‘It’s absolutely uncanny,’ Kalten was saying one evening. ‘He doesn’t really do anything at all. He doesn’t talk to them; he doesn’t smile at them; he doesn’t do any of the things he’s supposed to do. I don’t know what it is, but every time he walks through a room, every young woman in the place starts to come all unravelled.’
‘He is a very handsome young man, Kalten,’ Ehlana pointed out.
‘Berit? He doesn’t even shave regularly yet.’
‘What’s that got to do with it? He’s tall, he’s a knight, he has broad shoulders and good manners. He’s also got the deepest blue eyes I’ve ever seen – and the longest eyelashes,’
‘But he’s only a boy.’
‘Not any more. You haven’t really looked at him lately. Besides, the young ladies who sigh and cry into their pillows over him are quite young themselves.’
‘What’s really so irritating is the fact that he doesn’t even know what effect he has on all those poor girls,’ Tynian observed. ‘They’re doing everything but tearing their clothes off to get his attention, and he hasn’t got the faintest notion of what’s going on.’
‘That’s part of his charm, Sir Knight,’ Ehlana smiled. ‘If it weren’t for that innocence of his, they wouldn’t find him nearly so attractive. Sir Bevier here has much the same quality. The difference though, is that Bevier knows that he’s an extraordinarily handsome young man. He chooses not to do anything about it because of his religious convictions. Berit doesn’t even know.’
‘Maybe one of us should take him aside and tell him,’ Ulath suggested.
‘Never mind,’ Mirtai told him. ‘He’s fine just the way he is. Leave him alone.’
‘Mirtai’s right,’ Ehlana said. ‘Don’t tamper with him, gentlemen. We’d like to keep him innocent for just a while longer.’ A hint of mischief touched her lips. ‘Sir Bevier, on the other hand, is quite another matter. It’s time for us to find him a wife. He’ll make some girl an excellent husband.’
Bevier smiled faintly. ‘I’m already married, your Majesty – to the Church.’
‘Betrothed perhaps, Bevier, but not yet married. Don’t start buying ecclesiastical garb just yet, Sir Knight. I haven’t entirely given up on you.’
‘Wouldn’t it be easier to start closer to home, your Majesty?’ he suggested. ‘If you feel the urge to marry someone off, Sir Kalten is readily at hand.’
‘Kalten?’ she asked incredulously. ‘Don’t be absurd, Bevier. I wouldn’t do that to any woman.’
‘Your Majesty!’ Kalten protested.
‘I love you dearly, Kalten,’ she smiled at the blond Pandion, ‘but you’re just not husband material. I couldn’t give you away. In good conscience I couldn’t even order anyone to marry you. Tynian is remotely possible, but God intended you and Ulath to be bachelors.’
‘Me?’ Ulath said mildly.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you.’
The door opened, and Stragen and Talen entered. They were both dressed in the plain clothing they usually wore when making one of their sorties into the streets.
‘Any luck?’ Sparhawk asked them.
‘We found him,’ Stragen replied, handing his cloak to Alean. ‘He’s not really my sort. He’s a pickpocket by profession, and pickpockets don’t really make good leaders. There’s something fundamentally lacking in their character.’
‘Stragen!’ Talen protested.
‘You’re not really a pickpocket, my young friend,’ Stragen told him. ‘That’s only an interim occupation while you’re waiting to grow up. Anyway, the local chief’s named Kondrak. He could see that we all have a mutual interest in stable governments, I’ll give him that. Looting houses when there’s turmoil in the streets is a fast way to make a lot of money, but over the long run, a good thief can accumulate more in times of domestic tranquillity. Of course Kondrak can’t make any kind of overall decision on his own. He’ll have to consult with his counterparts in other cities in the empire.’
‘That shouldn’t take more than a year or so,’ Sparhawk noted drily.
‘Hardly,’ Stragen disagreed. ‘Thieves move much more rapidly than honest men. Kondrak’s going to send out word of what we’re trying to accomplish. He’ll put it in the best possible light, so there’s a very good chance that the thieves of all the kingdoms in the empire will co-operate.’
‘How will we know their decision?’ Tynian asked him.
‘I’ll make courtesy calls each time we come to a fairsized city,’ Stragen shrugged. ‘Sooner or later I’ll get an official reply. It shouldn’t take all that long. We’ll certainly have a final decision by the time we reach Matherion.’ He looked speculatively at Ehlana. ‘Your Majesty’s learned a great deal about the subterranean government in the past few years,’ he noted. ‘Do you suppose we could put that information on the level of a state secret? We’re perfectly willing to co-operate and even assist on occasion, but we’d be much happier if the other monarchs of the world didn’t know too much about the way we operate. Some crusader might decide to smash the secret government, and that would inconvenience us a bit.’
‘What’s it worth to you, Milord Stragen?’ she teased him.
His eyes grew very serious. ‘It’s a decision you’ll have to make for yourself, Ehlana,’ he told her, cutting across rank and customary courtesies. ‘I’ve tried to assist you whenever I could because I’m genuinely fond of you. If you make a little conversational slip, though, and other monarchs find out things they shouldn’t know, I won’t be able to do that any more.’
‘You’d abandon me, Milord Stragen?’
‘Never, my Queen, but my colleagues would have me killed, and I wouldn’t really be of much use to you in that condition, now would I?’
Archimandrite Monsel was a large, impressive man with piercing black eyes and an imposing black beard. It was a forceful beard, an assertive beard, a beard impossible to overlook, and the Archimandrite used it like a battering ram. It preceded him by a yard wherever he went. It bristled when he was irritated – which was often – and in damp weather it knotted up into snarls like half a mile of cheap fishing line. The beard waggled when Monsel talked, emphasising points all on its own. Patriarch Emban was absolutely fascinated by the Archimandrite’s beard. ‘It’s like talking to an animated hedge,’ he observed to Sparhawk as the two of them walked through the corridors of the palace toward a private audience with the Astellian ecclesiaste.
‘Are there any topics I should avoid, your Grace?’ Sparhawk asked. ‘I’m not familiar with the Church of Astel, and I don’t want to start any theological debates.’
‘Our disagreements with the Astels are in the field of Church government, Sparhawk. Our purely theological differences are very minor. We have a secular clergy, but their Church is monastically organised. Our priests are just priests; theirs are also monks. I’ll grant you that it’s a fine distinction, but it’s a distinction nonetheless. They also have many, many more priests and monks than we do – probably about a tenth of the population.’
‘That many?’
‘Oh, yes. Every noble mansion in Astel has its own private chapel and its own priest, and the priest “assists” in making decisions.’
‘Where do they find so many men willing to enter the priesthood?’
‘From the ranks of the serfs. Being a clergyman has its drawbacks, but it’s better than being a serf.’
‘I suppose the Church would be preferable.’
‘Much. Monsel will respect you, because you’re a member of a religious order. Oh, incidentally, since you’re the interim preceptor of the Pandion Knights, you’re technically a patriarch. Don’t be surprised if he addresses you as “your Grace”.’
They were admitted into Monsel’s chambers by a long-bearded monk. Sparhawk had noticed that all Astellian clergymen wore beards. The room was small and panelled in dark wood. The carpet was a deep maroon, and the heavy drapes at the windows were black. There were books and scrolls and dog-eared sheets of parchment everywhere.
‘Ah, Emban,’ Monsel said. ‘What have you been up to?’
‘Mischief, Monsel. I’ve been out proselytising among the heathens.’
‘Really? Where did you find any here? I thought most heathens lived in the Basilica in Chyrellos. Sit down, gentlemen. I’ll send for some wine and we can debate theology.’
‘You’ve met Sparhawk?’ Emban asked as they all took chairs before an open window where the breeze billowed the black drapes.
‘Briefly,’ Monsel replied. ‘How are you today, your Highness?’
‘Well. And you, your Grace?’
‘Curious, more than anything. Why are we engaging in private consultations?’
‘We’re all clergymen, your Grace,’ Emban pointed out. ‘Sparhawk wears a cassock made of steel most of the time, but he is of the clergy. We’ve come to discuss something that probably concerns you as much as it does us. I think I know you well enough to know that you’ve got a practical side that’s not going to get sidetracked by the fact that you think we genuflect wrong.’
