The Diamond Throne

‘It would take much too long to explain. It’s entirely up to you, Faran, but he’s wearing my armour, so if you try to bite him, you’ll probably break your teeth.’ Sparhawk turned to his squire. ‘Say hello to Aslade and the boys for me,’ he said.

‘Right,’ Kurik nodded. Then he swung up into his saddle.

‘Don’t make too big a show when you leave,’ Sparhawk added, ‘but make sure that you’re seen – and make sure that Berit keeps his visor down.’

‘I know what I’m doing, Sparhawk. Come along then, my Lord,’ Kurik said to Berit.

‘My Lord?’

‘You might as well get used to it, Berit.’ Kurik pulled his horse around. ‘I’ll see you, Sparhawk.’ Then the two of them rode out of the courtyard towards the drawbridge.

The rest of the day passed quietly. Sparhawk sat in the cell which Vanion had assigned to him, reading a musty old book. At sundown he joined the other brothers in the refectory for the simple evening meal, then marched in quiet procession with them to chapel. Sparhawk’s religious convictions were not profound, but there was again that sense of renewal involved in the return to the practices of his novitiate. Vanion conducted the services that evening and spoke at some length on the virtue of humility. In keeping with his long-standing practice, Sparhawk fell into a doze about halfway through the sermon.

He was awakened at the end of the sermon by the voice of an angel. A young knight with hair the colour of butter and a neck like a marble column lifted his clear tenor voice in a hymn of praise. His face shone, and his eyes were filled with adoration.

‘Was I really all that boring?’ Vanion murmured, falling in beside Sparhawk as they left the chapel.

‘Probably not,’ Sparhawk replied, ‘but I’m not really in any position to judge. Did you do the one about the simple daisy being as beautiful in the eyes of God as the rose?’

‘You’ve heard it before?’

‘Frequently.’

‘The old ones are the best.’

‘Who’s your tenor?’

‘Sir Parasim. He just won his spurs.’

‘I don’t want to alarm you, Vanion, but he’s too good for this world.’

‘I know.’

‘God will probably call him home very soon.’

‘That’s God’s business, isn’t it, Sparhawk?’

‘Do me a favour, Vanion. Don’t put me in a situation where I’m the one who gets him killed.’

‘That’s also God’s business. Sleep well, Sparhawk.’

‘You, too, Vanion.’

It was probably about midnight when the door to Sparhawk’s cell banged open. He rolled quickly out of his narrow cot and came to his feet with his sword in his hand.

‘Don’t do that,’ the big blond-haired man in the doorway said in disgust. He was holding a candle in one hand and a wineskin in the other.

‘Hello, Kalten,’ Sparhawk greeted his boyhood friend. ‘When did you get in?’

‘About a half-hour ago. I thought I was going to have to scale the walls there for a while.’ He looked disgusted. ‘It’s peacetime. Why do they raise the drawbridge every night?’

‘Probably out of habit.’

‘Are you going to put that down?’ Kalten asked, pointing at the sword in Sparhawk’s hand, ‘or am I going to have to drink this whole thing by myself?’

‘Sorry,’ Sparhawk said. He leaned his plain sword against the wall.

Kalten set his candle on the small table in the corner, tossed the wineskin onto Sparhawk’s bed, and then caught his friend in a huge bear hug. ‘It’s good to see you,’ he declared.

‘And you, too,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Have a seat.’ He pointed at the stool by the table and sat down on the edge of his cot. ‘How was Lamorkand?’

Kalten made an indelicate sound. ‘Cold, damp, and nervous,’ he replied. ‘Lamorks are not my favourite people in the world. How was Rendor?’

Sparhawk shrugged. ‘Hot, dry, and probably just as nervous as Lamorkand.’

‘I heard a rumour that you ran into Martel down there. Did you give him a nice funeral?’

‘He got away.’

‘You’re slipping, Sparhawk.’ Kalten unfastened the collar of his cloak. A great mat of curly blond hair protruded out of the neck of his mail coat. ‘Are you going to sit on that wineskin all night?’ he asked pointedly.

Sparhawk grunted, unstoppered the skin and lifted it to his lips. ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘Where did you get it?’ He handed the skin to his friend.

‘I picked it up in a wayside tavern about sundown,’ he replied. ‘I remembered that all there is to drink in Pandion chapterhouses is water – or tea, if Sephrenia happens to be around. Stupid custom.’

‘We are a religious order, Kalten.’

‘There are a half-dozen patriarchs in Chyrellos who get drunk as lords every night.’ Kalten lifted the wineskin and took a long drink. Then he shook the skin. ‘I should have picked up two,’ he observed. ‘Oh, by the way, Kurik was in the tavern with some young puppy wearing your armour.’

‘I should have guessed that,’ Sparhawk said wryly.

‘Anyway, Kurik told me that you were here. I was going to spend the night there, but when I heard that you’d come back from Rendor, I rode on the rest of the way.’

‘I’m touched.’

Kalten laughed and handed back the wineskin.

‘Were Kurik and the novice staying out of sight?’ Sparhawk asked.

Kalten nodded. ‘They were in one of the back rooms, and the young fellow was keeping his visor down. Have you ever seen anybody try to drink through his visor? Funniest thing I ever saw. There were a couple of local whores there, too. Your young Pandion might be getting an education along about now.’

‘He’s due,’ Sparhawk observed.

‘I wonder if he’ll try to do that with his visor down as well.’

‘Those girls are usually adaptable.’

Kalten laughed. ‘Anyhow, Kurik told me about the situation here. Do you really believe you can sneak around Cimmura without being recognized?’

‘I was thinking along the lines of a disguise of some sort.’

‘Better come up with a false nose,’ Kalten advised. ‘That broken beak of yours makes you fairly easy to pick out of a crowd.’

‘You should know,’ Sparhawk said. ‘You’re the one who broke it.’

‘We were only playing,’ Kalten said, sounding a bit defensive.

‘I’ve got used to it. We’ll talk with Sephrenia in the morning. She should be able to come up with something in the way of disguises.’

‘I’d heard that she was here. How is she?’

‘The same. Sephrenia never changes.’

‘Truly.’ Kalten took another drink from the wineskin and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘You know, I think I was always a big disappointment to her. No matter how hard she tried to teach me the secrets, I just couldn’t master the Styric language. Every time I tried to say “ogeragekgasek,” I almost dislocated my jaw.’

‘“Okeragukasek”,’ Sparhawk corrected him.

‘However you say it. I’ll just stick to my sword and let others play with magic.’ He leaned forward on his stool. ‘They say that the Eshandists are on the rise again in Rendor. Is there any truth to that?’

‘It’s no particular danger.’ Sparhawk shrugged, lounging back on his cot. ‘They howl and spin around in circles out in the desert and recite slogans to each other. That’s about as far as it goes. Is anything very interesting going on in Lamorkand?’

Kalten snorted. ‘All the barons there are involved in private wars with each other,’ he reported. ‘The whole kingdom reeks with the lust for revenge. Would you believe that there’s actually a war going on over a bee sting? An earl got stung and declared war on the baron whose peasants owned the hive. They’ve been fighting each other for ten years now.’

‘That’s Lamorkand for you. Anything else happening?’

‘The whole countryside east of Motera is crawling with Zemochs.’

Sparhawk sat up quickly. ‘Vanion did say that Otha was mobilizing.’

‘Otha mobilizes every ten years.’ Kalten handed his friend the wineskin. ‘I think he does it just to keep his people from getting restless.’

‘Are the Zemochs doing anything significant in Lamorkand?’

‘Not that I was able to tell. They’re asking a lot of questions – mostly about old folklore. You can find two or three of them in almost every village. They question old women and buy drinks for the loafers in the village taverns.’

‘Peculiar,’ Sparhawk murmured.

‘That’s a fairly accurate description of just about anybody from Zemoch,’ Kalten said. ‘Sanity has never been particularly prized there.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll go find a bed someplace,’ he said. ‘I can drag it in here and we can talk old times until we both fall asleep.’

‘All right.’

Kalten grinned. ‘Like the time your father caught us in that plum tree.’

Sparhawk winced. ‘I’ve been trying to forget about that for almost thirty years now.’

‘Your father did have a very firm hand, as I recall. I lost track of most of the rest of that day – and the plums gave me a bellyache besides. I’ll be right back.’ He turned and went out the door of Sparhawk’s cell.

It was good to have Kalten back. The two of them had grown up together in the house of Sparhawk’s parents at Demos after Kalten’s family had been killed and before the pair of boys had entered their novitiate training at the Pandion motherhouse. In many ways, they were closer than brothers. To be sure, Kalten had some rough edges to him, but their close friendship was one of the things Sparhawk valued more than anything.

After a short time, the big blond man returned, dragging a bed behind him, and then the two of them lay in the dim candlelight reminiscing until quite late. All in all, it was a very good night.

Early the following morning, they rose and dressed themselves, covering their mail coats with the hooded robes Pandions wore when they were inside their chapterhouses. They rather carefully avoided the morning procession to chapel and went in search of the woman who had trained whole generations of Pandion Knights in the intricacies of what were called the secrets.

They found her seated with her morning tea before the fire high up in the south tower.

‘Good morning, little mother,’ Sparhawk greeted her from the doorway. ‘Do you mind if we join you?’

‘Not at all, Sir Knights.’

Kalten went to her, knelt, and kissed both her palms. ‘Will you bless me, little mother?’ he asked her.

She smiled and put one hand on each side of his face. Then she spoke her benediction in Styric.

‘That always makes me feel better for some reason,’ he said, rising to his feet again. ‘Even though I don’t understand all the words.’

She looked at them critically. ‘I see that you chose not to attend chapel this morning.’

‘God won’t miss us all that much.’ Kalten shrugged. ‘Besides, I could recite all of Vanion’s sermons from memory.’

‘What other mischief are you two planning for today?’ she asked.

‘Mischief, Sephrenia?’ Kalten asked innocently.

Sparhawk laughed. ‘Actually, we weren’t even contemplating any mischief. We just have a fairly simple errand in mind.’

‘Out in the city?’

He nodded. ‘The only problem is that we’re both fairly well known here in Cimmura. We thought you might be able to help us with some disguises.’

She looked at them, her expression cool. ‘I’m getting a strong sense of subterfuge in all this. Just exactly what is this errand of yours?’

‘We thought we’d look up an old friend,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘A fellow named Krager. He has some information he might want to share with us.’

‘Information?’

‘He knows where Martel is.’

‘Krager won’t tell you that.’

Kalten cracked his big knuckles, the sound unpleasantly calling to mind the sharp noise of breaking bones. ‘Would you care to phrase that in the form of a wager, Sephrenia?’ he asked.

‘Won’t you two ever grow up? You’re a pair of eternal children.’

‘That’s why you love us so much, isn’t it, little mother?’ Kalten grinned.

‘What sort of disguise would you recommend?’ Sparhawk asked her.

She pursed her lips and looked at them. ‘A courtier and his squire, I think.’

‘No one could ever mistake me for a courtier,’ he objected.

‘I was thinking of it the other way around. I can make you look almost like a good honest squire, and once we dress Kalten in a satin doublet and curl that long blond hair of his, he can pass for a courtier.’

‘I do look good in satin,’ Kalten murmured modestly.

‘Why not just a couple of common workmen?’ Sparhawk asked.

She shook her head. ‘Common workmen cringe and fawn when they encounter a nobleman. Could either of you manage a cringe?’

‘She’s got a point,’ Kalten said.

‘Besides, workmen don’t carry swords, and I don’t imagine that either of you would care to go into Cimmura unarmed.’

‘She thinks of everything, doesn’t she?’ Sparhawk observed.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘Let’s see what we can do.’

Several acolytes were sent scurrying to various places in the chapterhouse for a number of articles. Sephrenia considered each one of them, selecting some and discarding others. What emerged after about an hour were two men who only faintly resembled the pair of Pandions who had first entered the room. Sparhawk now wore a plain livery not unlike Kurik’s, and he carried a short sword. A fierce black beard was glued to his face, and a purple scar ran across his broken nose and up under a black patch that covered his left eye.

‘This thing itches,’ he complained, reaching up to scratch at the false beard.

‘Keep your fingers off of it until the glue dries,’ she told him, lightly slapping his knuckles. ‘And put on a glove to cover that ring.’

‘Do you actually expect me to carry this toy?’ Kalten demanded, flourishing a light rapier. ‘I want a sword, not a knitting needle.’

‘Courtiers don’t carry broadswords, Kalten,’ she reminded him. She looked at him critically. His doublet was bright blue, gored and inset with red satin. His hose matched the goring, and he wore soft half-boots, since no pair of the pointed shoes currently in fashion could be found to fit his huge feet. His cape was of pale pink, and his freshly curled blond hair spilled down over the collar. He also wore a broad-brimmed hat adorned with a white plume. ‘You look beautiful, Kalten,’ she complimented him. ‘I think you might pass – once I rouge your cheeks.’

‘Absolutely not!’ He backed away from her.

‘Kalten,’ she said quite firmly, ‘sit down.’ She pointed at a chair and reached for a rouge pot.

‘Do I have to?’

‘Yes. Now sit.’

Kalten looked at Sparhawk. ‘If you laugh, we’re going to fight, so don’t even think about it.’

‘Me?’

Since the chapterhouse was watched at all times by the agents of the Primate Annias, Vanion came up with a suggestion that was part subterfuge and part utilitarian. ‘I need to transfer some things to the inn anyway,’ he explained. ‘Annias knows that the inn belongs to us, so we’re not giving anything away. We’ll hide Kalten in the wagon bed and turn this good, honest fellow into a teamster.’ He looked pointedly at the patch-eyed, bearded Sparhawk. ‘Where on earth did you find so close a match to his real hair?’ he asked Sephrenia curiously.

She smiled. ‘The next time you go into the stables, don’t look too closely at your horse’s tail.’

‘My horse?’

‘He was the only black horse in the stable, Vanion, and I didn’t take all that much, really.’

‘My horse?’ he repeated, looking injured.

‘We must all make sacrifices now and then,’ she told him. ‘It’s a part of the Pandion oath, remember?’

Chapter 5

The wagon was rickety, and the horse was spavined. Sparhawk slouched on the wagon seat with the reins held negligently in one hand and apparently paying very little attention to the people in the street around him.

The wheels wobbled and creaked as the wagon jolted over a rutted place in the stone-paved street. ‘Sparhawk, do you have to hit every single bump?’ Kalten’s muffled voice came from under the boxes and bales loosely piled around him in the back of the wagon.

‘Keep quiet,’ Sparhawk muttered. ‘Two church soldiers are coming this way.’

Kalten grumbled a few choice oaths, then fell silent.

The church soldiers wore red livery and disdainful expressions. As they walked through the crowded streets, the workmen and blue-clad merchants stepped aside for them. Sparhawk reined in his nag, stopping the wagon in the exact centre of the street so that the soldiers would be forced to go around him. ‘Morning, neighbours,’ he greeted them.

They glared at him, then walked on around the wagon.

‘Have a pleasant day,’ he called after them.

They ignored him.

‘What was that all about?’ Kalten demanded in a low voice from the wagon bed.

‘Just checking my disguise,’ Sparhawk replied, shaking the reins.

‘Well?’

‘Well what?’

‘Does it work?’

‘They didn’t give me a second glance.’

‘How much farther to the inn? I’m suffocating under all this.’

‘Not too much farther.’

‘Give me a big surprise, Sparhawk. Miss a bump or two – just for the sake of variety.’

The wagon creaked on.

At the barred gate of the inn, Sparhawk climbed down from the wagon and pounded the rhythmic signal on its stout timbers. After a moment the knight porter opened the gate. He looked at Sparhawk carefully. ‘Sorry, friend,’ he said. ‘The inn’s all full.’

‘We won’t be staying, Sir Knight,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘We just brought a load of supplies from the chapterhouse.’

The porter’s eyes widened and he peered more closely at the big man. ‘Is that you, Sir Sparhawk?’ he asked incredulously. ‘I didn’t even recognize you.’

‘That was sort of the idea. You aren’t supposed to.’

The knight pushed the gate open, and Sparhawk led the weary horse into the courtyard. ‘You can get out now,’ he said to Kalten as the porter closed the gate.

‘Help get all this off me.’

Sparhawk moved a few of the boxes, and Kalten came squirming out.

The knight porter gave the big blond man an amused look.

‘Go ahead and say it,’ Kalten said in a belligerent tone.

‘I wouldn’t dream of it, Sir Knight.’

Sparhawk took a long, rectangular box out of the wagon bed and hoisted it up onto his shoulder. ‘Get somebody to help you with these supplies,’ he told the porter. ‘Preceptor Vanion sent them. And take care of the horse. He’s tired.’

‘Tired? Dead would be closer.’ The porter eyed the disconsolate-looking nag.

‘He’s old, that’s all. It happens to all of us sooner or later. Is the back door to the tavern open?’ He looked across the courtyard at a deeply inset doorway.

‘It’s always open, Sir Sparhawk.’

Sparhawk nodded and he and Kalten crossed the courtyard.

‘What have you got in the box?’ Kalten asked.

‘Our swords.’

‘That’s clever, but won’t they be a little hard to draw?’

‘Not after I throw the box down on the cobblestones, they won’t.’ He opened the inset door. ‘After you, my Lord,’ he said, bowing.

They passed through a cluttered storeroom and came out into a shabby-looking tavern. A century or so of dust clouded the single window, and the straw on the floor was mouldy. The room smelled of stale beer and spilled wine and vomit. The low ceiling was draped with cobwebs, and the rough tables and benches were battered and tired-looking. There were only three people in the place, a sour-looking tavern keeper, a drunken man with his head cradled in his arms on a table by the door, and a blowsy-looking whore in a red dress dozing in the corner.

Kalten went to the door and looked out into the street. ‘It’s still a little underpopulated out there,’ he grunted. ‘Let’s have a tankard or two while we wait for the neighbourhood to wake up.’

‘Why not have some breakfast instead?’

‘That’s what I said.’

They sat at one of the tables, and the tavern keeper came over, giving no hint that he recognized them as Pandions. He made an ineffective swipe at a puddle of spilled beer on the table with a filthy rag. ‘What would you like?’ His voice had a sullen, unfriendly tone.

‘Beer,’ Kalten replied.

‘Bring us a little bread and cheese, too,’ Sparhawk added.

The tavern keeper grunted and left them.

‘Where was Krager when you saw him?’ Kalten asked quietly.

‘In that square near the west gate.’

‘That’s a shabby part of town.’

‘Krager’s a shabby sort of person.’

‘We could start there, I suppose, but this might take a while. Krager could be down just about any rat hole in Cimmura.’

‘Did you have anything else more pressing to do?’

The whore in the red dress hauled herself wearily to her feet and shuffled across the straw-covered floor to their table. ‘I don’t suppose either of you fine gentlemen would care for a bit of a frolic?’ she asked in a bored-sounding voice. One of her front teeth was missing, and her red dress was cut very low in front. Perfunctorily she leaned forward to offer them a view of her flabby-looking breasts.

‘It’s a bit early, little sister,’ Sparhawk said. ‘Thanks all the same.’

‘How’s business?’ Kalten asked her.

‘Slow. It’s always slow in the morning.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t suppose you could see your way clear to offer a girl something to drink?’ she asked hopefully.

‘Why not?’ Kalten replied. ‘Tavern keeper,’ he called, ‘bring the lady one, too.’

‘Thanks, my Lord,’ the whore said. She looked around the tavern. This is a sorry place,’ she said with a certain amount of resignation in her voice. ‘I wouldn’t even come in here – except that I don’t like to work the streets.’ She sighed. ‘Do you know something?’ she said. ‘My feet hurt. Isn’t that a strange thing to happen to someone in my profession? You’d think it would be my back. Thanks again, my Lord.’ She turned and shuffled back to the table where she had been sitting.

‘I like talking with whores,’ Kalten said. ‘They’ve got a nice, uncomplicated view of life.’

‘That’s a strange hobby for a Church Knight.’

‘God hired me as a fighting man, Sparhawk, not as a monk. I fight whenever He tells me to, but the rest of my time is my own.’

The tavern keeper brought them tankards of beer and a plate with bread and cheese on it. They sat eating and talking quietly.

After about an hour the tavern had attracted several more customers – sweat-smelling workmen who had slipped away from their chores and a few of the keepers of nearby shops. Sparhawk rose, went to the door and looked out. Although the narrow back street was not exactly teeming with traffic, there were enough people moving back and forth to provide some measure of concealment. Sparhawk returned to the table. ‘I think it’s time to be on our way, my Lord,’ he said to Kalten. He picked up his box.

‘Right,’ Kalten replied. He drained his tankard and rose to his feet, swaying slightly and with his hat on the back of his head. He stumbled a few times on the way to the door and he was reeling just a bit as he led the way out into the street. Sparhawk followed him with the box once again on his shoulder. ‘Aren’t you overdoing that just a little?’ he muttered to his friend when they turned the corner.

‘I’m just a typical drunken courtier, Sparhawk. We’ve just come out of a tavern.’

‘We’re well past it now. If you act too drunk, you’ll attract attention. I think it’s time for a miraculous recovery.’

‘You’re taking all the fun out of this, Sparhawk,’ Kalten complained. He stopped staggering and straightened his white-plumed hat.

They moved on through the busy streets with Sparhawk trailing respectfully behind his friend as a good squire would.

When they reached another intersection, Sparhawk felt a familiar prickling of his skin. He set down his wooden box and wiped at his brow with the sleeve of his smock.

‘What’s the matter?’ Kalten asked, also stopping.