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‘Fire!’ Talen yelled.
‘Fire!’ the rest echoed.
In the street below, the church soldiers came pounding around the corner to be met by the nearly hysterical owner of the stables. ‘Good masters!’ the poor man cried, wringing his hands. ‘My stable! My horses! My house! My God!’
The officious captain hesitated, looking first at the fire then back at the looming wall of the chapterhouse in an agony of indecision.
‘We’ll help you, Captain,’ Tynian called down from the wall. ‘Open the gate!’
‘No!’ the captain shouted back. ‘Stay inside.’
‘You could lose half of the holy city, you blockhead!’ Kalten roared at him. ‘That fire will spread if you don’t do something immediately.’
‘You!’ the captain snapped at the commoner who owned the stable. ‘Fetch buckets and show me the nearest well.’ He turned quickly to his men. ‘Form up a line,’ he commanded. ‘Go to the front gate of the Pandion house and bring back every man we can spare.’ He sounded decisive now. Then he squinted up at the knights on the parapet. ‘But leave a detachment on guard there,’ he ordered.
‘We can still help, Captain,’ Tynian offered. ‘There’s a deep well here. We can turn out our men and pass buckets to your men outside the gate. Our major concern here must be the saving of Chyrellos. Everything else must be secondary to that.’
The captain hesitated.
‘Please, Captain!’ Tynian’s voice throbbed with sincerity. ‘I beg of you. Let us help.’
‘Very well,’ the captain snapped. ‘Open your gate. But no one is to leave the chapterhouse grounds.’
‘Of course not,’ Tynian replied.
‘Nicely done,’ Ulath grunted, tapping Tynian on the shoulder with his fist.
Tynian grinned at him. ‘Talking does pay off sometimes, my silent friend. You should try it sometime.’
‘I’d rather use an axe.’
‘Well, I guess I’ll be leaving now, my Lords,’ Talen said. ‘Was there anything you’d like to have me pick up for you – since I’ll be out and about anyway?’
‘Keep your mind on what you’re supposed to do,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘Just go and talk to Dolmant.’
‘And be careful,’ Kurik growled. ‘You’re a disappointing son sometimes, but I don’t want to lose you.’
‘Sentimentality, father?’ Talen said, affecting surprise.
‘Not really,’ Kurik replied. ‘Just a certain sense of responsibility to your mother.’
‘I’ll go with him,’ Berit said.
Talen looked critically at the rangy novice. ‘Forget it,’ he said shortly. ‘You’d just be in my way. Forgive me, revered teacher, but your feet are too big and your elbows stick out too far to move around quietly, and I don’t have time to teach you how to sneak right now.’ The boy disappeared into the shadows along the parapet.
‘Where did you find that rare youth?’ Bevier asked.
‘You wouldn’t believe it, Bevier,’ Kalten replied. ‘You absolutely wouldn’t believe it.’
‘Our Pandion brothers are perhaps a bit more worldly than the rest of us, Bevier,’ Tynian said sententiously. ‘We who fix our eyes firmly on heaven are not so versed in the seamier side of life as they are.’ He looked piously at Kalten. ‘We all serve, however, and I’m sure that God appreciates your efforts, no matter how dishonest or depraved.’
‘Well put,’ Ulath said with an absolutely straight face.
The fire in the thatched roof continued to smoke and steam as the church soldiers threw bucket after bucket of water onto it during the next quarter of an hour. Gradually, by sheer dint of numbers and the volume of water poured on it, the fire was quenched, leaving the owner of the stable bemoaning the saturation of his store of fodder, but preventing any spread of the flames.
‘Bravo, Captain, bravo!’ Tynian cheered from atop the wall.
‘Don’t overdo it,’ Ulath muttered to him.
‘It’s the first time I’ve ever seen any of those fellows do anything useful,’ Tynian protested. ‘That sort of thing ought to be encouraged.’
‘We could start some more fires, if you’d like,’ the huge Genidian offered. ‘We could keep them hauling water all week.’
Tynian tugged at one earlobe. ‘No,’ he said after a moment’s thought. ‘They might get bored when the novelty wears off and decide to let the city burn.’ He glanced at Kurik. ‘Did the boy get away?’ he asked.
‘As slick as a snake going down a rat hole,’ Sparhawk’s squire replied, trying to conceal the note of pride in his voice.
‘Someday you’ll have to tell us about why the lad keeps calling you “father”.’
‘We might get to that one day, my Lord Tynian,’ Kurik muttered.
As the first light of dawn crept up the eastern sky, there came the measured tread of hundreds of feet some distance up the narrow street outside the front gate of the chapterhouse. Then the Patriarch Dolmant, astride a white mule, came into view at the head of a battalion or more of red-liveried soldiers.
‘Your Grace,’ the soot-smeared captain who had been blocking the gate of the chapterhouse exclaimed, rushing forward with a salute.
‘You are relieved, Captain,’ Dolmant told him. ‘You may return with your men to your barracks.’ He sniffed a bit disapprovingly. ‘Tell them to clean up,’ he suggested. ‘They look like chimney sweeps.’
‘Your Grace,’ the captain faltered, ‘I was commanded by the Patriarch of Coombe to secure this house. May I send to him for confirmation of your Grace’s counter-order?’
Dolmant considered it. ‘No, Captain,’ he said. ‘I don’t think so. Retire at once.’
‘But, your Grace!’
Dolmant slapped his hands sharply together, and the troops massed at his back moved into position, their pikes advanced. ‘Colonel,’ Dolmant said in the mildest of tones to the commander of his troops, ‘would you be so good as to escort the captain and his men back to their barracks?’
‘At once, your Grace,’ the officer replied with a sharp salute.
‘And I think they should be confined there until they are presentable.’
‘Of course, your Grace,’ the colonel said soberly. ‘I myself shall conduct the inspection.’
‘Meticulously, Colonel – most meticulously. The honour of the Church is reflected in the appearance of her soldiers.’
‘Your Grace may rely upon my attention to the most minute detail,’ the colonel assured him. ‘The honour of our service is also reflected by the appearance of our lowliest soldier.’
‘God appreciates your devotion, Colonel.’
‘I live but to serve Him, your Grace.’ The colonel bowed deeply.
Neither man smiled nor winked.
‘Oh,’ Dolmant said then, ‘before you leave, Colonel, bring me that ragged little beggar boy. I think I’ll leave him with the good brothers of this order – as an act of charity, of course.’
‘Of course, your Grace.’ The colonel snapped his fingers, and a burly sergeant dragged Talen by the scruff of the neck to the patriarch. Then Dolmant’s battalion advanced on the captain and his men, effectively pinning them against the high wall of the chapterhouse with their pikes. The sooty soldiers of the Patriarch of Coombe were quickly disarmed and then marched off under close guard.
Dolmant affectionately reached down and patted the slender neck of his white mule; then he looked critically up at the parapet. ‘Haven’t you left yet, Sparhawk?’ he asked.
‘We were just making our preparations, your Grace.’
‘The day wears on, my son,’ Dolmant told him. ‘God’s work cannot be accomplished by sloth.’
‘I’ll keep that in mind, your Grace,’ Sparhawk said. Then his eyes narrowed, and he stared hard down at Talen. ‘Give it back,’ he commanded.
‘What?’ Talen answered with a note of anguish in his voice.
‘All of it. Every last bit.’
‘But, Sparhawk –’
‘Now, Talen.’
Grumbling, the boy began to remove all manner of small, valuable objects from inside his clothes, depositing them in the hands of the startled Patriarch of Demos. ‘Are you satisfied now, Sparhawk?’ he demanded a bit sullenly, glaring up at the parapet.
‘Not entirely, but it’s a start. I’ll know better after I search you once you’re inside the gate.’
Talen sighed and dug into several more hidden pockets, adding more items to Dolmant’s already overflowing hands.
‘I assume you’re taking this boy with you, Sparhawk?’ Dolmant asked, tucking his valuables inside his cassock.
‘Yes, your Grace.’ Sparhawk replied.
‘Good. I’ll sleep better knowing that he’s not roaming the streets. Make haste, my son, and Godspeed.’ Then the patriarch turned his mule and rode on back up the street.
Chapter 15 (#ulink_6f27ac24-51ef-5b5e-9acb-4c362e5f8ea2)
‘At any rate.’ Sir Tynian continued his obviously embellished account of certain adventures of his youth, ‘the local Lamork barons grew tired of these brigands and came to our chapterhouse to enlist our aid in exterminating them. We had all grown rather bored with patrolling the Zemoch border, and so we agreed. To be honest about the whole thing, we looked upon the affair as something in the nature of a sporting event – a few days of hard riding and a nice brisk fight at the end.’
Sparhawk let his attention wander. Tynian’s compulsive talking had been virtually uninterrupted since they had left Chyrellos and crossed the border into the southern kingdom of Cammoria. Although the stories were at first amusing, they eventually grew repetitious. To hear Tynian tell it, he had figured prominently in every major battle and minor skirmish on the Eosian continent in the past ten years. Sparhawk concluded that the Alcione Knight was not so much an unabashed braggart as he was an ingenious storyteller who put himself in the centre of the action of each story to give it a certain immediacy. It was a harmless pastime, really, and it helped to make the miles go faster as they rode down into Cammoria on the road to Borrata.
The sun was warmer here than it had been in Elenia, and the breeze that skipped puff-ball clouds across the intensely blue sky smelled almost spring-like. The fields around them, untouched by frost, were still green, and the road unwound like a white ribbon, dipping into valleys and snaking up verdant hillsides. It was a good day for a ride, and Faran was obviously enjoying himself.
Sparhawk had already begun to make an assessment of his companions. Tynian was very nearly as happy-go-lucky as Kalten. The sheer bulk of his upper torso, however, and the professional way he handled his weapons indicated that he would be a solid man in a fight, should it come to that. Bevier was perhaps a bit more high-strung. The Cyrinic Knights were known for their formality and their piety. They were also touchy. Bevier would need to be handled carefully. Sparhawk decided to have a word in private with Kalten. His friend’s fondness for casual jesting might need to be curbed where Bevier was concerned. The young Cyrinic, though, would obviously also be an asset in the event of trouble.
Ulath was an enigma. He had a towering reputation, but Sparhawk had not had many dealings with the Genidian Knights of far northern Thalesia. They were reputed to be fearsome warriors, but the fact that they wore chain mail instead of steel-plate armour concerned him a bit. He decided to feel out the huge Thalesian on that score. He reined Faran in slightly to allow Ulath to catch up with him.
‘Nice morning,’ he said pleasantly.
Ulath grunted. Getting him to talk might prove difficult. Then, surprisingly, he actually volunteered something. ‘In Thalesia, there’s still two feet of snow on the ground,’ he said.
‘That must be miserable.’
Ulath shrugged. ‘You get used to it, and snow makes for good hunting – boars, stags, Trolls, that sort of thing.’
‘Do you actually hunt Trolls?’
‘Sometimes. Every so often a Troll goes crazy. If he comes down into the valleys where Elenes live and starts killing cows – or people – we have to hunt him down.’
‘I’ve heard that they’re fairly large.’
‘Yes. Fairly.’
‘Isn’t it a bit dangerous to fight one with only chain mail armour?’
‘It’s not too bad, really. They only use clubs. A man might get his ribs broken sometimes, but that’s about all.’
‘Wouldn’t full armour be an advantage?’
‘Not if you have to cross any rivers – and we have a lot of rivers in Thalesia. A man can peel off a mail shirt even if he’s sitting on the bottom of a river. It might be a little hard to hold your breath long enough to get rid of a full suit of armour, though.’
‘That makes sense.’
‘We thought so ourselves. We had a preceptor a while back who thought that we should wear full armour like the other orders – for the sake of appearances. We threw one of our brothers dressed in a mail shirt into the harbour at Emsat. He got out of his shirt and came to the surface in about a minute. The preceptor was wearing full armour. When we threw him in, he didn’t come back up. Maybe he found something more interesting to do down there.’
‘You drowned your preceptor?’ Sparhawk asked in astonishment.
‘No,’ Ulath corrected. ‘His armour drowned him. Then we elected Komier as preceptor. He’s got better sense than to make foolish suggestions like that.’
‘You Genidians appear to be an independent sort of order. You actually elect your own preceptors?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘Not really, no. We send a panel of names to the Hierocracy and let them do the choosing.’
‘We make it easier for them. We only send them one name.’
Kalten came back down the road at a canter. The big blond man had been riding about a quarter of a mile in the lead to scout out possible danger. ‘There’s something strange up ahead, Sparhawk,’ he said tensely.
‘How do you mean strange?’
‘There’s a pair of Pandions at the top of the next hill.’ There was a slightly strained note in Kalten’s voice, and he was visibly sweating.
‘Who are they?’
‘I didn’t go up there to ask.’
Sparhawk looked sharply at his friend. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘I’m not sure,’ Kalten replied. ‘I just had a strong feeling that I shouldn’t go near them, for some reason. I think they want to talk with you. Don’t ask me where I got that idea either.’
