Tigana by Guy Kay (novel24 txt) 📕

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