‘That’s true, I suppose.’
‘Then I’d be sort of foolish to drop my guard just because I can’t prove that Azash sent the shadow, wouldn’t I?’
‘Probably, yes.’
‘Even though I can’t actually prove it, I know that there’s some kind of connection between Bhelliom and that flicker in the corner of my eye. I don’t know what the connection is just yet, and maybe that’s why some random incidents seem to be clouding the issue. To be on the safe side, though, I’m going to assume the worst – that the shadow belongs to Azash and it’s following Bhelliom itself and that it’s sending humans to try to kill me.’
‘That makes sense.’
‘I’m glad you approve.’
‘You’d already made up your mind about this, Sparhawk,’ she said to him, ‘so why did you come looking for me?’
‘I needed to have you listen while I talked my way through it.’
‘I see.’
‘Besides, I like your company.’
She smiled fondly at him. ‘You’re such a good boy, Sparhawk. Now, why don’t we talk about why you’re keeping this last attempt on your life from Vanion?’
He sighed. ‘You don’t approve of that, I see.’
‘No, as a matter of fact, I don’t.’
‘I don’t want him putting me in the middle of the column with armoured knights holding their shields over me. I have to be able to see what’s coming at me, Sephrenia. I’ll start trying to claw my way out of my skin if I can’t.’
‘Oh, dear,’ she sighed.
Faran was in a foul humour. A day and a half of nearly continual hard riding had made his disposition definitely take a turn for the worse. Some fifteen leagues from Chyrellos, the Preceptors halted the column, ordered the knights to dismount and walk their horses for a time. Faran tried to bite Sparhawk three times as the big knight was climbing out of his saddle. The bites were intended more as an indication of disapproval than arising from any serious desire to injure or maim. Faran had discovered early in life that biting his master when he was wearing full armour only led to aching teeth. When the big roan half-whirled and kicked Sparhawk solidly on the hip, however, Sparhawk felt that it was time to take steps. With Kalten’s help, he rose to his feet, pushed back his visor and pulled himself hand over hand up the reins to glare directly into the ugly warhorse’s face. ‘Stop it!’ he snapped.
Faran glared back at him with hate-filled eyes.
Sparhawk moved his hand very quickly then and grasped the roan’s left ear in his gauntleted fist. Grimly he began to twist.
Faran ground his teeth together, and tears actually appeared in his eyes. ‘Do we understand each other?’ Sparhawk grated.
Faran kicked him in the knee with one fore-hoof.
‘It’s up to you, Faran,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘You’re going to look ridiculous without that ear, though.’ He twisted harder until his horse grudgingly squealed in pain.
‘Always nice talking with you, Faran,’ Sparhawk said, releasing the ear. Then he stroked the sweat-soaked neck. ‘You big old fool,’ he said gently. ‘Are you all right?’
Faran flicked his ears – his right one, anyway – with an ostentatious display of indifference.
‘It’s really necessary, Faran,’ Sparhawk explained. ‘I’m not riding you this hard for fun. It won’t be much farther. Can I trust you now?’
Faran sighed and pawed at the ground with one fore-hoof.
‘Good,’ Sparhawk said. ‘Let’s walk for a while.’
‘That is truly uncanny,’ Preceptor Abriel said to Vanion. ‘I’ve never seen horse and man so totally linked before.’
‘It’s a part of Sparhawk’s advantage, my friend,’ Vanion said. ‘He’s bad enough by himself, but when you put him on that horse, he turns into a natural disaster.’
They walked on for a mile or so, then remounted and rode on through the afternoon sunlight towards the Holy City.
It was nearly midnight when they crossed the wide bridge over the River Arruk and approached one of the west gates of Chyrellos. The gate, of course, was guarded by church soldiers. ‘I cannot grant you entry until sunrise, My Lords,’ the captain in charge of the guard detachment said firmly. ‘By order of the Hierocracy, no one under arms may enter Chyrellos during the hours of darkness.’
Preceptor Komier reached for his axe.
‘A moment, my friend,’ Preceptor Abriel cautioned mildly. ‘I believe there’s a way to resolve this difficulty without unpleasantness. Captain,’ he addressed the red-tunicked soldier.
‘Yes, My Lord?’ The captain’s voice was insultingly smug.
‘This order you mentioned, does it apply to members of the Hierocracy itself?’
‘My Lord?’ The captain seemed confused.
‘It’s a simple question, Captain. A yes or a no will suffice. Does the order apply to the Patriarchs of the Church?’
‘No one may hinder a Church Patriarch, My Lord,’ the captain floundered a bit.
‘Your Grace,’ Abriel corrected.
The captain blinked stupidly.
‘The correct form of address when speaking to a Patriarch is “Your Grace”, Captain. By Church Law, my three companions and I are, in fact, Patriarchs of the Church. Form up your men, Captain. We will inspect them.’
The captain hesitated.
‘I speak for the Church, Lieutenant,’ Abriel said. ‘Will you defy her?’
‘Uh – I’m a captain, Your Grace,’ the man mumbled.
‘You were a captain, Lieutenant, but not any more. Now, would you like to be a sergeant again? If not, you’ll do as I say immediately.’
‘At once, Your Grace,’ the shaken man replied. ‘You there!’ he shouted. ‘All of you! Fall in and prepare for inspection!’
The appearance of the detachment at the gate was, in Preceptor – ah, shall we say instead Patriarch – Darellon’s words, disgraceful. Reprimands were freely distributed in blistering terms, and then the column entered the Holy City without any further hindrance. There was no laughter – nor even any smiles – until the armoured men were well out of earshot of the gates. The discipline of the Knights of the Church is the wonder of the known world.
Despite the lateness of the hour, the streets of Chyrellos were heavily patrolled by church soldiers. Sparhawk knew these kinds of men, and he knew that their loyalty was for sale. They served only for the pay in most cases. Because of their numbers here in the Holy City, they had become accustomed to behaving with a certain arrogant rudeness. The appearance of four hundred armoured Church Knights in the streets at the ominous hour of midnight engendered what Sparhawk felt to be a becoming humility, however – at least among the common troops. It took the officers a bit longer to grasp the truth. It always does, somehow. One obnoxious young fellow tried to block their path, demanding to examine their documents. He seemed quite puffed-up with his own importance and failed to look behind him. He was thus unaware of the fact that his troops had discreetly gone somewhere else. He continued to deliver his peremptory commands in a shrill voice, demanding this and insisting on that until Sparhawk loosened Faran’s reins and rode him down at a deliberate walk. Faran made a special point of grinding his steel-shod hooves into a number of very sensitive places on the officer’s body.
‘Feel better now?’ Sparhawk asked his horse.
Faran nickered wickedly.
‘Kalten,’ Vanion said, ‘let’s get started. Break the column up into groups of ten. Fan out through the city and let it be generally known that the Knights of the Church offer their protection to any Patriarch desiring to go to the Basilica to participate in the voting.’
‘Yes, My Lord Vanion,’ Kalten said. ‘I’ll go and wake up the Holy City. I’m sure everybody is breathlessly waiting to hear the news I bring.’
‘Do you think there’s ever going to be any hope that someday he’ll grow up?’ Sparhawk said.
‘I rather hope not,’ Vanion said gently. ‘No matter how old the rest of us get, we’ll always hav
e an eternal boy in our midst. That’s sort of comforting, really.’
The Preceptors, followed by Sparhawk, his friends and a twenty-man detachment under the command of Sir Perraine proceeded along the broad avenue.
Dolmant’s modest house was guarded by a platoon of soldiers, and Sparhawk recognized their officer as one loyal to the Patriarch of Demos. ‘Thank God!’ the young man exclaimed as the knights reined in just outside Dolmant’s gate.
‘We were in the area and thought we’d stop by to pay a courtesy call,’ Vanion said with a dry smile. ‘His Grace has been well, I trust?’
‘He’ll be much better now that you and your friends are here, My Lord. It’s been a bit tense here in Chyrellos.’
‘I can imagine. Is His Grace still awake?’
The officer nodded. ‘He’s meeting with Emban, Patriarch of Ucera. Perhaps you know him, My Lord?’
‘Heavy-set fellow – sort of jolly?’
‘That’s him, My Lord. I’ll tell His Grace you’ve arrived.’
Dolmant, Patriarch of Demos, was as lean and severe as always, but his ascetic face actually broke into a broad smile when the Church Knights trooped into his study. ‘You made good time, gentlemen,’ he told them. ‘You all know Emban, of course.’ He indicated his stout fellow Patriarch.
Emban was definitely more than ‘heavy-set’. ‘Your study’s starting to resemble a foundry, Dolmant,’ he chuckled, looking around at the armoured knights. ‘I haven’t seen so much steel in one place in years.’
‘Comforting, though,’ Dolmant said.
‘Oh my, yes.’
‘How do things stand in Cimmura, Vanion?’ Dolmant asked intently.
‘I’m happy to report that Queen Ehlana has recovered and now has her government firmly in her own hands,’ Vanion replied.
‘Thank God!’ Emban exclaimed. ‘I think Annias just went into bankruptcy.’
‘You managed to find the Bhelliom then?’ Dolmant asked Sparhawk.
Sparhawk nodded. ‘Would you like to see it, Your Grace?’ he asked.
‘I don’t believe so, Sparhawk. I’m not supposed to admit its power, but I’ve heard some stories – folklorish superstition no doubt – but let’s not take any chances.’
Sparhawk heaved an inward sigh of relief. He did not much fancy another encounter with that flickering shadow nor the prospect of walking around for several days with the uneasy feeling that someone might be aiming a crossbow at him.
‘It’s peculiar that the news of the queen’s recovery hasn’t reached Annias yet,’ Dolmant observed. ‘At least he’s shown no signs of chagrin so far.’
‘I’d be very surprised if he’s heard of it yet, Your Grace,’ Komier rumbled. ‘Vanion sealed the city to keep the Cimmurans at home. As I understand it, people who try to leave are turned back quite firmly.’
‘You didn’t leave your Pandions there, did you, Vanion?’
‘No, Your Grace. We found assistance elsewhere. How’s the Archprelate?’
‘Dying,’ Emban replied. ‘Of course, he’s been dying for several years, but he’s a little more serious about it this time.’
‘Is Otha making any more moves, Your Grace?’ Darellon asked.
Dolmant shook his head. ‘He’s still encamped just inside the border of Lamorkand. He’s making all kinds of threats and demanding that the mysterious Zemoch treasure be returned to him.’
‘It’s not so mysterious, Dolmant,’ Sephrenia told him. ‘He wants Bhelliom, and he knows Sparhawk has it.’
‘Someone’s bound to suggest that Sparhawk turn it over to him in order to prevent an invasion,’ Emban suggested.
‘That will never happen, Your Grace,’ she said firmly. ‘We’ll destroy it first.’
‘Have any of the Patriarchs who were in hiding returned as yet?’ Preceptor Abriel asked.
‘Not a one,’ Emban snorted. ‘They’re probably down the deepest ratholes they can find by now. Two of them had fatal accidents a couple of days ago, and the rest went to ground.’
‘We have knights scouring the city looking for them,’ Preceptor Darellon reported. ‘Even the most timid of rabbits might regain some degree of courage if they’re protected by Church Knights.’
‘Darellon,’ Dolmant said reproachfully.
‘Sorry, Your Grace,’ Darellon said perfunctorily.
‘Will that change the numbers?’ Komier asked Talen. ‘The two that died, I mean?’
‘No, My Lord,’ Talen said. ‘We weren’t counting them anyway.’
Dolmant looked puzzled.
‘The lad has a gift for figures,’ Komier explained. ‘He can compute things in his head faster than I can with a pencil.’
‘Sometimes you amaze me, Talen,’ Dolmant said. ‘Could I perhaps interest you in a career in the Church?’
‘Counting the contributions of the faithful, Your Grace?’ Talen asked eagerly.
‘Ah – no, I don’t think so, Talen.’
‘Have the votes changed at all, Your Grace?’ Abriel asked.
Dolmant shook his head. ‘Annias still has a simple majority. He can bull through anything that isn’t a matter of substance. His toadies are calling for votes on just about anything that comes up. He wants to keep a running count for one thing, and the voting keeps us all locked in the audience chamber.’
‘The numbers are about to change, Your Grace,’ Komier said. ‘My friends and I have decided to participate this time.’
‘Now that’s unusual,’ Patriarch Emban said. ‘The Preceptors of the militant orders haven’t participated in a vote of the Hierocracy for two hundred years.’
‘We’re still welcome, aren’t we, Your Grace?’
‘As far as I’m concerned you are, Your Grace. Annias might not like it too much, though.’
‘How very unfortunate for him. What does that do to the numbers, Talen?’
‘It just went up from sixty-nine votes to seventy-one and a fraction, my Lord Komier. That’s the 60 per cent Annias needs to win.’
‘And a simple majority?’
‘He’s still got that. He only needs sixty-one.’
‘I don’t think any of the neutral Patriarchs will go over to him on a matter of substance until he meets their price,’ Dolmant said. ‘They’ll probably abstain, and then Annias needs –’ he frowned, thinking hard.
‘Sixty-six votes, Your Grace,’ Talen supplied. ‘He’s one vote short.’
‘Delightful boy,’ Dolmant murmured. ‘Our best course then is to make every vote a vote of substance – even a vote to light more candles.’
‘How do we do that?’ Komier asked. ‘I’m a little rusty on the procedure.’
Dolmant smiled faintly. ‘One of us rises to his feet and says “substance”.’
‘Won’t we just be voted down?’
Emban chuckled. ‘Oh no, my dear Komier,’ he said. ‘A vote on whether a question is a matter of substance or not is itself a matter of substance. I think we’ve got him, Dolmant. That one vote he doesn’t have will keep him off the Archprelate’s throne.’
‘Unless he can get his hands on some money,’ Dolmant said, ‘or unless more Patriarchs happen to die. How many of us does he have to kill in order to win, Talen?’
‘All of you might help him a bit,’ Talen grinned.
‘Mind your manners,’ Berit barked.
‘Sorry,’ Talen apologized, ‘I should have added “Your Grace”, I suppose. Annias needs to reduce the total number voting by at least two in order to have the 60 per cent he needs, Your Grace.’
‘We’ll have to assign knights to protect the loyal Patriarchs then,’ Abriel said, ‘and that’s going to reduce the number out in the city trying to locate the missing members. It’s starting to hinge on taking control of the streets. We need Wargun here very badly.’
Emban looked at him, puzzled.
‘It’s something we came up with at Demos, Your Grace,’ Abriel explained. ‘Annias is intimidating Patriarchs because Chyrellos is awash with church soldiers. If a Pa
triarch – either you or Patriarch Dolmant – declares a religious crisis and orders Wargun to suspend operations down in Arcium and to bring his armies here to Chyrellos, the whole picture changes. The intimidation starts going the other way at that point.’
‘Abriel,’ Dolmant said in a pained voice, ‘we do not elect an Archprelate by intimidation.’
‘We live in the real world, Your Grace,’ Abriel replied. ‘Annias was the one who chose the rules of this game, so I think we’re sort of obliged to play his way – unless you happen to have another set of dice.’
‘Besides,’ Talen added, ‘it would give us at least one more vote.’
‘Oh?’ Dolmant said.
‘Patriarch Bergsten’s with Wargun’s army. We could probably persuade him to vote right, couldn’t we?’
‘Why don’t we put our heads together and compose a letter to the King of Thalesia, Dolmant?’ Emban grinned.
‘I was just about to suggest the same thing myself, Emban. And perhaps we should forget to tell anyone else about it. Conflicting orders from some other Patriarch would just confuse Wargun, and he’s confused enough as it is.’
Chapter 8
Sparhawk was tired, but he slept poorly. His mind seemed filled with numbers. Sixty-nine changed into seventy-one, then eighty, then back, and the nine and seventeen – no fifteen – hovered ominously in the background. He started to lose track of what the numbers meant, and they became just numbers that arrayed themselves threateningly before him, armoured and with weapons in their hands, and, as it almost always did when he slept now, the shadowy thing haunted his dreams. It did not do anything, but merely watched – and waited.
Sparhawk did not really have the temperament for politics. Too many things reduced themselves in his mind to battlefield imagery, and superior strength and training and individual bravery counted for much on a battlefield. In politics, however, the feeblest were equal to the strongest. A palsied hand shakingly raised to vote had a power equal to that of a mailed fist. His instincts told him that the solution to the problem rested in his scabbard, but the killing of the Primate of Cimmura would tear the west apart at a time when Otha stood armed and poised on the eastern marches.