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‘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

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?’