Читать книгу The Ruby Knight - David Eddings - Страница 9

It was well after midnight, and a dense grey fog had crept in off the Cimmura River to mingle with the pervading wood-smoke from a thousand chimneys to blur the nearly deserted streets of the city. The Pandion Knight, Sir Sparhawk, nonetheless moved cautiously, keeping to the shadows whenever possible. The streets glistened with moisture, and pale, rainbow-coloured haloes surrounded the torches trying feebly with their guttering light to illuminate streets into which no sensible man ventured at this hour. The houses lining the street Sparhawk was following were hardly more than looming black shadows. Sparhawk moved on, his ears even more than his eyes wary, for in this murky night sound was far more important than sight to warn of approaching danger.

This was a bad time to be out. By day, Cimmura was no more dangerous than any other city. By night, it was a jungle where the strong fed upon the weak and unwary. Sparhawk, however, was neither of those. Beneath his plain traveller’s cloak he wore chain-mail, and a heavy sword hung at his side. In addition, he carried a short, broad-bladed battle-spear loosely in one hand. He was trained, moreover, in levels of violence no footpad could match, and a seething anger inflamed him at this point. Bleakly, the broken-nosed man almost hoped that some fool might try an attack. When provoked, Sparhawk was not the most reasonable of men, and he had been provoked of late.

He was also, however, aware of the urgency of what he was about. Much as he might have taken some satisfaction in the rush and cut and slash of a meeting with unknown and unimportant assailants, he had responsibilities. His pale young queen hovered near death, and she silently demanded absolute fidelity from her champion. He would not betray her, and to die in some muddy gutter as a result of a meaningless encounter would not serve the queen he was oath-bound to protect. And so it was that he moved cautiously, his feet more silent than those of any paid assassin.

Somewhere ahead he saw the bobbing of hazy-looking torches and heard the measured tread of several men marching in unison. He muttered an oath and ducked up a smelly alley.

A half-dozen men marched by, their red tunics bedewed by the fog and with long pikes leaning slantwise over their shoulders. ‘It’s that place in Rose Street,’ their officer was saying arrogantly, ‘where the Pandions try to hide their ungodly subterfuge. They know we’re watching, of course, but our presence restricts their movements and leaves His Grace, the Primate, free from their interference.’

‘We know the reasons, Lieutenant,’ a bored-sounding corporal said. ‘We’ve been doing this for over a year now.’

‘Oh.’ The self-important young lieutenant sounded a bit crestfallen. ‘I just wanted to be sure that we all understood, that’s all.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the corporal said tonelessly.

‘Wait here, men,’ the lieutenant said, trying to make his boyish voice sound gruff. ‘I’ll look on ahead.’ He marched on up the street, his heels smashing noisily on the fog-wet cobblestones.

‘What a jackass,’ the corporal muttered to his companions.

‘Grow up, corporal,’ an old, grey-haired veteran said. ‘We take the pay, so we obey their orders and keep our opinions to ourselves. Just do your job and leave opinions to the officers.’

The corporal grunted sourly. ‘I was at court yesterday,’ he said. ‘Primate Annias had summoned that young puppy up there, and the fool absolutely had to have an escort. Would you believe he was actually fawning all over the bastard Lycheas?’

‘That’s what lieutenants do best,’ the veteran shrugged. ‘They’re born boot-lickers, and the bastard is the Prince Regent, after all. I’m not sure if that makes his boots taste any better, but the lieutenant’s probably got calluses on his tongue by now.’

The corporal laughed. ‘That’s God’s truth, but wouldn’t he be surprised if the queen recovered and he found out that he’d eaten all that boot polish for nothing?’

‘You’d better hope she doesn’t, corporal,’ one of the other men said. ‘If she wakes up and takes control of her own treasury again, Annias won’t have the money to pay us next month.’

‘He can always dip into the church coffers.’

‘Not without giving an accounting, he can’t. The Hierocracy in Chyrellos squeezes every penny of church money until it squeaks.’

‘All right, you men,’ the young officer called out of the fog, ‘the Pandion inn is just up ahead. I’ve relieved the soldiers who were on watch, so we’d better go there and take up our positions.’

‘You heard him,’ the corporal said. ‘Move out.’ The church soldiers marched off into the fog.

Sparhawk smiled briefly in the darkness. It was seldom that he had the opportunity to hear the casual conversations of the enemy. He had long suspected that the soldiers of the Primate of Cimmura were motivated more by greed than from any sense of loyalty or piety. He stepped out of the alley and then jumped soundlessly back as he heard other footsteps coming up the street. For some reason the usually empty night-time streets of Cimmura were awash with people. The footsteps were loud, so whoever it was out there was not trying to sneak up on anybody. Sparhawk shifted the short-handled spear in his hands. Then he saw the fellow looming out of the fog. The man wore a dark-coloured smock, and he had a large basket balanced on one shoulder. He appeared to be a workman of some kind, but there was no way to be sure of that. Sparhawk remained silent and let him pass. He waited until the sound of the footsteps was gone, then he stepped into the street again. He walked carefully, his soft boots making little sound on the wet cobblestones, and he kept his grey cloak wrapped tightly about him to muffle any clinking of his chain-mail.

He crossed an empty street to avoid the flickering yellow lamplight coming through the open door of a tavern where voices were raised in bawdy song. He shifted the spear to his left hand and pulled the hood of his cloak even farther forward to shadow his face as he passed through the mist-shrouded light.

He stopped, his eyes and ears carefully searching the foggy street ahead of him. His general direction was towards the east gate, but he had no particular fanaticism about that. People who walk in straight lines are predictable, and predictable people get caught. It was absolutely vital that he leave the city unrecognized and unseen by any of Annias’s men, even if it took him all night. When he was satisfied that the street was empty, he moved on, keeping to the deepest shadows. At a corner beneath a misty orange torch, a ragged beggar sat against a wall. He had a bandage across his eyes and a number of authentic-looking sores on his arms and legs. Sparhawk knew that this was not a profitable time for begging, so the fellow was probably up to something else. Then a slate from a rooftop crashed into the street not far from where Sparhawk stood.

‘Charity!’ the beggar called in a despairing voice, although Sparhawk’s soft-shod feet had made no sound. ‘Good evening, neighbour,’ the big knight said softly, crossing the street. He dropped a couple of coins into the begging bowl.

‘Thank you, My Lord. God bless you.’

‘You’re not supposed to be able to see me, neighbour,’ Sparhawk reminded him. ‘You don’t know if I’m a Milord or a commoner.’

‘It’s late,’ the beggar apologized, ‘and I’m a little sleepy. Sometimes I forget.’

‘Very sloppy,’ Sparhawk chided. ‘Pay attention to business. Oh, by the way, give my best to Platime.’ Platime was an enormously fat man who ruled the underside of Cimmura with an iron fist.

The beggar lifted the bandage from his eyes and stared at Sparhawk, his eyes widening in recognition.

‘And tell your friend up on that roof not to get excited,’ Sparhawk added. ‘You might tell him, though, to watch where he puts his feet. That last slate he kicked loose almost brained me.’

‘He’s a new man.’ The beggar sniffed. ‘He still has a lot to learn about burglary.’

‘That he does,’ Sparhawk agreed. ‘Maybe you can help me, neighbour. Talen was telling me about a tavern up against the east wall of the city. It’s supposed to have a garret that the tavern-keeper rents out from time to time. Do you happen to know where it’s located?’

‘It’s in Goat Lane, Sir Sparhawk. It’s got a sign that’s supposed to look like a bunch of grapes. You can’t miss it.’ The beggar squinted. ‘Where’s Talen been lately? I haven’t seen him for quite a while.’

‘His father’s sort of taken him in hand.’

‘I didn’t know Talen even had a father. That boy will go far if he doesn’t get himself hanged. He’s just about the best thief in Cimmura.’

‘I know,’ Sparhawk said. ‘He’s picked my pocket a few times.’ He dropped a couple more coins in the begging bowl. ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d keep the fact that you saw me tonight more or less to yourself, neighbour.’

‘I never saw you, Sir Sparhawk.’ The beggar grinned.

‘And I never saw you and your friend on the roof, either.’

‘Something for everybody then.’

‘My feelings exactly. Good luck in your enterprise.’

‘And the same to you in yours.’

Sparhawk smiled and moved off down the street. His brief exposure to the seamier side of Cimmuran society had paid off again. Though not exactly a friend, Platime and the shadowy world he controlled could be very helpful. Sparhawk cut over one street to make sure that, should the clumsy burglar on the roof be surprised in the course of his activities, the inevitable hue and cry would not bring the watch running down the same street he was traversing.

As they always did when he was alone, Sparhawk’s thoughts reverted to his queen. He had known Ehlana since she had been a little girl, though he had not seen her during the ten years he had been in exile in Rendor. The memory of her seated on her throne encased in diamond-hard crystal wrenched at his heart. He began to regret the fact that he had not taken advantage of the opportunity to kill the Primate Annias earlier tonight. A poisoner is always contemptible, but the man who had poisoned Sparhawk’s queen had placed himself in mortal danger, since Sparhawk was not one to let old scores simmer too long.

Then he heard furtive footsteps behind him in the fog, and he stepped into a recessed doorway and stood very still.

There were two of them, and they wore nondescript clothing. ‘Can you still see him?’ one of them whispered to the other.

‘No. This fog’s getting thicker. He’s just ahead of us, though.’

‘Are you sure he’s a Pandion?’

‘When you’ve been in this business as long as I have, you’ll learn to recognize them. It’s the way they walk and the way they hold their shoulders. He’s a Pandion all right.’

‘What’s he doing out in the street at this time of night?’

‘That’s what we’re here to find out. The Primate wants reports on all their movements.’

‘The notion of trying to sneak up behind a Pandion on a foggy night makes me just a little nervous. They all use magic, and they can feel you coming. I’d rather not get his sword in my guts. Did you ever see his face?’

‘No. He had his hood up, so his face was in shadow.’

The two of them crept on up the street, unaware of the fact that their lives had hung in the balance for a moment. Had either of them seen Sparhawk’s face, they would have died on the spot. Sparhawk was a very pragmatic man about things like that. He waited until he could no longer hear their footfalls. Then he retraced his steps to an intersection and went up a side street.

The tavern was empty except for the owner, who dozed with his feet up on a table and with his hands clasped over his paunch. He was a stout, unshaven man wearing a dirty smock.

‘Good evening, neighbour,’ Sparhawk said quietly as he entered.

The tavern-keeper opened one eye. ‘Morning is more like it,’ he grunted.

Sparhawk looked around. The tavern was a fairly typical working-man’s place with a low, beamed ceiling smudged with smoke and with a utilitarian counter across the back. The chairs and benches were scarred, and the sawdust on the floor had not been swept up and replaced for months. ‘It seems to be a slow night,’ he noted in his quiet voice.

‘It’s always slow this late, friend. What’s your pleasure?’

‘Arcian red – if you’ve got any.’

‘Arcium’s hip-deep in red grapes. Nobody ever runs out of Arcian red.’ With a weary sigh the tavern-keeper heaved himself to his feet and poured Sparhawk a goblet of red wine. The goblet, Sparhawk saw, was none too clean. ‘You’re out late, friend,’ the fellow observed, handing the big knight the sticky goblet.

‘Business,’ Sparhawk shrugged. ‘A friend of mine said you have a garret on the top floor of the house.’

The tavern-keeper’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘You don’t look like the sort of fellow who’d have a burning interest in garrets,’ he said. ‘Does this friend of yours have a name?’

‘Not one he cares to have generally known,’ Sparhawk replied, taking a sip of his wine. It was a distinctly inferior vintage.

‘Friend, I don’t know you, and you have a sort of official look about you. Why don’t you just finish your wine and leave? – that’s unless you can come up with a name I can recognize.’

‘This friend of mine works for a man named Platime. You may have heard the name.’

The tavern-keeper’s eyes widened slightly. ‘Platime must be branching out. I didn’t know that he had anything to do with the gentry – except to steal from them.’

‘He owed me a favour.’ Sparhawk shrugged.

The unshaven man still looked dubious. ‘Anybody could throw Platime’s name around,’ he said.

‘Neighbour,’ Sparhawk said flatly, setting his wineglass down, ‘this is starting to get tedious. Either we go up to your garret or I go out looking for the watch. I’m sure they’ll be very interested in your little enterprise.’

The tavern-keeper’s face grew sullen. ‘It’ll cost you a silver half-crown.’

‘All right.’

‘You’re not even going to argue?’

‘I’m in a bit of a hurry. We can haggle about the price next time.’

‘You seem to be in quite a rush to get out of town, friend. You haven’t killed anybody with that spear tonight, have you?’

‘Not yet.’ Sparhawk’s voice was flat.

The tavern-keeper swallowed hard. ‘Let me see your money.’

‘Of course, neighbour. And then let’s go upstairs and have a look at this garret.’

‘We’ll have to be careful. With this fog, you won’t be able to see the guards coming along the parapet.’

‘I can take care of that.’

‘No killing. I’ve got a nice little sideline here. If somebody kills one of the guards, I’ll have to close it down.’

‘Don’t worry, neighbour. I don’t think I’ll have to kill anybody tonight.’

The garret was dusty and appeared unused. The tavern-keeper carefully opened the gabled window and peered out into the fog. Behind him, Sparhawk whispered in Styric and released the spell. He could feel the fellow out there. ‘Careful,’ he said quietly. ‘There’s a guard coming along the parapet.’

‘I don’t see anybody.’

‘I heard him,’ Sparhawk replied. There was no point in going into extended explanations.

‘You’ve got sharp ears, friend.’

The two of them waited in the darkness as the sleepy guard strolled along the parapet and disappeared in the fog.

‘Give me a hand with this,’ the tavern-keeper said, stooping to lift one end of a heavy timber up onto the window-sill. ‘We slide it across to the parapet, and then you go on over. When you get there, I’ll throw you the end of this rope. It’s anchored here, so you’ll be able to slide down the outside of the wall.’

‘Right,’ Sparhawk said. They slid the timber across the intervening space. ‘Thanks, neighbour,’ Sparhawk said. He straddled the timber and inched his way across to the parapet. He stood up and caught the coil of rope that came out of the misty darkness. He dropped it over the wall and swung out on it. A few moments later, he was on the ground. The rope slithered up into the fog, and then he heard the sound of the timber sliding back into the garret. ‘Very neat,’ Sparhawk muttered, walking carefully away from the city wall. ‘I’ll have to remember that place.’

The fog made it a bit difficult to get his bearings, but by keeping the looming shadow of the city wall to his left, he could more or less determine his location. He set his feet down carefully. The night was quiet, and the sound of a stick breaking would be very loud.

Then he stopped. Sparhawk’s instincts were very good, and he knew that he was being watched. He drew his sword slowly to avoid the tell-tale sound it made as it slid out of its sheath. With the sword in one hand and the battle-spear in the other, he stood peering out into the fog.

And then he saw it. It was only a faint glow in the darkness, so faint that most people would not have noticed it. The glow drew closer, and he saw that it had a slight greenish cast to it. Sparhawk stood perfectly still and waited.

There was a figure out there in the fog, indistinct perhaps, but a figure nonetheless. It appeared to be robed and hooded in black, and that faint glow seemed to be coming out from under the hood. The figure was quite tall and appeared to be impossibly thin, almost skeletal. For some reason it chilled Sparhawk. He muttered in Styric, moving his fingers on the hilt of the sword and the shaft of the spear. Then he raised the spear and released the spell with its point. The spell was a relatively simple one, its purpose being only to identify the emaciated figure out in the fog. Sparhawk almost gasped when he felt the waves of pure evil emanating from the shadowy form. Whatever it was, it was certainly not human.

After a moment, a ghostly metallic chuckle came out of the night. The figure turned and moved away. Its walk was jerky as if its knees were put together backwards. Sparhawk stayed where he was until that sense of evil faded away. Whatever the thing was, it was gone now. ‘I wonder if that was another of Martel’s little surprises,’ Sparhawk muttered under his breath. Martel was a renegade Pandion Knight who had been expelled from the order. He and Sparhawk had once been friends, but no more. Martel now worked for Primate Annias, and it had been he who had provided the poison with which Annias had very nearly killed the queen.

Sparhawk continued slowly and silently now, his sword and the spear still in his hands. Finally he saw the torches which marked the closed east gate of the city, and he took his bearings from them.

Then he heard a faint snuffling sound behind him, much like the sound a tracking dog would make. He turned, his weapons ready. Again he heard that metallic chuckle. He amended that in his mind. It was not so much a chuckle as it was a sort of stridulation, a chittering sound. Again he felt that sense of overpowering evil, which once again faded away.

Sparhawk angled slightly out from the city wall and the filmy light of those two torches at the gate. After about a quarter of an hour, he saw the square, looming shape of the Pandion chapterhouse just ahead.

He dropped into a prone position on the fog-wet turf and cast the searching spell again. He released it and waited.

Nothing.

He rose, sheathed his sword and moved cautiously across the intervening field. The castle-like chapterhouse was, as always, being watched. Church soldiers, dressed as workmen, were encamped not far from the front gate with piles of the cobblestones they were ostensibly laying heaped around their tents. Sparhawk, however, went around to the back wall and carefully picked his way through the deep, stake-studded fosse surrounding the structure.

The rope down which he had clambered when he had left the house was still dangling behind a concealing bush. He shook it a few times to be certain the grappling hook at its upper end was still firmly attached. Then he tucked the war-spear under his sword-belt. He grasped the rope and pulled down hard.

Above him, he could hear the points of the hook grating into the stones of the battlement. He started to climb up, hand over hand.

‘Who’s there?’ The voice came sharply out of the fog overhead. It was a youthful voice, and familiar.

Sparhawk swore under his breath. Then he felt a tugging on the rope he was climbing. ‘Leave it alone, Berit,’ he grated, straining to pull himself up.

‘Sir Sparhawk?’ the novice said in a startled voice.

‘Don’t jerk on the rope,’ Sparhawk ordered. ‘Those stakes in the ditch are very sharp.’

‘Let me help you up.’

‘I can manage. Just don’t displace that hook.’ He grunted as he heaved himself up over the battlement, and Berit caught his arm to help him. Sparhawk was sweating from his exertions. Climbing a rope when one is wearing chain-mail can be very strenuous.

Berit was a novice Pandion who showed much promise. He was a tall, raw-boned young man who was wearing a mail-shirt and a plain, utilitarian cloak. He carried a heavy bladed battle-axe in one hand. He was a polite young fellow, so he did not ask any questions, although his face was filled with curiosity. Sparhawk looked down into the courtyard of the chapterhouse. By the light of a flickering torch, he saw Kurik and Kalten. Both of them were armed, and sounds from the stable indicated that someone was saddling horses for them. ‘Don’t go away,’ he called down to them.

‘What are you doing up there, Sparhawk?’ Kalten sounded surprised.

‘I thought I’d take up burglary as a sideline,’ Sparhawk replied drily. ‘Stay there. I’ll be right down. Come along, Berit.’

‘I’m supposed to be on watch, Sir Sparhawk.’

‘We’ll send somebody up to replace you. This is important.’ Sparhawk led the way along the parapet to the steep stone stairs that led down into the courtyard.

‘Where have you been, Sparhawk?’ Kurik demanded angrily when the two had descended. Sparhawk’s squire wore his usual black leather vest, and his heavily muscled arms and shoulders gleamed in the orange torchlight that illuminated the courtyard. He spoke in the hushed voice men use when talking at night.

‘I had to go to the cathedral,’ Sparhawk replied quietly.

‘Are you having religious experiences?’ Kalten asked, sounding amused. The big blond knight, Sparhawk’s boyhood friend, was dressed in chain and had a heavy broadsword belted at his waist.

‘Not exactly,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘Tanis is dead. His ghost came to me at about midnight.’

‘Tanis?’ Kalten’s voice was shocked.

‘He was one of the twelve knights who were with Sephrenia when she encased Ehlana in crystal. His ghost told me to go to the crypt under the cathedral before it went to give up its sword to Sephrenia.’

‘And you went? At night?’

‘The matter was of a certain urgency.’

‘What did you do there? Violate a few tombs? Is that how you got the spear?’

‘Hardly,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘King Aldreas gave it to me.’

‘Aldreas!’

‘His ghost anyway. His missing ring is hidden in the socket.’ Sparhawk looked curiously at his two friends. ‘Where were you going just now?’

‘Out to look for you.’ Kurik shrugged.

‘How did you know I’d left the chapterhouse?’

‘I checked in on you a few times,’ Kurik said. ‘I thought you knew I usually did that.’

‘Every night?’

‘Three times at least,’ Kurik confirmed. ‘I’ve been doing that every night since you were a boy – except for the years you were in Rendor. The first time tonight, you were talking in your sleep. The second time – just after midnight – you were gone. I looked around, and when I couldn’t find you, I woke up Kalten.’

‘I think we’d better go wake the others,’ Sparhawk said bleakly. ‘Aldreas told me some things, and we’ve got some decisions to make.’

‘Bad news?’ Kalten asked.

‘It’s hard to say. Berit, tell those novices in the stable to go and replace you on the parapet. This might take a while.’

They gathered in Preceptor Vanion’s brown-carpeted study in the south tower. Sparhawk, Berit, Kalten and Kurik were there, of course. Sir Bevier, a Cyrinic Knight, was there as well, as were Sir Tynian, an Alcione Knight, and Sir Ulath, a huge Genidian Knight. The three were the champions of their orders, and they had joined with Sparhawk and Kalten when the Preceptors of the four orders had decided that the restoration of Queen Ehlana was a matter that concerned them all. Sephrenia, the small, dark-haired Styric woman who instructed the Pandions in the secrets of Styricum, sat by the fire with the little girl they called Flute at her side. The boy, Talen, sat by the window rubbing at his eyes with his fist. Talen was a sound sleeper, and he did not like being awakened. Vanion sat at the table he used for a writing desk. His study was a pleasant room, low, dark beamed, and with a deep fireplace that Sparhawk had never seen unlighted. As always, Sephrenia’s simmering tea-kettle stood on the hob.

Vanion did not look well. Roused from his bed in the middle of the night, the Preceptor of the Pandion Order, a grim, careworn knight who was probably even older than he looked, wore an uncharacteristic Styric robe of plain white homespun cloth. Sparhawk had watched this peculiar change in Vanion over the years. Caught at times unawares, the Preceptor, one of the stalwarts of the Church, sometimes seemed almost half Styric. As an Elene and a Knight of the Church, it was Sparhawk’s duty to reveal his observations to the church authorities. He chose, however, not to. His loyalty to the Church was one thing – a commandment from God. His loyalty to Vanion, however, was deeper, more personal.

The Preceptor was grey-faced, and his hands trembled slightly. The burden of the swords of the three dead knights he had compelled Sephrenia to relinquish to him was obviously weighing him down more than he would have admitted. The spell Sephrenia had cast in the throne-room and which sustained the queen had involved the concerted assistance of twelve Pandion Knights. One by one those knights would die, and their ghosts would deliver their swords to Sephrenia. When the last had died, she would follow them into the House of the Dead. Earlier that evening, Vanion had compelled her to give those swords to him. It was not the weight of the swords alone which made them such a burden. There were other things that went with them, things about which Sparhawk could not even begin to guess. Vanion had been adamant about taking the swords. He had given a few vague reasons for his action, but Sparhawk privately suspected that the Preceptor’s main reason had been to spare Sephrenia as much as possible. Despite all the strictures forbidding such things, Sparhawk believed that Vanion loved the dear, small woman who had instructed all Pandions for generations in the secrets of Styricum. All Pandion Knights loved and revered Sephrenia. In Vanion’s case, however, Sparhawk surmised that love and reverence went perhaps a step further. Sephrenia also, he had noticed, seemed to have a special affection for the Preceptor that went somewhat beyond the love of a teacher for her pupil. This was also something that a Church Knight should reveal to the Hierocracy in Chyrellos. Again, Sparhawk chose not to.

‘Why are we gathering at this unseemly hour?’ Vanion asked wearily.

‘Do you want to tell him?’ Sparhawk asked Sephrenia.

The white-robed woman sighed and unwrapped the long, cloth-bound object she held to reveal another ceremonial Pandion sword. ‘Sir Tanis has gone into the House of the Dead,’ she told Vanion sadly.

‘Tanis?’ Vanion’s voice was stricken. ‘When did this happen?’

‘Just recently, I gather,’ she replied.

‘Is that why we’re here tonight?’ Vanion asked Sparhawk.

‘Not entirely. Before he went to deliver his sword to Sephrenia, Tanis visited me – or at least his ghost did. He told me that someone in the royal crypt wanted to see me. I went to the cathedral and I was confronted by the ghost of Aldreas. He told me a number of things and then gave me this.’ He twisted the shaft of the spear out of its socket and shook the ruby ring out of its place of concealment.

‘So that’s where Aldreas hid it,’ Vanion said. ‘Maybe he was wiser than we thought. You said he told you some things. Such as what?’

‘That he had been poisoned,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Probably the same poison they gave Ehlana.’

‘Was it Annias?’ Kalten asked grimly.

Sparhawk shook his head. ‘No. It was Princess Arissa.’

‘His own sister?’ Bevier exclaimed. ‘That’s monstrous!’ Bevier was an Arcian, and he had deep moral convictions.

‘Arissa is fairly monstrous,’ Kalten agreed. ‘She’s not the sort to let little things stand in her way. How did she get out of the cloister in Demos to dispose of Aldreas, though?’

‘Annias arranged it,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘She entertained Aldreas in her usual fashion, and when he was exhausted, she gave him the poisoned wine.’

‘I don’t quite understand,’ Bevier frowned.

‘The relationship between Arissa and Aldreas went somewhat beyond what is customary for a brother and sister,’ Vanion told him delicately.

Bevier’s eyes widened and the blood drained from his olive-skinned face as he slowly gathered Vanion’s meaning.

‘Why did she kill him?’ Kalten asked. ‘Revenge for locking her up in that cloister?’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘I think it was a part of the overall scheme she and Annias had hatched. First they poisoned Aldreas and then Ehlana.’

‘So the way to the throne would be clear for Arissa’s bastard son?’ Kalten surmised.

‘It’s sort of logical,’ Sparhawk agreed. ‘It fits together even tighter when you know that Lycheas the bastard is Annias’s son too.’

‘A Churchman?’ Tynian said, looking a bit startled. ‘Do you people here in Elenia have different rules from the rest of us?’

‘Not really, no,’ Vanion replied. ‘Annias seems to feel that he’s above the rules, and Arissa goes out of her way to break them.’

‘Arissa’s always been just a little indiscriminate,’ Kalten added. ‘Rumour has it that she was on very friendly terms with just about every man in Cimmura.’

‘That might be a slight exaggeration,’ Vanion said. He stood up and went to the window. ‘I’ll pass this information on to Patriarch Dolmant,’ he said, looking out at the foggy night. ‘He may be able to make some use of it when the time comes to elect a new Archprelate.’

‘And perhaps the Earl of Lenda might be able to use it as well,’ Sephrenia suggested. ‘The royal council is corrupt, but even they might balk if they find that Annias is trying to put his own bastard son on the throne.’ She looked at Sparhawk. ‘What else did Aldreas tell you?’ she asked.

‘Just one other thing. We know we need some magic object to cure Ehlana. He told me what it is. It’s Bhelliom. It’s the only thing in the world with enough power.’

Sephrenia’s face blanched. ‘No!’ she gasped. ‘Not Bhelliom!’

‘That’s what he told me.’

‘It presents a big problem,’ Ulath declared. ‘Bhelliom’s been lost since the Zemoch war, and even if we’re lucky enough to find it, it won’t respond unless we have the rings.’

‘Rings?’ Kalten asked.

‘The Troll-Dwarf, Ghwerig, made Bhelliom,’ Ulath explained. ‘Then he made a pair of rings to unlock its power. Without the rings, Bhelliom’s useless.’

‘We already have the rings,’ Sephrenia told him absently, her face still troubled.

‘We do?’ Sparhawk was startled.

‘You’re wearing one of them,’ she told him, ‘and Aldreas gave you the other this very night.’

Sparhawk stared at the ruby ring on his left hand, then back at his teacher. ‘How’s that possible?’ he demanded. ‘How did my ancestor and King Antor come by these particular rings?’

‘I gave them to them,’ she replied.

He blinked. ‘Sephrenia, that was three hundred years ago.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘approximately.’

Sparhawk stared at her, then swallowed hard. ‘Three hundred years?’ he demanded incredulously. ‘Sephrenia, just how old are you?’

‘You know I’m not going to answer that question, Sparhawk. I’ve told you that before.’

‘How did you get the rings?’

‘My Goddess, Aphrael, gave them to me – along with certain instructions. She told me where I’d find your ancestor and King Antor, and she told me to deliver the rings to them.’

‘Little mother,’ Sparhawk began, and then broke off as he saw her bleak expression.

‘Hush, dear one,’ she commanded. ‘I will say this only once, Sir Knights,’ she told them all. ‘What we do puts us in conflict with the Elder Gods, and that is not lightly undertaken. Your Elene God forgives; the Younger Gods of Styricum can be persuaded to relent. The Elder Gods, however, demand absolute compliance with their whims. To counter the commands of an Elder God is to court worse than death. They obliterate those who defy them – in ways you cannot imagine. Do we really want to bring Bhelliom back into the light again?’

‘Sephrenia! We have to!’ Sparhawk exclaimed. ‘It’s the only way we can save Ehlana – and you and Vanion for that matter.’

‘Annias will not live forever, Sparhawk, and Lycheas is hardly more than an inconvenience. Vanion and I are temporary, and so, for that matter – regardless of how you feel personally – is Ehlana. The world won’t miss any of us all that much.’ Sephrenia’s tone was almost clinical. ‘Bhelliom, however, is another matter – and so is Azash. If we fail and put the stone into that foul God’s hands, we will doom the world forever. Is it worth the risk?’

‘I’m the queen’s champion,’ Sparhawk reminded her. ‘I have to do whatever I possibly can to save her life.’ He rose and strode across the room to her. ‘So help me God, Sephrenia,’ he declared, ‘I’ll break open Hell itself to save that girl.’

‘He’s such a child sometimes,’ Sephrenia sighed to Vanion. ‘Can’t you think of some way to make him grow up?’

‘I was sort of considering going along,’ the Preceptor replied, smiling. ‘Sparhawk might let me hold his cloak while he kicks in the gate. I don’t think anybody’s assaulted Hell lately.’

‘You too?’ She covered her face with her hands. ‘Oh, dear,’ she sighed. ‘All right then, gentlemen,’ she said, giving up, ‘if you’re all so bent on this, we’ll try it – but only on one condition. If we do find Bhelliom, and it restores Ehlana, we must destroy it immediately after the task is done.’

‘Destroy it?’ Ulath exploded. ‘Sephrenia, it’s the most precious thing in the world.’

‘And also the most dangerous. If Azash ever comes to possess it, the world will be lost, and all mankind will be plunged into the most hideous slavery imaginable. I must insist on this, gentlemen. Otherwise, I’ll do everything in my power to prevent your finding that accursed stone.’

‘I don’t see that we’ve got much choice here,’ Ulath said gravely to the others. ‘Without her help, we don’t have much hope of unearthing Bhelliom.’

‘Oh, somebody’s going to find it all right,’ Sparhawk told him firmly. ‘One of the things Aldreas told me was that the time has come for Bhelliom to see the light of day again, and that no force on earth can prevent it. The only thing that concerns me right now is if it’s going to be one of us who finds it, or some Zemoch, who’ll carry it back to Otha.’

‘Or if it rises from the earth all on its own,’ Tynian added moodily. ‘Could it do that, Sephrenia?’

‘Probably, yes.’

‘How did you get out of the chapterhouse without being seen by the Primate’s spies?’ Kalten asked Sparhawk curiously.

‘I threw a rope over the back wall and climbed down.’

‘How about getting in and out of the city after the gates were all closed?’

‘By pure luck the gate was still open when I was on my way to the cathedral. I used another way to get out.’

‘That garret I told you about?’ Talen asked.

Sparhawk nodded.

‘How much did he charge you?’

‘A silver half-crown.’

Talen looked shocked at that. ‘And they call me a thief. He gulled you, Sparhawk.’

‘I needed to get out of the city.’ Sparhawk shrugged.

‘I’ll tell Platime about it,’ the boy said. ‘He’ll get your money back. A half-crown? That’s outrageous.’ The boy was actually spluttering.

Sparhawk remembered something. ‘Sephrenia, when I was on my way back here, something was out in the fog watching me. I don’t think it was human.’

‘The Damork?’

‘I couldn’t say for sure, but it didn’t feel the same. The Damork’s not the only creature subject to Azash, is it?’

‘No. The Damork is the most powerful, but it’s stupid. The other creatures don’t have its power, but they’re more clever. In many ways, they can be even more dangerous.’

‘All right, Sephrenia,’ Vanion said then, ‘I think you’d better give me Tanis’s sword now.’

‘My dear one –’ she began to protest, her face anguished.

‘We’ve had this argument once already tonight,’ he told her. ‘Let’s not go through it again.’

She sighed. Then the two of them began to chant in unison in the Styric tongue. Vanion’s face turned a little greyer at the end when Sephrenia handed him the sword and their hands touched.

‘All right,’ Sparhawk said to Ulath after the transfer had been completed. ‘Where do we start? Where was King Sarak when his crown was lost?’

‘No one really knows,’ the big Genidian Knight replied. ‘He left Emsat when Otha invaded Lamorkand. He took a few retainers and left orders for the rest of his army to follow him to the battlefield at Lake Randera.’

‘Did anyone report having seen him there?’ Kalten asked.

‘Not that I’ve ever heard. The Thalesian army was seriously decimated, though. It’s possible that Sarak did get there before the battle started, but that none of the few survivors ever saw him.’

‘I expect that’s the place to start then,’ Sparhawk said.

‘Sparhawk,’ Ulath objected, ‘that battlefield is immense. All the Knights of the Church could spend the rest of their lives digging there and still not find the crown.’

‘There’s an alternative,’ Tynian said, scratching his chin.

‘And what is that, friend Tynian?’ Bevier asked him.

‘I have some skill at necromancy,’ Tynian told him. ‘I don’t like it much, but I know how it’s done. If we can find out where the Thalesians are buried, I can ask them if any of them saw King Sarak on the field and if any know where he might be buried. It’s exhausting, but the cause is worth it.’

‘I’ll be able to aid you, Tynian,’ Sephrenia told him. ‘I don’t practise necromancy myself, but I know the proper spells.’

Kurik rose to his feet. ‘I’d better get the things we’ll need together,’ he said. ‘Come along, Berit. You too, Talen.’

‘There’ll be ten of us,’ Sephrenia told him.

‘Ten?’

‘We’ll be taking Talen and Flute along with us.’

‘Is that really necessary?’ Sparhawk objected. ‘Or even wise?’

‘Yes, it is. We’ll be seeking the aid of some of the Younger Gods of Styricum, and they like symmetry. We were ten when we began this search, so now we have to be the same ten every step of the way. Sudden changes disturb the Younger Gods.’

‘Anything you say.’ He shrugged.

Vanion rose and began to pace up and down. ‘We’d better get started with this,’ he said. ‘It might be safer if you left the chapterhouse before daylight and before this fog lifts. Let’s not make it too easy for the spies who watch the house.’

‘I’ll agree with that,’ Kalten approved. ‘I’d rather not have to race Annias’s soldiers all the way to Lake Randera.’

‘All right, then,’ Sparhawk said, ‘let’s get at it. Time’s running a little short on us.’

‘Stay a moment, Sparhawk,’ Vanion said as they began to file out.

Sparhawk waited until the others had left, and then he closed the door.

‘I received a communication from the Earl of Lenda this evening,’ the Preceptor told his friend.

‘Oh?’

‘He asked me to reassure you. Annias and Lycheas are taking no further action against the queen. Apparently the failure of their plot down in Arcium embarrassed Annias a great deal. He’s not going to take the chance of making a fool of himself again.’

‘That’s a relief.’

‘Lenda added something I don’t quite understand, though. He asked me to tell you that the candles are still burning. Do you have any idea what he meant by that?’

‘Good old Lenda,’ Sparhawk said warmly. ‘I asked him not to leave Ehlana sitting in the throne-room in the dark.’

‘I don’t think it makes much difference to her, Sparhawk.’

‘It does to me,’ Sparhawk replied.