Free Children of Earth and Sky by Guy Gavriel Kay Page A

and noise. Not now. He listened as he fled. The feet behind him were not receding. Pero had always thought himself decently fleet of foot but these men weren’t slower, or . . .
    One of them wasn’t. The runners seemed to have separated themselves. One seemed to be ahead of the other two or three. He still wasn’t sure of the number, but he did know that one man was keeping pace with him, even gaining, as the others fell back.
    He did what he ought to have done before. You could overlook the obvious. His father used to tell him that about painting.
    â€œ
Guards!
” he shouted. “
Guards!
Help!
”
    He kept shouting as he ran. He didn’t expect a patrol to materialize like saviours in the night, but there might be lights carried to upper windows by the curious, witnesses. People might pick up his cry. No one liked thieves. No one liked the bored aristocrats. The pursuers might have second thoughts.
    It didn’t happen. But just about then, nearing the second bridge, the one that marked his home district, Pero Villani realized that he was angry. Not a wisdom-inducing emotion, it almost never was, but it was there, it was in him. He was running for his life in his own city. His life was shabby and constrained. The one painting of which he was proud had been destroyed. Everyone thought ithad been some incompetent’s failure. He lived among stinking tanneries and dyeworks and he smelled of them.
    It could make a man of any spirit at all just a little bit angry to also now be fleeing from whatever noblemen—who never smelled of dyeworks (who had probably never
smelled
the dyeworks!)—were pursuing him.
    He took this route all the time to and from the bookshop. He knew the bridge he was sprinting towards. And he knew something else. There would be an empty wine barrel at this end: a blind beggar sat on it every day. He’d recognize people by their tread, call greetings, tell you gossip he’d heard if you stopped to talk. Pero would give him food when he had some, small coins if he’d been paid.
    The beggar slept somewhere else, he wouldn’t be here now.
    The barrel would be.
    Skidding to a halt, Pero reached out in the dark, clutched the upper rim, tilted and shifted the barrel into the middle of the cobbled street, which narrowed at the bridge.
    Then, pretending to stumble, crying out, he went past it. He slowed on the bridge, as if hurt, swore loudly. Then he waited. And a moment later heard the extremely satisfying sound of his pursuer crashing—at speed—into a wine barrel in the street.
    What he did next might not have been wise, either. He didn’t feel like being wise. He had
reasons
for being angry. This was his city, he was a citizen of the Republic of Seressa, and whatever arrogant sprouts of overbred lineage these bastards were . . .
    He dropped his sketchbook on the wooden planks. He drew his sword from beneath his cloak. If they were going to chase him, there would be one less man doing so. He’d never had sword-fighting lessons, an artist’s son didn’t do that, but you didn’t need expertise for everything. A blade was a blade.
    He ran back, saw the downed man clutching with both hands at a knee, crying out in pain—and Pero bent and stabbed him in the chest.
    His blade hit metal. It was turned aside.
    You could be afraid, and then terrified. Not the same thing.
    This was beyond frightening. If men wearing armour at night were pursuing him, they weren’t thieves, nor were they noblemen looking for amusement. This was a soldier or a guardsman.
    Pero fled. Again. His delay had allowed the lagging pair to draw closer, but the fastest man was down. He hadn’t been killed, obviously. Pero didn’t know if that was good or bad now. He didn’t understand any of this.
    He’d left his sketchbook on the bridge. No help for that. He continued to shout for help as he ran. He was on familiar ground now,