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 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