Книга - The Diamond Throne

The Diamond Throne
David Eddings


Book One of the classic ELENIUM series.After a long exile, Pandion Knight Sparhawk returns to his native land to find his young queen grievously ill.Ehlana has been poisoned and will die unless a cure can be found within a year. The life force of twelve of her sworn knights is all that sustains her; but one knight will be lost within the passing of each month if the antidote isn’t found.To save his queen, his comrades, and the stability of the kingdom, Sparhawk begins the search for the cure, only to discover a greater and more pervasive evil than he could ever have imagined.









DAVID EDDINGS

The Diamond Throne

The Elenium

BOOK ONE










Copyright (#ulink_f07dc390-cebf-5c1b-b00c-bd5dc4fbe3dd)


HarperVoyager

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street,

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

Previously published in paperback by Grafton 1990

and by HarperCollins Science Fiction & Fantasy 1993, 1995, 2005.

First published in Great Britain by Grafton 1989

Copyright © David Eddings 1989

Cover Layout Design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

David Eddings asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9780007578979

Ebook Edition © JANUARY 2015 ISBN: 9780007368020

Version: 2016-09-22




Map (#ulink_117e56d7-8704-5017-bbcf-9fa9dd9ccb42)










Dedication (#ulink_d5f7ddaf-4601-54f4-b385-2734404c2180)


For Eleanor and for Ralph,

For courage and for faith.

Trust me.




Contents


Cover (#ucb40a943-aeb4-531b-bff7-cc9439886d51)

Title Page (#u211c1bbb-4f82-5026-a3cd-2620ee0e9d8a)

Copyright (#ulink_961b3bc4-f3e3-575d-8871-1d3fe502b55a)

Map (#ulink_4e6e6a75-2753-57fe-8e18-f4457d0140aa)

Dedication (#ulink_d6f1aae3-4f1a-5d0a-a6f2-9bba8a26fdbd)

Prologue (#ulink_78edc91c-895a-558e-a9f7-8cfc10e774d3)

Part One: Cimmura

Chapter 1 (#ulink_44bd9287-ffea-57e5-b1e4-a9ac920dd2d2)

Chapter 2 (#ulink_669fb1a4-fdd1-558e-8f12-4b8eeb458cb6)

Chapter 3 (#ulink_f8850536-793f-5e01-beb7-a1af2a28eec7)

Chapter 4 (#ulink_3e632392-6e6d-5488-bf21-ad9339415a4b)

Chapter 5 (#ulink_3c85a1c7-ae25-5c2a-a0b7-a31e8e0447f2)

Chapter 6 (#ulink_ef471610-5e47-5d14-9f36-383ca8702c92)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Part Two: Chyrellos

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Part Three: Dabour

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)

Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by David Eddings (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




Prologue (#ulink_76202856-bb63-5d6e-9867-bd0cdb3d0f3c)


Ghwerig and the Bhelliom – From the Legends of the Troll-Gods

At the dawn of time, long before the ancestors of Styricum slouched, fur-clad and club-wielding, out of the mountains and forests of Zemoch onto the plains of central Eosia, there dwelt in a deep cavern lying beneath the perpetual snows of northern Thalesia a dwarfed and misshapen Troll named Ghwerig. Now, Ghwerig was an outcast by reason of his ugliness and his over-whelming greed, and he laboured alone in the depths of the earth, seeking gold and precious gems that he might add to the treasure-hoard which he jealously guarded. Finally there came a day when he broke into a deep gallery far beneath the frozen surface of the earth and beheld by the light of his flickering torch a deep blue gemstone, larger than his fist, embedded in the wall. Trembling with excitement in all his gnarled and twisted limbs, he squatted on the floor of that passage and gazed with longing at the huge jewel, knowing that its value exceeded that of the entire hoard which he had laboured for centuries to acquire. Then he began with great care to cut away the surrounding stone, chip by chip, so that he might lift the precious gem from the spot where it had rested since the world began. And as more and more it emerged from the rock, he perceived that it had a peculiar shape, and an idea came to him. Could he but remove it intact, he might by careful carving and polishing enhance that shape and thus increase the value of the gem a thousand-fold.

When at last he gently took the jewel from its rocky bed, he carried it straightaway to the cave wherein lay his workshop and his treasure-hoard. Indifferently, he shattered a diamond of incalculable worth and fashioned from its fragments tools with which he might carve and shape the gem which he had found.

For decades, by the light of smoky torches, Ghwerig patiently carved and polished, muttering all the while the spells and incantations which would infuse this priceless gem with all the power for good or ill of the Troll-Gods. When at last the carving was done, the gem was in the shape of a rose of deepest sapphire blue. And he named it Bhelliom, the flower-gem, and he believed that by its might all things might be possible for him.

But though Bhelliom was filled with all the power of the Troll-Gods, it would not yield up that power unto its misshapen and ugly owner, and Ghwerig pounded his fists in rage upon the stone floor of his cavern. He consulted with his Gods and made offerings to them of heavy gold and bright silver, and his Gods revealed to him that there must be a key to unlock the power of Bhelliom, lest its might be unleashed by the whim of any who came upon it. Then the Troll-Gods told Ghwerig what he must do to gain mastery over the gem which he had wrought. Taking the shards which had fallen unnoticed in the dust about his feet as he had laboured to shape the sapphire rose, he fashioned a pair of rings. Of finest gold were the rings, and each was mounted with a polished oval fragment of Bhelliom itself. When it was done, he placed the rings one on each of his hands and then lifted the sapphire rose. The deep, glowing blue of the stones mounted in his rings fled back into Bhelliom itself, and the jewels that adorned his twisted hands were now as pale as diamond. And as he held the flower-gem, he felt the surge of its power, and he rejoiced in the knowledge that the jewel he had wrought had consented to yield to him.

As the uncounted centuries rolled by, great were the wonders Ghwerig wrought by the power of Bhelliom. But the Styrics came at last into the land of the Trolls. When the Elder Gods of Styricum learned of Bhelliom, each in his heart coveted it by reason of its power. But Ghwerig was cunning and he sealed up the entrances to his cavern with enchantments to repel their efforts to wrest Bhelliom from him.

Now at a certain time, the Younger Gods of Styricum took counsel with each other, for they were disquieted about the power which Bhelliom would confer upon whichever God came to possess it, and they concluded that such might should not be unloosed in the earth. They resolved then to render the stone powerless. Of their number they selected the nimble Goddess Aphrael for the task. Then Aphrael journeyed to the north, and, by reason of her slight form, she was able to wriggle her way through a crevice so small that Ghwerig had neglected to seal it. Once she was within the cavern, Aphrael lifted her voice in song. So sweetly she sang that Ghwerig was all bemused by her melody, and he felt no alarm at her presence. So it was that Aphrael lulled him. When, with dreamy smile, the Troll-Dwarf closed his eyes, she tugged the ring from off his right hand and replaced it with a ring set with a common diamond. Ghwerig started up when he felt the tug; but when he looked at his hand, a ring still encircled his finger, and he sat him down again and took his ease, delighting in the song of the Goddess. When once again, in sweet reverie, his eyes dropped shut, the nimble Aphrael tugged the ring from off his left hand, replacing it with yet another ring mounted with yet another diamond. Again Ghwerig started to his feet and looked with alarm at his left hand, but he was reassured by the presence there of a ring which looked for all the world like one of the pair which he had fashioned from the shards of the flower-gem. Aphrael continued to sing for him until at last he lapsed into deep slumber. Then the Goddess stole away on silent feet, bearing with her the rings which were the keys to the power of Bhelliom.

Now, upon a later day, Ghwerig lifted Bhelliom from the crystal case wherein it lay that he might perform a task by its power, but Bhelliom would not yield to him, for he no longer possessed the rings which were the keys to its power. The rage of Ghwerig was beyond measure, and he went up and down in the land seeking the Goddess Aphrael that he might wrest his rings from her, but he found her not, though for centuries he searched.

Thus it was for as long as Styricum held sway over the mountains and plains of Eosia. But there came a time when the Elenes rode out of the east and intruded themselves into this place. After centuries of random wandering to and fro in the land, some of their number came at last into far northern Thalesia and dispossessed the Styrics and their Gods. And when the Elenes heard of Ghwerig and his Bhelliom, they sought the entrances to the Troll-Dwarf’s cavern throughout the hills and valleys of Thalesia, all hot with their lust to find and own the fabled gem by reason of its incalculable worth, for they knew not of the power locked in its azure petals.

It fell at last to Adian of Thalesia, mightiest and most crafty of the heroes of antiquity, to solve the riddle. At peril of his soul, he took counsel with the Troll-Gods and made offering to them, and they relented and told him that Ghwerig went abroad in the land at certain times in search of the Goddess Aphrael of Styricum that he might reclaim a pair of rings which she had stolen from him, but of the true meaning of those rings they told him not. And Adian journeyed to the far north and there he awaited each twilight for a half-dozen years the appearance of Ghwerig.

When at last the Troll-Dwarf appeared, Adian went up to him in a dissembling guise and told him that he knew where Aphrael might be found and that he would reveal her location for a helmet full of fine yellow gold. Ghwerig was deceived and straightaway led Adian to the hidden mouth of his cavern and he took the hero’s helm and went into his treasure chamber and filled it to overflowing with fine gold. Then he emerged again, sealing the entrance to his cavern behind him. And he gave Adian the gold, and Adian deceived him again, saying that Aphrael might be found in the district of Horset on the western coast of Thalesia. Ghwerig hastened to Horset to seek out the Goddess. And once again Adian imperilled his soul and implored the Troll-Gods to break Ghwerig’s enchantments that he might gain entrance to the cavern. The capricious Troll-Gods consented and the enchantments were broken.

As rosy dawn touched the ice fields of the north into flame, Adian emerged from Ghwerig’s cavern with Bhelliom in his grasp. He journeyed straightaway to his capital at Emsat and there he fashioned a crown for himself and surmounted it with Bhelliom.

The chagrin of Ghwerig knew no bounds when he returned empty-handed to his cavern to find that not only had he lost the keys to the power of Bhelliom, but that the flower-gem itself was no longer in his possession. Thereafter he usually lurked by night in the fields and forests about the city of Emsat, seeking to reclaim his treasure, but the descendants of Adian protected it closely and prevented him from approaching it.

Now as it happened, Azash, an Elder God of Styricum, had long yearned in his heart for possession of Bhelliom and of the rings which unlocked its power and he sent forth his hordes out of Zemoch to seize the gems by force of arms. The kings of the west took up arms to join with the Knights of the Church to face the armies of Otha of Zemoch and of his dark Styric God, Azash. And King Sarak of Thalesia took ship with some few of his vassals and sailed south from Emsat, leaving behind the royal command that his earls were to follow when the mobilization of all Thalesia was complete. As it happened, however, King Sarak never reached the great battlefield on the plains of Lamorkand, but fell instead to a Zemoch spear in an unrecorded skirmish near the shores of Lake Venne in Pelosia. A faithful vassal, though mortally wounded, took up his fallen lord’s crown and struggled his way to the marshy eastern shore of the lake. There, hard-pressed and dying, he cast the Thalesian crown into the murky, peat-clouded waters of the lake, even as Ghwerig, who had followed his lost treasure, watched in horror from his place of concealment in a nearby peat bog.

The Zemochs who had slain King Sarak immediately began to probe the brown-stained depths, that they might find the crown and carry it in triumph to Azash, but they were interrupted in their search by a column of Alcione Knights sweeping down out of Deira to join the battle in Lamorkand. The Alciones fell upon the Zemochs and slew them to the last man. The faithful vassal of the Thalesian king was given an honourable burial, and the Alciones rode on, all unaware that the fabled crown of Thalesia lay beneath the turbid waters of Lake Venne.

It is sometimes rumoured in Pelosia, however, that on moonless nights the shadowy form of the immortal Troll-Dwarf haunts the marshy shore. Since, by reason of his malformed limbs, Ghwerig dares not enter the dark waters of the lake to probe its depths, he must creep along the marge, alternately crying out his longing to Bhelliom and dancing in howling frustration that it will not respond to him.



PART ONE (#ulink_09af20fc-cb95-5392-b9ae-d574c40c0650)




Chapter 1 (#ulink_7677506f-cf71-56de-8f5c-8839bbb0e1fd)


It was raining. A soft, silvery drizzle sifted down out of the night sky and wreathed around the blocky watch-towers of the city of Cimmura, hissing in the torches on each side of the broad gate and making the stones of the road leading up to the city shiny and black. A lone rider approached the city. He was wrapped in a dark, heavy traveller’s cloak and rode a tall, shaggy roan horse with a long nose and flat, vicious eyes. The traveller was a big man, a bigness of large, heavy bone and ropy tendon rather than of flesh. His hair was coarse and black, and at some time his nose had been broken. He rode easily, but with the peculiar alertness of the trained warrior.

His name was Sparhawk, a man at least ten years older than he looked, who carried the erosion of his years not so much on his battered face as in a half-dozen or so minor infirmities and discomforts and in the several wide purple scars upon his body which always ached in damp weather. Tonight, however, he felt his age, and he wished only for a warm bed in the obscure inn which was his goal. Sparhawk was coming home at last after a decade of being someone else with a different name in a country where it almost never rained, where the sun was a hammer pounding down on a bleached white anvil of sand and rock and hard-baked clay, where the walls of the buildings were thick and white to ward off the blows of the sun, and where graceful women went to the wells in the silvery light of early morning with large clay vessels balanced on their shoulders and black veils across their faces.

The big roan horse shuddered absently, shaking the rain out of his shaggy coat, and approached the city gate, stopping in the ruddy circle of torchlight before the gatehouse.

An unshaven gate guard in a rust-splotched breastplate and helmet, and with a patched green cloak negligently hanging from one shoulder, came unsteadily out of the gatehouse and stood swaying in Sparhawk’s path. ‘I’ll need your name,’ he said in a voice thick with drink.

Sparhawk gave him a long stare, then opened his cloak to show the heavy silver amulet hanging on a chain about his neck.

The half-drunk gate guard’s eyes widened slightly, and he stepped back a pace. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘sorry, my Lord. Go ahead.’

Another guard poked his head out of the gatehouse. ‘Who is he, Raf?’ he demanded.

‘A Pandion Knight,’ the first guard replied nervously.

‘What’s his business in Cimmura?’

‘I don’t question the Pandions, Bral,’ the man named Raf answered. He smiled ingratiatingly up at Sparhawk. ‘New man,’ he said apologetically, jerking his thumb back over his shoulder at his comrade. ‘He’ll learn in time, my Lord. Can we serve you in any way?’

‘No,’ Sparhawk replied, ‘thanks all the same. You’d better get in out of the rain, neighbour. You’ll catch cold out here.’ He handed a small coin to the green-cloaked guard and rode on into the city, passing up the narrow, cobbled street beyond the gate with the slow clatter of the big roan’s steel-shod hooves echoing back from the buildings.

The district near the gate was poor, with shabby, rundown houses standing tightly packed beside each other with their upper floors projecting out over the wet, littered street. Crude signs swung creaking on rusty hooks in the night wind, identifying this or that tightly shuttered shop on the street-level floors. A wet, miserable-looking cur slunk across the street with his ratlike tail between his legs. Otherwise, the street was dark and empty.

A torch burned fitfully at an intersection where another street crossed the one upon which Sparhawk rode. A sick young whore, thin and wrapped in a shabby blue cloak, stood hopefully under the torch like a pale, frightened ghost. ‘Would you like a nice time, sir?’ she whined at him. Her eyes were wide and timid, and her face gaunt and hungry.

He stopped, bent in his saddle, and poured a few small coins into her grimy hand. ‘Go home, little sister,’ he told her in a gentle voice. ‘It’s late and wet, and there’ll be no customers tonight.’ Then he straightened and rode on, leaving her to stare in grateful astonishment after him. He turned down a narrow side street clotted with shadow and heard the scurry of feet somewhere in the rainy dark ahead of him. His ears caught a quick, whispered conversation in the deep shadows somewhere to his left.

The roan snorted and laid his ears back.

‘It’s nothing to get excited about,’ Sparhawk told him. The big man’s voice was very soft, almost a husky whisper. It was the kind of voice people turned to hear. Then he spoke more loudly, addressing the pair of footpads lurking in the shadows. ‘I’d like to accommodate you, neighbours,’ he said, ‘but it’s late, and I’m not in the mood for casual entertainment. Why don’t you go rob some drunk young nobleman instead, and live to steal another day?’ To emphasize his words, he threw back his damp cloak to reveal the leather-bound hilt of the plain broadsword belted at his side.

There was a quick, startled silence in the dark street, followed by the rapid patter of fleeing feet.

The big roan snorted derisively.

‘My sentiments exactly.’ Sparhawk agreed, pulling his cloak back around him. ‘Shall we proceed?’

They entered a large square surrounded by hissing torches where most of the brightly coloured canvas booths had their fronts rolled down. A few forlornly hopeful enthusiasts remained open for business, stridently bawling their wares to indifferent passers-by hurrying home on a late, rainy evening. Sparhawk reined in his horse as a group of rowdy young nobles lurched unsteadily from the door of a seedy tavern, shouting drunkenly to each other as they crossed the square. He waited calmly until they vanished into a side street and then looked around, not so much wary as alert.

Had there been but a few more people in the nearly empty square, even Sparhawk’s trained eye might not have noticed Krager. The man was of medium height and he was rumpled and unkempt. His boots were muddy, and his maroon cape carelessly caught at the throat. He slouched across the square, his wet, colourless hair plastered down on his narrow skull and his watery eyes blinking nearsightedly as he peered about in the rain. Sparhawk drew in his breath sharply. He hadn’t seen Krager since that night in Cippria, almost ten years ago, and the man had aged considerably. His face was greyer and more pouchy-looking, but there could be no question that it was Krager.

Since quick movements attracted the eye, Sparhawk’s reaction was studied. He dismounted slowly and led his big horse to a green canvas food vendor’s stall, keeping the animal between himself and the nearsighted man in the maroon cape. ‘Good evening, neighbour,’ he said to the brown-clad food vendor in his deadly quiet voice. ‘I have some business to attend to. I’ll pay you if you’ll watch my horse.’

The unshaven vendor’s eyes came quickly alight.

‘Don’t even think it,’ Sparhawk warned. ‘The horse won’t follow you, no matter what you do – but I will, and you wouldn’t like that at all. Just take the pay and forget about trying to steal the horse.’

The vendor looked at the big man’s bleak face, swallowed hard, and made a jerky attempt at a bow. ‘Whatever you say, my Lord,’ he agreed quickly, his words tumbling over each other. ‘I vow to you that your noble mount will be safe with me.’

‘Noble what?’

‘Noble mount – your horse.’

‘Oh, I see. I’d appreciate that.’

‘Can I do anything else for you, my Lord?’

Sparhawk looked across the square at Krager’s back. ‘Do you by chance happen to have a bit of wire handy – about so long?’ He measured out perhaps three feet with his hands.

‘I may have, my Lord. The herring kegs are bound with wire. Let me look.’

Sparhawk crossed his arms and leaned them on his saddle, watching Krager across the horse’s back. The past years, the blasting sun, and the women going to the wells in the steely light of early morning fell away, and quite suddenly he was back in the stockyards outside Cippria with the stink of dung and blood on him, the taste of fear and hatred in his mouth, and the pain of his wounds making him weak as his pursuers searched for him with their swords in their hands.

He pulled his mind away from that, deliberately concentrating on this moment rather than the past. He hoped that the vendor could find some wire. Wire was good. No noise, no mess, and with a little time it could be made to look exotic – the kind of thing one might expect from a Styric or perhaps a Pelosian. It wasn’t so much Krager, he thought as the tense excitement built in him. Krager had never been more than a dim, feeble adjunct to Martel – an extension, another set of hands, just as the other man, Adus, had never been more than a weapon. It was what Krager’s death would do to Martel – that was what mattered.

‘This is the best I could find, my Lord,’ the greasy-aproned food vendor said respectfully, coming out of the back of his canvas booth and holding out a length of rusty, soft-iron wire. ‘I’m sorry. It isn’t much.’

‘It’s just fine,’ Sparhawk replied, taking the wire. He snapped the rusty strand taut between his hands. ‘It’s perfect in fact.’ Then he turned to his horse. ‘Stay here, Faran,’ he said.

The horse bared his teeth at him. Sparhawk laughed softly and moved out into the square, some distance behind Krager. If the nearsighted man were found in some shadowy doorway, bowed tautly backward with the wire knotted about his neck and ankles and with his eyes popping out of a blackened face, or face down in the trough of some back-alley public urinal, that would unnerve Martel, hurt him, perhaps even frighten him. It might be enough to bring him out into the open, and Sparhawk had been waiting for years for a chance to catch Martel out in the open. Carefully, his hands concealed beneath his cloak, he began to work the kinks out of his length of wire, even as he stalked his quarry.

His senses had become preternaturally alert. He could clearly hear the guttering of the torches along the sides of the square and see their orange flicker reflected in the puddles of water lying among the cobblestones. That reflected glow seemed for some reason very beautiful. Sparhawk felt good – better perhaps than he had for ten years.

‘Sir Knight? Sir Sparhawk? Can that be you?’

Startled, Sparhawk turned quickly, swearing under his breath. The man who had accosted him had long, elegantly curled blond hair. He wore a saffron-coloured doublet, lavender hose, and an apple-green cloak. His wet maroon shoes were long and pointed, and his cheeks were rouged. The small, useless sword at his side and his broad-brimmed hat with its dripping plume marked him as a courtier, one of the petty functionaries and parasitic hangers-on who infested the palace like vermin.

‘What are you doing back here in Cimmura?’ the fop demanded, his high-pitched, effeminate voice startled. ‘You were banished.’

Sparhawk looked quickly at the man he had been following. Krager was nearing the entrance to a street that opened into the square, and in a moment he would be out of sight. It was still possible, however. One quick, hard blow would put this over-dressed butterfly before him to sleep, and Krager would still be within reach. Then a hot disappointment filled Sparhawk’s mouth as a detachment of the watch marched into the square with lumbering tread. There was no way now to dispose of this interfering popinjay without attracting their attention. The look he directed at the perfumed man barring his path was flat with anger.

The courtier stepped back nervously, glancing quickly at the soldiers who were moving along in front of the booths, checking the fastenings on the rolled-down canvas fronts. ‘I insist that you tell me what you’re doing back here,’ he said, trying to sound authoritative.

‘Insist? You?’ Sparhawk’s voice was full of contempt.

The other man looked quickly at the soldiers again, seeking reassurance, then he straightened boldly. ‘I’m taking you in charge, Sparhawk. I demand that you give an account of yourself.’ He reached out and grasped Sparhawk’s arm.

‘Don’t touch me,’ Sparhawk spat out the words, striking the hand away.

‘You hit me!’ the courtier gasped, clutching at his hand in pain.

Sparhawk took the man’s shoulder in one hand and pulled him close. ‘If you ever put your hands on me again, I’ll rip out your guts. Now get out of my way.’

‘I’ll call the watch,’ the fop threatened.

‘And how long do you think you’ll continue to live after you do that?’

‘You can’t threaten me. I have powerful friends.’

‘But they’re not here, are they? I am, however.’ Sparhawk pushed him away in disgust and turned to walk on across the square.

‘You Pandions can’t get away with this high-handed behaviour any more. There are laws in Elenia now,’ the overdressed man called after him shrilly. ‘I’m going straight to Baron Harparin. I’m going to tell him that you’ve come back to Cimmura and about how you hit me and threatened me.’

‘Good,’ Sparhawk replied without turning. ‘Do that.’ He continued to walk away, his irritation and disappointment rising to the point where he had to clench his teeth tightly to keep himself under control. Then an idea came to him. It was petty –even childish – but for some reason it seemed quite appropriate. He stopped and straightened his shoulders, muttering under his breath in the Styric tongue, even as his fingers wove intricate designs in the air in front of him. He hesitated slightly, groping for the word for carbuncle. He finally settled for boils instead and completed the incantation. He turned slightly, looked at his tormentor, and released the spell. Then he turned back and continued on across the square, smiling slightly to himself. It was, to be sure, quite petty, but Sparhawk was like that sometimes.

He handed the food vendor a coin for minding Faran, swung up into his saddle, and rode across the square in the misty drizzle, a big man shrouded in a rough woollen cloak, astride an ugly-faced roan horse.

Once he was past the square, the streets were dark and empty again, with guttering torches hissing in the rain at intersections and casting their dim, sooty orange glow. The sound of Faran’s hooves was loud in the empty street. Sparhawk shifted slightly in his saddle. The sensation he felt was very faint, a kind of prickling of the skin across his shoulders and up the back of his neck, but he recognized it immediately. Someone was watching him, and the watcher was not friendly. Sparhawk shifted again, carefully trying to make the movement appear to be no more than the uncomfortable fidgeting of a saddle-weary traveller. His right hand, however, was concealed beneath his cloak, and it sought the hilt of his sword. The oppressive sense of malevolence increased, and then, in the shadows beyond the flickering torch at the next intersection, he saw a figure robed and hooded in a dark grey garment that blended so well into the shadows and wreathing drizzle that the watcher was almost invisible.

The roan tensed his muscles, and his ears flicked.

‘I see him, Faran.’ Sparhawk replied very quietly.

They continued on along the cobblestone street, passing through the pool of orange torchlight and on into the shadowy street beyond. Sparhawk’s eyes readjusted to the dark, but the hooded figure had already vanished up some alleyway or through one of the narrow doors along the street. The sense of being watched was gone, and the street was no longer a place of danger. Faran moved on, his hooves clattering on the wet stones.

The inn which was Sparhawk’s destination was on an unobtrusive back street. It was gated at the front of its central courtyard with stout oaken planks. Its walls were peculiarly high and thick, and a single, dim lantern glowed beside a much-weathered wooden sign that creaked mournfully as it swung back and forth in the rain-filled night breeze. Sparhawk pulled Faran close to the gate, leaned back in his saddle, and kicked the rain-blackened planks solidly with one spurred foot. There was a peculiar rhythm to the kicks.

He waited.

Then the gate creaked inward and the shadowy form of a porter, hooded in black, looked out. He nodded briefly, then pulled the gate wider to admit Sparhawk. The big knight rode into the rain-wet courtyard and slowly dismounted. The porter swung the gate shut and barred it, then he pushed his hood back from his steel helm, turned, and bowed. ‘My Lord,’ he greeted Sparhawk respectfully.

‘It’s too late at night for formalities, Sir Knight,’ Sparhawk responded, also with a brief bow.

‘Formality is the very soul of gentility, Sir Sparhawk,’ the porter replied ironically. ‘I try to practise it whenever I can.’

‘As you wish.’ Sparhawk shrugged. ‘Will you see to my horse?’

‘Of course. Your man, Kurik, is here.’

Sparhawk nodded, untying the two heavy leather bags from the skirt of his saddle.

‘I’ll take those up for you, my Lord,’ the porter offered.

‘There’s no need. Where’s Kurik?’

‘First door at the top of the stairs. Will you want supper?’

Sparhawk shook his head. ‘Just a bath and a warm bed.’ He turned to his horse, who stood dozing with one hind leg cocked slightly so that his hoof rested on its tip. ‘Wake up, Faran,’ he told the animal.

Faran opened his eyes and gave him a flat, unfriendly stare.

‘Go with this knight,’ Sparhawk instructed firmly. ‘Don’t try to bite him, or kick him, or pin him against the side of the stall with your rump – and don’t step on his feet, either.’

The big roan briefly laid back his ears and then sighed.

Sparhawk laughed. ‘Give him a few carrots,’ he instructed the porter.

‘How can you tolerate this foul-tempered brute, Sir Sparhawk?’

‘We’re perfectly matched,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘It was a good ride, Faran,’ he said then to the horse. ‘Thank you, and sleep warm.’

The horse turned his back on him.

‘Keep your eyes open, Sir Knight,’ Sparhawk cautioned the porter. ‘Someone was watching me as I rode here, and I got the feeling that it was a little more than idle curiosity.’

The knight porter’s face hardened. ‘I’ll attend to it, my Lord,’ he said.

‘Good.’ Sparhawk turned and crossed the wet, glistening stones of the courtyard and mounted the steps leading to the roofed gallery on the upper floor of the inn.

The inn was a well-kept secret that few in Cimmura knew about. Though ostensibly no different from any of dozens of others, this particular establishment was owned and operated by the Knights Pandion, and it provided a safe haven for any of their number who, for one reason or another, were reluctant to avail themselves of the facilities of their chapterhouse on the eastern outskirts of the city.

At the top of the stairs, Sparhawk stopped and tapped his fingertips lightly on the first door. After a moment, the door opened. The man inside was burly, and he had iron-grey hair and a coarse, short-trimmed beard. His hose and boots were of black leather, and his long waistcoat was of the same material. A heavy dagger hung from his belt, steel cuffs encircled his wrists, and his heavily-muscled arms and shoulders were bare. He was not a handsome man, and his eyes were as hard as agates. ‘You’re late,’ he said flatly.

‘A few interruptions along the way,’ Sparhawk replied laconically, stepping into the warm, candlelit room. The bare-shouldered man closed the door behind him and slid the bolt with a solid clank. Sparhawk looked at him. ‘I trust you’ve been well, Kurik?’ he said to the man he had not seen for ten years.

‘Passable. Get out of that wet cloak.’

Sparhawk grinned, dropped his saddlebags to the floor and undid the clasp of his dripping woollen cloak. ‘How are Aslade and the boys?’

‘Growing,’ Kurik grunted, taking the cloak. ‘My sons are getting taller and Aslade’s getting fatter. Farm life agrees with her.’

‘You like plump women, Kurik,’ Sparhawk reminded his squire. ‘That’s why you married her.’

Kurik grunted again, looking critically at his Lord’s lean frame. ‘You haven’t been eating, Sparhawk,’ he accused.

‘Don’t mother me, Kurik.’ Sparhawk sprawled in a heavy oak chair. He looked around. The room had a stone floor and stone walls. The ceiling was low, with heavy black beams supporting it. A fire crackled in an arched fireplace, filling the room with dancing light and shadows. Two candles burned on the table, and two narrow cots stood, one against either wall. It was to the heavy rack beside the single blue-draped window that Sparhawk’s eyes went first, however. Hanging on that rack was a full suit of armour, enamelled shiny black; leaning against the wall beside it was a large black shield with the emblem of his family, a hawk with flared wings and with a spear in its talons, worked in silver upon its face. Beside the shield stood a massive, sheathed broadsword with a silver-bound hilt.

‘You forgot to oil it when you left,’ Kurik accused. ‘It took me a week to get the rust off. Give me your foot.’ He bent and worked off one of Sparhawk’s riding boots and then the other. ‘Why do you always have to walk in the mud?’ he growled, tossing the boots over beside the fireplace. ‘I’ve got a bath ready for you in the next room,’ he said then. ‘Strip. I want to see those wounds of yours anyway.’

Sparhawk sighed wearily and stood up. With his gruff squire’s peculiarly gentle help, he undressed.

‘You’re wet clear through,’ Kurik noted, touching his Lord’s clammy back with one rough, callused hand.

‘Rain does that to people sometimes.’

‘Did you ever see a surgeon about these?’ the squire demanded, lightly touching the wide purple scars on Sparhawk’s shoulders and left side.

‘A physician looked at them. There wasn’t a surgeon handy, so I left them to heal by themselves.’

Kurik nodded. ‘It shows,’ he said. ‘Go and get in the tub. I’ll fetch something for you to eat.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘That’s too bad. You look like a skeleton. Now that you’re back, I’m not going to let you walk around in that condition.’

‘Why are you bullying me, Kurik?’

‘Because I’m angry. You frightened me half to death. You’ve been gone for ten years, and there’s been little news – and all of it bad.’ The gruff man’s eyes grew momentarily soft, and he roughly grasped Sparhawk’s shoulders in a grip that might have brought a lesser man to his knees. ‘Welcome home, my Lord,’ he said in a thick voice.

Sparhawk roughly embraced his friend. ‘Thank you, Kurik,’ he said, his voice also thick. ‘It’s good to be back.’

‘All right,’ Kurik said, his face hard again. ‘Now get in the tub. You stink.’ And he turned on his heel and went to the door.

Sparhawk smiled and walked into the next room. He stepped into the wooden tub and sank gratefully down into the steaming water. He had been another man with another name – a man called Mahkra – for so long now that he knew that no simple bath would wash that other identity away, but it was good to relax and let the hot water and coarse soap rinse the dust of that dry, sun-blasted coast from his skin. In a kind of detached reverie as he washed his lean, scarred limbs, he remembered the life he had led as Mahkra in the city of Jiroch in Rendor. He remembered the small, cool shop where, as an untitled commoner, Mahkra had sold brass ewers, candied sweetmeats, and exotic perfumes while the bright sunlight reflected blindingly from the thick, white walls across the street. He remembered the hours of endless talk in the little wine shop on the corner, where Mahkra had sipped sour, resinous Rendorish wine by the hour and had delicately, subtly, probed for the information which was then passed on to his friend and fellow Pandion, Sir Voren – information concerning the reawakening of Eshandist sentiment in Rendor, of secret caches of arms hidden in the desert and of the activities of the agents of Emperor Otha of Zemoch. He remembered the soft, dark nights filled with the clinging perfume of Lillias, Mahkra’s sulking mistress, and of the beginning of each day when he had arisen and gone to the window to watch the women going to the wells in the steel-grey light of sunless dawn. He sighed. ‘And who are you now, Sparhawk?’ he asked himself softly. ‘No longer a merchant in brass and candied dates and perfumes, certainly, but once again a Knight Pandion? A magician? The Queen’s Champion? Perhaps not. Perhaps no more than a battered and tired man with a few too many years and scars and far too many skirmishes behind him.’

‘Didn’t it occur to you to cover your head while you were in Rendor?’ Kurik asked sourly from the doorway. The burly squire held a robe and a rough towel. ‘When a man starts talking to himself, it’s a sure sign that he’s been out in the sun too long.’

‘Just musing, Kurik. I’ve been a long time away from home, and it’s going to take a while to get used to it again.’

‘You may not have a while. Did anyone recognize you when you rode in?’

Sparhawk remembered the fop in the square and nodded. ‘One of Harparin’s toadies saw me in the square near the west gate.’

‘That’s it, then. You’re going to have to present yourself at the palace tomorrow, or Lycheas will have Cimmura taken apart stone by stone searching for you.’

‘Lycheas?’

‘The Prince Regent – bastard son to Princess Arissa and whatever drunken sailor or unhanged pickpocket got him on her.’

Sparhawk sat up quickly, his eyes hardening. ‘I think you’d better explain a few things, Kurik,’ he said. ‘Ehlana’s the Queen. Why does her kingdom need a Prince Regent?’

‘Where have you been, Sparhawk? On the moon? Ehlana fell ill a month ago.’

‘Not dead?’ Sparhawk demanded with a sudden sinking in his stomach and a wrench of unbearable loss at the memory of the pale, beautiful girl-child with the grave, serious grey eyes whom he had watched throughout her childhood and whom, in a peculiar way, he had come to love, though she had been but eight years old when King Aldreas had sent him into his exile in Rendor.

‘No,’ Kurik replied, ‘not dead, though she might as well be.’ He picked up the large, rough towel. ‘Come out of the tub,’ he ordered. ‘I’ll tell you about it while you eat.’

Sparhawk nodded and stood up. Kurik roughly towelled him off and then draped the soft robe about him. The table in the other room was laid with a platter of steaming slices of meat swimming in gravy, a half-loaf of rough, dark peasant bread, a wedge of cheese, and a pitcher of chilled milk. ‘Eat,’ Kurik said.

‘What’s been going on here?’ Sparhawk demanded as he seated himself at the table and started to eat. He was surprised to find that he was suddenly ravenous. ‘Start at the beginning.’

‘All right,’ Kurik agreed, drawing his dagger and starting to carve thick slices of bread from the loaf. ‘You knew that the Pandions were confined to the motherhouse at Demos after you left, didn’t you?’

Sparhawk nodded. ‘I heard about it. King Aldreas was never really very fond of us.’

‘That was your father’s fault, Sparhawk. Aldreas was very fond of his sister, and then your father forced him to marry someone else. That sort of soured his attitude towards the Pandion Order.’

‘Kurik,’ Sparhawk said, ‘it’s not proper to talk about the king that way.’

Kurik shrugged. ‘He’s dead now, so it doesn’t hurt him, and the way he felt about his sister was common knowledge anyway. The palace pages used to take money from anyone who wanted to watch Arissa walk mother-naked through the upper halls to her brother’s bedchamber. Aldreas was a weak king, Sparhawk. He was totally under the control of Arissa and the Primate Annias. With the Pandions confined at Demos, Annias and his underlings had things pretty much the way they wanted them. You were lucky not to have been here during those years.’

‘Perhaps,’ Sparhawk murmured. ‘What did Aldreas die from?’

‘They say that it was the falling-sickness. My guess would be that the whores Annias used to slip into the palace for him after his wife died finally wore him out.’

‘Kurik, you gossip worse than an old woman.’

‘I know,’ Kurik admitted blandly. ‘It’s a vice I have.’

‘And then Ehlana was crowned Queen?’

‘Right. And then things started to change. Annias was certain that he’d be able to control her the same way that he’d been able to control Aldreas, but she brought him up short. She summoned Preceptor Vanion from the motherhouse at Demos and made him her personal advisor. Then she told Annias to make preparations to retire to a monastery to meditate on the virtues proper to a churchman. Annias was livid, of course, and he started to scheme immediately. The messengers were as thick as flies on the road between here and the cloister where the Princess Arissa has been confined. They’re old friends, and they had certain common interests. At any rate, Annias suggested that Ehlana should marry her bastard cousin, Lycheas, but she laughed in his face.’

‘That sounds fairly characteristic,’ Sparhawk smiled. ‘I raised her myself and I taught her what was appropriate. What is this illness of hers?’

‘It appears to be the same one that killed her father. She had a seizure and never regained consciousness. The court physicians all maintained that she wouldn’t live out the week, but then Vanion took steps. He appeared at court with Sephrenia and eleven other Pandions – all in full armour and with their visors down. They dismissed the Queen’s attendants, took her from her bed, clothed her in her state robes and put the crown on her head. Then they carried her to the great hall and set her on the throne and locked the door. Nobody knows what they did in there, but when they opened the door again, Ehlana sat on her throne encased in crystal.’

‘What?’ Sparhawk exclaimed.

‘It’s as clear as glass. You can see every freckle on the Queen’s nose, but you can’t get near her. The crystal’s harder than diamond. Annias had workmen hammering on it for five days, and they couldn’t even chip it.’ Kurik looked at Sparhawk. ‘Could you do something like that?’ he asked curiously.

‘Me? Kurik, I wouldn’t even know where to start. Sephrenia taught us the basics, but we’re like babies compared to her.’

‘Well, whatever it was that she did, it’s keeping the Queen alive. You can hear her heart beating. It echoes through the throne room like a drum. For the first week or so, people were flocking in there just to listen to it. There was even talk that it was some kind of miracle and that the throne room ought to be made a shrine. But Annias locked the door and summoned Lycheas the bastard to Cimmura and set him up as Prince Regent. That was about two weeks ago. Since then Annias has had the church soldiers rounding up all his enemies. The dungeons under the cathedral are bulging with them. That’s where things stand right now. You picked a good time to come back.’ He paused, looking directly into his lord’s face. ‘What happened in Cippria, Sparhawk?’ he asked. ‘The news we got here was pretty sketchy.’

Sparhawk shrugged. ‘It wasn’t much. Do you remember Martel?’

‘The renegade Vanion stripped of his knighthood? The one with white hair?’

Sparhawk nodded. ‘He came to Cippria with a couple of underlings, and they hired fifteen or twenty cutthroats to help them. They waylaid me in a dark street.’

‘Is that where you got the scars?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you got away.’

‘Obviously. Rendorish murderers are a trifle squeamish when the blood on the cobblestones and splashed all over the walls happens to be theirs. After I cut down a dozen or so of them, the rest sort of lost heart. I got clear of them and made my way to the edge of town. I hid in a monastery until the wounds healed, then I took Faran and joined a caravan for Jiroch.’

Kurik’s eyes were shrewd. ‘Do you think there’s any possibility that Annias might have been involved in it?’ he asked. ‘He hates your family, you know, and it’s fairly certain that he was the one who persuaded Aldreas to exile you.’

‘I’ve had the same thought from time to time. Annias and Martel have had dealings before. At any rate, I think the good primate and I have several things to discuss.’

Kurik looked at him, recognizing the tone in his voice. ‘You’re going to get into trouble,’ he warned.

‘Not as much as Annias will if I find out that he had a hand in that attack.’ Sparhawk straightened. ‘I’m going to need to talk with Vanion. Is he still here in Cimmura?’

Kurik nodded. ‘He’s at the chapterhouse on the east edge of town, but you can’t get there right now. They lock the east gate at sundown. I think you’d better present yourself at the palace right after the sun comes up, though. It won’t take Annias long to come up with the idea of declaring you outlaw for breaking your exile, and it’s better to appear on your own, rather than be dragged in like a common criminal. You’re still going to have to do some fast talking to stay out of the dungeon.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Sparhawk disagreed. ‘I’ve got a document with the Queen’s seal on it authorizing my return.’ He pushed back his plate. ‘The handwriting’s a little childish, and there are tearstains on it, but I think it’s still valid.’

‘She cried? I didn’t think she knew how.’

‘She was only eight at the time, Kurik, and quite fond of me, for some reason.’

‘You have that effect on a few people.’ Kurik looked at Sparhawk’s plate. ‘Have you had all of that you want?’

Sparhawk nodded.

‘Then get you to bed. You’ve got a busy day ahead of you tomorrow.’

It was much later. The room was faintly lit with the orange coals of the banked fire, and Kurik’s regular breathing came from the cot on the other side of the room. The insistent, nagging bang of an unlatched shutter swinging freely in the wind several streets over had set some brainless dog to barking, and Sparhawk lay, still half-bemused by sleep, patiently waiting for the dog to grow wet enough or weary enough of his entertainment to seek his kennel again.

Since it had been Krager he had seen in the square, there was no absolute certainty that Martel was in Cimmura. Krager was an errand boy and was frequently half a continent away from Martel. Had it been the brutal Adus who had crossed that rainy square, there would be no question as to Martel’s presence in the city. Of necessity, Adus had to be kept on a short leash.

Krager would not be hard to find. He was a weak man with the usual vices and the usual predictability of weak men. Sparhawk smiled bleakly into the darkness. Krager would be easy to find and Krager would know where Martel could be found. It would be a simple matter to drag that information out of him.

Moving quietly to avoid waking his sleeping squire, Sparhawk swung his legs out of the bed and crossed silently to the window to watch the rain slant past into the deserted, lantern-lit courtyard below. Absently he wrapped his hand about the silver-bound hilt of the broadsword standing beside his formal armour. It felt good – like taking the hand of an old friend.

Dimly, as always, there was a remembered sound of the bells. It had been the bells he had followed that night in Cippria. Sick and hurt and alone, stumbling through the dung-reeking night in the stockyards, he had half-crawled towards the sound of the bells. He had come to the wall and had followed it, his good hand on the ancient stones, until he had come to the gate, and there he had fallen.

Sparhawk shook his head. That had been a long time ago. It was strange that he could still remember the bells so clearly. He stood with his hand on his sword, looking out at the tag end of night, watching it rain and remembering the sound of the bells.




Chapter 2 (#ulink_0bf4b50a-6abe-5da8-80b3-a22931eee9fd)


Sparhawk was dressed in his formal armour, and he strode clanking back and forth in the candlelit room to settle it into place. ‘I’d forgotten how heavy this is,’ he said.

‘You’re getting soft.’ Kurik told him. ‘You need a month or two on the practice field to toughen you up. Are you sure you want to wear it?’

‘It’s a formal occasion, Kurik, and formal occasions demand formal dress. Besides, I don’t want any confusion in anybody’s mind when I get there. I’m the Queen’s Champion, and I’m supposed to wear armour when I present myself to her.’

‘They won’t let you in to see her,’ Kurik predicted, picking up his lord’s helmet.

‘Won’t let?’

‘Don’t do anything foolish, Sparhawk. You’re going to be all alone.’

‘Is the Earl of Lenda still on the council?’

Kurik nodded. ‘He’s old, and he doesn’t have much authority, but he’s too much respected for Annias to dismiss him.’

‘I’ll have one friend there anyway.’ Sparhawk took his helmet from his squire and settled it in place. He pushed up his visor.

Kurik went to the window to pick up Sparhawk’s sword and shield. ‘The rain’s letting up,’ he noted, ‘and it’s starting to get light.’ He came back, laid the sword and shield on the table and picked up the silver-coloured surcoat. ‘Hold out your arms,’ he instructed.

Sparhawk spread his arms wide, and Kurik draped the surcoat over his shoulders, then he laced up the sides. He then took up the long sword belt and wrapped it twice about his lord’s waist. Sparhawk picked up his sheathed sword. ‘Did you sharpen this?’ he asked.

Kurik gave him a flat stare.

‘Sorry.’ Sparhawk locked the scabbard onto the heavy steel studs on the belt and shifted it around into place on his left side.

Kurik fastened the long black cape to the shoulder plates of the armour, then stepped back and looked Sparhawk up and down appraisingly. ‘Good enough,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring your shield. You’d better hurry. They rise early at the palace. It gives them more time for mischief.’

They went out of the room and on down the stairs to the innyard. The rain for the most part had passed, with only a few last intermittent sprinkles slanting into the yard in the gusty morning wind. The dawn sky, however, was still covered with tattered grey cloud, although there was a broad band of pale yellow off to the east.

The knight porter led Faran out of the stable, and he and Kurik boosted Sparhawk up into his saddle.

‘Be careful when you get inside the palace, my Lord,’ Kurik warned in the formal tone he used when they were not alone. ‘The regular palace guards are probably neutral, but Annias has a troop of church soldiers there as well. Anybody in red livery is likely to be your enemy.’ He handed up the embossed black shield.

Sparhawk buckled the shield into place. ‘You’re going to the chapterhouse to see Vanion?’ he asked his squire.

Kurik nodded. ‘Just as soon as they open the east gate of the city.’

‘I’ll probably go there when I’m through at the palace, but you come back here and wait for me.’ He grinned. ‘We may have to leave town in a hurry.’

‘Don’t go out of your way to force the issue, my Lord.’

Sparhawk took Faran’s reins from the porter. ‘All right then, Sir Knight,’ he said. ‘Open the gate and I’ll go present my respects to the bastard Lycheas.’

The porter laughed and swung open the gate.

Faran moved out at a proud, rolling trot, lifting his steel-shod hooves exaggeratedly and bringing them down in a ringing staccato on the wet cobblestones. The big horse had a peculiar flair for the dramatic, and he always pranced outrageously when Sparhawk was mounted on his back in full armour.

‘Aren’t we both getting a little old for exhibitionism?’ Sparhawk asked dryly.

Faran ignored that and continued his prancing.

There were few people abroad in the city of Cimmura at that hour – rumpled artisans and sleepy shopkeepers for the most part. The streets were wet, and the gusty wind set the brightly painted wooden signs over the shops to swinging and creaking. Most of the windows were still shuttered and dark, although here and there golden candlelight marked the room of some early riser.

Sparhawk noted that his armour had already begun to smell – that familiar compound of steel, oil, and the leather harness that had soaked up his sweat for years. He had nearly forgotten that smell in the sun-blasted streets and spice-fragrant shops of Jiroch; almost more than the familiar sights of Cimmura, it finally convinced him that he was home.

An occasional dog came out into the street to bark at them as they passed, but Faran disdainfully ignored them as he trotted through the cobblestone streets.

The palace lay in the centre of town. It was a very grandiose sort of building, much taller than those around it, with high, pointed towers surmounted by damply flapping coloured pennons. It was walled off from the rest of the city, and the walls were surmounted by battlements. At some time in the past, one of the kings of Elenia had ordered the exterior of those walls to be sheathed in white limestone. The climate and the pervasive pall of smoke that lay heavy over the city in certain seasons, however, had turned the sheathing a dirty, streaked grey.

The palace gates were broad and patrolled by a half-dozen guards wearing the dark blue livery that marked them as members of the regular palace garrison.

‘Halt!’ one of them barked as Sparhawk approached. He stepped into the centre of the gateway, holding his pike slightly advanced. Sparhawk gave no indication that he had heard, and Faran bore down on the man. ‘I said to halt, Sir Knight!’ the guard commanded again. Then one of his fellows jumped forward, seized his arm, and pulled him out of the roan’s path. ‘It’s the Queen’s Champion,’ the second guard exclaimed. ‘Don’t ever stand in his way.’

Sparhawk reached the central courtyard and dismounted, moving a bit awkwardly because of the weight of his armour and the encumbrance of his shield. A guard came forward, his pike at the ready.

‘Good morning, neighbour,’ Sparhawk said to him in his quiet voice.

The guard hesitated.

‘Watch my horse,’ the knight told him then. ‘I shouldn’t be too long.’ He handed the guard Faran’s reins and started up the broad staircase towards the heavy double doors that opened into the palace.

‘Sir Knight,’ the guard called after him.

Sparhawk did not turn, but continued on up the stairs. There were two blue-liveried guards at the top, older men, he noted, men he thought he recognized. One of the guards’ eyes widened, then he suddenly grinned. ‘Welcome back, Sir Sparhawk,’ he said, pulling the door open for the black-armoured knight.

Sparhawk gave him a slow wink and went on inside, his mail-shod feet and his spurs clinking on the polished flagstones. Just beyond the door, he encountered a palace functionary with curled and pomaded hair and wearing a maroon-coloured doublet. ‘I will speak with Lycheas,’ Sparhawk announced in a flat tone. ‘Take me to him.’

‘But –’ The man’s face had gone slightly pale. He drew himself up, his expression growing lofty. ‘How did you –?’

‘Didn’t you hear me, neighbour?’ Sparhawk asked him.

The man in the maroon doublet shrank back. ‘A–at once, Sir Sparhawk,’ he stammered. He turned then and led the way down the broad central corridor. His shoulders were visibly trembling. Sparhawk noted that the functionary was not leading him towards the throne room, but rather towards the council chamber where King Aldreas had customarily met with his advisors. A faint smile touched the big man’s lips as he surmised that the presence of the young Queen sitting encased in crystal on the throne might have had a dampening effect on her cousin’s attempts to usurp her crown.

They reached the door to the council chamber and found it guarded by two men wearing the red livery of the church – the soldiers of the Primate Annias. The two automatically crossed their pikes to bar entry to the chamber.

‘The Queen’s Champion to see the Prince Regent,’ the functionary said to them, his voice shrill.

‘We have had no orders to admit the Queen’s Champion,’ one of them declared.

‘You have now,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘Open the door.’

The man in the maroon doublet made a move as if to scurry away, but Sparhawk caught his arm. ‘I haven’t dismissed you yet, neighbour,’ he said. Then he looked at the guards. ‘Open the door,’ he repeated.

It hung there for a long moment, while the guards looked first at Sparhawk and then nervously at each other. Then one of them swallowed hard and, fumbling with his pike, he reached for the door handle.

‘You’ll need to announce me,’ Sparhawk told the man whose arm he still held firmly in his gauntleted fist. ‘We wouldn’t want to surprise anyone, would we?’

The man’s eyes were a little wild. He stepped into the open doorway and cleared his throat. ‘The Queen’s Champion,’ he blurted with his words tumbling out over each other. ‘The Pandion Knight, Sir Sparhawk.’

‘Thank you, neighbour,’ Sparhawk said. ‘You can go now.’

The functionary bolted.

The council chamber was very large and was carpeted and draped in blue. Large candelabras lined the walls, and there were more candles on the long, polished table in the centre of the room. Three men sat at the table with documents before them, but the fourth had half-risen from his chair.

The man on his feet was the Primate Annias. The churchman had grown leaner in the ten years since Sparhawk had last seen him, and his face looked grey and emaciated. His hair was tied back from his face and was now shot with silver. He wore a long black cassock, and the bejewelled pendant of his office as Primate of Cimmura hung from a thick gold chain about his neck. His eyes were wide with surprised alarm as Sparhawk entered the room.

The Earl of Lenda, a white-haired man in his seventies, was dressed in a soft grey doublet, and he was grinning openly, his bright blue eyes sparkling in his lined face. The Baron Harparin, a notorious pederast, sat with an astonished expression on his face. His clothing was a riot of conflicting colours. Seated next to him was a grossly fat man in red whom Sparhawk did not recognize.

‘Sparhawk!’ Annias said sharply, recovering from his surprise, ‘what are you doing here?’

‘I understand that you’ve been looking for me, your Grace,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘I thought I’d save you some trouble.’

‘You’ve broken your exile, Sparhawk,’ Annias accused angrily.

‘That’s one of the things we need to talk about. I’m told that Lycheas the bastard is functioning as Prince Regent until the Queen regains her health. Why don’t you send for him so we won’t have to go through all this twice?’

Annias’ eyes widened in shock and outrage.

‘That’s what he is, isn’t it?’ Sparhawk said. ‘His origins are hardly a secret, so why tiptoe around them? The bell pull, as I recall, is right over there. Give it a yank, Annias, and send some toady to fetch the Prince Regent.’

The Earl of Lenda chuckled openly.

Annias gave the old man a furious look and went to the pair of bell pulls hanging down the far wall. His hand hesitated between the two.

‘Don’t make any mistakes, your Grace,’ Sparhawk warned him. ‘All sorts of things could go terribly wrong if a dozen soldiers come through that door instead of a servant.’

‘Go ahead, Annias,’ the Earl of Lenda urged. ‘My life is almost over anyway, and I wouldn’t mind going out with a bit of excitement.’

Annias clenched his teeth and yanked the blue bell pull instead of the red one. After a moment the door opened, and a liveried young man entered. ‘Yes, your Grace?’ he said, bowing to the primate.

‘Go and tell the Prince Regent that we require his presence here at once.’

‘But –’

‘At once!’

‘Yes, your Grace.’ The servant scurried out.

‘There, you see how easy that was?’ Sparhawk said to Annias. Then he went over to the white-haired Earl of Lenda, removed his gauntlet and took the old man’s hand. ‘You’re looking well, my Lord,’ he said.

‘Still alive, you mean?’ Lenda laughed. ‘How was Rendor, Sparhawk?’

‘Hot, dry, and very dusty.’

‘Always has been, my boy. Always has been.’

‘Are you going to answer my question?’ Annias demanded.

‘Please, your Grace,’ Sparhawk responded piously, holding up one hand, ‘not until the bastard Regent arrives. We must mind our manners, mustn’t we?’ He lifted one eyebrow. ‘Tell me,’ he added, almost as an afterthought, ‘how’s his mother – her health, I mean? I wouldn’t expect a churchman to be able to testify to the carnal talents of the Princess Arissa – although just about everybody else in Cimmura could.’

‘You go too far, Sparhawk.’

‘You mean you didn’t know? My goodness, old boy, you really should try to stay abreast of things.’

‘How rude!’ Baron Harparin exclaimed to the fat man in red.

‘It’s not the sort of thing you’d understand, Harparin,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘I hear that your inclinations lie in other directions.’

The door opened and a pimpled young man with muddy blond hair and a slack-lipped mouth entered. He wore a green, ermine-trimmed robe and a small gold coronet. ‘You wanted to see me, Annias?’ His voice had a nasal, almost whining quality to it.

‘A state matter, your Highness,’ Annias replied. ‘We need to have you pass judgement in a case involving high treason.’

The young man blinked stupidly at him.

‘This is Sir Sparhawk, who has deliberately violated the command of your late uncle, King Aldreas. Sparhawk here was ordered to Rendor, not to return unless summoned back by royal command. His very presence in Elenia convicts him.’

Lycheas recoiled visibly from the bleak-faced knight in black armour, his eyes going wide and his loose mouth gaping. ‘Sparhawk?’ he quailed.

‘The very same,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘The good primate, however, has slightly overstated the case, I’m afraid. When I assumed my position as hereditary champion of the crown, I took an oath to defend the King – or the Queen – whenever the royal life was endangered. That oath takes precedence over any command – royal or otherwise – and the Queen’s life is clearly in danger.’

‘That’s merely a technicality, Sparhawk,’ Annias snapped.

‘I know,’ Sparhawk replied blandly, ‘but technicalities are the soul of the law.’

The Earl of Lenda cleared his throat. ‘I have made a study of such matters,’ he said, ‘and Sir Sparhawk has correctly cited the law. His oath to defend the crown does in fact take precedence.’

Prince Lycheas had gone around to the other side of the table, giving Sparhawk a wide berth. ‘That’s absurd,’ he declared. ‘Ehlana’s sick. She’s not in any physical danger.’ He sat down in the chair next to the primate.

‘The Queen,’ Sparhawk corrected him.

‘What?’

‘Her proper title is “her Majesty” – or at the least, “Queen Ehlana”. It’s extremely discourteous simply to call her by name. Technically, I suppose, I’m obliged to protect her from discourtesy as well as physical danger. I’m a little vague on that point of law, so I’ll defer to the judgement of my old friend, the Earl of Lenda, on the matter before I have my seconds deliver my challenge to your Highness.’

Lycheas went pasty white. ‘Challenge?’

‘This is sheer idiocy,’ Annias declared. ‘There will be no challenges delivered or accepted.’ His eyes narrowed then. ‘The Prince Regent’s point is well taken, however,’ he said. ‘Sparhawk has simply seized this flimsy excuse to violate his banishment. Unless he can present some documentary evidence of having been summoned, he stands convicted of high treason.’ The primate’s smile was thin.

‘I thought you’d never ask, Annias,’ Sparhawk said. He reached under his sword belt and drew out a tightly folded parchment tied with a blue ribbon. He untied the ribbon and opened the parchment, the blood-red stone on his ring flashing in the candlelight. ‘This all seems to be in order,’ he said, perusing the document. ‘It has the Queen’s signature on it and her personal seal. Her instructions to me are quite explicit.’ He stretched out his arm, offering the parchment to the Earl of Lenda. ‘What’s your opinion, my Lord?’

The old man took the parchment and examined it. ‘The seal is the Queen’s,’ he confirmed, ‘and the handwriting is hers. She commands Sir Sparhawk to present himself to her immediately upon her ascension to the throne. It’s a valid royal command, my Lords.’

‘Let me see that,’ Annias snapped.

Lenda passed it on down the table to him.

The primate read the document with tightly clenched teeth. ‘It’s not even dated,’ he accused.

‘Excuse me, your Grace,’ Lenda pointed out, ‘but there is no legal requirement that a royal decree or command be dated. Dating is merely a convention.’

‘Where did you get this?’ the primate asked Sparhawk, his eyes narrowing.

‘I’ve had it for quite some time.’

‘It was obviously written before the Queen ascended the throne.’

‘It does appear that way, doesn’t it?’

‘It has no validity.’ The primate took the parchment in both hands as if he would tear it in two.

‘What’s the penalty for destroying a royal decree, my Lord of Lenda?’ Sparhawk asked mildly.

‘Death.’

‘I rather thought it might be. Go ahead and rip it up, Annias. I’ll be more than happy to carry out the sentence myself – just to save time and the expense of all the tiresome legal proceedings.’ His eyes locked with those of Annias. After a moment, the primate threw the parchment on the table in disgust.

Lycheas had watched all of this with a look of growing chagrin. Then he seemed to notice something for the first time. ‘Your ring, Sir Sparhawk,’ he said in his whining voice. ‘That is your badge of office, is it not?’

‘In a manner of speaking, yes. Actually the ring – and the Queen’s ring – are symbolic of the link between my family and hers.’

‘Give it to me.’

‘No.’

Lycheas’ eyes bulged. ‘I just gave you a royal command!’ he shouted.

‘No. It was a personal request, Lycheas. You can’t give royal commands, because you’re not the king.’

Lycheas looked uncertainly at the primate, but Annias shook his head slightly. The pimpled young man flushed.

‘The Prince Regent merely wished to examine the ring, Sir Sparhawk,’ the churchman said smoothly. ‘We have sought its mate, the ring of King Aldreas, but it seems to be missing. Would you have any idea where we might find it?’

Sparhawk spread his hands. ‘Aldreas had it on his finger when I left for Cippria,’ he replied. ‘The rings are not customarily taken off, so I assume he was still wearing it when he died.’

‘No. He was not.’

‘Perhaps the Queen has it then.’

‘Not so far as we’re able to determine.’

‘I want that other ring,’ Lycheas insisted, ‘as a symbol of my authority.’

Sparhawk looked at him, his face amused. ‘What authority?’ he asked bluntly. ‘The ring belongs to Queen Ehlana, and if someone tries to take it from her, I imagine that I’ll have to take steps.’ He suddenly felt a faint prickling of his skin. It seemed that the candles in their gold candelabras flickered slightly and the blue-draped council chamber grew perceptibly dimmer. Instantly, he began to mutter under his breath in the Styric tongue, carefully weaving the counterspell even as he searched the faces of the men sitting around the council table for the source of the rather crude attempt at magic. When he released the counterspell, he saw Annias flinch and he smiled bleakly. Then he drew himself up. ‘Now,’ he said, his voice crisp, ‘let’s get down to business. Exactly what happened to King Aldreas?’

The Earl of Lenda sighed. ‘It was the falling-sickness, Sir Sparhawk,’ he replied sadly. ‘The seizures began several months ago, and they grew more and more frequent. The King grew weaker and weaker, and finally –’ He shrugged.

‘He didn’t have the falling-sickness when I left Cimmura,’ Sparhawk said.

‘The onset was sudden,’ Annias said coldly.

‘So it seems. It’s rumoured that the Queen fell ill with the same affliction.’

Annias nodded.

‘Didn’t that strike any of you as odd? There’s never been a history of the disease in the royal family, and isn’t it peculiar that Aldreas didn’t develop symptoms until he was in his forties, and his daughter fell ill when she was little more than eighteen?’

‘I have no medical background, Sparhawk,’ Annias told him. ‘You may question the court physicians if you wish, but I doubt that you’re going to unearth anything that we haven’t already discovered.’

Sparhawk grunted. He looked around the council chamber. ‘I think that covers everything we need to discuss here,’ he said. ‘I’ll see the Queen now.’

‘Absolutely not!’ Lycheas said.

‘I’m not asking you, Lycheas,’ the big knight said firmly. ‘May I have that?’ He pointed at the parchment still lying on the table in front of the primate.

They passed it down to him, and he ran through it quickly. ‘Here it is,’ he said, picking out the sentences he wanted. ‘“You are commanded to present yourself to me immediately upon your return to Cimmura.” That doesn’t leave any room for argument, does it?’

‘What are you up to, Sparhawk?’ the primate asked suspiciously.

‘I’m just obeying orders, your Grace. I’m commanded by the Queen to present myself to her and I’m going to do precisely that.’

‘The door to the throne room is locked,’ Lycheas snapped. The smile Sparhawk gave him was almost benign. ‘That’s all right, Lycheas,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a key.’ He put his hand suggestively on the silver-bound hilt of his sword.

‘You wouldn’t!’

‘Try me.’

Annias cleared his throat. ‘If I may speak, your Highness?’ he said.

‘Of course, your Grace,’ Lycheas replied quickly. ‘The crown is always open to the advice and counsel of the Church.’

‘Crown?’ Sparhawk asked.

‘A formula, Sir Sparhawk,’ Annias told him. ‘Prince Lycheas speaks for the crown for as long as the Queen is incapacitated.’

‘Not to me, he doesn’t.’

Annias turned back towards Lycheas. ‘It is the advice of the Church that we accede to the somewhat churlish request of the Queen’s Champion,’ he said. ‘Let no one accuse us of incivility. Moreover, the Church advises that the Prince Regent and all of the council accompany Sir Sparhawk to the throne room. He is reputed to be adept at certain forms of magic, and – to protect the Queen’s life – we must not permit him to employ precipitously those arts without full consultation with the court physicians.’

Lycheas made some pretence of thinking it over. Then he rose to his feet. ‘It shall be as you advise, then, your Grace,’ he declared. ‘You are directed to accompany us, Sir Sparhawk.’

‘Directed?’

Lycheas ignored that and swept regally towards the door.

Sparhawk let Baron Harparin and the fat man in red pass, then fell in beside Primate Annias. He was smiling in a relaxed fashion, but there was little in the way of good humour in the low voice that came from between his teeth. ‘Don’t ever try that again, Annias,’ he said.

‘What?’ The primate sounded startled.

‘Your magic. You’re not very good at it in the first place, and it irritates me to have to waste the effort of countering the work of amateurs. Besides, churchmen are forbidden to dabble in magic, as I recall.’

‘You have no proof, Sparhawk.’

‘I don’t need proof, Annias. My oath as a Pandion Knight would be sufficient in any civil or ecclesiastical court. Why don’t we just leave it there? But don’t mutter any more incantations in my direction.’

With Lycheas in the lead, the council and Sparhawk went down a candlelit corridor to the broad double doors of the throne room. When they reached the doors, Lycheas took a key from inside his doublet and unlocked them. ‘All right,’ he said to Sparhawk. ‘It’s open. Go present yourself to your Queen – for all the good it’s going to do you.’

Sparhawk reached up and took a burning candle from a silver sconce jutting from the wall of the corridor and went into the dark room beyond the doors.

It was cool, almost clammy inside the throne room, and the air smelled musty and stale. Methodically, Sparhawk went along the walls, lighting candles. Then he went to the throne and lit the ones standing in the candelabras flanking it.

‘You don’t need that much light, Sparhawk,’ Lycheas said irritably from the doorway.

Sparhawk ignored him. He put out his hand, tentatively touched the crystal which encased the throne, and felt Sephrenia’s familiar aura permeating the crystal. Then slowly he raised his eyes to look into Ehlana’s pale young face. The promise that had been there when she had been a child had been fulfilled. She was not simply pretty as so many young girls are pretty; she was beautiful. There was an almost luminous perfection about her countenance. Her pale blonde hair was long and loosely framed her face. She wore her state robes, and the heavy gold crown of Elenia encircled her head. Her slender hands lay upon the arms of her throne, and her eyes were closed.

He remembered that at first he had bitterly resented the command of King Aldreas that had made him the young girl’s caretaker. He had quickly found, however, that she was no giddy child, but rather was a serious young lady with a quick, retentive mind and an overwhelming curiosity about the world. After her initial shyness had passed, she had begun to question him closely about palace affairs, and thus, almost by accident, had begun her education in statecraft and the intricacies of palace politics. After a few months they had grown very close, and he had found himself looking forward to their daily private conversations during which he had gently moulded her character and had prepared her for her ultimate destiny as Queen of Elenia.

To see her as she was now, locked in the semblance of death, wrenched at his heart, and he swore to himself that he would take the world apart if need be to restore her to health and to her throne. For some reason it made him angry to look at her, and he felt an irrational desire to lash out at things as if by sheer physical force he could return her to consciousness.

And then he heard and felt it. The sound appeared to grow more pronounced, and it grew louder moment by moment. It was a regular, steady thudding sound, not quite like the beating of a drum, and it did not change nor falter, but echoed through the room, its volume steadily increasing as it announced to any who might enter that Ehlana’s heart was still beating.

Sparhawk drew his sword and saluted his queen with it. Then he sank to one knee in a move of profoundest respect and a peculiar form of love. He leaned forward and gently kissed the unyielding crystal, his eyes suddenly filling with tears. ‘I am here now, Ehlana,’ he murmured, ‘and I’ll make everything all right again.’

The heartbeat grew louder, almost as if in some peculiar way she had heard him.

From the doorway he heard Lycheas snicker derisively, and he promised himself that should the opportunity arise, he would do a number of unpleasant things to the Queen’s bastard cousin. Then he rose and went towards the door again.

Lycheas stood smirking at him, still holding the key to the throne room in his hand. As Sparhawk passed the prince, he reached out and took the key. ‘You won’t need this any more,’ he said. ‘I’m here now, so I’ll take care of it.’

‘Annias,’ Lycheas said in a voice shrill with protest.

Annias, however, took one look at the bleak face of the Queen’s Champion and decided not to press the issue. ‘Let him keep it,’ he said shortly.

‘But –’

‘I said to let him keep it,’ the primate snapped. ‘We don’t need it anyway. Let the Queen’s Champion hold the key to the room in which she sleeps.’ There was a vile innuendo in the churchman’s voice, and Sparhawk clenched his still-gauntleted left fist.

‘Will you walk with me as we return to the council chamber, Sir Sparhawk?’ the Earl of Lenda said, placing a lightly restraining hand on Sparhawk’s armoured forearm. ‘My steps sometimes falter, and it’s comforting to have a strong young person at my side.’

‘Certainly, my Lord,’ Sparhawk replied, unclenching his fist. When Lycheas had led the members of the council back down the corridor towards their meeting room, Sparhawk closed the door and locked it. Then he handed the key to his old friend. ‘Will you keep this for me, my Lord?’ he asked.

‘Gladly, Sir Sparhawk.’

‘And if you can, keep the candles burning in the throne room. Don’t leave her sitting there in the dark.’

‘Of course.’

They started down the corridor.

‘Do you know something, Sparhawk?’ the old man said. ‘They left a great deal of bark on you when they were giving you the last polishing touches.’

Sparhawk grinned at him.

‘You can be truly offensive when you set your mind to it.’ Lenda chuckled.

‘I can but try, my Lord.’

‘Be very careful here in Cimmura, Sparhawk,’ the old man cautioned seriously in a low voice. ‘Annias has a spy on every street corner. Lycheas won’t even sneeze without his permission, so the primate is the real ruler here in Elenia and he hates you.’

‘I’m not overly fond of him, either.’ Sparhawk thought of something. ‘You’ve been a good friend here today, my Lord. Is that going to put you in any kind of danger?’

The Earl of Lenda smiled. ‘I doubt it. I’m too old and powerless to be any kind of threat to Annias. I’m hardly more than an irritation, and he’s far too calculating to take action against me for that.’

The primate awaited them at the door to the council chamber. ‘The council has discussed the situation here, Sir Sparhawk,’ he said coldly. ‘The Queen is quite obviously in no danger. Her heartbeat is strong, and the crystal which encloses her is quite impregnable. She has no real need of a protector at this particular time. It is the command of the council, therefore, that you return to the chapterhouse of your order here in Cimmura and remain there until you receive further instructions.’ A chill smile touched his lips. ‘Or until the Queen herself summons you, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Sparhawk replied distantly. ‘I was about to suggest that myself, your Grace. I’m just a simple knight, and I’ll be far more at ease in the chapterhouse with my brothers than here in the palace.’ He smiled. ‘I’m really quite out of place at court.’

‘I noticed that.’

‘I thought you might have.’ Sparhawk briefly clasped the hand of the Earl of Lenda by way of farewell. Then he looked directly at Annias. ‘Until we meet again, then, your Grace.’

‘If we meet again.’

‘Oh, we will, Annias. Indeed we will.’ Then Sparhawk turned on his heel and walked on down the corridor.




Chapter 3 (#ulink_7b586c68-f0c4-5a87-9ba0-2e443d990c80)


The chapterhouse of the Pandion Knights in Cimmura lay just beyond the eastern gate of the city. It was, in every sense of the word, a castle, with high walls surmounted by battlements and with bleak towers at each corner. It was approached by way of a drawbridge which spanned a deep fosse bristling with sharpened stakes. The drawbridge had been lowered, but it was guarded by four black-armoured Pandions mounted on war horses.

Sparhawk reined Faran in at the outer end of the bridge and waited. There were certain formalities involved in gaining entry into a Pandion chapterhouse. Oddly, he found that he did not chafe at those formalities. They had been a part of his life for all the years of his novitiate, and the observance of these age-old ceremonies seemed somehow to mark a renewal and a reaffirmation of his very identity. Even as he awaited the ritual challenge, the sun-baked city of Jiroch and the women going to the wells in the steel-grey light of morning faded back in his memory, becoming more remote and taking their proper place among all his other memories.

Two of the armoured knights rode forward at a stately pace, the hooves of their chargers booming hollowly on the foot-thick planks of the drawbridge. They halted just in front of Sparhawk. ‘Who art thou who entreateth entry into the house of the Soldiers of God?’ one of them intoned.

Sparhawk raised his visor in the symbolic gesture of peaceable intent. ‘I am Sparhawk,’ he replied, ‘a soldier of God and a member of this order.’

‘How may we know thee?’ the second knight inquired.

‘By this token may you know me.’ Sparhawk reached his hand into the neck of his surcoat and drew out the heavy silver amulet suspended on the chain about his neck. Every Pandion wore such an amulet.

The pair made some pretence of looking carefully at it.

‘This is indeed Sir Sparhawk of our order,’ the first knight declared.

‘Truly,’ the second agreed, ‘and shall we then – uh –’ He faltered, frowning.

‘– Grant him entry into the house of the Soldiers of God,’ Sparhawk prompted.

The second knight made a face. ‘I can never remember that part,’ he muttered. ‘Thanks, Sparhawk.’ He cleared his throat and began again. ‘Truly,’ he said, ‘and shall we then grant him entry into the house of the Soldiers of God?’

The first knight was grinning openly. ‘It is his right freely to enter this house,’ he said, ‘for he is one of us. Hail, Sir Sparhawk. Prithee, come within the walls of this house, and may peace abide with thee beneath its roof.’

‘And with thee and thy companion as well, wheresoever you may fare,’ Sparhawk replied, concluding the ceremony.

‘Welcome home, Sparhawk,’ the first knight said warmly then. ‘You’ve been a long time away.’

‘You noticed,’ Sparhawk answered. ‘Did Kurik get here?’

The second knight nodded. ‘An hour or so ago. He talked with Vanion and then left again.’

‘Let’s go inside,’ Sparhawk suggested. ‘I need a large dose of that peace you mentioned earlier, and I’ve got to see Vanion.’

The two knights turned their horses, and the three rode together back across the drawbridge.

‘Is Sephrenia still here?’ Sparhawk asked.

‘Yes,’ the second knight replied. ‘She and Vanion came from Demos shortly after the Queen fell ill, and she hasn’t gone back to the motherhouse yet.’

‘Good. I need to talk with her as well.’

The three of them halted at the castle gate. ‘This is Sir Sparhawk, a member of our order,’ the first knight declared to the two who had remained at the gate. ‘We have confirmed his identity and vouch for his right to enter the house of the Knights Pandion.’

‘Pass then, Sir Sparhawk, and may peace abide with thee whilst thou remain within this house.’

‘I thank thee, Sir Knight, and may peace also be thine.’

The knights drew their mounts aside, and Faran moved forward without any urging.

‘You know the ritual as well as I do, don’t you?’ Sparhawk murmured.

Faran flicked his ears.

In the central courtyard, an apprentice knight who had not yet been vested with his ceremonial armour or spurs hurried forward and took Faran’s reins. ‘Welcome, Sir Knight,’ he said.

Sparhawk hooked his shield to his saddlebow and swung down from Faran’s back with his armour clinking. ‘Thank you,’ he replied. ‘Do you have any idea of where I might find Lord Vanion?’

‘I believe he’s in the south tower, my Lord.’

‘Thanks again.’ Sparhawk started across the courtyard, then stopped. ‘Oh, be careful of the horse,’ he warned. ‘He bites.’

The novice looked startled and then cautiously stepped away from the big, ugly roan, though still firmly holding the reins.

The horse gave Sparhawk a flat, unfriendly stare.

‘It’s more sporting this way, Faran,’ Sparhawk explained. He started up the worn steps that led into the centuries-old castle.

The inside of the chapterhouse was cool and dim, and the few members of the order Sparhawk met in those halls wore cowled monk’s robes, as was customary inside a secure house, although an occasional steely clink betrayed the fact that, beneath their humble garb, the members of this order wore chain mail and were inevitably armed. There were no greetings exchanged, and the cowled brothers of Pandion went resolutely about their duties with bowed heads and shadowed faces.

Sparhawk put the flat of his hand out in front of one of the cowled men. Pandions seldom touched each other. ‘Excuse me, brother,’ he said. ‘Do you know if Vanion is still in the south tower?’

‘He is,’ the other knight replied.

‘Thank you, brother. Peace be with you.’

‘And with you, Sir Knight.’

Sparhawk went on along the torchlit corridor until he came to a narrow stairway which wound up into the south tower between walls of massive, unmortared stones. At the top of the stairs there was a heavy door guarded by two young Pandions. Sparhawk did not recognize either of them. ‘I need to talk with Vanion,’ he told them. ‘The name is Sparhawk.’

‘Can you identify yourself?’ one of them asked, trying to make his youthful voice sound gruff.

‘I’ve just done so.’

It hung there while the two young knights struggled to find a graceful way out of the situation. ‘Why not just open the door and tell Vanion that I’m here?’ Sparhawk suggested. ‘If he recognizes me, fine. If he doesn’t, the two of you can try to throw me back down the stairs.’ He laid no particular emphasis on the word try.

The two looked at each other, then one of them opened the door and looked inside. ‘A thousand pardons, my Lord Vanion,’ he apologized, ‘but there’s a Pandion here who calls himself Sparhawk. He says that he wants to talk with you.’

‘Good,’ a familiar voice replied from inside the room. ‘I’ve been expecting him. Send him in.’

The two knights looked abashed and stepped out of Sparhawk’s way.

‘Thank you, my brothers,’ Sparhawk murmured to them. ‘Peace be with you.’ And then he went on through the door. The room was large, with stone walls, dark green drapes at the narrow windows, and a carpet of muted brown. A fire crackled in the arched fireplace at one end, and there was a candlelit table surrounded by heavy chairs in the centre. Two people, a man and a woman, sat at the table.

Vanion, the Preceptor of the Pandion Knights, had aged somewhat in the past ten years. His hair and beard were iron-grey now. There were a few more lines in his face, but there were no signs of feebleness there. He wore a mail shirt and a silver surcoat. As Sparhawk entered the room, he rose and came around the table. ‘I was about to send a rescue party to the palace for you,’ he said, grasping Sparhawk’s armoured shoulders. ‘You shouldn’t have gone there alone, you know.’

‘Maybe not, but things worked out all right.’ Sparhawk removed his gauntlets and helmet, laying them on the table. Then he unfastened his sword from its studs and laid it beside them. ‘It’s good to see you again, Vanion,’ he said, taking the older man’s hand in his. Vanion had always been a stern teacher, tolerating no shortcomings in the young knights he had trained to take their places in Pandion ranks. Although Sparhawk had come close to hating the man during his novitiate, he now regarded the blunt-spoken preceptor as one of his closest friends, and their handclasp was warm, even affectionate.

Then the big knight turned to the woman. She was small and had that peculiar neat perfection one sometimes sees in small people. Her hair was as black as night, though her eyes were a deep blue. Her features were obviously not Elene, but had that strangely foreign cast that marked her as a Styric. She wore a soft, white robe, and there was a large book on the table in front of her. ‘Sephrenia,’ he greeted her warmly, ‘you’re looking well.’ He took both of her hands in his and kissed her palms in the ritual Styric gesture of greeting.

‘You have been long away, Sir Sparhawk,’ she replied. Her voice was soft and musical and had an odd, lilting quality to it.

‘And will you bless me, little mother?’ he asked, a smile touching his battered face. He knelt before her. The form of address was Styric, reflecting that intimate personal connection between teacher and pupil which had existed since the dawn of time.

‘Gladly.’ She lightly touched her hands to his face and spoke a ritual benediction in the Styric tongue.

‘Thank you,’ he said simply.

Then she did something she rarely did. With her hands still holding his face, she leaned forward and lightly kissed him. ‘Welcome home, dear one,’ she murmured.

‘It’s good to be back,’ he replied. ‘I’ve missed you.’

‘Even though I scolded you when you were a boy?’ she asked with a gentle smile.

‘Scoldings don’t hurt that much.’ He laughed. ‘I even missed those, for some reason.’

‘I think that perhaps we did well with this one, Vanion,’ she said to the preceptor. ‘Between us, we’ve made a good Pandion.’

‘One of the best,’ Vanion agreed. ‘I think Sparhawk’s what they had in mind when they formed the order.’

Sephrenia’s position among the Knights Pandion was a peculiar one. She had appeared at the gates of the order’s motherhouse at Demos upon the death of the Styric tutor who had been instructing the novices in what the Styrics referred to as the secrets. She had neither been selected nor summoned, but had simply appeared and taken up her predecessor’s duties. Generally, Elenes despised and feared Styrics. They were a strange, alien people who lived in small, rude clusters of houses deep in the forests and mountains. They worshipped strange Gods and practised magic. Wild stories about hideous rites involving the use of Elene blood and flesh had circulated among the more gullible in Elene society for centuries, and periodically mobs of drunken peasants would descend on unsuspecting Styric villages, bent on massacre. The Church vigorously denounced such atrocities. The Church Knights, who had come to know and respect their alien tutors, went perhaps a step further than the Church, letting it be generally known that unprovoked attacks on Styric settlements would result in swift and savage retaliation. Despite such organized protection, however, any Styric who entered an Elene village or town could expect taunts and abuse and, not infrequently, showers of stones and offal. Thus, Sephrenia’s appearance at Demos had not been without personal risks. Her motives for coming had been unclear, but over the years she had served faithfully; to a man the Pandions had come to love and respect her. Even Vanion, the preceptor of the order, frequently sought her counsel.

Sparhawk looked at the volume lying on the table before her. ‘A book, Sephrenia?’ he said in mock amazement. ‘Has Vanion finally persuaded you to learn how to read?’

‘You know my beliefs about that practice, Sparhawk,’ she replied. ‘I was merely looking at the pictures.’ She pointed at the brilliant illuminations on the page. ‘I was ever fond of bright colours.’

Sparhawk drew up a chair and sat, his armour creaking.

‘You saw Ehlana?’ Vanion asked, resuming his seat across the table.

‘Yes.’ Sparhawk looked at Sephrenia. ‘How did you do that?’ he asked her. ‘Seal her up like that, I mean?’

‘It’s a bit complex.’ Then she stopped and gave him a penetrating look. ‘Perhaps you’re ready, at that,’ she murmured. She rose to her feet. ‘Come over here, Sparhawk,’ she said, moving towards the fireplace.

Puzzled, he rose and followed her.

‘Look into the flames, dear one,’ she said softly, using that odd Styric form of address she had used when he was her pupil.

Compelled by her voice, he stared at the fire. Faintly, he heard her whispering in Styric, and then she passed her hand slowly across the flames. Unthinking, he sank to his knees and stared into the fireplace.

Something was moving in the fire. Sparhawk leaned forward and stared hard at the little bluish curls of flame dancing along the edge of a charred oak log. The blue colour expanded, growing larger and larger, and within that nimbus of coruscating blue, he seemed to see a group of figures that wavered as the flame flickered. The image grew stronger, and he realized that he was looking at the semblance of the throne room in the palace, many miles away. Twelve armoured Pandions were crossing the flagstone floor bearing the slight figure of a young girl. She was borne, not upon a litter, but upon the flat sides of a dozen gleaming sword blades held rock-steady by the twelve black-armoured and visored men. They stopped before the throne, and Sephrenia’s white-robed figure stepped out of the shadows. She raised one hand, seeming to say something, though all Sparhawk could hear was the crackling flames. With a dreadful jerking motion, the young girl sat up. It was Ehlana. Her face was distorted and her eyes wide and vacant.

Without thinking, Sparhawk reached towards her, thrusting his hand directly into the flames.

‘No,’ Sephrenia said sharply, pulling his hand back. ‘You may watch only.’

The image of Ehlana, trembling uncontrollably, jerked to its feet, following, it seemed, the unspoken commands of the small woman in the white robe. Imperiously, Sephrenia pointed at the throne, and Ehlana stumbled, even staggered, up the steps of the dais to assume her rightful place.

Sparhawk wept. He tried once again to reach out to his queen, but Sephrenia held him back with a gentle touch that was strangely like an iron chain. ‘Continue to watch, dear one,’ she told him.

The twelve knights then formed a circle around the enthroned Queen and the white-robed woman standing at her side. Reverently, they extended their swords so that the two women on the dais were ringed in steel. Sephrenia raised her arms and spoke. Sparhawk could clearly see the strain on her face as she uttered the words of an incantation he could not even begin to imagine.

The point of each of the twelve swords began to glow and grew brighter and brighter, bathing the dais in intense silvery-white light. The light from those sword tips seemed to coalesce around Ehlana and her throne. Then Sephrenia spoke a single word, bringing her arm down as she did so in a peculiar cutting motion. In an instant the light around Ehlana solidified, and she became as she had been when Sparhawk had seen her in the throne room that morning. The image of Sephrenia, however, wilted and collapsed on the dais beside the crystal-encased throne.

The tears were streaming openly down Sparhawk’s face, and Sephrenia gently enfolded his head in her arms, holding him to her. ‘It is not easy, Sparhawk,’ she comforted him. ‘To look thus into the fire opens the heart and allows what we really are to emerge. You are gentler far than you would have us believe.’

He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘How long will the crystal sustain her?’ he asked.

‘For as long as the thirteen of us who were there continue to live,’ Sephrenia replied. ‘A year at most, as you Elenes measure time.’

He stared at her.

‘It is our life force that keeps her heart alive. As the seasons turn, we will one by one drop away, and one of us who was there will then have to assume the burden of the fallen. Eventually when we have each and every one given all we can – your Queen will die.’

‘No!’ he said fiercely. He looked at Vanion. ‘Were you there, too?’

Vanion nodded.

‘Who else?’

‘It wouldn’t serve any purpose for you to know that, Sparhawk. We all went willingly and we knew what was involved.’

‘Who’s going to take up the burden you mentioned?’ Sparhawk asked Sephrenia.

‘I will.’

‘We’re still arguing that point,’ Vanion disagreed. ‘Any one of us who were there can do it, actually.’

‘Not unless we modify the spell, Vanion,’ she told him just a bit smugly.

‘We’ll see,’ he said.

‘But what good does it do?’ Sparhawk demanded. ‘All you’ve done is to give her a year more of life at a dreadful cost – and she doesn’t even know.’

‘If we can isolate the cause of her illness and find a cure, the spell can be reversed,’ Sephrenia replied. ‘We have suspended her life to give us time.’

‘Are we making any progress?’

‘I’ve got every physician in Elenia working on it,’ Vanion said, ‘and I’ve summoned others from various parts of Eosia. Sephrenia’s looking into the possibility that the illness may not be of natural origin. We’ve encountered some resistance, though. The court physicians refuse to co-operate.’

‘I’ll go back to the palace then,’ Sparhawk said bleakly. ‘Perhaps I can persuade them to be more helpful.’

‘We thought of that already, but Annias has them all closely guarded.’

‘What is Annias up to?’ Sparhawk burst out angrily. ‘All we want to do is to restore Ehlana. Why is he putting all these stumbling blocks in our path? Does he want the throne for himself?’

‘I think he has his eyes on a bigger throne,’ Vanion said. ‘The Archprelate Cluvonus is old and in poor health. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Annias believed that the mitre of the Archprelacy might fit him.’

‘Annias? Archprelate? Vanion, that’s an absurdity.’

‘Life is filled with absurdities, Sparhawk. The militant orders are all opposed to him, of course, and our opinion carries a great deal of weight with the Church Hierocracy, but Annias has his hands in the treasury of Elenia up to the elbows and he’s very free with his bribes. Ehlana would have been able to cut off his access to that money, but she fell ill. That may have something to do with his lack of enthusiasm about her recovery.’

‘And he wants to put Arissa’s bastard on the throne to replace her?’ Sparhawk was growing angrier by the minute. ‘Vanion, I’ve just seen Lycheas. He’s weaker – and stupider – than King Aldreas was. Besides, he’s illegitimate.’

Vanion spread his hands. ‘A vote of the Royal Council could legitimize him, and Annias controls the council.’

‘Not all of it, he doesn’t,’ Sparhawk grated. ‘Technically, I’m also a member of the council, and I think I might just want to sway a few votes if that ever came up. A public duel or two might change the minds of the council.’

‘You’re rash, Sparhawk,’ Sephrenia told him.

‘No, I’m angry. I feel a powerful urge to hurt some people.’

Vanion sighed. ‘We can’t make any decisions just yet,’ he said. Then he shook his head and turned to another matter. ‘What’s really going on in Rendor?’ he asked. ‘Voren’s reports were all rather carefully worded in the event they fell into unfriendly hands.’

Sparhawk rose and went to one of the embrasured windows with his black cape swirling about his ankles. The sky was still covered with dirty-looking cloud, and the city of Cimmura seemed to crouch beneath that scud as if clenched to endure yet another winter. ‘It’s hot there,’ he mused, almost as if to himself, ‘and dry and dusty. The sun reflects back from the walls and pierces the eye. At first light, before the sun rises and the sky is like molten silver, veiled women in black robes and with clay vessels on their shoulders pass in silence through the streets on their way to the wells.’

‘I’ve misjudged you, Sparhawk,’ Sephrenia said in her melodic voice. ‘You have the soul of a poet.’

‘Not really, Sephrenia. It’s just that you need to get the feel of Rendor to understand what’s happening there. The sun is like the blows of a hammer on the top of your head, and the air is so hot and dry that it leaves no time for thought. Rendors seek simplistic answers. The sun doesn’t give them time for pondering. That might explain what happened to Eshand in the first place. A simple shepherd with his brains half baked out isn’t the logical receptacle for any kind of profound epiphany. It’s the aggravation of the sun, I think, that gave the Eshandist Heresy its impetus in the first place. Those poor fools would have accepted any idea, no matter how absurd, just for the chance to move around – and perhaps find some shade.’

‘That’s a novel explanation for a movement that plunged all of Eosia into three centuries of warfare,’ Vanion observed.

‘You have to experience it,’ Sparhawk told him, returning to his seat. ‘Anyway, one of those sun-baked enthusiasts arose at Dabour about twenty years ago.’

‘Arasham?’ Vanion surmised. ‘We’ve heard of him.’

‘That’s what he calls himself,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘He was probably born with a different name, though. Religious leaders tend to change their names fairly often to fit the prejudices of their followers. From what I understand, Arasham is an unlettered, unwashed fanatic with only a tenuous grip on reality. He’s about eighty or so, and he sees things and hears voices. His followers have less intelligence than their sheep. They’d gladly attack the kingdoms of the north – if they could only figure out which way north is. That’s a matter of serious debate in Rendor. I’ve seen a few of them. These heretics that send the members of the Hierocracy in Chyrellos trembling to their beds every night are little more than howling desert dervishes, poorly armed and with no military training. Frankly, Vanion, I’d worry more about the next winter storm than any kind of resurgence of the Eshandist Heresy in Rendor.’

‘That’s blunt enough.’

‘I’ve just wasted ten years of my life on a nonexistent danger. I’m sure you’ll forgive a certain amount of discontent about the whole thing.’

‘Patience will come to you, Sparhawk.’ Sephrenia smiled. ‘Once you have reached maturity.’

‘I thought that I already had.’

‘Not by half.’

He grinned at her then. ‘Just how old are you, Sephrenia?’ he asked.

Her look was filled with resignation. ‘What is it about you Pandions that makes you all ask that same question? You know I’m not going to answer you. Can’t you just accept the fact that I’m older than you are and let it go at that?’

‘You’re also older than I am,’ Vanion added. ‘You were my teacher when I was no older than those boys who guard my door.’

‘And do I look so very, very old?’

‘My dear Sephrenia, you’re as young as spring and as wise as winter. You’ve ruined us all, you know. After we’ve known you, the fairest of maidens have no charm for us.’

‘Isn’t he nice?’ She smiled at Sparhawk. ‘Surely no man alive has so beguiling a tongue.’

‘Try him sometime when you’ve just missed a pass with the lance,’ Sparhawk replied sourly. He shifted his shoulders under the weight of his armour. ‘What else is afoot? I’ve been gone a long time and I’m hungry for news.’

‘Otha’s mobilizing,’ Vanion told him. ‘The word that’s coming out of Zemoch is that he’s looking eastward towards Daresia and the Tamul Empire, but I’ve got a few doubts about that.’

‘And I have more than a few,’ Sephrenia agreed. ‘The kingdoms of the west are suddenly awash with Styric vagabonds. They camp at crossroads and hawk the rude goods of Styricum, but no local Styric band acknowledges them as members. For some reason the Emperor Otha and his cruel master have inundated us with watchers. Azash has driven the Zemochs to attack the west before. Something lies hidden here that he desperately wants, and he’s not going to find it in Daresia.’

‘There have been Zemoch mobilizations before,’ Sparhawk said, leaning back. ‘Nothing ever came of it.’

‘I think that this time might be a bit more serious,’ Vanion disagreed. ‘When he gathered his forces before, it was always on the border; as soon as the four militant orders moved into Lamorkand to face him, he disbanded his armies. He was testing us, nothing more. This time, though, he’s massing his troops back behind the mountains – out of sight, so to speak.’

‘Let him come,’ Sparhawk said bleakly. ‘We stopped him five hundred years ago, and we can do it again if we have to.’

Vanion shook his head. ‘We don’t want a repetition of what happened after the battle at Lake Randera – a century of famine, pestilence and complete social collapse – no, my friend, that we don’t want.’

‘If we can avoid it,’ Sephrenia added. ‘I am Styric, and I know even better than you Elenes just how totally evil the Elder God Azash is. If he comes west again, he must be stopped – no matter what the cost.’

‘That’s what the Church Knights are here for,’ Vanion said. ‘Right now, about all we can do is keep our eyes on Otha.’

‘I’ve just remembered something,’ Sparhawk said. ‘When I was riding into town last night, I saw Krager.’

‘Here in Cimmura?’ Vanion asked, sounding surprised. ‘Do you think Martel could be with him?’

‘Probably not. Krager’s usually Martel’s errand boy. Adus is the one who has to be kept on a short chain.’ He squinted. ‘How much did you hear about the incident in Cippria?’ he asked them.

‘We heard that Martel attacked you,’ Vanion replied. ‘That’s about all.’

‘There was a bit more to it than that,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘When Aldreas sent me to Cippria, I was supposed to report to the Elenian consul there – a diplomat who just happens to be the cousin of the Primate Annias. Late one night, he summoned me. I was on my way to his house when Martel, Adus, and Krager – along with a fair number of local cutthroats – came charging out of a side street. There’s no way that they could have known that I’d be passing that way unless someone had told them. Put that together with the fact that Krager’s back in Cimmura, where there’s a price on his head, and you start to come up with some interesting conclusions.’

‘You think that Martel is working for Annias?’

‘It’s a possibility, wouldn’t you say? Annias wasn’t very happy about the way my father forced Aldreas to give up the notion of marrying his own sister, and it’s entirely possible that he felt that he’d have a freer hand here in Elenia if the family of Sparhawk became extinct in a back alley in Cippria. Of course, Martel has his own reasons for disliking me. I really think you made a mistake, Vanion. You could have saved us all a lot of trouble if you hadn’t ordered me to withdraw my challenge.’

Vanion shook his head. ‘No, Sparhawk,’ he said. ‘Martel had been a brother in our order, and I didn’t want you two trying to kill each other. Besides, I couldn’t be entirely sure who’d win. Martel is very dangerous.’

‘So am I.’

‘I’m not taking any unnecessary chances with you, Sparhawk. You’re too valuable.’

‘Well, it’s too late to worry about it now.’

‘What are your plans?’

‘I’m supposed to stay here in the chapterhouse, but I think I’ll drift around the city a bit and see if I can run across Krager again. If I can connect him with anybody who’s working for Annias, I’ll be able to answer a few burning questions.’

‘Perhaps you should wait a bit,’ Sephrenia advised. ‘Kalten’s on his way back from Lamorkand.’

‘Kalten? I haven’t seen him in years.’

‘She’s right, Sparhawk,’ Vanion agreed. ‘Kalten’s a good man in tight corners, and the streets of Cimmura can be just as dangerous as the alleys of Cippria.’

‘When’s he likely to arrive?’

Vanion shrugged. ‘Soon, I think. It could even be today.’

‘I’ll wait until he gets here.’ An idea came to Sparhawk then. He smiled at his teacher and rose to his feet.

‘What are you doing, Sparhawk?’ she asked him suspiciously.

‘Oh, nothing,’ he replied. He began to speak in Styric, weaving his fingers in the air in front of him as he did so. When he had built the spell, he released it and held out his hand. There came a humming vibration, followed by a dimming of the candles and a lowering of the flames in the fireplace. When the light came up again, he was holding a bouquet of violets. ‘For you, little mother,’ he said, bowing slightly and offering the flowers to her, ‘because I love you.’

‘Why, thank you, Sparhawk.’ She smiled, taking them. ‘You were always the most thoughtful of my pupils. You mispronounced staratha, though,’ she added critically. ‘You came very close to filling your hand with snakes.’

‘I’ll practise,’ he promised.

‘Do.’

There was a respectful knock at the door.

‘Yes?’ Vanion called.

The door opened and one of the young knights stepped inside. ‘There’s a messenger from the palace outside, Lord Vanion. He says that he has been commanded to speak with Sir Sparhawk.’

‘Now what do they want?’ Sparhawk muttered.

‘You’d better send him in,’ Vanion told the young knight.

‘At once, my Lord.’ The knight bowed slightly and went out again.

The messenger had a familiar face. His blond hair was still elegantly curled. His saffron-coloured doublet, lavender hose, maroon shoes and apple-green cloak still clashed horribly. The young fop’s face, however, sported an entirely new embellishment. The very tip of his pointed nose was adorned with a large and extremely painful-looking boil. He was trying without much success to conceal the excrescence with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. He bowed elegantly to Vanion. ‘My Lord Preceptor,’ he said, ‘the Prince Regent sends his compliments.’

‘And please, convey mine back to him,’ Vanion replied.

‘Be assured that I shall, my Lord.’ The elegant fellow then turned to Sparhawk. ‘My message is for you, Sir Knight,’ he declared.

‘Say on then,’ Sparhawk answered with exaggerated formality. ‘My ears hunger for your message.’

The fop ignored that. He removed a sheet of parchment from inside his doublet and read grandly from it. ‘“By royal decree, you are commanded by his Highness to journey straightaway to the motherhouse of the Pandion Knights at Demos, there to devote yourself to your religious duties until such time as he sees fit to summon you once again to the palace.”’

‘I see,’ Sparhawk replied.

‘Do you understand the message, Sir Sparhawk?’ the fop asked, handing over the parchment.

Sparhawk did not bother to read the document. ‘It was quite clear. You have completed your mission in a fashion which does you credit.’ Sparhawk peered at the perfumed young fellow. ‘If you don’t mind some advice, neighbour, you ought to have that boil looked at by a surgeon. If it isn’t lanced soon, it’s going to keep growing to the point where you won’t be able to see around it.’

The fop winced at the word lanced. ‘Do you really think so, Sir Sparhawk?’ he asked plaintively, lowering his handkerchief. ‘Wouldn’t a poultice, perhaps –’

Sparhawk shook his head. ‘No, neighbour,’ he said with false sympathy. ‘I can almost guarantee you that a poultice won’t work. Be brave, my man. Lancing is the only solution.’

The courtier’s face grew melancholy. He bowed and left the room.

‘Did you do that to him, Sparhawk?’ Sephrenia asked suspiciously.

‘Me?’ He gave her a look of wide-eyed innocence.

‘Somebody did. That eruption is not natural.’

‘My, my,’ he said. ‘Imagine that.’

‘Well?’ Vanion said. ‘Are you going to obey the bastard’s orders?’

‘Of course not,’ Sparhawk snorted. ‘I’ve got too many things to do here in Cimmura.’

‘You’ll make him very angry.’

‘So?’




Chapter 4 (#ulink_0ab4c3d8-8e1c-5990-b235-25a3c208b5ae)


The sky had turned threatening again when Sparhawk emerged from the chapterhouse and clanked down the stairs into the courtyard. The novice came from the stable door leading Faran, and Sparhawk looked thoughtfully at him. He was perhaps eighteen and quite tall. He had knobby wrists that stuck out of an earth-coloured tunic that was too small for him. ‘What’s your name, young man?’ Sparhawk asked him.

‘Berit, my Lord.’

‘What are your duties here?’

‘I haven’t been assigned anything specific as yet, my Lord. I just try to make myself useful.’

‘Good. Turn around.’

‘My Lord?’

‘I want to measure you.’

Berit looked puzzled, but he did as he was told. Sparhawk measured him across the shoulders with his hands. Although he looked bony, Berit was actually a husky youth. ‘You’ll do fine,’ Sparhawk told him.

Berit turned, baffled.

‘You’re going to be making a trip,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘Gather up what you’ll need while I go get the man who’s going to go with you.’

‘Yes, my Lord,’ Berit replied, bowing respectfully.

Sparhawk took hold of the saddlebow and hauled himself up onto Faran’s back. Berit handed him the reins, and Sparhawk nudged the big roan into a walk. They crossed the courtyard, and Sparhawk responded to the salutes of the knights at the gate. Then he rode on across the drawbridge and through the east gate of the city.

The streets of Cimmura were busy now. Workmen carrying large bundles wrapped in mud-coloured burlap grunted their way through the narrow lanes, and merchants dressed in conventional blue stood in the doorways of their shops with their brightly coloured wares piled around them. An occasional wagon clattered along the cobblestones. Near the intersection of two narrow streets, a squad of church soldiers in their scarlet livery marched with a certain arrogant precision. Sparhawk did not give way to them, but instead bore down on them at a steady trot. Grudgingly, they separated and stood aside as he passed. ‘Thank you, neighbours,’ Sparhawk said pleasantly.

They did not answer him.

He reined Faran in. ‘I said, thank you, neighbours.’

‘You’re welcome,’ one of them replied sullenly.

Sparhawk waited.

‘… My Lord,’ the soldier added grudgingly.

‘Much better, friend.’ Sparhawk rode on.

The gate to the inn was closed, and Sparhawk leaned over and banged on its timbers with his gauntleted fist. The porter who swung it open for him was not the same knight who had admitted him the evening before. Sparhawk swung down from Faran’s back and handed him the reins.

‘Will you be needing him again, my Lord?’ the knight asked.

‘Yes. I’ll be going right back out. Would you saddle my squire’s horse, Sir Knight?’

‘Of course, my Lord.’

‘I appreciate that.’ Sparhawk laid one hand on Faran’s neck. ‘Behave yourself,’ he said.

Faran looked away, his expression lofty.

Sparhawk clinked up the stairs and rapped on the door of the room at the top.

Kurik opened the door for him. ‘Well? How did it go?’

‘Not bad.’

‘You came out alive, anyway. Did you see the Queen?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s surprising.’

‘I sort of insisted. Do you want to get your things together? You’re going back to Demos.’

‘You didn’t say “we”, Sparhawk.’

‘I’m staying here.’

‘I suppose there are good reasons.’

‘Lycheas has ordered me back to the motherhouse. I more or less plan to ignore him, but I want to be able to move around Cimmura without being followed. There’s a young novice at the chapterhouse who’s about my size. We’ll put him in my armour and mount him on Faran. Then the two of you can ride to Demos with a grand show of obedience. As long as he keeps his visor down, the primate’s spies will think I’m obeying orders.’

‘It’s workable, I suppose. I don’t like the idea of leaving you here alone, though.’

‘I won’t be alone. Kalten’s coming in either today or tomorrow.’

‘That’s a little better. Kalten’s steady.’ Kurik frowned. ‘I thought that he’d been exiled to Lamorkand. Who ordered him back?’

‘Vanion didn’t say, but you know Kalten. Maybe he just got bored with Lamorkand and took independent action.’

‘How long do you want me to stay at Demos?’ Kurik asked as he began to gather up his things.

‘A month or so at least. The road’s likely to be watched. I’ll get word to you. Do you need any money?’

‘I always need money, Sparhawk.’

‘There’s some in the pocket of that tunic.’ Sparhawk pointed at his travel clothes draped across the back of a chair. ‘Take what you need.’

Kurik grinned at him.

‘Leave me a little, though.’

‘Of course, my Lord,’ Kurik said with a mocking bow. ‘Do you want me to pack up your things?’

‘No. I’ll be coming back here when Kalten arrives. It’s a little hard to get in and out of the chapterhouse without being seen. Is the back door to that tavern still open?’

‘It was yesterday. I drop in there from time to time.’

‘I thought you might.’

‘A man needs a few vices, Sparhawk. It gives him something to repent when he goes to chapel.’

‘If Aslade hears that you’ve been drinking, she’ll set fire to your beard.’

‘Then we’ll just have to make sure that she doesn’t hear about it, won’t we, my Lord?’

‘Why do I always get mixed up in your domestic affairs?’

‘It keeps your feet planted in reality. Get your own wife, Sparhawk. Then other women won’t feel obliged to take special note of you. A married man is safe. A bachelor is a constant challenge to any woman alive.’

About half an hour later, Sparhawk and his squire went down the stairs into the courtyard, mounted their horses, and rode out through the gate. They clattered along the cobblestone streets towards the east gate of the city.

‘We’re being watched, you know,’ Kurik said quietly.

‘I certainly hope so,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘I’d hate to have to ride around in circles until we attract somebody’s attention.’

They went through the ritual again at the drawbridge of the chapterhouse and then rode on into the courtyard. Berit was waiting for them.

‘This is Kurik,’ Sparhawk told him as he dismounted. ‘The two of you will be going to Demos. Kurik, the young man’s name is Berit.’

The squire looked the acolyte up and down. ‘He’s the right size,’ he noted. ‘I might have to shorten a few straps, but your armour should come close to fitting him.’

‘I thought so myself.’

Another novice came out and took their reins.

‘Come along then, you two,’ Sparhawk said. ‘Let’s go and tell Vanion what we’re going to do, and then we’ll put my armour on our masquerader here.’

Berit looked startled.

‘You’re being promoted, Berit,’ Kurik told him. ‘You see how quickly one can move up in the Pandions? Yesterday a novice; today Queen’s Champion.’

‘I’ll explain it to you when we see Vanion,’ Sparhawk told Berit. ‘It’s not so interesting a story that I want to go over it more than once.’

It was midafternoon when the three of them emerged from the chapterhouse door again. Berit walked awkwardly in the unaccustomed armour, and Sparhawk was dressed in a plain tunic and hose.

‘I think it’s going to rain,’ Kurik said, squinting at the sky.

‘You won’t melt,’ Sparhawk told him.

‘I’m not worried about that,’ the squire replied. ‘It’s just that I’ll have to scour the rust off your armour again.’

‘Life is hard.’

Kurik grunted, and then the two of them boosted Berit up into Faran’s saddle. ‘You’re going to take this young man to Demos,’ Sparhawk told his horse. ‘Try to behave as if it were me on your back.’

Faran gave him an inquiring look.

‘It would take much too long to explain. It’s entirely up to you, Faran, but he’s wearing my armour, so if you try to bite him, you’ll probably break your teeth.’ Sparhawk turned to his squire. ‘Say hello to Aslade and the boys for me,’ he said.

‘Right,’ Kurik nodded. Then he swung up into his saddle.

‘Don’t make too big a show when you leave,’ Sparhawk added, ‘but make sure that you’re seen – and make sure that Berit keeps his visor down.’

‘I know what I’m doing, Sparhawk. Come along then, my Lord,’ Kurik said to Berit.

‘My Lord?’

‘You might as well get used to it, Berit.’ Kurik pulled his horse around. ‘I’ll see you, Sparhawk.’ Then the two of them rode out of the courtyard towards the drawbridge.

The rest of the day passed quietly. Sparhawk sat in the cell which Vanion had assigned to him, reading a musty old book. At sundown he joined the other brothers in the refectory for the simple evening meal, then marched in quiet procession with them to chapel. Sparhawk’s religious convictions were not profound, but there was again that sense of renewal involved in the return to the practices of his novitiate. Vanion conducted the services that evening and spoke at some length on the virtue of humility. In keeping with his long-standing practice, Sparhawk fell into a doze about halfway through the sermon.

He was awakened at the end of the sermon by the voice of an angel. A young knight with hair the colour of butter and a neck like a marble column lifted his clear tenor voice in a hymn of praise. His face shone, and his eyes were filled with adoration.

‘Was I really all that boring?’ Vanion murmured, falling in beside Sparhawk as they left the chapel.

‘Probably not,’ Sparhawk replied, ‘but I’m not really in any position to judge. Did you do the one about the simple daisy being as beautiful in the eyes of God as the rose?’

‘You’ve heard it before?’

‘Frequently.’

‘The old ones are the best.’

‘Who’s your tenor?’

‘Sir Parasim. He just won his spurs.’

‘I don’t want to alarm you, Vanion, but he’s too good for this world.’

‘I know.’

‘God will probably call him home very soon.’

‘That’s God’s business, isn’t it, Sparhawk?’

‘Do me a favour, Vanion. Don’t put me in a situation where I’m the one who gets him killed.’

‘That’s also God’s business. Sleep well, Sparhawk.’

‘You, too, Vanion.’

It was probably about midnight when the door to Sparhawk’s cell banged open. He rolled quickly out of his narrow cot and came to his feet with his sword in his hand.

‘Don’t do that,’ the big blond-haired man in the doorway said in disgust. He was holding a candle in one hand and a wineskin in the other.

‘Hello, Kalten,’ Sparhawk greeted his boyhood friend. ‘When did you get in?’

‘About a half-hour ago. I thought I was going to have to scale the walls there for a while.’ He looked disgusted. ‘It’s peacetime. Why do they raise the drawbridge every night?’

‘Probably out of habit.’

‘Are you going to put that down?’ Kalten asked, pointing at the sword in Sparhawk’s hand, ‘or am I going to have to drink this whole thing by myself?’

‘Sorry,’ Sparhawk said. He leaned his plain sword against the wall.

Kalten set his candle on the small table in the corner, tossed the wineskin onto Sparhawk’s bed, and then caught his friend in a huge bear hug. ‘It’s good to see you,’ he declared.

‘And you, too,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Have a seat.’ He pointed at the stool by the table and sat down on the edge of his cot. ‘How was Lamorkand?’

Kalten made an indelicate sound. ‘Cold, damp, and nervous,’ he replied. ‘Lamorks are not my favourite people in the world. How was Rendor?’

Sparhawk shrugged. ‘Hot, dry, and probably just as nervous as Lamorkand.’

‘I heard a rumour that you ran into Martel down there. Did you give him a nice funeral?’

‘He got away.’

‘You’re slipping, Sparhawk.’ Kalten unfastened the collar of his cloak. A great mat of curly blond hair protruded out of the neck of his mail coat. ‘Are you going to sit on that wineskin all night?’ he asked pointedly.

Sparhawk grunted, unstoppered the skin and lifted it to his lips. ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘Where did you get it?’ He handed the skin to his friend.

‘I picked it up in a wayside tavern about sundown,’ he replied. ‘I remembered that all there is to drink in Pandion chapterhouses is water – or tea, if Sephrenia happens to be around. Stupid custom.’

‘We are a religious order, Kalten.’

‘There are a half-dozen patriarchs in Chyrellos who get drunk as lords every night.’ Kalten lifted the wineskin and took a long drink. Then he shook the skin. ‘I should have picked up two,’ he observed. ‘Oh, by the way, Kurik was in the tavern with some young puppy wearing your armour.’

‘I should have guessed that,’ Sparhawk said wryly.

‘Anyway, Kurik told me that you were here. I was going to spend the night there, but when I heard that you’d come back from Rendor, I rode on the rest of the way.’

‘I’m touched.’

Kalten laughed and handed back the wineskin.

‘Were Kurik and the novice staying out of sight?’ Sparhawk asked.

Kalten nodded. ‘They were in one of the back rooms, and the young fellow was keeping his visor down. Have you ever seen anybody try to drink through his visor? Funniest thing I ever saw. There were a couple of local whores there, too. Your young Pandion might be getting an education along about now.’

‘He’s due,’ Sparhawk observed.

‘I wonder if he’ll try to do that with his visor down as well.’

‘Those girls are usually adaptable.’

Kalten laughed. ‘Anyhow, Kurik told me about the situation here. Do you really believe you can sneak around Cimmura without being recognized?’

‘I was thinking along the lines of a disguise of some sort.’

‘Better come up with a false nose,’ Kalten advised. ‘That broken beak of yours makes you fairly easy to pick out of a crowd.’

‘You should know,’ Sparhawk said. ‘You’re the one who broke it.’

‘We were only playing,’ Kalten said, sounding a bit defensive.

‘I’ve got used to it. We’ll talk with Sephrenia in the morning. She should be able to come up with something in the way of disguises.’

‘I’d heard that she was here. How is she?’

‘The same. Sephrenia never changes.’

‘Truly.’ Kalten took another drink from the wineskin and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘You know, I think I was always a big disappointment to her. No matter how hard she tried to teach me the secrets, I just couldn’t master the Styric language. Every time I tried to say “ogeragekgasek,” I almost dislocated my jaw.’

‘“Okeragukasek”,’ Sparhawk corrected him.

‘However you say it. I’ll just stick to my sword and let others play with magic.’ He leaned forward on his stool. ‘They say that the Eshandists are on the rise again in Rendor. Is there any truth to that?’

‘It’s no particular danger.’ Sparhawk shrugged, lounging back on his cot. ‘They howl and spin around in circles out in the desert and recite slogans to each other. That’s about as far as it goes. Is anything very interesting going on in Lamorkand?’

Kalten snorted. ‘All the barons there are involved in private wars with each other,’ he reported. ‘The whole kingdom reeks with the lust for revenge. Would you believe that there’s actually a war going on over a bee sting? An earl got stung and declared war on the baron whose peasants owned the hive. They’ve been fighting each other for ten years now.’

‘That’s Lamorkand for you. Anything else happening?’

‘The whole countryside east of Motera is crawling with Zemochs.’

Sparhawk sat up quickly. ‘Vanion did say that Otha was mobilizing.’

‘Otha mobilizes every ten years.’ Kalten handed his friend the wineskin. ‘I think he does it just to keep his people from getting restless.’

‘Are the Zemochs doing anything significant in Lamorkand?’

‘Not that I was able to tell. They’re asking a lot of questions – mostly about old folklore. You can find two or three of them in almost every village. They question old women and buy drinks for the loafers in the village taverns.’

‘Peculiar,’ Sparhawk murmured.

‘That’s a fairly accurate description of just about anybody from Zemoch,’ Kalten said. ‘Sanity has never been particularly prized there.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll go find a bed someplace,’ he said. ‘I can drag it in here and we can talk old times until we both fall asleep.’

‘All right.’

Kalten grinned. ‘Like the time your father caught us in that plum tree.’

Sparhawk winced. ‘I’ve been trying to forget about that for almost thirty years now.’

‘Your father did have a very firm hand, as I recall. I lost track of most of the rest of that day – and the plums gave me a bellyache besides. I’ll be right back.’ He turned and went out the door of Sparhawk’s cell.

It was good to have Kalten back. The two of them had grown up together in the house of Sparhawk’s parents at Demos after Kalten’s family had been killed and before the pair of boys had entered their novitiate training at the Pandion motherhouse. In many ways, they were closer than brothers. To be sure, Kalten had some rough edges to him, but their close friendship was one of the things Sparhawk valued more than anything.

After a short time, the big blond man returned, dragging a bed behind him, and then the two of them lay in the dim candlelight reminiscing until quite late. All in all, it was a very good night.

Early the following morning, they rose and dressed themselves, covering their mail coats with the hooded robes Pandions wore when they were inside their chapterhouses. They rather carefully avoided the morning procession to chapel and went in search of the woman who had trained whole generations of Pandion Knights in the intricacies of what were called the secrets.

They found her seated with her morning tea before the fire high up in the south tower.

‘Good morning, little mother,’ Sparhawk greeted her from the doorway. ‘Do you mind if we join you?’

‘Not at all, Sir Knights.’

Kalten went to her, knelt, and kissed both her palms. ‘Will you bless me, little mother?’ he asked her.

She smiled and put one hand on each side of his face. Then she spoke her benediction in Styric.

‘That always makes me feel better for some reason,’ he said, rising to his feet again. ‘Even though I don’t understand all the words.’

She looked at them critically. ‘I see that you chose not to attend chapel this morning.’

‘God won’t miss us all that much.’ Kalten shrugged. ‘Besides, I could recite all of Vanion’s sermons from memory.’

‘What other mischief are you two planning for today?’ she asked.

‘Mischief, Sephrenia?’ Kalten asked innocently.

Sparhawk laughed. ‘Actually, we weren’t even contemplating any mischief. We just have a fairly simple errand in mind.’

‘Out in the city?’

He nodded. ‘The only problem is that we’re both fairly well known here in Cimmura. We thought you might be able to help us with some disguises.’

She looked at them, her expression cool. ‘I’m getting a strong sense of subterfuge in all this. Just exactly what is this errand of yours?’

‘We thought we’d look up an old friend,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘A fellow named Krager. He has some information he might want to share with us.’

‘Information?’

‘He knows where Martel is.’

‘Krager won’t tell you that.’

Kalten cracked his big knuckles, the sound unpleasantly calling to mind the sharp noise of breaking bones. ‘Would you care to phrase that in the form of a wager, Sephrenia?’ he asked.

‘Won’t you two ever grow up? You’re a pair of eternal children.’

‘That’s why you love us so much, isn’t it, little mother?’ Kalten grinned.

‘What sort of disguise would you recommend?’ Sparhawk asked her.

She pursed her lips and looked at them. ‘A courtier and his squire, I think.’

‘No one could ever mistake me for a courtier,’ he objected.

‘I was thinking of it the other way around. I can make you look almost like a good honest squire, and once we dress Kalten in a satin doublet and curl that long blond hair of his, he can pass for a courtier.’

‘I do look good in satin,’ Kalten murmured modestly.

‘Why not just a couple of common workmen?’ Sparhawk asked.

She shook her head. ‘Common workmen cringe and fawn when they encounter a nobleman. Could either of you manage a cringe?’

‘She’s got a point,’ Kalten said.

‘Besides, workmen don’t carry swords, and I don’t imagine that either of you would care to go into Cimmura unarmed.’

‘She thinks of everything, doesn’t she?’ Sparhawk observed.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘Let’s see what we can do.’

Several acolytes were sent scurrying to various places in the chapterhouse for a number of articles. Sephrenia considered each one of them, selecting some and discarding others. What emerged after about an hour were two men who only faintly resembled the pair of Pandions who had first entered the room. Sparhawk now wore a plain livery not unlike Kurik’s, and he carried a short sword. A fierce black beard was glued to his face, and a purple scar ran across his broken nose and up under a black patch that covered his left eye.

‘This thing itches,’ he complained, reaching up to scratch at the false beard.

‘Keep your fingers off of it until the glue dries,’ she told him, lightly slapping his knuckles. ‘And put on a glove to cover that ring.’

‘Do you actually expect me to carry this toy?’ Kalten demanded, flourishing a light rapier. ‘I want a sword, not a knitting needle.’

‘Courtiers don’t carry broadswords, Kalten,’ she reminded him. She looked at him critically. His doublet was bright blue, gored and inset with red satin. His hose matched the goring, and he wore soft half-boots, since no pair of the pointed shoes currently in fashion could be found to fit his huge feet. His cape was of pale pink, and his freshly curled blond hair spilled down over the collar. He also wore a broad-brimmed hat adorned with a white plume. ‘You look beautiful, Kalten,’ she complimented him. ‘I think you might pass – once I rouge your cheeks.’

‘Absolutely not!’ He backed away from her.

‘Kalten,’ she said quite firmly, ‘sit down.’ She pointed at a chair and reached for a rouge pot.

‘Do I have to?’

‘Yes. Now sit.’

Kalten looked at Sparhawk. ‘If you laugh, we’re going to fight, so don’t even think about it.’

‘Me?’

Since the chapterhouse was watched at all times by the agents of the Primate Annias, Vanion came up with a suggestion that was part subterfuge and part utilitarian. ‘I need to transfer some things to the inn anyway,’ he explained. ‘Annias knows that the inn belongs to us, so we’re not giving anything away. We’ll hide Kalten in the wagon bed and turn this good, honest fellow into a teamster.’ He looked pointedly at the patch-eyed, bearded Sparhawk. ‘Where on earth did you find so close a match to his real hair?’ he asked Sephrenia curiously.

She smiled. ‘The next time you go into the stables, don’t look too closely at your horse’s tail.’

‘My horse?’

‘He was the only black horse in the stable, Vanion, and I didn’t take all that much, really.’

‘My horse?’ he repeated, looking injured.

‘We must all make sacrifices now and then,’ she told him. ‘It’s a part of the Pandion oath, remember?’




Chapter 5 (#ulink_033607e8-e1dc-5470-be19-ad3cd9b70bc9)


The wagon was rickety, and the horse was spavined. Sparhawk slouched on the wagon seat with the reins held negligently in one hand and apparently paying very little attention to the people in the street around him.

The wheels wobbled and creaked as the wagon jolted over a rutted place in the stone-paved street. ‘Sparhawk, do you have to hit every single bump?’ Kalten’s muffled voice came from under the boxes and bales loosely piled around him in the back of the wagon.

‘Keep quiet,’ Sparhawk muttered. ‘Two church soldiers are coming this way.’

Kalten grumbled a few choice oaths, then fell silent.

The church soldiers wore red livery and disdainful expressions. As they walked through the crowded streets, the workmen and blue-clad merchants stepped aside for them. Sparhawk reined in his nag, stopping the wagon in the exact centre of the street so that the soldiers would be forced to go around him. ‘Morning, neighbours,’ he greeted them.

They glared at him, then walked on around the wagon.

‘Have a pleasant day,’ he called after them.

They ignored him.

‘What was that all about?’ Kalten demanded in a low voice from the wagon bed.

‘Just checking my disguise,’ Sparhawk replied, shaking the reins.

‘Well?’

‘Well what?’

‘Does it work?’

‘They didn’t give me a second glance.’

‘How much farther to the inn? I’m suffocating under all this.’

‘Not too much farther.’

‘Give me a big surprise, Sparhawk. Miss a bump or two – just for the sake of variety.’

The wagon creaked on.

At the barred gate of the inn, Sparhawk climbed down from the wagon and pounded the rhythmic signal on its stout timbers. After a moment the knight porter opened the gate. He looked at Sparhawk carefully. ‘Sorry, friend,’ he said. ‘The inn’s all full.’

‘We won’t be staying, Sir Knight,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘We just brought a load of supplies from the chapterhouse.’

The porter’s eyes widened and he peered more closely at the big man. ‘Is that you, Sir Sparhawk?’ he asked incredulously. ‘I didn’t even recognize you.’

‘That was sort of the idea. You aren’t supposed to.’

The knight pushed the gate open, and Sparhawk led the weary horse into the courtyard. ‘You can get out now,’ he said to Kalten as the porter closed the gate.

‘Help get all this off me.’

Sparhawk moved a few of the boxes, and Kalten came squirming out.

The knight porter gave the big blond man an amused look.

‘Go ahead and say it,’ Kalten said in a belligerent tone.

‘I wouldn’t dream of it, Sir Knight.’

Sparhawk took a long, rectangular box out of the wagon bed and hoisted it up onto his shoulder. ‘Get somebody to help you with these supplies,’ he told the porter. ‘Preceptor Vanion sent them. And take care of the horse. He’s tired.’

‘Tired? Dead would be closer.’ The porter eyed the disconsolate-looking nag.

‘He’s old, that’s all. It happens to all of us sooner or later. Is the back door to the tavern open?’ He looked across the courtyard at a deeply inset doorway.

‘It’s always open, Sir Sparhawk.’

Sparhawk nodded and he and Kalten crossed the courtyard.

‘What have you got in the box?’ Kalten asked.

‘Our swords.’

‘That’s clever, but won’t they be a little hard to draw?’

‘Not after I throw the box down on the cobblestones, they won’t.’ He opened the inset door. ‘After you, my Lord,’ he said, bowing.

They passed through a cluttered storeroom and came out into a shabby-looking tavern. A century or so of dust clouded the single window, and the straw on the floor was mouldy. The room smelled of stale beer and spilled wine and vomit. The low ceiling was draped with cobwebs, and the rough tables and benches were battered and tired-looking. There were only three people in the place, a sour-looking tavern keeper, a drunken man with his head cradled in his arms on a table by the door, and a blowsy-looking whore in a red dress dozing in the corner.

Kalten went to the door and looked out into the street. ‘It’s still a little underpopulated out there,’ he grunted. ‘Let’s have a tankard or two while we wait for the neighbourhood to wake up.’

‘Why not have some breakfast instead?’

‘That’s what I said.’

They sat at one of the tables, and the tavern keeper came over, giving no hint that he recognized them as Pandions. He made an ineffective swipe at a puddle of spilled beer on the table with a filthy rag. ‘What would you like?’ His voice had a sullen, unfriendly tone.

‘Beer,’ Kalten replied.

‘Bring us a little bread and cheese, too,’ Sparhawk added.

The tavern keeper grunted and left them.

‘Where was Krager when you saw him?’ Kalten asked quietly.

‘In that square near the west gate.’

‘That’s a shabby part of town.’

‘Krager’s a shabby sort of person.’

‘We could start there, I suppose, but this might take a while. Krager could be down just about any rat hole in Cimmura.’

‘Did you have anything else more pressing to do?’

The whore in the red dress hauled herself wearily to her feet and shuffled across the straw-covered floor to their table. ‘I don’t suppose either of you fine gentlemen would care for a bit of a frolic?’ she asked in a bored-sounding voice. One of her front teeth was missing, and her red dress was cut very low in front. Perfunctorily she leaned forward to offer them a view of her flabby-looking breasts.

‘It’s a bit early, little sister,’ Sparhawk said. ‘Thanks all the same.’

‘How’s business?’ Kalten asked her.

‘Slow. It’s always slow in the morning.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t suppose you could see your way clear to offer a girl something to drink?’ she asked hopefully.

‘Why not?’ Kalten replied. ‘Tavern keeper,’ he called, ‘bring the lady one, too.’

‘Thanks, my Lord,’ the whore said. She looked around the tavern. This is a sorry place,’ she said with a certain amount of resignation in her voice. ‘I wouldn’t even come in here – except that I don’t like to work the streets.’ She sighed. ‘Do you know something?’ she said. ‘My feet hurt. Isn’t that a strange thing to happen to someone in my profession? You’d think it would be my back. Thanks again, my Lord.’ She turned and shuffled back to the table where she had been sitting.

‘I like talking with whores,’ Kalten said. ‘They’ve got a nice, uncomplicated view of life.’

‘That’s a strange hobby for a Church Knight.’

‘God hired me as a fighting man, Sparhawk, not as a monk. I fight whenever He tells me to, but the rest of my time is my own.’

The tavern keeper brought them tankards of beer and a plate with bread and cheese on it. They sat eating and talking quietly.

After about an hour the tavern had attracted several more customers – sweat-smelling workmen who had slipped away from their chores and a few of the keepers of nearby shops. Sparhawk rose, went to the door and looked out. Although the narrow back street was not exactly teeming with traffic, there were enough people moving back and forth to provide some measure of concealment. Sparhawk returned to the table. ‘I think it’s time to be on our way, my Lord,’ he said to Kalten. He picked up his box.

‘Right,’ Kalten replied. He drained his tankard and rose to his feet, swaying slightly and with his hat on the back of his head. He stumbled a few times on the way to the door and he was reeling just a bit as he led the way out into the street. Sparhawk followed him with the box once again on his shoulder. ‘Aren’t you overdoing that just a little?’ he muttered to his friend when they turned the corner.

‘I’m just a typical drunken courtier, Sparhawk. We’ve just come out of a tavern.’

‘We’re well past it now. If you act too drunk, you’ll attract attention. I think it’s time for a miraculous recovery.’

‘You’re taking all the fun out of this, Sparhawk,’ Kalten complained. He stopped staggering and straightened his white-plumed hat.

They moved on through the busy streets with Sparhawk trailing respectfully behind his friend as a good squire would.

When they reached another intersection, Sparhawk felt a familiar prickling of his skin. He set down his wooden box and wiped at his brow with the sleeve of his smock.

‘What’s the matter?’ Kalten asked, also stopping.

‘The case is heavy, my Lord,’ Sparhawk explained in a voice loud enough to be heard by passers-by. Then he spoke in a half-whisper. ‘We’re being watched,’ he said as his eyes swept the sides of the street.

The robed and hooded figure was in an upper floor window, partially concealed behind a thick green drape. It looked very much like the one that had watched him in the rain-wet streets the night he had first arrived back in Cimmura.

‘Have you located him?’ Kalten asked quietly, making some show of adjusting the collar of his pink cloak.

Sparhawk grunted, raising the box to his shoulder again. ‘Upper floor window over the chandler’s shop.’

‘Let’s be off then, my man,’ Kalten said in a louder voice. ‘The day’s wearing on.’ As he started on up the street, he cast a quick, furtive glance at the green-draped window.

They rounded another corner. ‘Odd-looking sort, wasn’t he?’ Kalten noted. ‘Most people don’t wear hoods when they’re indoors.’

‘Maybe he’s got something to hide.’

‘Do you think he recognized us?’

‘It’s hard to say. I’m not positive, but I think he was the same one who was watching me the night I came into town. I didn’t get a good look at him, but I could feel him, and this one feels just about the same.’

‘Would magic penetrate these disguises?’

‘Easily. Magic sees the man, not the clothes. Let’s go down a few alleys and see if we can shake him off in case he decides to follow us.’

‘Right.’

It was nearly noon when they reached the square near the west gate where Sparhawk had seen Krager. They split up there. Sparhawk went in one direction and Kalten the other. They questioned the keepers of the brightly coloured booths and the more sedate shops closely, describing Krager in some detail. On the far side of the square, Sparhawk rejoined his friend. ‘Any luck?’ he asked.

Kalten nodded. ‘There’s a wine merchant over there who says that a man who looks like Krager comes in three or four times a day to buy a flagon of Arcian red.’

‘That’s Krager’s drink, all right.’ Sparhawk grinned. If Martel finds out that he’s drinking again, he’ll reach down his throat and pull his heart out.’

‘Can you actually do that to a man?’

‘You can if your arm’s long enough, and if you know what you’re looking for. Did your wine merchant give you any sort of hint about which way Krager usually comes from?’

Kalten nodded. ‘That street there.’ He pointed.

Sparhawk scratched at his horse-tail beard, thinking.

‘If you pull that loose, Sephrenia’s going to turn you over her knee and paddle you.’

Sparhawk took his hand away from his face. ‘Has Krager picked up his first flagon of wine this morning?’ he asked.

Kalten nodded. ‘About two hours ago.’

‘He’s likely to finish that first one fairly fast. If he’s drinking the way he used to, he’ll wake up in the mornings feeling a bit unwell.’ Sparhawk looked around the busy square. ‘Let’s go on up that street a ways where there aren’t quite so many people and wait for him. As soon as he runs out of wine, he’ll come out for more.’

‘Won’t he see us? He knows us both, you know.’

Sparhawk shook his head. ‘He’s so shortsighted that he can barely see past the end of his nose. Add a flagon of wine to that, and he wouldn’t be able to recognize his own mother.’

‘Krager’s got a mother?’ Kalten asked in mock amazement. ‘I thought he just crawled out from under a rotten log.’

Sparhawk laughed. ‘Let’s go find someplace where we can wait for him.’

‘Can we skulk?’ Kalten asked eagerly. ‘I haven’t skulked in years.’

‘Skulk away, my friend,’ Sparhawk said.

They walked up the street the wine merchant had indicated. After a few hundred paces, Sparhawk pointed towards the narrow opening of an alley. ‘That ought to do it,’ he said. ‘Let’s go do our skulking in there. When Krager goes by, we can drag him into the alley and have our little chat in private.’

‘Right,’ Kalten agreed with an evil grin.

They crossed the street and entered the alley. Rotting garbage lay heaped along the sides, and some way farther on was a reeking public urinal. Kalten waved one hand in front of his face. ‘Sometimes your decisions leave a lot to be desired, Sparhawk,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t you have picked someplace a little less fragrant?’

‘You know,’ Sparhawk said, ‘that’s what I’ve missed about not having you around, Kalten – that steady stream of complaints.’

Kalten shrugged. ‘A man needs something to talk about.’ He reached under his azure doublet, took out a small, curved knife and began to strop it on the sole of his boot. ‘I get him first,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Krager. I get to start on him first.’

‘What gave you that idea?’

‘You’re my friend, Sparhawk. Friends always let their friends go first.’

‘Doesn’t that work the other way around, too?’

Kalten shook his head. ‘You like me better than I like you. It’s only natural, of course. I’m a lot more likeable than you are.’

Sparhawk gave him a long look.

‘That’s what friends are for, Sparhawk,’ Kalten said ingratiatingly, ‘to point out our little shortcomings to us.’

They waited, watching the street from the mouth of the alley. It was not a particularly busy street, for there were but few shops along its sides. It seemed rather to be given over largely to storehouses and private dwellings.

An hour dragged by, and then another.

‘Maybe he drank himself to sleep,’ Kalten said.

‘Not Krager. He can hold more than a regiment. He’ll be along.’

Kalten thrust his head out of the opening of the alleyway and squinted at the sky. ‘It’s going to rain,’ he predicted.

‘We’ve both been rained on before.’

Kalten plucked at the front of his gaudy doublet and rolled his eyes. ‘But Thparhawk,’ he lisped outrageously. ‘You know how thatin thpotth when it getth wet.’

Sparhawk doubled over with laughter, trying to muffle the sound.

They waited once more, and another hour dragged by.

‘The sun’s going to go down before long,’ Kalten said. ‘Maybe he found another wine shop.’

‘Let’s wait a little longer,’ Sparhawk replied.

The rush came without warning. Eight or ten burly fellows in rough clothing came charging down the alley with swords in their hands. Kalten’s rapier came whistling out of its sheath even as Sparhawk’s hand flashed to the hilt of his short sword. The man leading the charge doubled over and gasped as Kalten smoothly ran him through. Sparhawk stepped past his friend as the blond man recovered from his lunge. He parried the sword stroke of one of the attackers and then buried his sword in the man’s belly. He wrenched the blade as he jerked it out to make the wound as big as possible. ‘Get that box open!’ he shouted at Kalten as he parried another stroke.

The alleyway was too narrow for more than two of them to come at him at once; even though his sword was not as long as theirs, he was able to hold them at bay. Behind him he heard the splintering of wood as Kalten kicked the rectangular box apart. Then his friend was at his shoulder with his broadsword in his hand. ‘I’ve got it now,’ Kalten said. ‘Get your sword.’

Sparhawk spun and ran back to the mouth of the alley. He discarded the short sword, jerked his own weapon out of the wreckage of the box, and whirled back again. Kalten had cut down two of the attackers, and he was beating the others back step by step. He did, however, have his left hand pressed tightly to his side, and there was blood coming out from between his fingers. Sparhawk rushed past him, swinging his heavy sword with both hands. He split one fellow’s head open and cut the sword arm off another. Then he drove the point of his sword deep into the body of yet a third, sending him reeling against the wall with a fountain of blood gushing from his mouth.

The rest of the attackers fled.

Sparhawk turned and saw Kalten coolly pulling his sword out of the chest of the man with the missing arm. ‘Don’t leave them behind you like that, Sparhawk,’ the blond man said. ‘Even a one-armed man can stab you in the back. Besides, it isn’t tidy. Always finish one job before you go on to the next.’ He still had his left hand tightly pressed to his side.

‘Are you all right?’ Sparhawk asked him.

‘It’s only a scratch.’

‘Scratches don’t bleed like that. Let me have a look.’

The gash in Kalten’s side was sizeable, but it did not appear to be too deep. Sparhawk ripped the sleeve off the smock of one of the casualties, wadded it up, and placed it over the cut in Kalten’s side. ‘Hold that in place,’ he said. ‘Push in on it to slow the bleeding.’

‘I’ve been cut before, Sparhawk. I know what to do.’

Sparhawk looked around at the crumpled bodies littering the alley. ‘I think we ought to leave,’ he said. ‘Somebody in the neighbourhood might get curious about all the noise.’ Then he frowned. ‘Did you notice anything peculiar about these men?’ he asked.

Kalten shrugged. ‘They were fairly inept.’

‘That’s not what I mean. Men who make a living by waylaying people in alleys aren’t usually very interested in their personal appearance, and these fellows are all clean-shaven.’ He rolled over one of the bodies and ripped open the front of his canvas smock. ‘Isn’t that interesting?’ he observed. Beneath the smock the dead man wore a red tunic with an embroidered emblem over the left breast.

‘Church soldier,’ Kalten grunted. ‘Do you think that Annias might possibly dislike us?’

‘It’s not unlikely. Let’s get out of here. The survivors might have gone for help.’

‘The chapterhouse then – or the inn?’

Sparhawk shook his head. ‘Somebody’s seen through our disguises, and Annias would expect us to go to one of those places.’

‘You could be right about that. Any ideas?’

‘I know of a place. It’s not too far. Are you all right to walk?’

‘I can go as far as you can. I’m younger, remember?’

‘Only by six weeks.’

‘Younger is younger, Sparhawk. Let’s not quibble about numbers.’

They tucked their broadswords under their belts and walked out of the mouth of the alley. Sparhawk supported his wounded friend as they moved out into the open.

The street along which they walked grew progressively shabbier, and they soon entered a maze of interconnecting lanes and unpaved alleys. The buildings were large and run-down, and they teemed with roughly dressed people who seemed indifferent to the squalor around them.

‘It’s a rabbit warren, isn’t it?’ Kalten said. ‘Is this place much farther? I’m getting a little tired.’

‘It’s just on the other side of that next intersection.’

Kalten grunted and pressed his hand more tightly to his side.

They moved on. The looks directed at them by the inhabitants of this slum were unfriendly, even hostile. Kalten’s clothing marked him as a member of the ruling class, and these people at the very bottom of society had little use for courtiers and their servants.

When they reached the intersection, Sparhawk led his friend up a muddy alley. They had gone about halfway when a thick-bodied man with a rusty pike in his hands stepped out of a doorway to bar their path. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he demanded.

‘I need to talk to Platime,’ Sparhawk replied.

‘I don’t think he wants to hear anything you have to say. If you’re smart, you’ll get out of this part of town before nightfall. Accidents happen here after dark.’

‘And sometimes even before dark,’ Sparhawk said, drawing his sword.

‘I can have a dozen men here in two winks.’

‘And my broken-nosed friend here can have your head off in one,’ Kalten told him.

The man stepped back, his face apprehensive.

‘What’s it to be, neighbour?’ Sparhawk asked. ‘Do you take us to Platime, or do you and I play for a bit?’

‘You’ve got no right to threaten me.’

Sparhawk raised his sword so that the fellow could get a good look at it. ‘This gives me all sorts of rights, neighbour. Lean your pike against that wall and take us to Platime – now!’

The thick-bodied man flinched and then carefully set his pike against the wall, turned, and led them on up the alley. It came to a dead end a hundred paces farther on, and a stone stairway ran down to what appeared to be a cellar door.

‘Down there,’ the man said, pointing.

‘Lead the way,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘I don’t want you behind me, friend. You look like the sort who might make errors in judgement.’

Sullenly, the fellow went down the mud-coated stairs and rapped twice on the door. ‘It’s me,’ he called. ‘Sef. There are a couple of nobles here who want to talk to Platime.’

There was a pause followed by the rattling of a chain. The door opened and a bearded man thrust his head out. ‘Platime doesn’t like noblemen,’ he declared.

‘I’ll change his mind for him,’ Sparhawk said. ‘Step back out of the way, neighbour.’

The bearded man looked at the sword in Sparhawk’s hand, swallowed hard, and opened the door wider.

‘Pass right along, Sef,’ Kalten said to their guide.

Sef went through the door.

‘Join us, friend,’ Sparhawk told the bearded man when he and Kalten were inside. ‘We like lots of company.’

The stairs continued down between mouldy stone walls that wept moisture. At the bottom, the stair opened out into a very large cellar with a vaulted stone ceiling. There was a fire burning in a pit in the centre of the room, filling the air with smoke, and the walls were lined with roughly constructed cots and straw-filled pallets. Two dozen or so men and women in a wide variety of garments sat on those cots and pallets drinking and playing at dice. Just beyond the fire pit a huge man with a fierce black beard and a vast paunch sprawled in a large chair with his feet thrust out towards the flames. He wore a satin doublet of a faded orange colour, spotted and stained down the front, and he held a silver tankard in one beefy hand.

‘That’s Platime,’ Sef said nervously. ‘He’s a little drunk, so you should be careful, my Lords.’

‘We can deal with it,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘Thanks for your help, Sef. I don’t know how we’d have managed without you.’ Then he led Kalten on around the fire pit.

‘Who are all these people?’ Kalten asked in a low voice, looking around at the men and women lining the walls.

‘Thieves, beggars, a few murderers probably – that sort of thing.’

‘You’ve got some very nice friends, Sparhawk.’

Platime was carefully examining a necklace with a ruby pendant attached to it. When Sparhawk and Kalten stopped in front of him, he raised his bleary eyes and looked them over, paying particular attention to Kalten’s finery. ‘Who let these two in here?’ he roared.

‘We sort of let ourselves in, Platime,’ Sparhawk told him, thrusting his sword back under his belt and turning up his eye patch so that it no longer impaired his vision.

‘Well, you can sort of let yourselves back out again.’

‘That wouldn’t be convenient right now, I’m afraid,’ Sparhawk told him.

The gross man in the orange doublet snapped his fingers, and the people lining the wall stood up. ‘You’re badly outnumbered, my friend.’ Platime looked around suggestively at his cohorts.

‘That’s been happening fairly often lately,’ Kalten said with his hand on the hilt of his broadsword.

Platime’s eyes narrowed. ‘Your clothes and that sword don’t exactly match,’ he said.

‘And I try so hard to co-ordinate my attire,’ Kalten sighed.

‘Just who are you two?’ Platime asked suspiciously. ‘This one is dressed like a courtier, but I don’t think he’s really one of those walking butterflies from the palace.’

‘He sees right to the core of things, doesn’t he?’ Kalten said to Sparhawk. He looked at Platime. ‘Actually, we’re Pandions,’ he said.

‘Church Knights? I thought it might be something like that. Why the fancy clothes, then?’

‘We’re both fairly well known,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘We wanted to be able to move around without being recognized.’

Platime looked meaningfully at Kalten’s blood-stained doublet. ‘It looks to me as if somebody saw through your disguises,’ he said, ‘or maybe you just frequent the wrong taverns. Who stabbed you?’

‘A church soldier.’ Kalten shrugged. ‘He got in a lucky thrust. Do you mind if I sit down? I’m feeling a little shaky for some reason.’

‘Somebody bring him a stool,’ Platime shouted. Then he looked back at the two of them. ‘Why would Church Knights and church soldiers be fighting?’ he asked.

‘Palace politics.’ Sparhawk shrugged. ‘They get a little murky sometimes.’

‘That’s God’s own truth. What’s your business here?’

‘We need a place to stay for a while,’ Sparhawk told him. He looked around. ‘This cellar of yours ought to work out fairly well.’

‘Sorry, friend. I can sympathize with a man who’s just had a run-in with the church soldiers, but I’m conducting a business here, and there’s no room for outsiders.’ Platime looked at Kalten, who had just sunk down on a stool that a ragged beggar had brought him. ‘Did you kill the man who stabbed you?’

‘He did.’ Kalten pointed at Sparhawk. ‘I killed a few others, but my friend here did most of the fighting.’

‘Why don’t we get down to business?’ Sparhawk said. ‘I think you owe my family a debt, Platime.’

‘I don’t have any dealings with nobles,’ Platime replied, ‘– except to cut a few of their throats from time to time – so it’s unlikely that I owe your family a thing.’

‘This debt has nothing to do with money. A long time ago, some church soldiers were hanging you. My father stopped them.’

Platime blinked. ‘You’re Sparhawk?’ he said in surprise. ‘You don’t look that much like your father.’

‘It’s his nose,’ Kalten said. ‘When you break a man’s nose, you change his whole appearance. Why were the soldiers hanging you?’

‘It was all a misunderstanding. I knifed a fellow. He wasn’t wearing his uniform, so I didn’t know he was an officer in the primate’s guard.’ He looked disgusted. ‘And all he had in his purse were two silver coins and a handful of copper.’

‘Do you acknowledge the debt?’ Sparhawk pressed.

Platime pulled at his coarse black beard. ‘I guess I do,’ he admitted.

‘We’ll stay here, then.’

‘That’s all you want?’

‘Not quite. We’re looking for a man – a fellow named Krager. Your beggars are all over town, and I want them to look for him.’

‘Fair enough. Can you describe him?’

‘I can do better than that. I can show him to you.’

‘That doesn’t exactly make sense, friend.’

‘It will in a minute. Have you got a basin of some kind – and some clean water?’

‘I think I can manage that. What have you got in mind?’

‘He’s going to make an image of Krager’s face in the water,’ Kalten said. ‘It’s an old trick.’

Platime looked impressed. ‘I’ve heard that you Pandions are all wizards, but I’ve never seen anything like that before.’

‘Sparhawk’s better at it than I am,’ Kalten admitted.

One of the beggars furnished a chipped basin filled with slightly cloudy water. Sparhawk set the basin on the floor and concentrated for a moment, muttering the Styric words of the spell under his breath. Then he passed his hand slowly over the basin, and Krager’s puffy-looking face appeared.

‘Now that is really something to see,’ Platime marvelled.

‘It’s not too difficult,’ Sparhawk said modestly. ‘Have your people here look at it. I can’t keep it there forever.’

‘How long can you hold it?’

‘Ten minutes or so. It starts to break up after that.’

‘Talen!’ the fat man shouted. ‘Come here.’

A grubby-looking boy of about ten slouched across the room. His tunic was ragged and dirty, but he wore a long, red satin waistcoat that had been fashioned by cutting the sleeves off a doublet. There were several knife-holes in it. ‘What do you want?’ he asked insolently.

‘Can you copy that?’ Platime asked, pointing at the basin.

‘Of course I can, but why should I?’

‘Because I’ll box your ears if you don’t.’

Talen grinned at him. ‘You’d have to catch me first, fat man, and I can run faster than you can.’

Sparhawk dug a finger into a pocket of his leather jerkin and took out a small silver coin. ‘Would this make it worth your while?’ he asked, holding up the coin.

Talen’s eyes brightened. ‘For that, I’ll give you a masterpiece,’ he promised.

‘All we want is accuracy.’

‘Whatever you say, my patron.’ Talen bowed mockingly. ‘I’ll go and get my things.’

‘Is he really any good?’ Kalten asked Platime after the boy had scurried over to one of the cots lining the wall.

Platime shrugged. ‘I’m not an art critic,’ he said. ‘He spends all his time drawing pictures, though – when he isn’t begging or stealing.’

‘Isn’t he a little young for your line of work?’

Platime laughed. ‘He’s got the nimblest fingers in Cimmura,’ he said. ‘He could steal your eyes right out of their sockets, and you wouldn’t even miss them until you went to look closely at something.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ Kalten said.

‘It could be too late, my friend. Weren’t you wearing a ring when you came in?’

Kalten blinked, then raised his blood-stained left hand and stared at it. There was no ring on the hand.




Chapter 6 (#ulink_10e07b90-942c-5f54-b8bd-a26e184373c6)


Kalten winced. ‘Easy, Sparhawk,’ he said. ‘That really hurts.’

‘It has to be cleaned before I can bandage it,’ Sparhawk replied, continuing to wipe the cut on his friend’s side with a wine-soaked cloth.

‘But do you have to do it so hard?’

Platime waddled around the smoky fire pit and stood over the cot where Kalten lay. ‘Is he going to be all right?’ he asked.

‘Probably,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘He’s had the blood let out of him a few times before, and he usually recovers.’ He laid aside the cloth and picked up a long strip of linen. ‘Sit up,’ he told his friend.

Kalten grunted and pushed himself into a sitting position. Sparhawk began to wind the strip about his waist.

‘Not so tight,’ Kalten said. ‘I have to be able to breathe.’

‘Quit complaining.’

‘Were those church soldiers after you for any particular reason?’ Platime asked. ‘Or were they just amusing themselves?’

‘They had reasons,’ Sparhawk told him as he knotted Kalten’s bandage. ‘We’ve managed to be fairly offensive to Primate Annias lately.’

‘Good for you. I don’t know how you noblemen feel about him, but the common people all hate him.’

‘We moderately despise him.’

‘That’s one thing we all have in common then. Is there any chance that Queen Ehlana might recover?’

‘We’re working on that.’

Platime sighed. ‘I think she’s our only hope, Sparhawk. Otherwise Annias is going to run Elenia to suit himself, and that would really be too bad.’

‘Patriotism, Platime?’ Kalten asked.

‘Just because I’m a thief and a murderer doesn’t mean that I’m disloyal. I respect the crown as much as any man in the kingdom. I even respected Aldreas, weak as he was.’ Platime’s eyes grew sly. ‘Did his sister ever really seduce him?’ he asked. ‘There were all kinds of rumours.’

Sparhawk shrugged. ‘That’s sort of hard to say.’

‘She went absolutely wild after your father forced Aldreas to marry Queen Ehlana’s mother, you know.’ Platime sniggered. ‘She was totally convinced that she was going to marry her brother and get control of the throne.’

‘Isn’t that sort of illegal?’ Kalten asked.

‘Annias said that he’d found a way around the law. Anyway, after Aldreas got married, Arissa ran away from the palace. They found her a few weeks later in that cheap brothel over by the river. Just about everybody in Cimmura had tried her before they dragged her out of the place.’ He squinted at them. ‘What did they finally do with her anyway? Chop off her head?’

‘No,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘She’s cloistered in the nunnery at Demos. They’re very strict there.’

‘At least she’s getting some rest. From what I hear, the Princess Arissa was a very busy young woman.’ He straightened and pointed at a nearby cot. ‘You can use that one,’ he told Sparhawk. ‘I’ve got every thief and beggar in Cimmura out looking for this Krager fellow of yours. If he sets foot in the streets, we’ll know about it within an hour. In the meantime, you might as well get some sleep.’

Sparhawk nodded and rose to his feet. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked Kalten.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Do you need anything?’

‘How about some beer – just to restore all the blood I lost, of course.’

It was impossible to tell what time it was since the cellar had no windows. Sparhawk felt a light touch and came awake immediately, catching the hand that had touched him.

The grubby-looking boy, Talen, made a sour face. ‘Never try to pick a pocket when you’re shivering,’ he said. He mopped the rain out of his face. ‘It’s really a miserable morning out there,’ he added.

‘Were you looking for anything in particular in my pockets?’

‘No, not really – just anything that might turn up.’

‘Would you like to give me back my friend’s ring?’

‘Oh, I suppose so. I only took it to keep in practice anyway.’ Talen reached inside the wet tunic and drew out Kalten’s ring. ‘I cleaned the blood off it for him,’ he said, admiring it.

‘He’ll appreciate that.’

‘Oh, by the way, I found that fellow you were looking for.’

‘Krager? Where?’

‘He’s staying in a brothel in Lion Street.’

‘A brothel?’

‘Maybe he needs affection.’

Sparhawk sat up. He touched his horsehair beard to make sure it was still in place. ‘Let’s go talk to Platime.’

‘Do you want me to wake your friend?’

‘Let him sleep. I’m not going to take him out in the rain in his condition anyway.’

Platime was snoring in his chair, but his eyes opened instantly when Talen touched his shoulder.

‘The boy found Krager,’ Sparhawk told him.

‘You’re going after him, I suppose?’

Sparhawk nodded.

‘Do you think the primate’s soldiers are still looking for you?’

‘Probably.’

‘And they know what you look like?’

‘Yes.’

‘You won’t get very far then.’

‘I’ll have to chance it.’

‘Platime,’ Talen said.

‘What?’

‘Do you remember that time when we had to get Weasel out of town in a hurry?’

Platime grunted, scratching at his paunch and looking speculatively at Sparhawk. ‘How much are you attached to that beard?’ he asked.

‘Not too much. Why?’

‘If you’d be willing to shave it off, I know a way you might be able to move around Cimmura without being recognized.’

Sparhawk began pulling off chunks of the false beard.

Platime laughed. ‘You really aren’t attached to it, are you?’ He looked at Talen. ‘Go and get what he’ll need out of the bin.’

Talen went to a large wooden box in the corner of the cellar and started rummaging around inside as Sparhawk finished removing the beard. When the boy came back, he was carrying a ragged-looking cloak and a pair of shoes that were little more than rotting leather bags.

‘How much of the rest of your face will come off?’ Platime asked.

Sparhawk took the ragged cloak from Talen and poured some of Platime’s wine on one corner. Then he vigorously scrubbed his face, removing the remnants of Sephrenia’s glue and the purple scar.

‘The nose?’ Platime asked.

‘No. That’s real.’

‘How did it get broken?’

‘It’s a long story.’

Platime shrugged. ‘Take off your boots and those leather breeches. You’ll wear the cloak and those shoes.’

Sparhawk pulled off his boots and peeled off the leather hose. Talen draped the cloak around him, then pulled one corner across the front and fastened it to the opposite shoulder so that it covered Sparhawk’s body and reached about haltway to his knees.

Platime squinted at him. ‘Put on the shoes and rub some dirt on your legs. You look a bit too clean.’ Talen went back to the bin and returned with a scuffed leather cap, a long, slender stick and a length of dirty sackcloth.

‘Put on the cap and tie the rag across your eyes,’ Platime instructed.

Sparhawk did that.

‘Can you see well enough through the bandage?’

‘I can make things out, but that’s about all.’

‘I don’t want you to see too well. You’re supposed to be blind. Get him a begging bowl, Talen.’ Platime turned back to Sparhawk. ‘Practise walking around a bit. Swing the stick in front of you, but bump into things from time to time and don’t forget to stumble.’

‘It’s an interesting idea, Platime, but I know exactly where I’m going. Won’t that make people suspicious?’

‘Talen will lead you. You’ll just be a pair of ordinary beggars.’

Sparhawk hitched up his belt and shifted his broadsword around.

‘You’re going to have to leave that here,’ Platime told him. ‘You can hide a dagger under the cloak, but a broadsword’s a little too obvious.’

‘I suppose you’re right.’ Sparhawk pulled out his sword and handed it to the fat man in the orange doublet. ‘Don’t lose it,’ he said. Then he began to practise the blind man’s groping walk, tapping the long, slender stick Talen had given him on the floor as he went.

‘Not too bad,’ Platime said after several minutes. ‘You pick things up fast, Sparhawk. It ought to be good enough to get you by. Talen can teach you how to beg as you go along.’

Talen came back from the large wooden storage box. His left leg looked grotesquely twisted, and he limped along with the aid of a crutch. He had removed his gaudy waistcoat, and he was now dressed in rags.

‘Doesn’t that hurt?’ Sparhawk asked, pointing at the boy’s leg with his stick.

‘Not much. All you have to do is walk on the side of your foot and turn your knee in.’

‘It looks very convincing.’

‘Naturally. I’ve had a lot of practice.’

‘Are you both ready then?’ Platime asked.

‘Probably as ready as we’ll ever be,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘I don’t think I’ll be very good at begging, though.’

‘Talen can teach you the basics. It’s not too hard. Good luck, Sparhawk.’

‘Thanks. I might need it.’

It was the middle of a grey rainy morning when Sparhawk and his young guide emerged from the cellar and started back down the muddy alleyway. Sef was once again standing watch in a recessed doorway. He did not speak to them as they passed.

When they reached the street, Talen took hold of the corner of Sparhawk’s cloak and led him along by it. Sparhawk groped his way behind him, his stick tapping the cobblestones.

‘There are several ways to beg,’ the boy said after they had gone a short distance. ‘Some prefer just to sit and hold out the begging bowl. That doesn’t bring in too many coins, though – unless you do it outside a church on a day when the sermon’s been about charity. Some people like to shove the bowl into the face of everybody who walks by. You get more coins that way, but sometimes it irritates people, and every so often you’ll get punched in the face. You’re supposed to be blind, so we’ll have to work out something a little different.’

‘Do I have to say anything?’

Talen nodded. ‘You’ve got to get their attention. “Charity” is usually good enough. You don’t have time for long speeches, and people don’t like to talk with beggars anyway. If somebody decides to give you something, he wants to get it over with as quickly as possible. Make your voice sound hopeless. Whining isn’t all that good, but try to put a little catch in your voice – as if you were just about to cry.’

‘Begging’s quite an art, isn’t it?’

Talen shrugged. ‘It’s just selling something, that’s all. But you’ve got to do all the selling with just one or two words, so put your heart in it. Do you have any coppers with you?’

‘Unless you’ve stolen them already. Why?’

‘When we get to the brothel, you’ll need to bait the bowl. Drop in a couple of coppers to make it look as if you’ve already got something.’

‘I don’t quite follow what you’ve got in mind.’

‘You want to wait for this Krager to come out, don’t you? If you go in after him, you’re likely to run into the bruisers who keep order in the place.’ He looked Sparhawk up and down. ‘You might be able to deal with them at that, but that sort of thing gets noisy, and the madame would probably send for the watch. It’s usually better just to wait outside.’

‘All right. I suppose we’ll wait then.’

‘We’ll station ourselves outside the door and beg until he shows up.’ The boy paused. ‘Are you going to kill him?’ he asked. ‘And if you are, can I watch?’

‘No. I just want to ask him a few questions.’

‘Oh.’ Talen’s voice sounded a little disappointed.

It was raining harder now, and Sparhawk’s cloak had begun to drip down the backs of his bare legs.

They reached Lion Street and turned left. ‘The brothel’s just up ahead,’ Talen said, tugging Sparhawk along by the corner of his dripping cloak. Then he stopped suddenly.

‘What’s the matter?’ Sparhawk asked him.

‘Competition,’ Talen replied. ‘There’s a one-legged man leaning against the wall beside the door.’

‘Begging?’

‘What else?’

‘Now what?’

‘It’s no particular problem. I’ll just tell him to move on.’

‘Will he do it?’

Talen nodded. ‘He will when I tell him that we’ve rented the spot from Platime. Wait here. I’ll be right back.’

The boy crutched his way up the rainy street to the red-painted brothel door and spoke briefly with the one-legged beggar stationed there. The man glared at him for a moment, then his leg miraculously unfolded out from under his rough smock and he stalked off, carrying his crutch and muttering to himself. Talen came back down the street and led Sparhawk to the door of the brothel. ‘Just lean against the wall and hold the bowl out when somebody comes by. Don’t hold it right in front of them, though. You’re not supposed to be able to see them, so sort of stick it off to one side.’

A prosperous-looking merchant came by with his head down and his dark cloak wrapped tightly about him. Sparhawk thrust out his bowl. ‘Charity,’ he said in a pleading tone of voice.

The merchant ignored him.

‘Not too bad,’ Talen said. ‘Try to put that little catch I mentioned in your voice, though.’

‘Is that why he didn’t put anything in the bowl?’

‘No. Merchants never do.’

‘Oh.’

Several workmen dressed in leather smocks came along the street. They were talking loudly and were a bit unsteady on their feet.

‘Charity,’ Sparhawk said to them.

Talen sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve. ‘Please, good masters,’ he said in a choked voice. ‘Can you help my poor blind father and me?’

‘Why not?’ one of the workmen said good-humouredly. He fished around in one of his pockets, drew out a few coins, and looked at them. Then he selected one small copper and dropped it into Sparhawk’s bowl.

One of the others sniggered. ‘He’s trying to get enough together to go in and visit the girls,’ he said.

‘That’s his business, isn’t it?’ the generous one replied as they went on down the street.

‘First blood,’ Talen said. ‘Put the copper in your pocket. We don’t want the bowl to have too many coins in it.’

In the next hour, Sparhawk and his youthful instructor picked up about a dozen more coins. It became challenging after the first few times, and Sparhawk felt a small surge of triumph each time he managed to wheedle a coin out of a passer-by.

Then an ornate carriage drawn by a matched pair of black horses came up the street and stopped in front of the red door. A liveried young footman jumped down from the back, lowered a step from the side of the vehicle, and opened the door. A nobleman dressed all in green velvet stepped out. Sparhawk knew him.

‘I may be a while, love,’ the nobleman said, fondly touching the footman’s boyish face. ‘Take the carriage up the street and watch for me.’ He giggled girlishly. ‘Someone might recognize it, and I certainly wouldn’t want people to think I was frequenting a place like this.’ He rolled his eyes and then minced towards the red door.

‘Charity for the blind,’ Sparhawk begged, thrusting out his bowl.

‘Out of my way, knave,’ the nobleman said, fluttering one hand as if shooing away a bothersome fly. He opened the door and went inside as the carriage moved off.

‘Peculiar,’ Sparhawk murmured.

‘Wasn’t he, though?’ Talen grinned.

‘Now that’s a sight I thought I’d never see – the Baron Harparin going into a brothel.’

‘Noblemen get urges, too, don’t they?’

‘Harparin gets urges, all right, but I don’t think the girls inside would satisfy them. He might find you interesting, though.’

Talen flushed. ‘Never mind that,’ he said.

Sparhawk frowned. ‘Why would Harparin go into the same brothel where Krager’s staying?’ he mused.

‘Do they know each other?’

‘I wouldn’t think so. Harparin’s a member of the Royal Council and a close friend of the Primate Annias. Krager’s a third-rate toad. If they’re meeting in there, I’d give a great deal to hear what they’re saying.’

‘Go on in, then.’

‘What?’

‘It’s a public place, and blind men need affection, too. Just don’t start any fights.’ Talen looked around cautiously. ‘Once you get inside, ask for Naween. She works for Platime on the side. Tell her that he sent you. She’ll get you to someplace where you can eavesdrop.’

‘Does Platime control the whole city?’

‘Only the underside of it. Annias runs the top half.’

‘Are you going in with me?’

Talen shook his head. ‘Shanda’s got a twisted sense of morality. She doesn’t allow children inside – not male ones, anyway.’

‘Shanda?’

‘The madame of this place.’

‘I probably should have guessed. Krager’s mistress is named Shanda – thin woman?’

Talen nodded. ‘With a very sour mouth?’

‘That’s her.’

‘Does she know you?’

‘We met once about twelve years ago.’

‘The bandage hides most of your face, and the light inside isn’t too good. You should be able to get by if you change your voice a bit. Go on in. I’ll stay out here and keep watch. I know every policeman and spy in Cimmura by sight.’

‘All right.’

‘Have you got the price for a girl? I can lend you some if you need it. Shanda won’t let you see any of her whores unless you pay her first.’

‘I can manage it – unless you’ve picked my pocket again.’





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