‘Wal, sir,’ Caalador replied, exaggerating the dialect just a bit, ‘Ol’ Caalador, he tole us t’ come down yere t’ Delo an’ look up a feller name o’ Orden – on accounta this yere Orden, he’s th’ one ez knows whut’s whut in the shadowy world o’ crime herebouts.’
Orden relaxed and laughed. ‘That’s Caalador, all right,’ he said. ‘I knew you were telling me the truth before you’d said three words.’
‘He certainly mangles the language,’ Caalador agreed. ‘He’s not as stupid as he sounds, though.’
Kalten covered a smile with his hand.
‘Not by a dang sight, he ain’t,’ Orden agreed, imitating the dialect. ‘I think you’ll find that highway robbery isn’t very profitable around here, Ezek, mainly because there aren’t that many highways. It’s safe enough out in the jungle – not even the Atans can find anybody in all that underbrush – but pickings are slim. Three men alone in the bush won’t be able to make ends meet. I think you’ll have to join one of the bands out there. They make a fair living robbing isolated estates and raiding various towns and villages. That takes quite a number of men, so there are always job openings.’ He sat back and tapped one finger thoughtfully against his chin. ‘Do you want to go a long way from town?’ he asked.
‘The further out the better,’ Caalador replied.
‘Narstil’s operating down by the ruins of Natayos. I can guarantee that the police won’t bother you there. A fellow named Scarpa’s got an army stationed in the ruins. He’s a crazy revolutionary who wants to overthrow the Tamul government. Narstil has quite a few dealings with him. There’s some risk involved, but there’s a lot of profit to be made in that neighborhood.’
‘I think you’ve found just what we’re looking for, Orden,’ Caalador said eagerly.
Kalten carefully let out a long sigh of relief. Orden had come up with the exact answer they’d been looking for without even being prompted. If they joined this particular band of robbers, they’d be close enough to Natayos to smell the smoke from the chimneys, and that was a better stroke of luck than they’d even dared to hope for.
‘I’ll tell you what, Ezek,’ Orden said, ‘why don’t I write a letter to Narstil introducing you and your friends?’
‘We’d definitely appreciate it, Orden.’
‘But before I waste all that ink and paper, why don’t we have a talk about how much you’re going to pay me to write that letter?’
The Styric was wet and muddy and very nearly blue with the cold. He was shivering so violently that his voice quavered as he hailed their camp. ‘I have a message for you,’ he called. ‘Don’t get excited and do something foolish.’ He spoke in Elenic, and that made Berit quite thankful, since his own Styric was not all that good. It was the one major flaw in his disguise.
‘Come on in, neighbor,’ he called out to the miserable-looking fellow at the upper end of the beach. ‘Just keep your hands out in plain sight.’
‘Don’t order me around, Elene,’ the Styric snapped. ‘I’m the one who’s giving the orders here.’
‘Deliver your message from right there then, neighbor,’ Berit said coldly. ‘Take your time, if you want. I’m warm and dry in here, so waiting while you make up your mind won’t be all that unpleasant for me.’
‘It’s a written message,’ the man said in Styric. At least Berit thought that was what he said.
‘Friend,’ Khalad said, stepping in quickly, ‘we’ve got a slightly touchy situation here. There are all sorts of chances for misunderstandings, so don’t make me nervous by talking in a language I don’t understand. Sir Sparhawk here understands Styric, but I don’t, and my knife in your belly will kill you just as quick as his will. I’ll be very sorry afterward, of course, but you’ll still be dead.’
‘Can I come in?’ the Styric asked, speaking in Elenic.
‘Come ahead, neighbor,’ Berit told him.
The lumpy-faced messenger approached the front of their shelter, looking longingly at the fire.
‘You really look uncomfortable, old boy,’ Berit noted. ‘Couldn’t you think of a spell to keep the rain off?’
The Styric ignored that. ‘I’m instructed to give you this,’ he said, reaching inside his homespun smock and drawing out an oilskin-covered packet.
Tell me what you’re going to do before you stick your hand inside your clothes like that, neighbor,’ Berit cautioned him in a low voice and squinting at him as he said it. ‘As my friend just pointed out, we’ve got some wonderful opportunities for misunderstandings here. Startling me when I’m this close to you isn’t a good way to keep your guts on the inside.’
The Styric swallowed hard and stepped back as soon as Berit took the packet.
‘Would you care for a slice of ham while my Lord Sparhawk reads his mail, friend?’ Khalad offered. ‘It’s nice and greasy, so it’ll lubricate your innards.’
The Styric shuddered, and his face took on a faintly nauseated look.
‘There’s nothing quite like a few gobs of oozy pork-fat to slick up a man’s gullet,’ Khalad told him cheerfully. ‘It must come from all the garbage and half-rotten swill that pigs eat.’
The Styric made a retching sound.
‘You’ve delivered your message, neighbor,’ Berit said coldly. ‘I’m sure you have someplace important to go, and we certainly wouldn’t want to keep you.’
‘Are you sure you understand the message?’
‘I’ve read it. Elenes read very well. We’re not illiterates like you Styrics. The message didn’t make me very happy, so it’s not going to pay you to stay around.’
The Styric messenger backed away, his face apprehensive. Then he turned and fled.
‘What does it say?’ Khalad asked.
Berit gently held the identifying lock of the Queen’s hair in his hand. ‘It says that there’s been a change of plans. We’re supposed to go on down past the Tamul Mountains and then turn west. They want us to go to Sopal now.’
‘You’d better get word to Aphrael.’
There was a sudden, familiar little trill of pipes. The two young men spun around quickly.
The Child Goddess sat cross-legged on Khalad’s blankets, breathing a plaintive Styric melody into her many-chambered pipes. ‘Why are you staring at me?’ she asked them. ‘I told you I was going to look after you, didn’t I?’
‘Is this really wise, Divine One?’ Berit asked her. ‘That Styric’s no more than a few hundred yards away, you know, and he can probably sense your presence.’
‘Not right now, he can’t,’ Aphrael smiled. ‘Right now he’s too busy concentrating on keeping his stomach from turning inside out. All that talk about pork-fat was really cruel, Khalad.’
‘Yes. I know.’
‘Did you have to be so graphic?’
‘I didn’t know you were around. What do you want us to do?’
‘Go to Sopal the way they told you to. I’ll get word to the others.’ She paused. ‘What did you do to that ham, Khalad?’ she asked curiously. ‘You’ve actually managed to make it smell almost edible.’
‘It’s probably the cloves,’ he shrugged. ‘Nobody’s really all that fond of the taste of pork, when you get right down to it, but my mother taught me that almost anything can be made edible – if you use enough spices. You might want to keep that in mind the next time you’re thinking about serving up a goat.’
She stuck her tongue out at him, and then she vanished.
Chapter 7 (#ulink_da56f9a1-3502-5bdf-aabe-44266318e2a2)
It was snowing in the mountains of Zemoch, a dry, brittle snow that settled like a cloud of feathers in the dead calm air. It was bitterly cold, and a huge cloud of steam hung like a low-lying fog over the horses of the army of the Knights of the Church as they plodded forward, their hooves sending the powdery snow swirling into the air again. The preceptors of the militant orders rode in the lead, dressed in full armor and bundled in furs. Preceptor Abriel of the Cyrinic Knights, still vigorous despite his advanced age, rode with Darellon, the Alcione Preceptor, and with Sir Heldin, a scarred old veteran who was filling in as leader of the Pandions during Sparhawk’s absence. Patriarch Bergsten rode somewhat apart. The huge Churchman was muffled to the ears in fur, and his Ogre-horned helmet made him look very warlike, an appearance offset to some degree by the small, black-bound prayer book he was reading. Preceptor Komier of the Genidians was off ahead with the scouts.
‘I don’t think I’ll ever be warm again,’ Abriel groaned, pulling his fur cloak tighter about him. ‘Old age thins the blood. Don’t ever get old, Darellon.’
‘The alternative isn’t very attractive, Lord Abriel.’ Darellon was a slender Deiran who appeared to have been swallowed up by his massive armor. He lowered his voice. ‘You didn’t really have to come along, my friend,’ he said. ‘Sarathi would have understood.’
