Tigana by Guy Kay (novel24 txt) 📕

many times over the years, in the city itself and in the mountains of its distrada, finding in the harsh simple life of this province a strength and a clean directness that helped carry them both through the terribly slow, twistingly indirect paths of their lives.

He had known the city’s maze of streets infinitely better than the Barbadians who were barracked here. Known which houses could be quickly climbed, which roofs led to others, and which to avoid as dangerous dead-ends. It had been important, in the life they’d led, to know such things.

He’d cut south and then east from the market, and then scrambled up to the roof of The Shepherd’s Crook, their old tavern here, using the slanting cover of the adjacent woodpile as a springboard. He remembered doing the same thing years ago, dodging the night watch after curfew. Running low and quickly he crossed two roofs and then spanned a street by crawling along the top of one of the ramshackle covered bridges that linked houses on either side.

Behind him, far behind him very soon, he heard the sounds of pursuit being balked by seemingly inadvertent things. He could guess what those things might be: a milk-cart with a loose wheel, a quickly gathered crowd watching two men brawl in the street, a keg of wine spilled as it was wheeled into a tavern. He knew Tregea, which meant knowing the spirit of its people too.

In a short time he was a long way from the market square, having covered the distance entirely from roof to roof, flitting light-footed and unseen. He could have almost enjoyed the chase had he not been so worried about Catriana. At the higher, southern fringes of Tregea the houses grew taller and the streets wider. His memory did not fail him though; he knew which ways to angle in order to continue working upwards till he came to the house he sought and leaped to land on its roof.

He remained there for several moments, listening carefully for sounds of alarm in the street below. He heard only the ordinary traffic of late afternoon though, and so Baerd slipped the key out from its old hiding-place under the one burnt shingle, unlocked the flat trapdoor, and slipped down, noiselessly, into Tremazzo’s attic.

He lowered the door behind him and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Down below, in the apothecary’s shop itself he could hear voices quite clearly, and he quickly made out the unmistakable rumble of Tremazzo’s bass tones. It had been a long time, but some things seemed never to change. Around him he could smell soaps and perfumes, and the odours, astringent or sweet, of various medications. When he could see a little in the gloom he found the tattered armchair that Tremazzo used to leave up here for them and sank down into it. The very action brought back memories from years ago. Some things did not change.

Eventually the voices below fell silent. Listening carefully he could make out only the one distinctive, heavy tread in the shop. Leaning over, Baerd deliberately scratched the floor, the sound a rat might make in an attic room. But only a rat that could scratch three times quickly, and then once again. Three for the Triad as a whole, and one more for the god alone. Tregea and Tigana shared an ancient link to Adaon, and they had chosen to mark it when they devised their signal.

He heard the footsteps below stop, and then, a moment later, resume their measured tread, as if nothing had happened. Baerd leaned back in the chair to wait.

It didn’t take long. It was late in the day by now, nearly time to close up shop in any case. He heard Tremazzo sweeping the counter and floor and then the bang of the front door being shut and the click of the bolt driven home. A moment later the ladder was moved into place, footsteps ascended, the lower door swung back, and Tremazzo came into the attic, carrying a candle. He was puffing from exertion, bulkier than ever.

He set the candle on a crate and stood, hands on wide hips, looking down at Baerd. His clothes were very fine, and his black beard was neatly trimmed to a point. And scented, Baerd realized a second later.

Grinning, he rose to his feet and gestured at Tremazzo’s finery, pretending to sniff the air. The apothecary grimaced. ‘Customers,’ he grunted. ‘It is the fashion of the day. What they expect now in a shop like this. Soon we’ll be as bad as Senzio. Was it you that caused all the hue and cry this afternoon?’ No more than that; no greeting, no effusions. Tremazzo had always been thus, cool and direct as a wind out of the mountains.

‘I’m afraid so,’ Baerd replied. ‘Did the soldier die?’

‘Hardly,’ Tremazzo said in his familiar, dismissive tones. ‘You aren’t strong enough for that.’

‘Was there word of a woman caught?’

‘Not that I heard. Who is she?’

‘One of us, Tremazzo. Now listen, there is real news, and I need you to find a Khardu warrior and give him a message from me.’

Tremazzo’s eyes widened briefly as Baerd began, then narrowed with concentration as the story unfolded. It didn’t take long to explain. Tremazzo was nothing if not quick. The bulky apothecary was not a man to venture north to Senzio himself, but he could contact others who were and let them know. And he should be able to find Sandre at their inn. He went down the ladder once more and returned, puffing, with a wheel of bread and some cold meat, and a flask of good wine to go with them.

They touched palms briefly, then he left in search of Sandre. Sitting among the sundry items stored above an apothecary’s shop, Baerd ate and drank, waiting for darkness to fall. When he was sure the sun had set he slipped out on to the roof again and started back north through