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‘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.’
