‘We are honoured, Baron Kotyk,’ Sparhawk replied, inclining his head politely.
‘My manor house is nearby,’ Kotyk rushed on, ‘and I do foresee unpleasant weather on the horizon. Might I offer my poor hospitality?’
‘As I’ve told you so many times in the past, Sparhawk,’ Bevier said mildly, ‘you have but to put your trust in God. He will provide.’
Kotyk looked puzzled.
‘A somewhat feeble attempt at humour, my Lord,’ Sparhawk explained. ‘My companions and I were just discussing our need for shelter. Your most generous offer solves a rather vexing problem for us.’ Sparhawk was not familiar with local customs, but the Baron’s ornate speech hinted at a somewhat stiff formality.
‘I note that you have ladies in your company,’ Kotyk observed, looking toward the carriage in which Ehlana rode. ‘Their comfort must be our first concern. We can become better acquainted once we are safely under my roof.’
‘We shall be guided by you, my Lord,’ Sparhawk agreed. ‘I pray you, lead us whither you will, and I shall inform the ladies of this fortuitous encounter.’ If Kotyk wanted formal, Sparhawk would give him formal. He wheeled Faran and rode back along the column.
‘Who’s the fat fellow in the carriage, Sparhawk?’ Ehlana asked.
‘Speak not disparagingly of our host, light of my life.’
‘Aren’t you feeling well?’
‘The fat fellow has just offered us shelter from that thunderstorm snapping at our heels. Treat him with gratitude if not respect.’
‘What a nice man.’
‘It might not be a bad idea for us to sort of keep your identity to ourselves. We don’t know exactly what we’re walking into. Why don’t I just introduce you as an aristocrat of some kind, and –’
‘A Margravine, I think,’ she improvised. ‘Margravine Ehlana of Cardos.’
‘Why Cardos?’
‘It’s a nice district with mountains and a beautiful coastline. Absolutely perfect climate and industrious, law-abiding people.’
‘You’re not trying to sell it to him, Ehlana.’
‘But I need to know the pertinent details so that I can gush suitably.’
Sparhawk sighed. ‘All right, my Lady, practise gushing then, and come up with suitable stories for the others.’ He looked at Emban. ‘Are your morals flexible enough to stand a bit of falsehood, your Grace?’ he asked.
‘That depends on what you want me to lie about, Sparhawk.’
‘It won’t exactly be a lie, your Grace,’ Sparhawk smiled. ‘If we demote my wife, you’ll be the ranking member of our party. The presence of Ambassador Oscagne here suggests a high-level visit of some sort. I’ll just tell Baron Kotyk that you’re the Archprelate’s personal emissary to the Imperial court, and that the Knights are your escort instead of the Queen’s.’
‘That doesn’t stretch my conscience too far,’ Emban grinned. ‘Go ahead, Sparhawk. You lie, and I’ll swear to it. Say whatever you have to. That storm is coming this way very fast.’
‘Talen,’ Sparhawk said to the boy, who was riding beside the carriage, ‘sort of move up and down the column and let the knights know what we’re doing. A misplaced “your Majesty” or two could expose us all as frauds.’
‘Your husband shows some promise, Margravine Ehlana,’ Stragen noted. ‘Give me some time to train him a bit, and I’ll make an excellent swindler of him. His instincts are good, but his technique’s a little shaky.’
Baron Kotyk’s manor house was a palatial residence in a park-like setting, and there was a fair-sized village at the foot of the hill upon which it stood. There were a number of large out-buildings standing to the rear of the main house. ‘Fortunately, Sir Knights, I have ample room for even so large a party as yours,’ the baron told them. ‘The quarters for the bulk of your men may be a bit crude, though, I’m afraid. They’re dormitories for the harvest crews.’
‘We’re Church Knights, my Lord Kotyk,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘We’re accustomed to hardship.’
Kotyk sighed. ‘We have no such institution here in Astel,’ he mourned. ‘There are so many things lacking in our poor, backward country.’ They approached the manor house by a long, white-gravelled drive lined on both sides by lofty elms and halted at the foot of the broad stone stairs leading up to an arched front door. The baron climbed heavily down from his carriage and handed his reins to one of the bearded serfs who had rushed from the house to meet them. ‘I pray you, gentles all,’ he said, ‘stand not on ceremony. Let us enter ere the approaching storm descend upon us.’
Sparhawk could not be certain if the Baron’s stilted speech was a characteristic of the country, a personal idiosyncrasy, or a nervous reaction to the rank of his visitors. He motioned to Kalten and Tynian. ‘See to it that the knights and the Peloi are settled in,’ he told them quietly. ‘Then join us in the house. Khalad, go with them. Make sure that the serfs don’t just leave the horses standing out in the rain.’
The door to the manor house swung wide, and three ladies dressed in antiquated gowns emerged. One was tall and angular. She had a wealth of dark hair and the lingering traces of youthful beauty. The years had not been kind to her, however. Her rigid, haughty face was lined, and she had a noticeable squint. The other two were both blonde, flabby, and their features clearly revealed a blood relationship to the baron. Behind them came a pale young man dressed all in black velvet. He seemed to have a permanent sneer stamped on his face. His dark hair was done in long curls that cascaded down his back in an artfully-arranged display.
After the briefest of introductions Kotyk led them all inside. The tall, dark-haired lady was the baron’s wife, Astansia. The two blondes were, as Sparhawk had guessed, his sisters, Ermude the elder and Katina the younger. The pale young man was Baroness Astansia’s brother, Elron, who she proudly advised them was a poet in a voice hovering on the verge of adoration. ‘Do you think I could get away with pleading a sick headache?’ Ehlana murmured to Sparhawk as they followed the baron and his family down a long, tapestry-lined corridor toward the centre of the house. ‘This is going to be deadly, I’m afraid.’
‘If I have to put up with it, so do you,’ Sparhawk whispered. ‘We need the baron’s roof, so we’ll have to endure his hospitality.’
She sighed. ‘It might be a little more endurable if the whole place didn’t reek of cooked cabbage.’
They were led into a ‘sitting-room’ that was only slightly smaller than the throne-room in Cimmura, a musty-smelling room filled with stiff, uncomfortable chairs and divans and carpeted in an unwholesome-looking mustard yellow.
‘We are so isolated here,’ Katina sighed to the Baroness Melidere, ‘and so dreadfully out of fashion. My poor brother tries as best he can to keep abreast of what’s happening in the west, but our remote location imprisons us and keeps visitors from our door. Ermude and I have tried over and over to persuade him to take a house in the capital where we can be near the centre of things, but she won’t hear of it. The estate came to my brother by marriage, and his wife’s so terribly provincial. Would you believe that my poor sister and I are forced to have our gowns made up by serfs?’
Melidere put her palms to her cheeks in feigned shock. ‘My goodness!’ she exclaimed.
Katina reached for her handkerchief as tears of misery began to roll down her cheeks.
‘Wouldn’t your Atan be more comfortable with the serfs, Margravine?’ Baroness Astansia was asking Ehlana, looking with some distaste at Mirtai.
‘I rather doubt it, Baroness,’ Ehlana replied, ‘and even if she were, I wouldn’t be. I have powerful enemies, my Lady, and my husband is much involved in the affairs of Elenia. The queen relies heavily upon him, and so I must look to my own defences.’
‘I’ll admit that your Atan is imposing, Margravine,’ Astansia sniffed, ‘but she’s still only a woman, after all.’
Ehlana smiled. ‘You might tell that to the ten men she’s already killed, Baroness,’ she replied.
The baroness stared at her in horror.
‘The Eosian continent has a thin veneer of civilisation, my Lady,’ Stragen advised her, ‘but underneath it all, we’re really quite savage.’
‘It’s a tedious journey, Baron Kotyk,’ Patriarch Emban said, ‘but the Archprelate and the emperor have been in communication with each other since the collapse of Zemoch, and they both feel that the time has come to exchange personal envoys. Misunderstandings can arise in the absence of direct contact, and the world has seen enough of war for a while.’
‘A wise decision, your Grace.’ Kotyk was quite obviously overwhelmed by the presence of people of exalted station in his house.
‘I have some small reputation in the capital, Sir Bevier,’ Elron was saying in a lofty tone of voice. ‘My poems are eagerly sought after by the intelligentsia. They’re quite beyond the grasp of the unlettered, however. I’m particularly noted for my ability to convey colours. I do think that colour is the very soul of the real world. I’ve been working on my Ode to Blue for the past six months.’
‘Astonishing perseverance,’ Bevier murmured.
‘I try to be as thorough as possible,’ Elron declared. ‘I’ve already composed two hundred and sixty-three stanzas, and there’s no end in sight, I’m afraid.’
Bevier sighed. ‘As a Knight of the Church, I have little time for literature,’ he mourned. ‘Because of my vocation, I must concentrate on military texts and devotional works. Sir Sparhawk is more worldly than I, and his descriptions of people and places verge sometimes on the poetic.’
‘I should be most interested,’ Elron lied, his face revealing a professional’s contempt for the efforts of amateurs. ‘Does he touch at all on colour?’
‘More with light, I believe,’ Bevier replied, ‘but then they’re the same thing, aren’t they? Colour doesn’t exist without light. I remember that once he described a street in the city of Jiroch. The city lies on the coast of Rendor where the sun pounds the earth like a hammer. Very early in the morning, before the sun rises, and when the night is just beginning to fade, the sky has the colour of forged steel. It casts no shadows, and so everything seems etched by that sourceless grey. The buildings in Jiroch are all white, and the women go to the wells before the sun comes up to avoid the heat of the day. They wear hooded robes and veils all in black and they balance clay vessels on their shoulders. All untaught, they move with a grace beyond the capability of dancers. Their silent, beautiful procession marks each day’s beginning as, like shadows, they greet the dawn in a ritual as old as time. Have you ever seen that peculiar light before the sun rises, Elron?’
