a fright.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘And I would deserve to be dead. I underestimated them.’

‘Could have been worse,’ Sandre said prosaically.

‘Oh, somewhat,’ Catriana said tartly. ‘We could all be lying dead here now.’

‘That would indeed have been worse,’ Sandre agreed gravely.

It took her a moment to realize he was teasing her. She surprised herself by laughing, a little wildly.

Sandre, his darkened face sober, said something quite unexpected then. ‘You have no idea,’ he murmured, ‘how dearly I wish you were of my blood. My daughter, granddaughter. Will you allow me to take pride in what you are?’

She was so surprised she could think of nothing to say. A moment later, deeply moved, she went forward and kissed him on the cheek. He put his long, bony arms around her and held her to his chest for a moment, carefully, as if she was fragile, or very precious, or both. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had held her that way.

He stepped back, clearing his throat awkwardly. She saw that Baerd’s expression was unwontedly soft, looking at the two of them.

‘This is all extremely lovely,’ she said, deliberately dry. ‘Shall we spend the day here telling each other what splendid people we think we are?’

Baerd grinned. ‘Not a bad idea, but not the very best. I think we’ll have to double back to where we bought the ale. We need another cart and horse.’

‘Good. I could use a flask of ale,’ Sandre said.

Catriana glanced quickly back at him, caught the wry look in his eye, and laughed. She knew what he was doing, but she would never have expected to be able to laugh so soon after seeing a sword against Baerd’s face.

Baerd collected his bow and quiver from the grass. They shouldered their packs and made her ride the horse—nothing else, Sandre said, would look right. She wanted to argue but couldn’t. And she was secretly grateful for the chance to ride; her knees were still weak.

It was very dusty along the road for a mile or two because of the army, and they kept to the grass beside it. Her horse startled a rabbit and before she could even register the fact, Baerd had notched an arrow and shot, and the animal was dead. They traded it a short while later at a farmhouse for a pitcher of ale and some bread and cheese and then went on.

Late in the day, by the time they had made their slow way back to the village, Catriana had convinced herself that the
incident had been unfortunate, but not really important after all.

Eight days later they were in Tregea town. They had seen no other soldiers in the intervening week, their path having taken them far off the major roads. They left the new cart and goods at their usual inn and walked down to the central market. It was late in the afternoon, a warm day for spring. Looking north between the buildings towards the docks, Catriana could see the masts of the first ships to come up the river after the winter. Sandre had stopped at a leather stall to have repairs done to the belt that held his sword. As she and Baerd moved through the crowded square, a Barbadian mercenary, older than most, moving with a limp, and probably drunk on spring wine, stumbled out of a tavern, saw her, and lurched over to grope clumsily at her breasts and between her legs.

She shrieked, more startled than anything else.

And a moment later wished with all her heart that she had not done so. Baerd, just ahead of her, wheeled, saw the man, and with the same deadly, reflexive speed that had killed the rabbit, flattened the Barbadian with a colossal blow to the side of his head.

And Catriana knew—knew in that moment with utter and absolute certainty—that he was striking out not just against a drunken reserve guard, but against the officer who had touched him with a sword by that grove in Certando a week before.

There was a sudden, frightened silence around them. And then an immediate babble of sound. They looked at each other for a blurred, flashing second.

‘Run!’ Baerd ordered harshly. ‘Meet tonight by the place where you came up from the river last winter. If I am not there go on by yourselves. You know the names. There are only a handful left. Eanna guard you all!’

Then he was gone, sprinting through the square the way they had come, as a cluster of mercenaries began fanning out quickly through the crowd towards them. The man on the ground had not moved. Catriana didn’t wait to see if he would. She cut off the other way as fast as she could run. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Sandre at the leather stall watching them, his face loose with shock. She was careful, desperately careful, not to look at him, not to run that way. That one of them, oh, Triad please be willing,
one
of them might make it from this place alive and free, with the names known and the dream still carried towards Midsummer’s fires.

She darted down a crowded street and then sharply left at the first crossing into the warren of twisting lanes that made up the oldest quarter of Tregea near the river. Over her head the second storeys of houses leaned crazily out towards each other, and what filtered through of the sunlight was completely blocked in places by the enclosed bridges that connected the ramshackle buildings on either side of the street.

She looked back and saw four of the mercenaries following her, pounding loudly down the lane. One of them shouted a command to halt. If any of them had a bow, Catriana thought, she was quite likely to die in the next few seconds. Dodging from side to side she cut to her right down an alleyway and then quickly right again at the first crossing, doubling back the way she had come.

There were three names on Baerd’s list here in Tregea, and she knew where two of them might be found, but there was no way she could go to them for succour, not with the Barbadians so close behind. She would have to lose the pursuit herself, if she could, and leave it to Sandre to make the contact. Or Baerd, if he survived.

She ducked under the flapping ends of someone’s wash hanging above the street, and knifed over to her left towards
the water. There were people milling about in the lanes, glancing up with mild curiosity as she went by. Their glances would change in a moment, she knew, when the Barbadians rumbled through after her.

The streets were a hopelessly jumbled maze. She wasn’t certain where she was, only that the river was north of her; at fleeting intervals she could glimpse the topmost masts of the ships. The waterfront would be dangerous though, much too open and exposed. She doubled back south again, her lungs sucking for air. Behind her, she heard a crashing sound and then a cacophony of irate shouts and curses.

She stumbled going around another corner to her right. Every moment, every turning, she expected this chaos of lanes to lead her straight back into her pursuers. If they fanned out she was probably finished. A wheelwright’s cart blocked the lane. She flattened herself against the wall and sidled sideways past. Came to another crossing of roads. Sprinted straight through this time, past half a dozen children playing a skipping game with ropes. Turned at the second crossing.

And was grabbed hard just above her right elbow. She started to scream, but a hand was quickly slapped over her mouth. She bared her teeth to bite, violently twisting to escape. Then suddenly she froze in disbelief.

‘Quietly, my heart. And come this way,’ said Rovigo d’Astibar, removing his palm from her mouth. ‘No running. They are two streets over. Look as if you’re walking with me.’ Hand on her arm he guided her quickly into a tiny, almost deserted lane, looked back once over his shoulder, and then propelled her through the doorway of a fabric shop. ‘Now down behind the counter, quickly.’

‘How did you …?’ she gasped.

‘Saw you in the square. Followed you here. Move, girl!’ She moved. An old woman took her hand and squeezed it, then lifted a hinged counter and Catriana ducked through
and dropped to the floor behind it. A moment later the hinge swung up again and her heart stopped as a shadow appeared above her holding something long and sharp.