of the way the common people thought. Sparhawk had
patiently tried to explain to him that sending a Church
Knight out to gather information was a waste of time,
but Dolmant had insisted, and Sparhawk’s oath obliged
him to obey. And so it was that he had wasted six weeks
in the ugly cities of southern Lamorkand where no one
had been willing to talk with him about anything more
serious than the weather. To make matters even worse,
Dolmant had quite obviously blamed the knight for his
own blunder.
In a dark side-street where the water dripped monotonously
onto the cobblestones from the eaves of the
houses, he felt Faran’s muscles tense. ‘Sorry,’ he said
quietly. “I wasn’t paying attention.” Someone was
watching him, and he could clearly sense the animosity
which had alerted his horse. Faran was a war-horse,
and he could probably sense antagonism in his veins.
Sparhawk muttered a quick spell in the Styric tongue,
concealing the gestures which accompanied it beneath
his cloak. He released the spell slowly to avoid alerting
whoever was watching him.
The watcher was not an Elene. Sparhawk sensed that
immediately. He probed further. Then he frowned.
There were more than one, and they were not Styrics
either. He pulled his thought back, passively waiting for
some clue as to their identity.
The realization came as a chilling shock. The watchers
were not human. He shifted slightly in his saddle, sliding
his hand toward his sword-hilt.
Then the sense of the watchers was gone, and Faran
shuddered with relief. He turned his ugly face to give
his master a suspicious look.
‘Don’t ask me, Faran,’ Sparhawk told him. “I don’t
know either.’ But that was not entirely true. The touch
of the minds in the darkness had been vaguely familiar,
and that familiarity had raised questions in Sparhawk’s
mind, questions he did not want to face.
He paused at the palace gate long enough to firmly
instruct the soldiers not to wake the whole house, and
then he dismounted in the courtyard.
A young man stepped out into the rain-swept yard
from the stable. ‘Why didn’t you send word that you
were coming, Sparhawk?’ he asked very quietly.
‘Because I don’t particularly like parades and wild
celebrations in the middle of the night,’ Sparhawk told
his squire, throwing back the hood of his cloak. ‘What
are you doing up so late? I promised your mothers I’d
make sure you got your rest. You’re going to get me in
trouble, Khalad.’
‘Are you trying to be Funny?’ Khalad’s voice was
gruff, abrasive. He took Faran’s reins. ‘Come inside,
Sparhawk. You’ll rust if you stand out here in the
rain.’
‘You’re as bad as your father was.’
“It’s an old family trait.’ Khalad led the prince consort
and his evil-tempered warhorse into the hay-smelling
stable where a pair of lanterns gave off a golden light.
Khalad was a husky young man with coarse black hair
and a short-trimmed black beard. He wore tight-fitting
black leather breeches, boots and a sleeveless leather
vest that left his arms and shoulders bare. A heavy
dagger hung from his belt, and steel cuffs encircled his
wrists. He looked and behaved so much like his father
that Sparhawk felt again a brief, brief pang of loss. “I
thought Talen would be coming back with you,’ Sparhawk’s
squire said as he began unsaddling Faran.
‘He’s got a cold. His mother – and yours – decided
that he shouldn’t go out in the weather, and I certainly
wasn’t going to argue with them.’
‘Wise decision,’ Khalad said, absently slapping Faran
on the nose as the big roan tried to bite him. ‘How are
they?’
‘Your mothers? Fine. Aslade’s still trying to fatten Elys
up, but she’s not having too much luck. How did you
find out I was in town?’
‘One of Platime’s cut-throats saw you coming through
the gate. He sent word.’
“I suppose I should have known. You didn’t wake my
wife, did you?’
‘Not with Mirtai standing watch outside her door, I
didn’t. Give me that wet cloak, my Lord. I’ll hang it in
the kitchen to dry.’
Sparhawk grunted and removed his sodden cloak.
‘The mail shirt too, Sparhawk,’ Khalad added, ‘before
it rusts away entirely.’
Sparhawk nodded, unbelted his sword and began to
struggle out of his chain-mail shirt. ‘How’s your training
going?’ Khalad made an indelicate sound. “I haven’t learned
anything I didn’t already know. My father was a much
better instructor than the ones at the chapterhouse. This
idea of yours isn’t going to work, Sparhawk. The other
novices are all aristocrats, and when my brothers and I
outstrip them’ on the practice field, they resent it. We
make enemies every time we turn around.’ He lifted the
saddle from Faran’s back and put it on the rail of a
nearby stall. He briefly laid his hand on the big roan’s
back, then bent, picked up a handful of straw and began
to rub him down.
‘Wake some groom and have him’ do that,’ Sparhawk
told him. ‘is anybody still awake in the kitchen?’
‘The bakers are already up, I think.’
‘Have one of them throw something together for me
to eat. It’s been a long time since lunch.’
‘All right. What took you so long in Chyrellos?’
“I took a little side trip into Lamorkand. The civil war
there’s getting out of hand, and the Archprelate wanted
me to nose around a bit.’
‘You should have got word to your wife. She was just
about to send Mirtai out to find you.’ Khalad grinned at
him. “I think you’re going to get yelled at again,
Sparhawk.’
There’s nothing new about that. Is Kalten here in the
palace?’
Khalad nodded. ‘The food’s better here, and he isn’t
expected to pray three times a day. Besides, I think he’s
got his eye on one of the chambermaids.’
That wouldn’t surprise me very much. Is Stragen
here too?’
‘No. Something came up, and he had to go back to
Emsat.’
‘Get Kalten up then. Have him join us in the kitchen.
I want to talk with him. I’ll be along in a bit. I’m going
to the bathhouse first.’
‘The water won’t be warm. They let the fires go out
at night.’
‘We’re soldiers of God, Khalad. We’re all supposed to
be unspeakably brave.’
‘I’ll try to remember that, my Lord.’
The water in the bathhouse was definitely on the
chilly side, so Sparhawk did not linger very long. He
wrapped himself in a soft white robe and went into
the dim corridors of the palace and to the brightly-lit
kitchens where Khalad waited with the sleepy-looking
Kalten.
‘Hail, Noble Prince Consort,’ Kalten said drily. Sir
Kalten obviously didn’t care much for the idea of being
roused in the middle of the night.
‘Hail, noble Boyhood Companion of the Noble Prince
Consort,’ Sparhawk replied.
‘Now there’s a cumbersome title,’ Kalten said sourly.
What’s so important that it won’t wait until morning?’
Sparhawk sat down at one of the work tables, and a
white-smocked baker brought him a plate of roast beef
and a steaming loaf still hot from the oven.
‘Thanks, neighbour,’ Sparhawk said to him.
‘Where have you been, Sparhawk?’ Kalten
demanded, sitting down across the table from his friend.
Kalten had a wine flagon in one hand and a tin cup in
the other.
‘Sarathi sent me to Lamorkand,’ Sparhawk replied,
tearing a chunk of bread from the loaf.
‘Your wife’s been making life miserable for everyone
in the palace, you know.’
“It’s nice to know she cares.’
‘Not for any of the rest of us it isn’t. What did Dolmant
need from Lamorkand?’
‘information. He didn’t altogether believe some of the
reports he’s been getting.’
‘What’s not to believe? The Lamorks are just engaging
in their national pastime – civil war.’
‘There seems to be something a little different this
time. Do you remember Count Gerrich?’
‘The one who had us besieged in Baron Alstrom’s
castle? I never met him personally, but his name’s sort
of familiar.’
‘He seems to be coming out on top in the squabbles
in western Lamorkand, and most everybody up there
believes that he’s got his eye on the throne.’
‘So?’ Kalten helped himself to part of Sparhawk’s loaf
of bread. ‘Every baron in Lamorkand has his eyes on
the throne. What’s got Dolmant so concerned about it
this time?’
‘Gerrich’s been making alliances beyond the borders
of Lamorkand. Some of those border barons in Pelosia
are more or less independent of King Saros.’
‘Everybody in Pelosia’s independent of Saros. He isn’t
much of a king. He spends too much time praying.’
‘That’s a strange position for a soldier of God,’ Khalad
murmured.
‘You’ve got to keep these things in perspective,
Khalad,’ Kalten told him. ‘Too much praying softens a
man’s brains.’
‘Anyway,’ Sparhawk went on. ‘if Gerrich succeeds in
dragging those Pelosian barons into his bid for King
Friedahl’s throne, Friedahl’s going to have to declare
war on Pelosia. The Church already has a war going on