The Diamond Throne

  The fop winced at the word lanced. ‘Do you really think so, Sir Sparhawk?’ he asked plaintively, lowering his handkerchief. ‘Wouldn’t a poultice, perhaps—’

  Sparhawk shook his head. ‘No, neighbour,’ he said with false sympathy ‘I can almost guarantee you that a poultice won’t work. Be brave, my man. Lancing is the only solution.’

  The courtier’s face grew melancholy He bowed and left the room.

  ‘Did you do that to him, Sparhawk?’ Sephrenia asked suspiciously.

  ‘Me?’ He gave her a look of wide-eyed innocence.

  ‘Somebody did. That eruption is not natural.’

  ‘My, my,’ he said, ‘Imagine that.’

  ‘Well?’ Vanion said. ‘Are you going to obey the bastard’s orders?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Sparhawk snorted. ‘I’ve got too many things to do here in Cimmura.’

  ‘You’ll make him very angry.’

  ‘So?’

  Chapter 4

  The sky had turned threatening again when Sparhawk emerged from the chapterhouse and clanked down the stairs into the courtyard. The novice came from the stable door leading Faran, and Sparhawk looked thoughtfully at him. He was perhaps eighteen and quite tall. He had knobby wrists that stuck out of an earth-coloured tunic that was too small for him. ‘What’s your name, young man?’ Sparhawk asked him.

  ‘Berit, my Lord.’

  ‘What are your duties here?’

  ‘I haven’t been assigned anything specific as yet, my Lord. I just try to make myself useful.’

  ‘Good. Turn around.’

  ‘My Lord?’

  ‘I want to measure you.’

  Berit looked puzzled, but he did as he was told. Sparhawk measured him across the shoulders with his hands. Although he looked bony, Berit was actually a husky youth. ‘You’ll do fine,’ Sparhawk told him.

  Berit turned, baffled.

  ‘You’re going to be making a trip,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘Gather up what you’ll need while I go get the man who’s going to go with you.’

  ‘Yes, my Lord,’ Berit replied, bowing respectfully.

  Sparhawk took hold of the saddlebow and hauled himself up onto Faran’s back. Berit handed him the reins, and Sparhawk nudged the big roan into a walk. They crossed the courtyard, and Sparhawk responded to the salutes of the knights at the gate. Then he rode on across the drawbridge and through the east gate of the city.

  The streets of Cimmura were busy now. Workmen carrying large bundles wrapped in mud-coloured burlap grunted their way through the narrow lanes, and merchants dressed in conventional blue stood in the doorways of their shops with their brightly coloured wares piled around them. An occasional wagon clattered along the cobblestones. Near the intersection of two narrow streets, a squad of church soldiers in their scarlet livery marched with a certain arrogant precision. Sparhawk did not give way to them, but instead bore down on them at a steady trot. Grudgingly, they separated and stood aside as he passed. ‘Thank you, neighbours,’ Sparhawk said pleasantly.

  They did not answer him.

  He reined Faran in. ‘I said, thank you, neighbours.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ one of them replied sullenly. Sparhawk waited.

  ‘…My Lord,’ the soldier added grudgingly.

  ‘Much better, friend.’ Sparhawk rode on.

  The gate to the inn was closed, and Sparhawk leaned over and banged on its timbers with his gauntleted fist. The porter who swung it open for him was not the same knight who had admitted him the evening before. Sparhawk swung down from Faran’s back and handed him the reins.

  ‘Will you be needing him again, my Lord?’ the knight asked.

  ‘Yes. I’ll be going right back out. Would you saddle my squire’s horse, Sir Knight?’

  ‘Of course, my Lord.’

  ‘I appreciate that.’ Sparhawk laid one hand on Faran’s neck. ‘Behave yourself,’ he said.

  Faran looked away, his expression lofty.

  Sparhawk clinked up the stairs and rapped on the door of the room at the top.

  Kurik opened the door for him. ‘Well? How did it go?’

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘You came out alive, anyway. Did you see the Queen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s surprising.’

  ‘I sort of insisted. Do you want to get your things together? You’re going back to Demos.’

  ‘You didn’t say “we”, Sparhawk.’

  ‘I’m staying here.’

  ‘I suppose there are good reasons.’

  ‘Lycheas has ordered me back to the motherhouse. I more or less plan to ignore him, but I want to be able to move around Cimmura without being followed. There’s a young novice at the chapterhouse who’s about my size. We’ll put him in my armour and mount him on Faran. Then the two of you can ride to Demos with a grand show of obedience As long as he keeps his visor down, the primate’s spies will think I’m obeying orders.’

  ‘It’s workable, I suppose. I don’t like the idea of leaving you here alone, though.’

  ‘I won’t be alone. Kalten’s coming in either today or tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s a little better. Kalten’s steady.’ Kurik frowned. ‘I thought that he’d been exiled to Lamorkand. Who ordered him back?’

  ‘Vanion didn’t say, but you know Kalten. Maybe he just got bored with Lamorkand and took independent action.’

  ‘How long do you want me to stay at Demos?’ Kurik asked as he began to gather up his things.

  ‘A month or so at least. The road’s likely to be watched. I’ll get word to you. Do you need any money?’

  ‘I always need money, Sparhawk.’

  ‘There’s some in the pocket of that tunic.’ Sparhawk pointed at his travel clothes draped across the back of a chair. ‘Take what you need.’

  Kurik grinned at him.

  ‘Leave me a little, though.’

  ‘Of course, my Lord,’ Kurik said with a mocking bow. ‘Do you want me to pack up your things?’

  ‘No. I’ll be coming back here when Kalten arrives. It’s a little hard to get in and out of the chapterhouse without being seen. Is the back door to that tavern still open?’

  ‘It was yesterday I drop in there from time to time.’

  ‘I thought you might.’

  ‘A man needs a few vices, Sparhawk. It gives him something to repent when he goes to chapel.’

  ‘If Aslade hears that you’ve been drinking, she’ll set fire to your beard.’

  ‘Then we’ll just have to make sure that she doesn’t hear about it, won’t we, my Lord?’

  ‘Why do I always get mixed up in your domestic affairs?’

  ‘It keeps your feet planted in reality. Get your own wife, Sparhawk. Then other women won’t feel obliged to take special note of you. A married man is safe. A bachelor is a constant challenge to any woman alive.’

  About half an hour later, Sparhawk and his squire went down the stairs into the courtyard, mounted their horses, and rode out through the gate. They clattered along the cobblestone streets towards the east gate of the city.

  ‘We’re being watched, you know,’ Kurik said quietly.

  ‘I certainly hope so,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘I’d hate to have to ride around in circles until we attract somebody’s attention.’

  They went through the ritual again at the drawbridge of the chapterhouse and then rode on into the courtyard. Berit was waiting for them.

  ‘This is Kurik,’ Sparhawk told him as he dismounted. ‘The two of you will be going to Demos. Kurik, the young man’s name is Berit.’

  The squire looked the acolyte up and down. ‘He’s the right size,’ he noted. ‘I might have to shorten a few straps, but your armour should come close to fitting him.’

  ‘I thought so myself.’

  Another novice came out and took their reins.

  ‘Come along then, you two,’ Sparhawk said. ‘Let’s go and tell Vanion what we’re going to do, and then we’ll put my armour on our masquerader here.??
?

  Berit looked startled.

  ‘You’re being promoted, Berit,’ Kurik told him. ‘You see how quickly one can move up in the Pandions? Yesterday a novice; today Queen’s Champion.’

  ‘I’ll explain it to you when we see Vanion,’ Sparhawk told Berit. ‘It’s not so interesting a story that I want to go over it more than once.’

  It was midafternoon when the three of them emerged from the chapterhouse door again. Berit walked awkwardly in the unaccustomed armour, and Sparhawk was dressed in a plain tunic and hose.

  ‘I think it’s going to rain,’ Kurik said, squinting at the sky.

  ‘You won’t melt,’ Sparhawk told him.

  ‘I’m not worried about that,’ the squire replied. ‘It’s just that I’ll have to scour the rust off your armour again.’

  ’Life is hard.’

  Kurik grunted, and then the two of them boosted Berit up into Faran’s saddle. ‘You’re going to take this young man to Demos,’ Sparhawk told his horse. ‘Try to behave as if it were me on your back.’

  Faran gave him an inquiring look.

  ‘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 draw-bridge.

  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 cf 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 secre
ts, 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.’