Tigana (41 page)

Devin worried about Baerd, in part because he knew that Alessan did.

His first impression in the cabin had been mostly wrong: a big, blond man, intimidatingly cool and competent. But Baerd was dark-haired and not actually large at all and, though his competence ran to such an astonishing number of things that it could still be intimidating after six months, he wasn’t really cool. Only guarded, careful. Closed tightly around the kernel of the hurt he had lived with for a long time.

In some ways, Devin realized, Alessan had it easier than Baerd. The Prince could find a temporary release in talk, in laughter, and most of all, and almost always, in music. Baerd seemed to have no release at all; he walked through a world shaped and reshaped every single moment around the knowledge that Tigana was gone.

It would drive him out at night sometimes, away from sleep, or from a fire they’d built up by a road. He would rise without warning, neatly, quietly, and go out into the darkness alone.

Devin would watch Alessan watching Baerd as he went away.

‘I knew a man like him once,’ Sandre said gravely one night after Baerd had left a warm room in a tavern for a fog-shrouded winter night in the Tregean hills near Borifort. ‘He used to have to go away by himself to fight off a need to kill.’

‘That would be a part of it,’ Alessan had said.

Thoughts of winter, mood of a winter’s night.

But it was spring now, and as the sap of the earth rose green-gold to the warming light so did Devin feel his own mood lifting to the stir and quickening of the world through which they rode.

Wait for springtime,
Alessan had said amid the browns and reds of autumn trees and the bare, harvested vines. And spring was upon them now, with the Ember Days approaching fast and at last—at long last—they were on the road for
Certando and whatever answers lay there. Devin could not quell and did not want to quell the sense rising within him like sap in the green woods that whatever was going to happen was going to begin to happen soon.

In the second cart beside Baerd he felt gloriously, importantly alive. Ahead of them the glint of afternoon sunlight in Catriana’s hair was doing something strange and wonderful to his blood. He was aware of Baerd giving him a curious scrutiny, and caught a half-smile playing across the other’s face. He didn’t care. He was even glad. Baerd was his friend.

Devin began a song. A very old ballad of the road, ‘The Song of the Wayfarer’:

I’m a long way from the house where I was born
And this is just another winding trail,
But when the sun goes down both of the moons will rise
And Eanna’s stars will hear me tell my tale …

Alessan, whatever his mood might be, was almost always ready to join in a song and, sure enough, Devin had the Tregean pipes with him by the second verse. He looked over and caught a wink from the Prince riding beside them.

Catriana glanced back at them reprovingly. Devin grinned at her and shrugged, and Alessan’s pipes suddenly spun into a wilder dance of invitation. Catriana tried and failed to suppress a smile. She joined them on the third verse and then led them into the next song.

Later, in the summer, Devin would revive that image of the five of them in the first hour of the long ride south and the memory would make him feel very old.

He was young that day. In a way they all were, briefly—even Sandre, joining in on the choruses he knew in a passable baritone voice, reborn into his new identity, with a new hope to his long, unfading dream.

Devin took the third song back from Catriana, and sent his high clear voice along the road before them to lead the way down the sunlit, winding trail to Certando, to the Lady of Castle Borso, whoever she might be, and to whatever it was that Alessan had to find in the highlands.

First though, nearing sundown, they overtook a traveller on the road.

In itself that wasn’t unusual. They were still in Ferraut, in the populated country north of Fort Ciorone where busy highways from Tregea and Corte met the north-south road they were on. Solitary travellers, on the other hand, were sufficiently rare for Devin to join Baerd in scanning the sides of the road to see if others were hidden in ambush.

A routine precaution, but they were in country where thieves would not survive long and in any case it was still daylight. Then as they grew nearer Devin saw the small harp slung over the man’s back. A troubadour. Devin grinned; they were almost always good company.

The man had turned and was waiting for them to catch up. The deep bow he offered Catriana as she pulled the lead cart to a halt beside him was of such courtly grace it almost looked like a parody on the lonely road.

‘I’ve been enjoying the sound of you for the last mile,’ he said, straightening. ‘I must say I’m enjoying the sight of you even more.’ He was tall, no longer young, with long, greying hair and quick eyes. He gave Catriana the sort of smile for which the troubadours of the Palm were notorious. His teeth were white and even in a leathery face.

‘Heading south with the spring?’ she asked, smiling politely at his flattery. ‘The old route?’

‘I am indeed,’ he replied. ‘The old route at the usual time. And I’d hate to tell someone as young and beautiful as you how many years I’ve been doing it.’

Devin jumped down from beside Baerd and strolled closer to the man to confirm something. ‘I could probably guess,’ he said, grinning, ‘because I think I remember you. We did a wedding season in Certando together. Did you play harp for Burnet di Corte two years ago?’

The sharp eyes looked him up and down. ‘I did,’ the troubadour admitted after a moment. ‘I’m Erlein di Senzio and I was with damned Burnet for a season all right. Then he cheated me of my wages and I decided I was happier on my own again. I
thought
those were professional voices behind me. You are?’

‘Devin d’Asoli.’ The lie came easily. ‘I was with Menico di Ferraut for a few years.’

‘And have clearly moved on to other, better things,’ Erlein said, glancing at their laden carts. ‘Is Menico still on the road? Is he any fatter than he was?’

‘Yes to both,’ Devin said, concealing the guilt that still assailed him when he thought of his former troupe-leader. ‘So is Burnet last I heard.’

‘Rot him,’ Erlein said mildly. ‘He owes me money.’

‘Well,’ Alessan said, looking down from his horse, ‘we can’t do anything about that but if you like we
can
run you up to Ciorone and a bed before curfew. You can ride with Baerd,’ he added quickly, as Erlein glanced at the empty seat beside Catriana.

‘I would be most profoundly grateful—’ Erlein began.

‘I don’t like Fort Ciorone,’ Sandre broke in suddenly. ‘They cheat you there and too many people learn what you’re carrying and where you’re going. Too many of the wrong kind of people. It’s a mild night coming—I think we’re better off out here.’

Devin glanced over at the Duke in surprise. This was the first time he’d offered any such opinion.

‘Well, really, Tomaz, I don’t see why—’ Alessan began.

‘You hired me, merchant,’ Sandre growled. ‘You wanted me to do a job for you and I’m doing it. You don’t want to listen, pay me now and I’ll find someone who will.’ His eyes were fierce within the hollows of his blackened face.

And his tone was one that none of them could mistake. Whatever it was, Sandre had a reason for what he was doing.

‘A little courtesy if you please,’ Alessan snapped, turning his horse to face the Duke’s. ‘Or I will indeed turn you away and let you carry your old bones back to find someone else idiot enough to put up with you. I have managed,’ he said, swinging back to Erlein, ‘to find the most arrogant Khardhu on the roads of the Palm.’

‘They are all arrogant,’ the troubadour replied with a shake of his head. ‘Comes with the curved swords.’

Alessan laughed. So too, following his lead, did Devin.

‘There’s a good hour of daylight left,’ Baerd said in a complaining voice. ‘We can make the Fort easy. Why sleep on the ground?’

Alessan sighed. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But I’m sorry. We’re new to this run and Tomaz isn’t. I suppose we ought to listen to him or we’re wasting his fee, aren’t we?’ He looked back at Erlein and shrugged. ‘There goes your ride to Ciorone.’

‘Can’t lose what you never had.’ The troubadour smiled. ‘I’ll manage.’

‘You’re welcome to share our fire,’ Devin interjected, trusting that he’d read the Duke’s brief glance correctly. He still wasn’t sure what Sandre was doing.

Surprisingly, Erlein flushed; he looked somewhat embarrassed. ‘As to that, I thank you, but I’ve nothing with me to bring to table or hearth.’

‘You
have
been on the road a long time,’ Sandre said in a quieter voice. ‘I haven’t heard a Palm-born use that phrase in years. It’s a lost tradition, that one.’

‘You have a harp, don’t you?’ Catriana said, at just the right moment and in her sweetest voice. She glanced directly at Erlein for an instant, then demurely lowered her eyes again.

‘I do,’ said the troubadour after a moment, affirming the obvious. He was devouring Catriana with his gaze.

‘Then you are far from empty-handed,’ Alessan said crisply. ‘Devin and my sister both sing, as you’ve heard, and I can manage these pipes a little bit. A harp will go gentle after dinner under the stars.’

‘Say no more,’ said Erlein. ‘You’ll be better company by a long go than my mouth talking wisdom with only my own ears to hear.’

Alessan laughed again.

‘There’s trees over west, and a stream beyond them, if I remember rightly,’ Sandre said. ‘A good place to camp.’

Before anyone else could say a word Erlein di Senzio had jumped up and settled himself at Catriana’s side. Devin, his mouth agape, closed it quickly at Sandre’s hidden, urgent gesture.

Catriana pulled west off the road to lead them towards the trees the Duke had pointed out. Devin heard her giggle at something the troubadour said.

He was looking at Sandre though. So were Baerd and Alessan.

The Duke glanced at Erlein whose back was to the four of them, then very briefly he held up his left hand with the third and fourth fingers carefully curled down. He gazed at Alessan deliberately and then back to the man beside Catriana.

Devin didn’t understand.
An oath?
he thought, confused. Sandre lowered his hand but his eyes remained locked on the Prince’s. There was an odd, challenging expression in them. Alessan had suddenly gone pale.

And in that moment Devin understood.

‘Oh, Adaon,’ Baerd whispered on a rising note, as Devin leaped up on the cart beside him. ‘I do not believe this!’

Neither did Devin.

What Sandre was telling them, quite plainly, was that Erlein di Senzio was a wizard. One who had cut two fingers in his linking to the magic of the Palm.

And Alessan bar Valentin was a Prince of the blood of Tigana. Which meant, if the old tale of Adaon and Micaela was true, that he could bind a wizard to his service. Sandre had not believed it back in the cabin in the fall. Devin remembered that.

But now he was giving Alessan his chance. Which explained the challenge in his gaze.

A chance, or at least the beginnings of a chance. Thinking as fast as he ever had in his life, Devin turned to Baerd. ‘Follow my lead when we get there,’ he said softly. ‘I have an idea.’ Only later would he have time to reflect what a change six months had made. Only six months, one Ember season to another. For him to speak so to Baerd, speak and be listened to …

There was indeed a stream, as Sandre had known, or guessed. Not far from its banks they halted the carts. The usual twilight routine began. Catriana seeing to the horses, Devin to wood for the fire. Alessan and the Duke laid out the sleeping-rolls and organized the cooking gear and the food they carried.

Baerd took his bow and disappeared into the trees. He was back in twenty minutes, no more than that, with three rabbits and a plump, wingless grele.

‘I’m impressed,’ Erlein said from beside Catriana and the horses. His eyes were wide. ‘I’m very impressed.’

‘I’m buying your music for later,’ Baerd said with a rare smile. The one he usually reserved for bargaining sessions at town fairs.

Devin had been watching Erlein as unobtrusively as he could. When he could manage to focus on the troubadour’s
left hand—which never seemed to be still for more than an instant—there
did
seem to be an odd blurring, an occluding of air around it.

He had been waiting for Baerd to come back, now he waited no longer.

‘You,’ he said, grinning at the returning hunter, ‘look like something that should be hunted yourself. You are going to terrify every civilized merchant we meet. You need a haircut before you are fit for society, my friend.’

Baerd was very quick.

‘I wouldn’t talk, scamp,’ he shot back, tossing his prey over to Sandre by the wood gathered for the fire. ‘Not the way you look yourself. Or are you deliberately trying to be scruffy to scare away Alienor at Borso?’

Alessan laughed. So did Erlein.

‘Nothing scares away Alienor,’ the troubadour chuckled. ‘And that one is exactly the right age for her.’

‘What “right age”?’ Alessan grinned slyly. ‘Over twelve and not yet buried suits her fine.’

‘I don’t like that,’ Catriana said primly as the five men laughed.

‘Sorry,’ Alessan said trying to keep a straight face, as she stepped in front of him, hands firmly on her hips.

‘You are not at all sorry, but you should be!’ Catriana snapped. ‘You know very well I don’t like that kind of talk. How do you think it makes me look? And you only do it when you’re idle. Do something useful. Cut Devin’s hair. He does look awful, even worse than usual.’

‘Me?’ Devin squeaked in protest. ‘
My
hair? What do you mean? It’s Baerd, not me! What about him? He’s the one who—’

‘You
all
need a haircut,’ Catriana pronounced with a blunt finality that admitted of no rebuttal. Her cold scrutiny rested critically on Erlein’s shaggy mane for a second. She
opened her mouth, hesitated, then closed it, in a brilliant miming of polite restraint. Erlein flushed. His right hand went uneasily to tug at his shoulder-length strands.