Sparhawk nodded. ‘He came to Cippria with a couple of underlings, and they hired fifteen or twenty cutthroats to help them. They waylaid me in a dark street.’
‘Is that where you got the scars?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you got away.’
‘Obviously. Rendorish murderers are a trifle squeamish when the blood on the cobblestones and splashed all over the walls happens to be theirs. After I cut down a dozen or so of them, the rest sort of lost heart. I got clear of them and made my way to the edge of town. I hid in a monastery until the wounds healed, then I took Faran and joined a caravan for Jiroch.’
Kurik’s eyes were shrewd. ‘Do you think there’s any possibility that Annias might have been involved in it?’ he asked. ‘He hates your family, you know, and it’s fairly certain that he was the one who persuaded Aldreas to exile you.’
‘I’ve had the same thought from time to time. Annias and Martel have had dealings before. At any rate, I think the good primate and I have several things to discuss.’
Kurik looked at him, recognizing the tone in his voice. ‘You’re going to get into trouble,’ he warned.
‘Not as much as Annias will if I find out that he had a hand in that attack.’ Sparhawk straightened. ‘I’m going to need to talk with Vanion. Is he still here in Cimmura?’
Kurik nodded. ‘He’s at the chapterhouse on the east edge of town, but you can’t get there right now. They lock the east gate at sundown. I think you’d better present yourself at the palace right after the sun comes up, though. It won’t take Annias long to come up with the idea of declaring you outlaw for breaking your exile, and it’s better to appear on your own, rather than be dragged in like a common criminal. You’re still going to have to do some fast talking to stay out of the dungeon.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Sparhawk disagreed. ‘I’ve got a document with the Queen’s seal on it authorizing my return.’ He pushed back his plate. ‘The handwriting’s a little childish, and there are tearstains on it, but I think it’s still valid.’
‘She cried? I didn’t think she knew how.’
‘She was only eight at the time, Kurik, and quite fond of me, for some reason.’
‘You have that effect on a few people.’ Kurik looked at Sparhawk’s plate. ‘Have you had all of that you want?’
Sparhawk nodded.
‘Then get you to bed. You’ve got a busy day ahead of you tomorrow.’
It was much later. The room was faintly lit with the orange coals of the banked fire, and Kurik’s regular breathing came from the cot on the other side of the room. The insistent, nagging bang of an unlatched shutter swinging freely in the wind several streets over had set some brainless dog to barking, and Sparhawk lay, still half-bemused by sleep, patiently waiting for the dog to grow wet enough or weary enough of his entertainment to seek his kennel again.
Since it had been Krager he had seen in the square, there was no absolute certainty that Martel was in Cimmura. Krager was an errand boy and was frequently half a continent away from Martel. Had it been the brutal Adus who had crossed that rainy square, there would be no question as to Martel’s presence in the city. Of necessity, Adus had to be kept on a short leash.
Krager would not be hard to find. He was a weak man with the usual vices and the usual predictability of weak men. Sparhawk smiled bleakly into the darkness. Krager would be easy to find and Krager would know where Martel could be found. It would be a simple matter to drag that information out of him.
Moving quietly to avoid waking his sleeping squire, Sparhawk swung his legs out of the bed and crossed silently to the window to watch the rain slant past into the deserted, lantern-lit courtyard below. Absently he wrapped his hand about the silver-bound hilt of the broadsword standing beside his formal armour. It felt good – like taking the hand of an old friend.
Dimly, as always, there was a remembered sound of the bells. It had been the bells he had followed that night in Cippria. Sick and hurt and alone, stumbling through the dung-reeking night in the stockyards, he had half-crawled towards the sound of the bells. He had come to the wall and had followed it, his good hand on the ancient stones, until he had come to the gate, and there he had fallen.
Sparhawk shook his head. That had been a long time ago. It was strange that he could still remember the bells so clearly. He stood with his hand on his sword, looking out at the tag end of night, watching it rain and remembering the sound of the bells.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_1e75d971-b483-5179-a604-6987a676ddef)
Sparhawk was dressed in his formal armour, and he strode clanking back and forth in the candlelit room to settle it into place. ‘I’d forgotten how heavy this is,’ he said.
‘You’re getting soft.’ Kurik told him. ‘You need a month or two on the practice field to toughen you up. Are you sure you want to wear it?’
‘It’s a formal occasion, Kurik, and formal occasions demand formal dress. Besides, I don’t want any confusion in anybody’s mind when I get there. I’m the Queen’s Champion, and I’m supposed to wear armour when I present myself to her.’
‘They won’t let you in to see her,’ Kurik predicted, picking up his lord’s helmet.
‘Won’t let?’
‘Don’t do anything foolish, Sparhawk. You’re going to be all alone.’
‘Is the Earl of Lenda still on the council?’
Kurik nodded. ‘He’s old, and he doesn’t have much authority, but he’s too much respected for Annias to dismiss him.’
‘I’ll have one friend there anyway.’ Sparhawk took his helmet from his squire and settled it in place. He pushed up his visor.
Kurik went to the window to pick up Sparhawk’s sword and shield. ‘The rain’s letting up,’ he noted, ‘and it’s starting to get light.’ He came back, laid the sword and shield on the table and picked up the silver-coloured surcoat. ‘Hold out your arms,’ he instructed.
Sparhawk spread his arms wide, and Kurik draped the surcoat over his shoulders, then he laced up the sides. He then took up the long sword belt and wrapped it twice about his lord’s waist. Sparhawk picked up his sheathed sword. ‘Did you sharpen this?’ he asked.
Kurik gave him a flat stare.
‘Sorry.’ Sparhawk locked the scabbard onto the heavy steel studs on the belt and shifted it around into place on his left side.
Kurik fastened the long black cape to the shoulder plates of the armour, then stepped back and looked Sparhawk up and down appraisingly. ‘Good enough,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring your shield. You’d better hurry. They rise early at the palace. It gives them more time for mischief.’
They went out of the room and on down the stairs to the innyard. The rain for the most part had passed, with only a few last intermittent sprinkles slanting into the yard in the gusty morning wind. The dawn sky, however, was still covered with tattered grey cloud, although there was a broad band of pale yellow off to the east.
The knight porter led Faran out of the stable, and he and Kurik boosted Sparhawk up into his saddle.
‘Be careful when you get inside the palace, my Lord,’ Kurik warned in the formal tone he used when they were not alone. ‘The regular palace guards are probably neutral, but Annias has a troop of church soldiers there as well. Anybody in red livery is likely to be your enemy.’ He handed up the embossed black shield.
Sparhawk buckled the shield into place. ‘You’re going to the chapterhouse to see Vanion?’ he asked his squire.
Kurik nodded. ‘Just as soon as they open the east gate of the city.’
‘I’ll probably go there when I’m through at the palace, but you come back here and wait for me.’ He grinned. ‘We may have to leave town in a hurry.’
‘Don’t go out of your way to force the issue, my Lord.’
Sparhawk took Faran’s reins from the porter. ‘All right then, Sir Knight,’ he said. ‘Open the gate and I’ll go present my respects to the bastard Lycheas.’
The porter laughed and swung open the gate.
Faran moved out at a proud, rolling trot, lifting his steel-shod hooves exaggeratedly and bringing them down in a ringing staccato on the wet cobblestones. The big horse had a peculiar flair for the dramatic, and he always pranced outrageously when Sparhawk was mounted on his back in full armour.
‘Aren’t we both getting a little old for exhibitionism?’ Sparhawk asked dryly.
Faran ignored that and continued his prancing.
There were few people abroad in the city of Cimmura at that hour – rumpled artisans and sleepy shopkeepers for the most part. The streets were wet, and the gusty wind set the brightly painted wooden signs over the shops to swinging and creaking. Most of the windows were still shuttered and dark, although here and there golden candlelight marked the room of some early riser.
