The Ruby Knight

He crossed an empty street to avoid the flickering yellow lamplight coming through the open door of a tavern where voices were raised in bawdy song. He shifted the spear to his left hand and pulled the hood of his cloak even farther forward to shadow his face as he passed through the mist-shrouded light.

He stopped, his eyes and ears carefully searching the foggy street ahead of him. His general direction was towards the east gate, but he had no particular fanaticism about that. People who walk in straight lines are predictable, and predictable people get caught. It was absolutely vital that he leave the city unrecognized and unseen by any of Annias’s men, even if it took him all night. When he was satisfied that the street was empty, he moved on, keeping to the deepest shadows. At a corner beneath a misty orange torch, a ragged beggar sat against a wall. He had a bandage across his eyes and a number of authentic-looking sores on his arms and legs. Sparhawk knew that this was not a profitable time for begging, so the fellow was probably up to something else. Then a slate from a rooftop crashed into the street not far from where Sparhawk stood.

‘Charity!’ the beggar called in a despairing voice, although Sparhawk’s soft-shod feet had made no sound. ‘Good evening, neighbour,’ the big knight said softly, crossing the street. He dropped a couple of coins into the begging bowl.

‘Thank you, My Lord. God bless you.’

‘You’re not supposed to be able to see me, neighbour,’ Sparhawk reminded him. ‘You don’t know if I’m a Milord or a commoner.’

‘It’s late,’ the beggar apologized, ‘and I’m a little sleepy. Sometimes I forget.’

‘Very sloppy,’ Sparhawk chided. ‘Pay attention to business. Oh, by the way, give my best to Platime.’ Platime was an enormously fat man who ruled the underside of Cimmura with an iron fist.

The beggar lifted the bandage from his eyes and stared at Sparhawk, his eyes widening in recognition.

‘And tell your friend up on that roof not to get excited,’ Sparhawk added. ‘You might tell him, though, to watch where he puts his feet. That last slate he kicked loose almost brained me.’

‘He’s a new man.’ The beggar sniffed. ‘He still has a lot to learn about burglary.’

‘That he does,’ Sparhawk agreed. ‘Maybe you can help me, neighbour. Talen was telling me about a tavern up against the east wall of the city. It’s supposed to have a garret that the tavern-keeper rents out from time to time. Do you happen to know where it’s located?’

‘It’s in Goat Lane, Sir Sparhawk. It’s got a sign that’s supposed to look like a bunch of grapes. You can’t miss it.’ The beggar squinted. ‘Where’s Talen been lately? I haven’t seen him for quite a while.’

‘His father’s sort of taken him in hand.’

‘I didn’t know Talen even had a father. That boy will go far if he doesn’t get himself hanged. He’s just about the best thief in Cimmura.’

‘I know,’ Sparhawk said. ‘He’s picked my pocket a few times.’ He dropped a couple more coins in the begging bowl. ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d keep the fact that you saw me tonight more or less to yourself, neighbour.’

‘I never saw you, Sir Sparhawk.’ The beggar grinned.

‘And I never saw you and your friend on the roof, either.’

‘Something for everybody then.’

‘My feelings exactly. Good luck in your enterprise.’

‘And the same to you in yours.’

Sparhawk smiled and moved off down the street. His brief exposure to the seamier side of Cimmuran society had paid off again. Though not exactly a friend, Platime and the shadowy world he controlled could be very helpful. Sparhawk cut over one street to make sure that, should the clumsy burglar on the roof be surprised in the course of his activities, the inevitable hue and cry would not bring the watch running down the same street he was traversing.

As they always did when he was alone, Sparhawk’s thoughts reverted to his queen. He had known Ehlana since she had been a little girl, though he had not seen her during the ten years he had been in exile in Rendor. The memory of her seated on her throne encased in diamond-hard crystal wrenched at his heart. He began to regret the fact that he had not taken advantage of the opportunity to kill the Primate Annias earlier tonight. A poisoner is always contemptible, but the man who had poisoned Sparhawk’s queen had placed himself in mortal danger, since Sparhawk was not one to let old scores simmer too long.

Then he heard furtive footsteps behind him in the fog, and he stepped into a recessed doorway and stood very still.

There were two of them, and they wore nondescript clothing. ‘Can you still see him?’ one of them whispered to the other.

‘No. This fog’s getting thicker. He’s just ahead of us, though.’

‘Are you sure he’s a Pandion?’

‘When you’ve been in this business as long as I have, you’ll learn to recognize them. It’s the way they walk and the way they hold their shoulders. He’s a Pandion all right.’

‘What’s he doing out in the street at this time of night?’

‘That’s what we’re here to find out. The Primate wants reports on all their movements.’

‘The notion of trying to sneak up behind a Pandion on a foggy night makes me just a little nervous. They all use magic, and they can feel you coming. I’d rather not get his sword in my guts. Did you ever see his face?’

‘No. He had his hood up, so his face was in shadow.’

The two of them crept on up the street, unaware of the fact that their lives had hung in the balance for a moment. Had either of them seen Sparhawk’s face, they would have died on the spot. Sparhawk was a very pragmatic man about things like that. He waited until he could no longer hear their footfalls. Then he retraced his steps to an intersection and went up a side street.

The tavern was empty except for the owner, who dozed with his feet up on a table and with his hands clasped over his paunch. He was a stout, unshaven man wearing a dirty smock.

‘Good evening, neighbour,’ Sparhawk said quietly as he entered.

The tavern-keeper opened one eye. ‘Morning is more like it,’ he grunted.

Sparhawk looked around. The tavern was a fairly typical working-man’s place with a low, beamed ceiling smudged with smoke and with a utilitarian counter across the back. The chairs and benches were scarred, and the sawdust on the floor had not been swept up and replaced for months. ‘It seems to be a slow night,’ he noted in his quiet voice.

‘It’s always slow this late, friend. What’s your pleasure?’

‘Arcian red – if you’ve got any.’

‘Arcium’s hip-deep in red grapes. Nobody ever runs out of Arcian red.’ With a weary sigh the tavern-keeper heaved himself to his feet and poured Sparhawk a goblet of red wine. The goblet, Sparhawk saw, was none too clean. ‘You’re out late, friend,’ the fellow observed, handing the big knight the sticky goblet.

‘Business,’ Sparhawk shrugged. ‘A friend of mine said you have a garret on the top floor of the house.’

The tavern-keeper’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘You don’t look like the sort of fellow who’d have a burning interest in garrets,’ he said. ‘Does this friend of yours have a name?’

‘Not one he cares to have generally known,’ Sparhawk replied, taking a sip of his wine. It was a distinctly inferior vintage.

‘Friend, I don’t know you, and you have a sort of official look about you. Why don’t you just finish your wine and leave? – that’s unless you can come up with a name I can recognize.’

‘This friend of mine works for a man named Platime. You may have heard the name.’

The tavern-keeper’s eyes widened slightly. ‘Platime must be branching out. I didn’t know that he had anything to do with the gentry – except to steal from them.’

‘He owed me a favour.’ Sparhawk shrugged.

The unshaven man still looked dubious. ‘Anybody could throw Platime’s name around,’ he said.

‘Neighbour,’ Sparhawk said flatly, setting his wineglass down, ‘this is starting to get tedious. Either we go up to your garret or I go out looking for the watch. I’m sure they’ll be very interested in your little enterprise.’

The tavern-keeper’s face grew sullen. ‘It’ll cost you a silver half-crown.’

‘All right.’

‘You’re not even going to argue?’

‘I’m in a bit of a hurry. We can haggle about the price next time.’

‘You seem to be in quite a rush to get out of town, friend. You haven’t killed anybody with that spear tonight, have you?’

‘Not yet.’ Sparhawk’s voice was flat.

The tavern-keeper swallowed hard. ‘Let me see your money.’

‘Of course, neighbour. And then let’s go upstairs and have a look at this garret.’

‘We’ll have to be careful. With this fog, you won’t be able to see the guards coming along the parapet.’

‘I can take care of that.’

‘No killing. I’ve got a nice little sideline here. If somebody kills one of the guards, I’ll have to close it down.’

‘Don’t worry, neighbour. I don’t think I’ll have to kill anybody tonight.’

The garret was dusty and appeared unused. The tavern-keeper carefully opened the gabled window and peered out into the fog. Behind him, Sparhawk whispered in Styric and released the spell. He could feel the fellow out there. ‘Careful,’ he said quietly. ‘There’s a guard coming along the parapet.’

‘I don’t see anybody.’

‘I heard him,’ Sparhawk replied. There was no point in going into extended explanations.

‘You’ve got sharp ears, friend.’

The two of them waited in the darkness as the sleepy guard strolled along the parapet and disappeared in the fog.

‘Give me a hand with this,’ the tavern-keeper said, stooping to lift one end of a heavy timber up onto the window-sill. ‘We slide it across to the parapet, and then you go on over. When you get there, I’ll throw you the end of this rope. It’s anchored here, so you’ll be able to slide down the outside of the wall.’

‘Right,’ Sparhawk said. They slid the timber across the intervening space. ‘Thanks, neighbour,’ Sparhawk said. He straddled the timber and inched his way across to the parapet. He stood up and caught the coil of rope that came out of the misty darkness. He dropped it over the wall and swung out on it. A few moments later, he was on the ground. The rope slithered up into the fog, and then he heard the sound of the timber sliding back into the garret. ‘Very neat,’ Sparhawk muttered, walking carefully away from the city wall. ‘I’ll have to remember that place.’

The fog made it a bit difficult to get his bearings, but by keeping the looming shadow of the city wall to his left, he could more or less determine his location. He set his feet down carefully. The night was quiet, and the sound of a stick breaking would be very loud.

Then he stopped. Sparhawk’s instincts were very good, and he knew that he was being watched. He drew his sword slowly to avoid the tell-tale sound it made as it slid out of its sheath. With the sword in one hand and the battle-spear in the other, he stood peering out into the fog.

And then he saw it. It was only a faint glow in the darkness, so faint that most people would not have noticed it. The glow drew closer, and he saw that it had a slight greenish cast to it. Sparhawk stood perfectly still and waited.

There was a figure out there in the fog, indistinct perhaps, but a figure nonetheless. It appeared to be robed and hooded in black, and that faint glow seemed to be coming out from under the hood. The figure was quite tall and appeared to be impossibly thin, almost skeletal. For some reason it chilled Sparhawk. He muttered in Styric, moving his fingers on the hilt of the sword and the shaft of the spear. Then he raised the spear and released the spell with its point. The spell was a relatively simple one, its purpose being only to identify the emaciated figure out in the fog. Sparhawk almost gasped when he felt the waves of pure evil emanating from the shadowy form. Whatever it was, it was certainly not human.

After a moment, a ghostly metallic chuckle came out of the night. The figure turned and moved away. Its walk was jerky as if its knees were put together backwards. Sparhawk stayed where he was until that sense of evil faded away. Whatever the thing was, it was gone now. ‘I wonder if that was another of Martel’s little surprises,’ Sparhawk muttered under his breath. Martel was a renegade Pandion Knight who had been expelled from the order. He and Sparhawk had once been friends, but no more. Martel now worked for Primate Annias, and it had been he who had provided the poison with which Annias had very nearly killed the queen.

Sparhawk continued slowly and silently now, his sword and the spear still in his hands. Finally he saw the torches which marked the closed east gate of the city, and he took his bearings from them.

Then he heard a faint snuffling sound behind him, much like the sound a tracking dog would make. He turned, his weapons ready. Again he heard that metallic chuckle. He amended that in his mind. It was not so much a chuckle as it was a sort of stridulation, a chittering sound. Again he felt that sense of overpowering evil, which once again faded away.

Sparhawk angled slightly out from the city wall and the filmy light of those two torches at the gate. After about a quarter of an hour, he saw the square, looming shape of the Pandion chapterhouse just ahead.

He dropped into a prone position on the fog-wet turf and cast the searching spell again. He released it and waited.

Nothing.

He rose, sheathed his sword and moved cautiously across the intervening field. The castle-like chapterhouse was, as always, being watched. Church soldiers, dressed as workmen, were encamped not far from the front gate with piles of the cobblestones they were ostensibly laying heaped around their tents. Sparhawk, however, went around to the back wall and carefully picked his way through the deep, stake-studded fosse surrounding the structure.

The rope down which he had clambered when he had left the house was still dangling behind a concealing bush. He shook it a few times to be certain the grappling hook at its upper end was still firmly attached. Then he tucked the war-spear under his sword-belt. He grasped the rope and pulled down hard.

Above him, he could hear the points of the hook grating into the stones of the battlement. He started to climb up, hand over hand.

‘Who’s there?’ The voice came sharply out of the fog overhead. It was a youthful voice, and familiar.

Sparhawk swore under his breath. Then he felt a tugging on the rope he was climbing. ‘Leave it alone, Berit,’ he grated, straining to pull himself up.

‘Sir Sparhawk?’ the novice said in a startled voice.

‘Don’t jerk on the rope,’ Sparhawk ordered. ‘Those stakes in the ditch are very sharp.’

‘Let me help you up.’

‘I can manage. Just don’t displace that hook.’ He grunted as he heaved himself up over the battlement, and Berit caught his arm to help him. Sparhawk was sweating from his exertions. Climbing a rope when one is wearing chain-mail can be very strenuous.

Berit was a novice Pandion who showed much promise. He was a tall, raw-boned young man who was wearing a mail-shirt and a plain, utilitarian cloak. He carried a heavy bladed battle-axe in one hand. He was a polite young fellow, so he did not ask any questions, although his face was filled with curiosity. Sparhawk looked down into the courtyard of the chapterhouse. By the light of a flickering torch, he saw Kurik and Kalten. Both of them were armed, and sounds from the stable indicated that someone was saddling horses for them. ‘Don’t go away,’ he called down to them.

‘What are you doing up there, Sparhawk?’ Kalten sounded surprised.

‘I thought I’d take up burglary as a sideline,’ Sparhawk replied drily. ‘Stay there. I’ll be right down. Come along, Berit.’

‘I’m supposed to be on watch, Sir Sparhawk.’

‘We’ll send somebody up to replace you. This is important.’ Sparhawk led the way along the parapet to the steep stone stairs that led down into the courtyard.

‘Where have you been, Sparhawk?’ Kurik demanded angrily when the two had descended. Sparhawk’s squire wore his usual black leather vest, and his heavily muscled arms and shoulders gleamed in the orange torchlight that illuminated the courtyard. He spoke in the hushed voice men use when talking at night.

‘I had to go to the cathedral,’ Sparhawk replied quietly.

‘Are you having religious experiences?’ Kalten asked, sounding amused. The big blond knight, Sparhawk’s boyhood friend, was dressed in chain and had a heavy broadsword belted at his waist.

‘Not exactly,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘Tanis is dead. His ghost came to me at about midnight.’

‘Tanis?’ Kalten’s voice was shocked.

‘He was one of the twelve knights who were with Sephrenia when she encased Ehlana in crystal. His ghost told me to go to the crypt under the cathedral before it went to give up its sword to Sephrenia.’

‘And you went? At night?’

‘The matter was of a certain urgency.’

‘What did you do there? Violate a few tombs? Is that how you got the spear?’

‘Hardly,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘King Aldreas gave it to me.’

‘Aldreas!’

‘His ghost anyway. His missing ring is hidden in the socket.’ Sparhawk looked curiously at his two friends. ‘Where were you going just now?’

‘Out to look for you.’ Kurik shrugged.

‘How did you know I’d left the chapterhouse?’

‘I checked in on you a few times,’ Kurik said. ‘I thought you knew I usually did that.’

‘Every night?’

‘Three times at least,’ Kurik confirmed. ‘I’ve been doing that every night since you were a boy – except for the years you were in Rendor. The first time tonight, you were talking in your sleep. The second time – just after midnight – you were gone. I looked around, and when I couldn’t find you, I woke up Kalten.’

‘I think we’d better go wake the others,’ Sparhawk said bleakly. ‘Aldreas told me some things, and we’ve got some decisions to make.’

‘Bad news?’ Kalten asked.

‘It’s hard to say. Berit, tell those novices in the stable to go and replace you on the parapet. This might take a while.’

They gathered in Preceptor Vanion’s brown-carpeted study in the south tower. Sparhawk, Berit, Kalten and Kurik were there, of course. Sir Bevier, a Cyrinic Knight, was there as well, as were Sir Tynian, an Alcione Knight, and Sir Ulath, a huge Genidian Knight. The three were the champions of their orders, and they had joined with Sparhawk and Kalten when the Preceptors of the four orders had decided that the restoration of Queen Ehlana was a matter that concerned them all. Sephrenia, the small, dark-haired Styric woman who instructed the Pandions in the secrets of Styricum, sat by the fire with the little girl they called Flute at her side. The boy, Talen, sat by the window rubbing at his eyes with his fist. Talen was a sound sleeper, and he did not like being awakened. Vanion sat at the table he used for a writing desk. His study was a pleasant room, low, dark beamed, and with a deep fireplace that Sparhawk had never seen unlighted. As always, Sephrenia’s simmering tea-kettle stood on the hob.

Vanion did not look well. Roused from his bed in the middle of the night, the Preceptor of the Pandion Order, a grim, careworn knight who was probably even older than he looked, wore an uncharacteristic Styric robe of plain white homespun cloth. Sparhawk had watched this peculiar change in Vanion over the years. Caught at times unawares, the Preceptor, one of the stalwarts of the Church, sometimes seemed almost half Styric. As an Elene and a Knight of the Church, it was Sparhawk’s duty to reveal his observations to the church authorities. He chose, however, not to. His loyalty to the Church was one thing – a commandment from God. His loyalty to Vanion, however, was deeper, more personal.

The Preceptor was grey-faced, and his hands trembled slightly. The burden of the swords of the three dead knights he had compelled Sephrenia to relinquish to him was obviously weighing him down more than he would have admitted. The spell Sephrenia had cast in the throne-room and which sustained the queen had involved the concerted assistance of twelve Pandion Knights. One by one those knights would die, and their ghosts would deliver their swords to Sephrenia. When the last had died, she would follow them into the House of the Dead. Earlier that evening, Vanion had compelled her to give those swords to him. It was not the weight of the swords alone which made them such a burden. There were other things that went with them, things about which Sparhawk could not even begin to guess. Vanion had been adamant about taking the swords. He had given a few vague reasons for his action, but Sparhawk privately suspected that the Preceptor’s main reason had been to spare Sephrenia as much as possible. Despite all the strictures forbidding such things, Sparhawk believed that Vanion loved the dear, small woman who had instructed all Pandions for generations in the secrets of Styricum. All Pandion Knights loved and revered Sephrenia. In Vanion’s case, however, Sparhawk surmised that love and reverence went perhaps a step further. Sephrenia also, he had noticed, seemed to have a special affection for the Preceptor that went somewhat beyond the love of a teacher for her pupil. This was also something that a Church Knight should reveal to the Hierocracy in Chyrellos. Again, Sparhawk chose not to.

‘Why are we gathering at this unseemly hour?’ Vanion asked wearily.

‘Do you want to tell him?’ Sparhawk asked Sephrenia.

The white-robed woman sighed and unwrapped the long, cloth-bound object she held to reveal another ceremonial Pandion sword. ‘Sir Tanis has gone into the House of the Dead,’ she told Vanion sadly.

‘Tanis?’ Vanion’s voice was stricken. ‘When did this happen?’

‘Just recently, I gather,’ she replied.

‘Is that why we’re here tonight?’ Vanion asked Sparhawk.

‘Not entirely. Before he went to deliver his sword to Sephrenia, Tanis visited me – or at least his ghost did. He told me that someone in the royal crypt wanted to see me. I went to the cathedral and I was confronted by the ghost of Aldreas. He told me a number of things and then gave me this.’ He twisted the shaft of the spear out of its socket and shook the ruby ring out of its place of concealment.

‘So that’s where Aldreas hid it,’ Vanion said. ‘Maybe he was wiser than we thought. You said he told you some things. Such as what?’

‘That he had been poisoned,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Probably the same poison they gave Ehlana.’

‘Was it Annias?’ Kalten asked grimly.

Sparhawk shook his head. ‘No. It was Princess Arissa.’

‘His own sister?’ Bevier exclaimed. ‘That’s monstrous!’ Bevier was an Arcian, and he had deep moral convictions.

‘Arissa is fairly monstrous,’ Kalten agreed. ‘She’s not the sort to let little things stand in her way. How did she get out of the cloister in Demos to dispose of Aldreas, though?’

‘Annias arranged it,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘She entertained Aldreas in her usual fashion, and when he was exhausted, she gave him the poisoned wine.’

‘I don’t quite understand,’ Bevier frowned.

‘The relationship between Arissa and Aldreas went somewhat beyond what is customary for a brother and sister,’ Vanion told him delicately.

Bevier’s eyes widened and the blood drained from his olive-skinned face as he slowly gathered Vanion’s meaning.

‘Why did she kill him?’ Kalten asked. ‘Revenge for locking her up in that cloister?’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘I think it was a part of the overall scheme she and Annias had hatched. First they poisoned Aldreas and then Ehlana.’

‘So the way to the throne would be clear for Arissa’s bastard son?’ Kalten surmised.

‘It’s sort of logical,’ Sparhawk agreed. ‘It fits together even tighter when you know that Lycheas the bastard is Annias’s son too.’

‘A Churchman?’ Tynian said, looking a bit startled. ‘Do you people here in Elenia have different rules from the rest of us?’

‘Not really, no,’ Vanion replied. ‘Annias seems to feel that he’s above the rules, and Arissa goes out of her way to break them.’