The unshaven vendor’s eyes came quickly alight.
‘Don’t even think it,’ Sparhawk warned. ‘The horse won’t follow you, no matter what you do—but I will, and you wouldn’t like that at all. Just take the pay and forget about trying to steal the horse.’
The vendor looked at the big man’s bleak face, swallowed hard, and made a jerky attempt at a bow. ‘Whatever you say, my Lord,’ he agreed quickly, his words tumbling over each other. ‘I vow to you that your noble mount will be safe with me.’
‘Noble what?’
‘Noble mount—your horse.’
‘Oh, I see I’d appreciate that.’
‘Can I do anything else for you, my Lord?’
Sparhawk looked across the square at Krager’s back. ‘Do you by chance happen to have a bit of wire handy—about so long?’ He measured out perhaps three feet with his hands.
‘I may have, my Lord. The herring kegs are bound with wire Let me look.’
Sparhawk crossed his arms and leaned them on his saddle, watching Krager across the horse’s back. The past years, the blasting sun, and the women going to the wells in the steely light of early morning fell away, and quite suddenly he was back in the stockyards outside Cippria with the stink of dung and blood on him, the taste of fear and hatred in his mouth, and the pain of his wounds making him weak as his pursuers searched for him with their swords in their hands.
He pulled his mind away from that, deliberately concentrating on this moment rather than the past. He hoped that the vendor could find some wire. Wire was good. No noise, no mess, and with a little time it could be made to look exotic—the kind of thing one might expect from a Styric or perhaps a Pelosian. It wasn’t so much Krager, he thought as the tense excitement built in him. Krager had never been more than a dim, feeble adjunct to Martel—an extension, another set of hands, just as the other man, Adus, had never been more than a weapon. It was what Krager’s death would do to Martel—that was what mattered.
‘This is the best I could find, my Lord,’ the greasy-aproned food vendor said respectfully, coming out of the back of his canvas booth and holding out a length of rusty, soft-iron wire. ‘I’m sorry. It isn’t much.’
‘It’s just fine,’ Sparhawk replied, taking the wire. He snapped the rusty strand taut between his hands. ‘It’s perfect in fact.’ Then he turned to his horse. ‘Stay here, Faran,’ he said.
The horse bared his teeth at him. Sparhawk laughed softly and moved out into the square, some distance behind Krager. If the nearsighted man were found in some shadowy doorway, bowed tautly backward with the wire knotted about his neck and ankles and with his eyes popping out of a blackened face, or face down in the trough of some back-alley public urinal, that would unnerve Martel, hurt him, perhaps even frighten him. It might be enough to bring him out into the open, and Sparhawk had been waiting for years for a chance to catch Martel out in the open. Carefully, his hands concealed beneath his cloak, he began to work the kinks out of his length of wire, even as he stalked his quarry.
His senses had become preternaturally alert. He could clearly hear the guttering of the torches along the sides of the square and see their orange flicker reflected in the puddles of water lying among the cobblestones. That reflected glow seemed for some reason very beautiful. Sparhawk felt good—better perhaps than he had for ten years.
‘Sir Knight? Sir Sparhawk? Can that be you?’
Startled, Sparhawk turned quickly, swearing under his breath. The man who had accosted him had long, elegantly curled blond hair. He wore a saffron-coloured doublet, lavender hose, and an apple-green cloak. His wet maroon shoes were long and pointed, and his cheeks were rouged. The small, useless sword at his side and his broad-brimmed hat with its dripping plume marked him as a courtier, one of the petty functionaries and parasitic hangers-on who infested the palace like vermin.
‘What are you doing back here in Cimmura?’ the fop demanded, his high-pitched, effeminate voice startled. ‘You were banished.’
Sparhawk looked quickly at the man he had been following. Krager was nearing the entrance to a street that opened into the square, and in a moment he would be out of sight. It was still possible, however. One quick, hard blow would put this over-dressed butterfly before him to sleep, and Krager would still be within reach. Then a hot disappointment filled Sparhawk’s mouth as a detachment of the watch marched into the square with lumbering tread. There was no way now to dispose of this interfering popinjay without attracting their attention. The look he directed at the perfumed man barring his path was flat with anger.
The courtier stepped back nervously, glancing quickly at the soldiers who were moving along in front of the booths, checking the fastenings on the rolled-down canvas fronts. ‘I insist that you tell me what you’re doing back here,’ he said, trying to sound authoritative.
‘Insist? You?’ Sparhawk’s voice was full of contempt.
The other man looked quickly at the soldiers again, seeking reassurance, then he straightened boldly. ‘I’m taking you in charge, Sparhawk. I demand that you give an account of yourself.’ He reached out and grasped Sparhawk’s arm.
‘Don’t touch me,’ Sparhawk spat out the words, striking the hand away.
‘You hit me!’ the courtier gasped, clutching at his hand in pain.
Sparhawk took the man’s shoulder in one hand and pulled him close ‘If you ever put your hands on me again, I’ll rip out your guts. Now get out of my way.’
‘I’ll call the watch,’ the fop threatened.
‘And how long do you think you’ll continue to live after you do that?’
‘You can’t threaten me. I have powerful friends.’
‘But they’re not here, are they? I am, however.’ Sparhawk pushed him away in disgust and turned to walk on across the square.
‘You Pandions can’t get away with this high-handed behaviour any more There are laws in Elenia now,’ the overdressed man called after him shrilly ‘I’m going straight to Baron Harparin. I’m going to tell him that you’ve come back to Cimmura and about how you hit me and threatened me.’
‘Good,’ Sparhawk replied without turning. ‘Do that.’ He continued to walk away, his irritation and disappointment rising to the point where he had to clench his teeth tightly to keep himself under control. Then an idea came to him. It was petty—even childish—but for some reason it seemed quite appropriate He stopped and straightened his shoulders, muttering under his breath in the Styric tongue, even as his fingers wove intricate designs in the air in front of him. He hesitated slightly, groping for the word for carbuncle. He finally settled for boils instead and completed the incantation. He turned slightly, looked at his tormentor, and released the spell. Then he turned back and continued on across the square, smiling slightly to himself. It was, to be sure, quite petty, but Sparhawk was like that sometimes.
He handed the food vendor a coin for minding Faran, swung up into his saddle, and rode across the square in the misty drizzle, a big man shrouded in a rough woollen cloak, astride an ugly-faced roan horse.
Once he was past the square, the streets were dark and empty again, with guttering torches hissing in the rain at intersections and casting their dim, sooty orange glow. The sound of Faran’s hooves was loud in the empty street. Sparhawk shifted slightly in his saddle. The sensation he felt was very faint, a kind of prickling of the skin across his shoulders and up the back of his neck, but he recognized it immediately Someone was watching him, and the watcher was not friendly Sparhawk shifted again, carefully trying to make the movement appear to be no more than the uncomfortable fidgeting of a saddle-weary traveller. His right hand, however, was concealed beneath his cloak, and it sought the hilt of his sword. The oppressive sense of malevolence increased, and then, in the shadows beyond the flickering torch at the next intersection, he saw a figure robed and hooded in a dark grey garment that blended so well into the shadows and wreathing drizzle that the watcher was almost invisible.
The roan tensed his muscles, and his
ears flicked.
‘I see him, Faran,’ Sparhawk replied very quietly.
They continued on along the cobblestone street, passing through the pool of orange torchlight and on into the shadowy street beyond. Sparhawk’s eyes readjusted to the dark, but the hooded figure had already vanished up some alleyway or through one of the narrow doors along the street. The sense of being watched was gone, and the street was no longer a place of danger. Faran moved on, his hooves clattering on the wet stones.
The inn which was Sparhawk’s destination was on an unobtrusive back street. It was gated at the front of its central courtyard with stout oaken planks. Its walls were peculiarly high and thick, and a single, dim lantern glowed beside a much-weathered wooden sign that creaked mournfully as it swung back and forth in the rain-filled night breeze Sparhawk pulled Faran close to the gate, leaned back in his saddle, and kicked the rainblackened planks solidly with one spurred foot. There was a peculiar rhythm to the kicks.
He waited.
Then the gate creaked inward and the shadowy form of a porter, hooded in black, looked out. He nodded briefly, then pulled the gate wider to admit Sparhawk. The big knight rode into the rain-wet courtyard and slowly dismounted. The porter swung the gate shut and barred it, then he pushed his hood back from his steel helm, turned, and bowed. ‘My Lord,’ he greeted Sparhawk respectfully.
‘It’s too late at night for formalities, Sir Knight,’ Sparhawk responded, also with a brief bow.
‘Formality is the very soul of gentility, Sir Sparhawk,’ the porter replied ironically ‘I try to practise it whenever I can.’
‘As you wish.’ Sparhawk shrugged. ‘Will you see to my horse?’
‘Of course. Your man, Kurik, is here.’
Sparhawk nodded, untying the two heavy leather bags from the skirt of his saddle.
‘I’ll take those up for you, my Lord,’ the porter offered.
‘There’s no need. Where’s Kurik?’
‘First door at the top of the stairs. Will you want supper?’
Sparhawk shook his head. ‘Just a bath and a warm bed.’ He turned to his horse, who stood dozing with one hind leg cocked slightly so that his hoof rested on its tip. ‘Wake up, Faran,’ he told the animal.
Faran opened his eyes and gave him a flat, unfriendly stare.
‘Go with this knight,’ Sparhawk instructed firmly. ‘Don’t try to bite him, or kick him, or pin him against the side of the stall with your rump—and don’t step on his feet, either.’
The big roan briefly laid back his ears and then sighed.
Sparhawk laughed. ‘Give him a few carrots,’ he instructed the porter.
‘How can you tolerate this foul-tempered brute, Sir Sparhawk?’
‘We’re perfectly matched,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘It was a good ride, Faran,’ he said then to the horse. ‘Thank you, and sleep warm.’
The horse turned his back on him.
‘Keep your eyes open, Sir Knight,’ Sparhawk cautioned the porter. ‘Someone was watching me as I rode here, and I got the feeling that it was a little more than idle curiosity.’
The knight porter’s face hardened. ‘I’ll attend to it, my Lord,’ he said.
‘Good.’ Sparhawk turned and crossed the wet, glistening stones of the courtyard and mounted the steps leading to the roofed gallery on the upper floor of the inn.
The inn was a well-kept secret that few in Cimmura knew about. Though ostensibly no different from any of dozens of others, this particular establishment was owned and operated by the Knights Pandion, and it provided a safe haven for any of their number who, for one reason or another, were reluctant to avail themselves of the facilities of their chapterhouse on the eastern outskirts of the city.
At the top of the stairs, Sparhawk stopped and tapped his fingertips lightly on the first door. After a moment, the door opened. The man inside was burly, and he had iron-grey hair and a coarse, short-trimmed beard. His hose and boots were of black leather, and his long waistcoat was of the same material. A heavy dagger hung from his belt, steel cuffs encircled his wrists, and his heavily-muscled arms and shoulders were bare. He was not a handsome man, and his eyes were as hard as agates. ‘You’re late,’ he said flatly.
‘A few interruptions along the way,’ Sparhawk replied laconically, stepping into the warm, candlelit room. The bare-shouldered man closed the door behind him and slid the bolt with a solid clank. Sparhawk looked at him. ‘I trust you’ve been well, Kurik?’ he said to the man he had not seen for ten years.
‘Passable. Get out of that wet cloak.’
Sparhawk grinned, dropped his saddlebags to the floor and undid the clasp of his dripping woollen cloak. ‘How are Aslade and the boys?’
‘Growing,’ Kurik grunted, taking the cloak. ‘My sons are getting taller and Aslade’s getting fatter. Farm life agrees with her.’
‘You like plump women, Kurik,’ Sparhawk reminded his squire. ‘That’s why you married her.’
Kurik grunted again, looking critically at his Lord’s lean frame. ‘You haven’t been eating, Sparhawk,’ he accused.
‘Don’t mother me, Kurik.’ Sparhawk sprawled in a heavy oak chair. He looked around. The room had a stone floor and stone walls. The ceiling was low, with heavy black beams supporting it. A fire crackled in an arched fireplace, filling the room with dancing light and shadows. Two candles burned on the table, and two narrow cots stood, one against either wall. It was to the heavy rack beside the single blue-draped window that Sparhawk’s eyes went first, however. Hanging on that rack was a full suit of armour, enamelled shiny black; leaning against the wall beside it was a large black shield with the emblem of his family, a hawk with flared wings and with a spear in its talons, worked in silver upon its face. Beside the shield stood a massive, sheathed broadsword with a silver-bound hilt.
‘You forgot to oil it when you left,’ Kurik accused. ‘It took me a week to get the rust off. Give me your foot.’ He bent and worked off one of Sparhawk’s riding boots and then the other. ‘Why do you always have to walk in the mud?’ he growled, tossing the boots over beside the fireplace. ‘I’ve got a bath ready for you in the next room,’ he said then. ‘Strip. I want to see those wounds of yours anyway.’
Sparhawk sighed wearily and stood up. With his gruff squire’s peculiarly gentle help, he undressed.
‘You’re wet clear through,’ Kurik noted, touching his Lord’s clammy back with one rough, callused hand.
‘Rain does that to people sometimes.’
‘Did you ever see a surgeon about these?’ the squire demanded, lightly touching the wide purple scars on Sparhawk’s shoulders and left side.
‘A physician looked at them. There wasn’t a surgeon handy, so I left them to heal by themselves.’
Kurik nodded. ‘It shows,’ he said. ‘Go and get in the tub. I’ll fetch something for you to eat.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘That’s too bad. You look like a skeleton. Now that you’re back, I’m not going to let you walk around in that condition.’
‘Why are you bullying me, Kurik?’
‘Because I’m angry. You frightened me half to death. You’ve been gone for ten years, and there’s been little news—and all of it bad.’ The gruff man’s eyes grew momentarily soft, and he roughly grasped Sparhawk’s shoulders in a grip that might have brought a lesser man to his knees. ‘Welcome home, my Lord,’ he said in a thick voice.
Sparhawk roughly embraced his friend. ‘Thank you, Kurik,’ he said, his voice also thick. ‘It’s good to be back.’
‘All right,’ Kurik said, his face hard again. ‘Now get in the tub. You stink.’ And he turned on his heel and went to the door.
Sparhawk smiled and walked into the next room. He stepped into the wooden tub and sank gratefully down into the steaming water He had been another man with another name—a man called Mahkra—for so long now that he knew that no simple bath would wash that other identity away, but it was good to relax and let the hot water and coarse soap rinse the
dust of that dry, sun-blasted coast from his skin. In a kind of detached reverie as he washed his lean, scarred limbs, he remembered the life he had led as Mahkra in the city of Jiroch in Rendor. He remembered the small, cool shop where, as an untitled commoner, Mahkra had sold brass ewers, candied sweetmeats, and exotic perfumes while the bright sunlight reflected blindingly from the thick, white walls across the street. He remembered the hours of endless talk in the little wine shop on the corner, where Mahkra had sipped sour, resinous Rendorish wine by the hour and had delicately, subtly, probed for the information which was then passed on to his friend and fellow Pandion, Sir Voren—information concerning the reawakening of Eshandist sentiment in Rendor, of secret caches of arms hidden in the desert and of the activities of the agents of Emperor Otha of Zemoch. He remembered the soft, dark nights filled with the clinging perfume of Lillias, Mahkra’s sulking mistress, and of the beginning of each day when he had arisen and gone to the window to watch the women going to the wells in the steel-grey light of sunless dawn. He sighed. ‘And who are you now, Sparhawk?’ he asked himself softly. ‘No longer a merchant in brass and candied dates and perfumes, certainly, but once again a Knight Pandion? A magician? The Queen’s Champion? Perhaps not. Perhaps no more than a battered and tired man with a few too many years and scars and far too many skirmishes behind him.’
‘Didn’t it occur to you to cover your head while you were in Rendor?’ Kurik asked sourly from the doorway. The burly squire held a robe and a rough towel. ‘When a man starts talking to himself, it’s a sure sign that he’s been out in the sun too long.’
‘Just musing, Kurik. I’ve been a long time away from home, and it’s going to take a while to get used to it again.’