The Diamond Throne

‘The case is heavy, my Lord,’ Sparhawk explained in a voice loud enough to be heard by passers-by. Then he spoke in a half-whisper. ‘We’re being watched,’ he said as his eyes swept the sides of the street.

The robed and hooded figure was in an upper floor window, partially concealed behind a thick green drape. It looked very much like the one that had watched him in the rain-wet streets the night he had first arrived back in Cimmura.

‘Have you located him?’ Kalten asked quietly, making some show of adjusting the collar of his pink cloak.

Sparhawk grunted, raising the box to his shoulder again. ‘Upper floor window over the chandler’s shop.’

‘Let’s be off then, my man,’ Kalten said in a louder voice. ‘The day’s wearing on.’ As he started on up the street, he cast a quick, furtive glance at the green-draped window.

They rounded another corner. ‘Odd-looking sort, wasn’t he?’ Kalten noted. ‘Most people don’t wear hoods when they’re indoors.’

‘Maybe he’s got something to hide.’

‘Do you think he recognized us?’

‘It’s hard to say. I’m not positive, but I think he was the same one who was watching me the night I came into town. I didn’t get a good look at him, but I could feel him, and this one feels just about the same.’

‘Would magic penetrate these disguises?’

‘Easily. Magic sees the man, not the clothes. Let’s go down a few alleys and see if we can shake him off in case he decides to follow us.’

‘Right.’

It was nearly noon when they reached the square near the west gate where Sparhawk had seen Krager. They split up there. Sparhawk went in one direction and Kalten the other. They questioned the keepers of the brightly coloured booths and the more sedate shops closely, describing Krager in some detail. On the far side of the square, Sparhawk rejoined his friend. ‘Any luck?’ he asked.

Kalten nodded. ‘There’s a wine merchant over there who says that a man who looks like Krager comes in three or four times a day to buy a flagon of Arcian red.’

‘That’s Krager’s drink, all right.’ Sparhawk grinned. If Martel finds out that he’s drinking again, he’ll reach down his throat and pull his heart out.’

‘Can you actually do that to a man?’

‘You can if your arm’s long enough, and if you know what you’re looking for. Did your wine merchant give you any sort of hint about which way Krager usually comes from?’

Kalten nodded. ‘That street there.’ He pointed.

Sparhawk scratched at his horse-tail beard, thinking.

‘If you pull that loose, Sephrenia’s going to turn you over her knee and paddle you.’

Sparhawk took his hand away from his face. ‘Has Krager picked up his first flagon of wine this morning?’ he asked.

Kalten nodded. ‘About two hours ago.’

‘He’s likely to finish that first one fairly fast. If he’s drinking the way he used to, he’ll wake up in the mornings feeling a bit unwell.’ Sparhawk looked around the busy square. ‘Let’s go on up that street a ways where there aren’t quite so many people and wait for him. As soon as he runs out of wine, he’ll come out for more.’

‘Won’t he see us? He knows us both, you know.’

Sparhawk shook his head. ‘He’s so shortsighted that he can barely see past the end of his nose. Add a flagon of wine to that, and he wouldn’t be able to recognize his own mother.’

‘Krager’s got a mother?’ Kalten asked in mock amazement. ‘I thought he just crawled out from under a rotten log.’

Sparhawk laughed. ‘Let’s go find someplace where we can wait for him.’

‘Can we skulk?’ Kalten asked eagerly. ‘I haven’t skulked in years.’

‘Skulk away, my friend,’ Sparhawk said.

They walked up the street the wine merchant had indicated. After a few hundred paces, Sparhawk pointed towards the narrow opening of an alley. ‘That ought to do it,’ he said. ‘Let’s go do our skulking in there. When Krager goes by, we can drag him into the alley and have our little chat in private.’

‘Right,’ Kalten agreed with an evil grin.

They crossed the street and entered the alley. Rotting garbage lay heaped along the sides, and some way farther on was a reeking public urinal. Kalten waved one hand in front of his face. ‘Sometimes your decisions leave a lot to be desired, Sparhawk,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t you have picked someplace a little less fragrant?’

‘You know,’ Sparhawk said, ‘that’s what I’ve missed about not having you around, Kalten – that steady stream of complaints.’

Kalten shrugged. ‘A man needs something to talk about.’ He reached under his azure doublet, took out a small, curved knife and began to strop it on the sole of his boot. ‘I get him first,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Krager. I get to start on him first.’

‘What gave you that idea?’

‘You’re my friend, Sparhawk. Friends always let their friends go first.’

‘Doesn’t that work the other way around, too?’

Kalten shook his head. ‘You like me better than I like you. It’s only natural, of course. I’m a lot more likeable than you are.’

Sparhawk gave him a long look.

‘That’s what friends are for, Sparhawk,’ Kalten said ingratiatingly, ‘to point out our little shortcomings to us.’

They waited, watching the street from the mouth of the alley. It was not a particularly busy street, for there were but few shops along its sides. It seemed rather to be given over largely to storehouses and private dwellings.

An hour dragged by, and then another.

‘Maybe he drank himself to sleep,’ Kalten said.

‘Not Krager. He can hold more than a regiment. He’ll be along.’

Kalten thrust his head out of the opening of the alleyway and squinted at the sky. ‘It’s going to rain,’ he predicted.

‘We’ve both been rained on before.’

Kalten plucked at the front of his gaudy doublet and rolled his eyes. ‘But Thparhawk,’ he lisped outrageously. ‘You know how thatin thpotth when it getth wet.’

Sparhawk doubled over with laughter, trying to muffle the sound.

They waited once more, and another hour dragged by.

‘The sun’s going to go down before long,’ Kalten said. ‘Maybe he found another wine shop.’

‘Let’s wait a little longer,’ Sparhawk replied.

The rush came without warning. Eight or ten burly fellows in rough clothing came charging down the alley with swords in their hands. Kalten’s rapier came whistling out of its sheath even as Sparhawk’s hand flashed to the hilt of his short sword. The man leading the charge doubled over and gasped as Kalten smoothly ran him through. Sparhawk stepped past his friend as the blond man recovered from his lunge. He parried the sword stroke of one of the attackers and then buried his sword in the man’s belly. He wrenched the blade as he jerked it out to make the wound as big as possible. ‘Get that box open!’ he shouted at Kalten as he parried another stroke.

The alleyway was too narrow for more than two of them to come at him at once; even though his sword was not as long as theirs, he was able to hold them at bay. Behind him he heard the splintering of wood as Kalten kicked the rectangular box apart. Then his friend was at his shoulder with his broadsword in his hand. ‘I’ve got it now,’ Kalten said. ‘Get your sword.’

Sparhawk spun and ran back to the mouth of the alley. He discarded the short sword, jerked his own weapon out of the wreckage of the box, and whirled back again. Kalten had cut down two of the attackers, and he was beating the others back step by step. He did, however, have his left hand pressed tightly to his side, and there was blood coming out from between his fingers. Sparhawk rushed past him, swinging his heavy sword with both hands. He split one fellow’s head open and cut the sword arm off another. Then he drove the point of his sword deep into the body of yet a third, sending him reeling against the wall with a fountain of blood gushing from his mouth.

The rest of the attackers fled.

Sparhawk turned and saw Kalten coolly pulling his sword out of the chest of the man with the missing arm. ‘Don’t leave them behind you like that, Sparhawk,’ the blond man said. ‘Even a one-armed man can stab you in the back. Besides, it isn’t tidy. Always finish one job before you go on to the next.’ He still had his left hand tightly pressed to his side.

‘Are you all right?’ Sparhawk asked him.

‘It’s only a scratch.’

‘Scratches don’t bleed like that. Let me have a look.’

The gash in Kalten’s side was sizeable, but it did not appear to be too deep. Sparhawk ripped the sleeve off the smock of one of the casualties, wadded it up, and placed it over the cut in Kalten’s side. ‘Hold that in place,’ he said. ‘Push in on it to slow the bleeding.’

‘I’ve been cut before, Sparhawk. I know what to do.’

Sparhawk looked around at the crumpled bodies littering the alley. ‘I think we ought to leave,’ he said. ‘Somebody in the neighbourhood might get curious about all the noise.’ Then he frowned. ‘Did you notice anything peculiar about these men?’ he asked.

Kalten shrugged. ‘They were fairly inept.’

‘That’s not what I mean. Men who make a living by waylaying people in alleys aren’t usually very interested in their personal appearance, and these fellows are all clean-shaven.’ He rolled over one of the bodies and ripped open the front of his canvas smock. ‘Isn’t that interesting?’ he observed. Beneath the smock the dead man wore a red tunic with an embroidered emblem over the left breast.

‘Church soldier,’ Kalten grunted. ‘Do you think that Annias might possibly dislike us?’

‘It’s not unlikely. Let’s get out of here. The survivors might have gone for help.’

‘The chapterhouse then – or the inn?’

Sparhawk shook his head. ‘Somebody’s seen through our disguises, and Annias would expect us to go to one of those places.’

‘You could be right about that. Any ideas?’

‘I know of a place. It’s not too far. Are you all right to walk?’

‘I can go as far as you can. I’m younger, remember?’

‘Only by six weeks.’

‘Younger is younger, Sparhawk. Let’s not quibble about numbers.’

They tucked their broadswords under their belts and walked out of the mouth of the alley. Sparhawk supported his wounded friend as they moved out into the open.

The street along which they walked grew progressively shabbier, and they soon entered a maze of interconnecting lanes and unpaved alleys. The buildings were large and run-down, and they teemed with roughly dressed people who seemed indifferent to the squalor around them.

‘It’s a rabbit warren, isn’t it?’ Kalten said. ‘Is this place much farther? I’m getting a little tired.’

‘It’s just on the other side of that next intersection.’

Kalten grunted and pressed his hand more tightly to his side.

They moved on. The looks directed at them by the inhabitants of this slum were unfriendly, even hostile. Kalten’s clothing marked him as a member of the ruling class, and these people at the very bottom of society had little use for courtiers and their servants.

When they reached the intersection, Sparhawk led his friend up a muddy alley. They had gone about halfway when a thick-bodied man with a rusty pike in his hands stepped out of a doorway to bar their path. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he demanded.

‘I need to talk to Platime,’ Sparhawk replied.

‘I don’t think he wants to hear anything you have to say. If you’re smart, you’ll get out of this part of town before nightfall. Accidents happen here after dark.’

‘And sometimes even before dark,’ Sparhawk said, drawing his sword.

‘I can have a dozen men here in two winks.’

‘And my broken-nosed friend here can have your head off in one,’ Kalten told him.

The man stepped back, his face apprehensive.

‘What’s it to be, neighbour?’ Sparhawk asked. ‘Do you take us to Platime, or do you and I play for a bit?’

‘You’ve got no right to threaten me.’

Sparhawk raised his sword so that the fellow could get a good look at it. ‘This gives me all sorts of rights, neighbour. Lean your pike against that wall and take us to Platime – now!’

The thick-bodied man flinched and then carefully set his pike against the wall, turned, and led them on up the alley. It came to a dead end a hundred paces farther on, and a stone stairway ran down to what appeared to be a cellar door.

‘Down there,’ the man said, pointing.

‘Lead the way,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘I don’t want you behind me, friend. You look like the sort who might make errors in judgement.’

Sullenly, the fellow went down the mud-coated stairs and rapped twice on the door. ‘It’s me,’ he called. ‘Sef. There are a couple of nobles here who want to talk to Platime.’

There was a pause followed by the rattling of a chain. The door opened and a bearded man thrust his head out. ‘Platime doesn’t like noblemen,’ he declared.

‘I’ll change his mind for him,’ Sparhawk said. ‘Step back out of the way, neighbour.’

The bearded man looked at the sword in Sparhawk’s hand, swallowed hard, and opened the door wider.

‘Pass right along, Sef,’ Kalten said to their guide.

Sef went through the door.

‘Join us, friend,’ Sparhawk told the bearded man when he and Kalten were inside. ‘We like lots of company.’

The stairs continued down between mouldy stone walls that wept moisture. At the bottom, the stair opened out into a very large cellar with a vaulted stone ceiling. There was a fire burning in a pit in the centre of the room, filling the air with smoke, and the walls were lined with roughly constructed cots and straw-filled pallets. Two dozen or so men and women in a wide variety of garments sat on those cots and pallets drinking and playing at dice. Just beyond the fire pit a huge man with a fierce black beard and a vast paunch sprawled in a large chair with his feet thrust out towards the flames. He wore a satin doublet of a faded orange colour, spotted and stained down the front, and he held a silver tankard in one beefy hand.

‘That’s Platime,’ Sef said nervously. ‘He’s a little drunk, so you should be careful, my Lords.’

‘We can deal with it,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘Thanks for your help, Sef. I don’t know how we’d have managed without you.’ Then he led Kalten on around the fire pit.

‘Who are all these people?’ Kalten asked in a low voice, looking around at the men and women lining the walls.

‘Thieves, beggars, a few murderers probably – that sort of thing.’

‘You’ve got some very nice friends, Sparhawk.’

Platime was carefully examining a necklace with a ruby pendant attached to it. When Sparhawk and Kalten stopped in front of him, he raised his bleary eyes and looked them over, paying particular attention to Kalten’s finery. ‘Who let these two in here?’ he roared.

‘We sort of let ourselves in, Platime,’ Sparhawk told him, thrusting his sword back under his belt and turning up his eye patch so that it no longer impaired his vision.

‘Well, you can sort of let yourselves back out again.’

‘That wouldn’t be convenient right now, I’m afraid,’ Sparhawk told him.

The gross man in the orange doublet snapped his fingers, and the people lining the wall stood up. ‘You’re badly outnumbered, my friend.’ Platime looked around suggestively at his cohorts.

‘That’s been happening fairly often lately,’ Kalten said with his hand on the hilt of his broadsword.

Platime’s eyes narrowed. ‘Your clothes and that sword don’t exactly match,’ he said.

‘And I try so hard to co-ordinate my attire,’ Kalten sighed.

‘Just who are you two?’ Platime asked suspiciously. ‘This one is dressed like a courtier, but I don’t think he’s really one of those walking butterflies from the palace.’

‘He sees right to the core of things, doesn’t he?’ Kalten said to Sparhawk. He looked at Platime. ‘Actually, we’re Pandions,’ he said.

‘Church Knights? I thought it might be something like that. Why the fancy clothes, then?’

‘We’re both fairly well known,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘We wanted to be able to move around without being recognized.’

Platime looked meaningfully at Kalten’s blood-stained doublet. ‘It looks to me as if somebody saw through your disguises,’ he said, ‘or maybe you just frequent the wrong taverns. Who stabbed you?’

‘A church soldier.’ Kalten shrugged. ‘He got in a lucky thrust. Do you mind if I sit down? I’m feeling a little shaky for some reason.’

‘Somebody bring him a stool,’ Platime shouted. Then he looked back at the two of them. ‘Why would Church Knights and church soldiers be fighting?’ he asked.

‘Palace politics.’ Sparhawk shrugged. ‘They get a little murky sometimes.’

‘That’s God’s own truth. What’s your business here?’

‘We need a place to stay for a while,’ Sparhawk told him. He looked around. ‘This cellar of yours ought to work out fairly well.’

‘Sorry, friend. I can sympathize with a man who’s just had a run-in with the church soldiers, but I’m conducting a business here, and there’s no room for outsiders.’ Platime looked at Kalten, who had just sunk down on a stool that a ragged beggar had brought him. ‘Did you kill the man who stabbed you?’

‘He did.’ Kalten pointed at Sparhawk. ‘I killed a few others, but my friend here did most of the fighting.’

‘Why don’t we get down to business?’ Sparhawk said. ‘I think you owe my family a debt, Platime.’

‘I don’t have any dealings with nobles,’ Platime replied, ‘– except to cut a few of their throats from time to time – so it’s unlikely that I owe your family a thing.’

‘This debt has nothing to do with money. A long time ago, some church soldiers were hanging you. My father stopped them.’

Platime blinked. ‘You’re Sparhawk?’ he said in surprise. ‘You don’t look that much like your father.’

‘It’s his nose,’ Kalten said. ‘When you break a man’s nose, you change his whole appearance. Why were the soldiers hanging you?’

‘It was all a misunderstanding. I knifed a fellow. He wasn’t wearing his uniform, so I didn’t know he was an officer in the primate’s guard.’ He looked disgusted. ‘And all he had in his purse were two silver coins and a handful of copper.’

‘Do you acknowledge the debt?’ Sparhawk pressed.

Platime pulled at his coarse black beard. ‘I guess I do,’ he admitted.

‘We’ll stay here, then.’

‘That’s all you want?’

‘Not quite. We’re looking for a man – a fellow named Krager. Your beggars are all over town, and I want them to look for him.’

‘Fair enough. Can you describe him?’

‘I can do better than that. I can show him to you.’

‘That doesn’t exactly make sense, friend.’

‘It will in a minute. Have you got a basin of some kind – and some clean water?’

‘I think I can manage that. What have you got in mind?’

‘He’s going to make an image of Krager’s face in the water,’ Kalten said. ‘It’s an old trick.’

Platime looked impressed. ‘I’ve heard that you Pandions are all wizards, but I’ve never seen anything like that before.’

‘Sparhawk’s better at it than I am,’ Kalten admitted.

One of the beggars furnished a chipped basin filled with slightly cloudy water. Sparhawk set the basin on the floor and concentrated for a moment, muttering the Styric words of the spell under his breath. Then he passed his hand slowly over the basin, and Krager’s puffy-looking face appeared.

‘Now that is really something to see,’ Platime marvelled.

‘It’s not too difficult,’ Sparhawk said modestly. ‘Have your people here look at it. I can’t keep it there forever.’

‘How long can you hold it?’

‘Ten minutes or so. It starts to break up after that.’

‘Talen!’ the fat man shouted. ‘Come here.’

A grubby-looking boy of about ten slouched across the room. His tunic was ragged and dirty, but he wore a long, red satin waistcoat that had been fashioned by cutting the sleeves off a doublet. There were several knife-holes in it. ‘What do you want?’ he asked insolently.

‘Can you copy that?’ Platime asked, pointing at the basin.

‘Of course I can, but why should I?’

‘Because I’ll box your ears if you don’t.’

Talen grinned at him. ‘You’d have to catch me first, fat man, and I can run faster than you can.’

Sparhawk dug a finger into a pocket of his leather jerkin and took out a small silver coin. ‘Would this make it worth your while?’ he asked, holding up the coin.

Talen’s eyes brightened. ‘For that, I’ll give you a masterpiece,’ he promised.

‘All we want is accuracy.’

‘Whatever you say, my patron.’ Talen bowed mockingly. ‘I’ll go and get my things.’

‘Is he really any good?’ Kalten asked Platime after the boy had scurried over to one of the cots lining the wall.

Platime shrugged. ‘I’m not an art critic,’ he said. ‘He spends all his time drawing pictures, though – when he isn’t begging or stealing.’

‘Isn’t he a little young for your line of work?’

Platime laughed. ‘He’s got the nimblest fingers in Cimmura,’ he said. ‘He could steal your eyes right out of their sockets, and you wouldn’t even miss them until you went to look closely at something.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ Kalten said.

‘It could be too late, my friend. Weren’t you wearing a ring when you came in?’

Kalten blinked, then raised his blood-stained left hand and stared at it. There was no ring on the hand.

Chapter 6

Kalten winced. ‘Easy, Sparhawk,’ he said. ‘That really hurts.’

‘It has to be cleaned before I can bandage it,’ Sparhawk replied, continuing to wipe the cut on his friend’s side with a wine-soaked cloth.

‘But do you have to do it so hard?’

Platime waddled around the smoky fire pit and stood over the cot where Kalten lay. ‘Is he going to be all right?’ he asked.

‘Probably,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘He’s had the blood let out of him a few times before, and he usually recovers.’ He laid aside the cloth and picked up a long strip of linen. ‘Sit up,’ he told his friend.

Kalten grunted and pushed himself into a sitting position. Sparhawk began to wind the strip about his waist.

‘Not so tight,’ Kalten said. ‘I have to be able to breathe.’

‘Quit complaining.’

‘Were those church soldiers after you for any particular reason?’ Platime asked. ‘Or were they just amusing themselves?’

‘They had reasons,’ Sparhawk told him as he knotted Kalten’s bandage. ‘We’ve managed to be fairly offensive to Primate Annias lately.’

‘Good for you. I don’t know how you noblemen feel about him, but the common people all hate him.’

‘We moderately despise him.’

‘That’s one thing we all have in common then. Is there any chance that Queen Ehlana might recover?’

‘We’re working on that.’

Platime sighed. ‘I think she’s our only hope, Sparhawk. Otherwise Annias is going to run Elenia to suit himself, and that would really be too bad.’

‘Patriotism, Platime?’ Kalten asked.

‘Just because I’m a thief and a murderer doesn’t mean that I’m disloyal. I respect the crown as much as any man in the kingdom. I even respected Aldreas, weak as he was.’ Platime’s eyes grew sly. ‘Did his sister ever really seduce him?’ he asked. ‘There were all kinds of rumours.’

Sparhawk shrugged. ‘That’s sort of hard to say.’

‘She went absolutely wild after your father forced Aldreas to marry Queen Ehlana’s mother, you know.’ Platime sniggered. ‘She was totally convinced that she was going to marry her brother and get control of the throne.’

‘Isn’t that sort of illegal?’ Kalten asked.

‘Annias said that he’d found a way around the law. Anyway, after Aldreas got married, Arissa ran away from the palace. They found her a few weeks later in that cheap brothel over by the river. Just about everybody in Cimmura had tried her before they dragged her out of the place.’ He squinted at them. ‘What did they finally do with her anyway? Chop off her head?’

‘No,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘She’s cloistered in the nunnery at Demos. They’re very strict there.’