fog over the horses of the army of the Knights of the Church as
they plodded forward, their hooves sending the powdery snow
swirling into the air again. The preceptors of the militant orders
rode in the lead, dressed in full armor and bundled in furs.
Preceptor Abriel of the Cyrinic Knights, still vigorous despite
his advanced age, rode with Darellon, the Alcione Preceptor,
and with Sir Heldin, a scarred old veteran who was filling in as
leader of the Pandions during Sparhawk’s absence. Patriarch
Bergsten rode somewhat apart. The huge Churchman was
muffled to the ears in fur, and his Ogre-horned helmet made
him look very warlike, an appearance offset to some degree by
the small, black-bound prayer book he was reading. Preceptor
Komier of the Genidians was off ahead with the scouts.
‘I don’t think I’ll ever be warm again,’ Abriel groaned, pulling
his fur cloak tighter about him. ‘Old age thins the blood. Don’t
ever get old, Darellon.’
‘The alternative isn’t very attractive, Lord Abriel.’ Darellon
was a slender Deiran who appeared to have been swallowed up
by his massive armor. He lowered his voice. ‘You didn’t really
have to come along, my friend,’ he said. ‘Sarathi would have
understood. ‘
‘Oh, no, Darellon. This is probably my last campaign. I
wouldn’t miss it for the world.’ Abriel peered ahead. ‘What’s
Komier doing out there?’
‘Lord Komier said that he wanted to take a look at the ruins
of Zemoch,’ Sir Heldin replied in his rumbling basse. ‘I guess
Thalesians take a certain pleasure in viewing the wreckage after
a war’s over.’
‘They’re a barbaric people,’ Abriel muttered sourly. He
glanced quickly at Bergsten, who seemed totally immersed in
his prayer book. ‘You don’t necessarily have to repeat that,
gentlemen,’ he said to Darellon and Heldin.
‘I wouldn’t dream of it, Abriel,’ Bergsten said, not looking up
from his prayer book.
‘You’ve got unwholesomely sharp ears, your Grace.
‘It comes from listening to confessions. People tend to shout
the sins of others from the rooftops, but you can barely hear
them when they’re describing their own.’ Bergsten looked up
and pointed. ‘Komier’s coming back.’
The Preceptor of the Genidian Knights was in high spirits as
he reined in his horse, swirling up a huge billow of the dustlike
snow. ‘Sparhawk doesn’t leave very much standing when he
destroys a place,’ he announced cheerfully. ‘I didn’t entirely
believe Ulath when he told me that our broken-nosed friend
blew the lid off the Temple of Azash, but I do now. You’ve
never seen such a wreck. I doubt if there’s a habitable building
left in the whole city.’
‘You really enjoy that sort of thing, don’t you, Komier?’ Abriel
accused.
‘That’s enough of that, gentlemen!’ Bergsten cut in quickly.
‘We’re not going to resurrect that worn-out old dispute again.
We make war in different ways. Arcians like to build forts and
castles, and Thalesians like to knock them down. It’s all part of
making war, and that’s what we get paid for.’
‘We, your Grace?’ Heldin rumbled mildly.
‘You know what I mean, Heldin. I don’t personally get
involved in that any more, of course, but -‘
‘Why did you bring your axe along then, Bergsten?’ Komier
asked him.
Bergsten gave him a flat stare. ‘For old times’ sake – and
because you Thalesian brigands pay closer attention to a man
who’s got an axe in his hands.’
‘Knights, your Grace,’ Komier mildly corrected his countryman.
‘We’re called knights now. We used to be brigands, but
now we’re behaving ourselves.’
‘The Church appreciates your efforts to mend your ways my
son, even though she knows that you’re lying in your teeth.’
Abriel carefully covered a smile. Bergsten was a former Genidian
Knight himself, and sometimes his cassock slipped a bit.
‘Who’s got the map?’ he asked, more to head off the impending
argument than out of any real curiosity.
Heldin unbuckled one of his saddle-bags, his black armor
clinking. ‘What did you want to know, my Lord?’ he asked,
taking out his map.
‘The usual. How far? How long? What sort of unpleasantness
up ahead?’
‘It’s just over a hundred leagues to the Astellian border, my
Lord,’ Heldin replied, consulting his map, ‘and nine hundred
leagues from there to Matherion.’
‘A hundred days at least,’ Bergsten grunted sourly.
‘That’s if we don’t run into any trouble, your Grace,’ Darellon
added.
‘Take a look back over your shoulder, Darellon. There are a
hundred thousand Church Knights behind us. There’s no
trouble that we can’t deal with. What sort of terrain’s up ahead,
Heldin?’
‘There’s some sort of divide about three days east of here,
your Grace. All the rivers on this side of it run down into the
Gulf of Merjuk. On the other side, they run off into the Astel
Marshes. I’d imagine that we’ll be going downhill after we cross
that divide – unless Otha fixed it so that water runs uphil here
in Zemoch.’
A Genidian Knight rode forward. ‘A messenger from Emsat
just caught up with us, Lord Komier,’ he reported. ‘He says he
has important news for you.’
Komier nodded, wheeled his horse and rode back toward the
army. The rest of them pushed on as it started to snow a little
harder. Komier was laughing uproariously when he returned with the
travel-stained messenger who had chased them down.
‘What’s so funny?’ Bergsten asked him.
‘We have good news from home, your Grace,’ Komier said.
‘Tell our beloved Patriarch what you just told me,’ he
instructed the messenger.
‘Yes, my Lord,’ the blond-braided Thalesian said. ‘It happened
a few weeks back, your Grace. One morning the palace
servants couldn’t find a trace of the Prince Regent anywhere
at all. the Guards tore the place apart for two straight days, but
the little weasel seemed to have vanished entirely.’
‘Mind your manners, man,’ Bergsten snapped. ‘Avin’s the
Prince Regent, after all – even if he is a little weasel.’
‘Sorry your Grace. Anyway, the whole capital was mystified.
AVIn Wargunsson never went anywhere without taking a brass
band along to blow fanfares announcing his coming. Then one
of the servants happened to notice a full wine barrel in Avin’s
study. That seemed odd, because Avin didn’t have much
stomach for wine, so they got to looking at the barrel a little
more closely. It was clear that it had been opened, because quite
a bit of wine had been spilled on the floor. Well, your Grace,
they’d all worked up quite a thirst looking for Avin, so they
decided to open the barrel, but when they tried to pry it open,
they found out that it had been nailed shut. Now nobody nails
a wine barrel shut in Thalesia, so everybody got suspicious right
away. They took some pliers and pulled out the nails and lifted
the lid – and there was Avin, stone dead and floating face down
in the barrel.’
“you’re not serious!’
“yes, your Grace. Somebody in Emsat’s got a very warped
Sense of humor, I guess. He went to all the trouble of rolling
that wine barrel into Avin’s study just so that he could stuff him
in and nail down the lid. Avin seems to have struggled a bit.
He had splinters under his fingernails, and there were clawmarks
on the underside of the lid. It made an awful mess. I
guess the wine drained out of him for a half an hour after they
fished him out of the barrel. The palace servants tried to clean
him up for the funeral, but you know how hard wine-stains are
to get out. He was very purple when they laid him out on the
bier in the Cathedral of Emsat for his funeral.’ The messenger
rubbed at the side of his face reflectively. ‘It was the strangest
funeral I’ve ever attended. The Primate of Emsat kept trying to
keep from laughing while he was reading the burial service, but
he wasn’t having much luck, and that got the whole congregation
to laughing too. There was Avin lying on that bier, no
bigger than a half-grown goat and as purple as a ripe plum, and
there was the whole congregation, roaring with laughter.’
‘At least everybody noticed him,’ Komier said. ‘That was
always important to Avin.’
‘Oh, they noticed him all right, Lord Komier. Every eye in
the Cathedral was on him. Then, after they put him in the royal
crypt, the whole city had a huge party, and we all drank toasts
to the memory of Avin Wargunsson. It’s hard to find something
to laugh about in Thalesia when winter’s coming on, but Avin
managed to brighten up the whole season.’
‘What kind of wine was it?’ Patriarch Bergsten asked gravely.
‘Arcian red, your Grace.’
‘Any idea of what year?’
‘Year before last, I believe it was.’
‘A vintage year,’ Bergsten sighed. ‘There was no way to save
it, I suppose?’
‘Not after Avin had been soaking in it for two days, your