‘Don’t flagellate yourself, Nashan,’ Sephrenia advised. The Elene God is reputed to be most forgiving. You’ve done what you could.’
They took seats around Nashan’s ornate table, and the governor summoned an acolyte who brought goblets and the skin of the deep Arcian wine. At Sephrenia’s request, he also sent for tea for her and milk for Flute and Talen.
‘We don’t necessarily need to mention this to Lord Vanion, do we?’ Nashan said to Sparhawk as he lifted the wineskin.
‘Wild horses couldn’t drag it out of me, my Lord,’ Sparhawk told him, holding out his goblet.
‘So,’ Kalten said, ‘what’s happening here in Chyrellos?’
‘Troubled times, Kalten,’ Nashan replied. Troubled times. The Archprelate ages, and the entire city is holding its breath in anticipation of his death.’
‘Who will be the new Archprelate?’ Sparhawk asked.
‘At the moment there’s no way to know. Cluvonus is in no condition to name a successor, and Annias of Cimmura is spending money like water to gain the throne.’
‘What about Dolmant?’ Kalten asked.
‘He’s too self-effacing, I’m afraid,’ Nashan replied. ‘He’s so dedicated to the Church that he doesn’t have the sense of self that one needs to have to aspire to the golden throne in the Basilica. Not only that, he’s made enemies.’
‘I like enemies.’ Kalten grinned. ‘They give you a reason to keep your sword sharp.’
Nashan looked at Sephrenia. ‘Is there something afoot in Styricum?’ he asked her.
‘What exactly do you mean?’
‘The city is suddenly awash with Styrics,’ he replied. They say that they’re here to seek instruction in the Elene faith.’
‘That’s absurd.’
‘I thought so myself. The Church has been trying to convert the Styrics for three thousand years without much success, and now they come flocking to Chyrellos, of their own accord begging to be converted.’
‘No sane Styric would do that,’ she insisted. ‘Our Gods are jealous, and they punish apostasy severely.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Have any of these pilgrims identified their place of origin?’ she asked.
‘Not that I’ve heard. They all look like common rural Styrics.’
‘Perhaps they’ve made a longer journey than they’re willing to reveal.’
‘You think they might be Zemochs?’ Sparhawk asked her.
‘Otha’s already infested eastern Lamorkand with his agents,’ she replied. ‘Chyrellos is the centre of the Elene world. It’s a logical place for espionage and disruption.’ She considered it. ‘We’re likely to be here for a while,’ she observed. ‘We have to wait for the arrival of the knights from the other orders. I think that perhaps we might spend the time investigating these unusual postulants.’
‘I can’t really get too much involved in that,’ Sparhawk disagreed. ‘I have things far more important on my mind just now. We’ll deal with Otha and his Zemochs when the time comes. Right now I have to concentrate on restoring Ehlana to her throne and preventing the deaths of certain friends.’ He spoke obliquely, since he had kept to himself the details of what she had told him had taken place in the throne room in Cimmura.
‘It’s all right, Sparhawk,’ she assured him. ‘I understand your concern. I’ll take Kalten with me, and we’ll see what we can turn up.’
They spent the remainder of the day in quiet conversation in Nashan’s ornate study, and the following morning Sparhawk dressed in a mail coat and a simple hooded robe and rode across town to Dolmant’s house, where the two of them carefully went over what had happened in Cimmura and Arcium. ‘It would be futile to level any direct charges at Annias,’ Dolmant said, ‘so it’s probably best to omit any references to him – or to Harparin. Let’s just present the affair as a plot to discredit the Pandion Order and leave it at that. The Hierocracy will draw its own conclusions.’ He smiled faintly. ‘The least damaging of those conclusions will be that Annias made a fool of himself in public. If nothing else, that might help to stiffen the resolve of the neutral patriarchs when the time comes to select a new Archprelate.’
‘That’s something, anyway,’ Sparhawk said. ‘Are we going to present the matter of Arissa’s so-called marriage at the same time?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Dolmant replied. ‘It’s really not a significant enough thing to require the consideration of the entire Hierocracy. The declarations of Arissa’s spinsterhood can come from the Patriarch of Vardenais. The alleged wedding took place in his district, and he would be the logical one to draw up the denial that it took place.’ A smile touched his ascetic face. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘he’s a friend of mine.’
‘Clever,’ Sparhawk said admiringly.
‘I rather liked it,’ Dolmant said modestly.
‘When are we going before the Hierocracy?’
‘Tomorrow morning. There’s no point in waiting. All that would do is give Annias time to alert his friends in the Basilica.’
‘Do you want me to come by here and ride to the Basilica with you?’
‘No. Let’s go in separately. Let’s not give them the slightest hint of what we’re up to.’
‘You’re very good at political chicanery, your Grace.’ Sparhawk grinned.
‘Of course I am. How do you think I got to be a patriarch? Come to the Basilica during the third hour after sunrise. That should give me time to present my report first and to answer all the questions and objections that Annias’ supporters are likely to raise.’
‘Very well, your Grace,’ Sparhawk said, rising to his feet.
‘Be careful tomorrow, Sparhawk. They’ll try to trip you up. And for God’s sake, don’t lose your temper.’
‘I’ll try to remember that.’
The following morning Sparhawk dressed carefully. His black armour gleamed, and his cape and silver surcoat had been freshly pressed. Faran had been groomed until his roan coat shone, and his hooves had been oiled to make them glossy.
‘Don’t let them back you into a corner, Sparhawk,’ Kalten warned as he and Kurik boosted the big man into his saddle. ‘Churchmen can be very devious.’
‘I’ll watch myself.’ Sparhawk gathered his reins and nudged Faran with his heels. The big roan pranced out through the chapterhouse gate and into the teeming streets of the holy city.
The domed Basilica of Chyrellos dominated the entire city. It was built on a low hill, and it soared towards heaven, gleaming in the wintry sun. The guards at the bronze portal admitted Sparhawk respectfully, and he dismounted before the marble stairs that led up to the great doors. He handed Faran’s reins to a monk, adjusted the strap on his shield, and then mounted the steps, his spurs ringing on the marble. At the top of the stairs, an officious young churchman in a black cassock blocked his path. ‘Sir Knight,’ the young man protested, ‘you may not enter while under arms.’
‘You’re wrong, your Reverence,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘Those rules don’t apply to the militant orders.’
‘I’ve never heard of any such exception.’
‘You have now. I don’t want any trouble with you, friend, but I’ve been summoned by Patriarch Dolmant and I’m going inside.’
‘But –’
‘There’s an extensive library here, neighbour. Why don’t you go look up the rules again? I’m sure you’ll find that you’ve missed a few. Now stand aside.’ He brushed past the man in the black cassock and went on into the cool incense-smelling cathedral. He made the customary bow towards the jewel-encrusted altar and moved on down the broad central aisle in the multi-coloured light streaming through tall, stained-glass windows. A sacristan stood by the altar vigorously polishing a silver chalice.
‘Good morning, friend,’ Sparhawk said to him in his quiet voice.
The sacristan almost dropped the chalice. ‘You startled me, Sir Knight,’ he said, laughing nervously. ‘I didn’t hear you come up behind me.’
‘It’s the carpeting,’ Sparhawk said. ‘It muffles the sound of footsteps. I understand that the members of the Hierocracy are in session.’
The sacristan nodded.
