Once, Baerd let her make the contact in a town. The woman was a weaver, widely known for her skill. Catriana had found her house at the edge of the village. Two dogs had barked at her approach and had been stilled by a mild voice from within. Inside, Catriana had found a woman only a little younger than her mother. She had made certain they were alone, and then, as Baerd had instructed, had shown her dolphin ring and given Alessan’s name and had spoken the message. The same message of readiness as everywhere else. Then she carefully named two men and spoke Baerd’s second message: Senzio. Midsummer. Tell them to be armed if they can.
The woman had gone pale, standing up abruptly as Catriana began to speak. She was very tall, even more so than Catriana herself. When the second message was done she had remained motionless a moment and then stepped forward to kiss Catriana on the mouth.
‘Triad bless you and keep you and the both of them,’ she had said. ‘I did not think I would live to see this day.’ She was crying; Catriana tasted salt on her lips.
She had walked out into the sunshine and back to Baerd and Sandre. They had just finished a purchase of a dozen barrels of Certandan ale. A wretched transaction.
‘We’re going north, you fools,’ she had exclaimed, exasperated, her trade instincts taking over. ‘They don’t like ale in Ferraut! You know that.’
‘Then we’ll have to drink it ourselves,’ Sandre said, swinging up on his horse and laughing. Baerd, who so rarely used to laugh, but who had changed since the Ember Days, began to chuckle suddenly. And then, sitting beside him on the cart as they rode out of town, so did she, listening to the two of them, feeling the clean freshness of the breeze blowing through her hair, and, as it seemed, through her heart.
It was that same day, early in the afternoon, that they came to the dell she loved and Baerd, remembering, pulled the cart off the road to let her go down to the pool and bathe. When she climbed back up neither man was laughing or amused any more, watching the Barbadians go by.
It was the way the two of them were standing that caused the trouble, she was sure of it. But by the time she came up beside them it was already too late. It would have been mostly Baerd whose look drew their attention. Sandre in his Khardhu guise was a matter of almost complete indifference to the Barbadians.
But a merchant, a minor trader with a single cart and a second scrawny horse, who stood gazing at an army passing in the way that this one did, coldly, his head arrogantly high, not even remotely submissive or chastened let alone showing any of the fear proper to such a situation …
The language of the body, Catriana thought, could be heard far too clearly sometimes. She looked at Baerd beside her, his dark eyes fixed in stony appraisal of the company passing by. It wasn’t arrogance, she decided, not just a male pride. It was something else, something older. A primitive response to this display of the Tyrant’s power that he could no more hide than he could the dozen barrels of ale they carried on the cart.
‘Stop it!’ she whispered fiercely. But even as she did she heard one of the Barbadians bark a terse command and half a dozen of them detached from the moving column of men and horses and galloped over towards them. Catriana’s mouth went dry. She saw Baerd glance over to where his bow lay in the grass. He shifted his stance slightly, to balance himself better. Sandre did the same.
‘What are you doing?’ she hissed. ‘Remember where we are!’
She had time for no more. The Barbadians came up to them, huge men on their horses, looking down on a man and a woman of the Palm and this gaunt, grey-haired relic from Khardhun.
‘I don’t like the look of your face,’ the leader said, staring at Baerd. The man’s hair was darker than that of most of the others, but his eyes were pale and hard.
Catriana swallowed. This was the first time in a year they’d had a confrontation so direct with the Barbadians. She lowered her eyes, willing Baerd to be calm, to say the right things.
What she did not know, for no one who had not been there could know, was what Baerd was seeing in that moment.
Not six Barbadians on horses by a road in Certando, but as many Ygrathen soldiers in the square before his father’s house long ago. So many years, and the memory still sharp as a wound from only yesterday. All the normal measures of time seemed to fall apart and blow away in moments such as this.
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 g
ood, 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, d
oubling 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.’