In a dark side-street where the water dripped monotonously onto the cobblestones from the eaves of the houses, he felt Faran’s muscles tense. ‘Sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘I wasn’t paying attention.’ Someone was watching him, and he could clearly sense the animosity which had alerted his horse. Faran was a war-horse, and he could probably sense antagonism in his veins. Sparhawk muttered a quick spell in the Styric tongue, concealing the gestures which accompanied it beneath his cloak. He released the spell slowly to avoid alerting whoever was watching him.
The watcher was not an Elene. Sparhawk sensed that immediately. He probed further. Then he frowned. There were more than one, and they were not Styrics either. He pulled his thought back, passively waiting for some clue as to their identity.
The realisation came as a chilling shock. The watchers were not human. He shifted slightly in his saddle, sliding his hand toward his sword-hilt.
Then the sense of the watchers was gone, and Faran shuddered with relief. He turned his ugly face to give his master a suspicious look.
‘Don’t ask me, Faran,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘I don’t know either.’ But that was not entirely true. The touch of the minds in the darkness had been vaguely familiar, and that familiarity had raised questions in Sparhawk’s mind, questions he did not want to face.
He paused at the palace gate long enough to firmly instruct the soldiers not to wake the whole house, and then he dismounted in the courtyard.
A young man stepped out into the rain-swept yard from the stable. ‘Why didn’t you send word that you were coming, Sparhawk?’ he asked very quietly.
‘Because I don’t particularly like parades and wild celebrations in the middle of the night,’ Sparhawk told his squire, throwing back the hood of his cloak. ‘What are you doing up so late? I promised your mothers I’d make sure you got your rest. You’re going to get me in trouble, Khalad.’
‘Are you trying to be funny?’ Khalad’s voice was gruff, abrasive. He took Faran’s reins. ‘Come inside, Sparhawk. You’ll rust if you stand out here in the rain.’
‘You’re as bad as your father was.’
‘It’s an old family trait.’ Khalad led the prince consort and his evil-tempered warhorse into the hay-smelling stable where a pair of lanterns gave off a golden light. Khalad was a husky young man with coarse black hair and a short-trimmed black beard. He wore tight-fitting black leather breeches, boots and a sleeveless leather vest that left his arms and shoulders bare. A heavy dagger hung from his belt, and steel cuffs encircled his wrists. He looked and behaved so much like his father that Sparhawk felt again a brief, brief pang of loss. ‘I thought Talen would be coming back with you,’ Sparhawk’s squire said as he began unsaddling Faran.
‘He’s got a cold. His mother – and yours – decided that he shouldn’t go out in the weather, and I certainly wasn’t going to argue with them.’
‘Wise decision,’ Khalad said, absently slapping Faran on the nose as the big roan tried to bite him. ‘How are they?’
‘Your mothers? Fine. Aslade’s still trying to fatten Elys up, but she’s not having too much luck. How did you find out I was in town?’
‘One of Platime’s cut-throats saw you coming through the gate. He sent word.’
‘I suppose I should have known. You didn’t wake my wife, did you?’
‘Not with Mirtai standing watch outside her door, I didn’t. Give me that wet cloak, my Lord. I’ll hang it in the kitchen to dry.’
Sparhawk grunted and removed his sodden cloak.
‘The mail shirt too, Sparhawk,’ Khalad added, ‘before it rusts away entirely.’
Sparhawk nodded, unbelted his sword and began to struggle out of his chain-mail shirt. ‘How’s your training going?’
Khalad made an indelicate sound. ‘I haven’t learned anything I didn’t already know. My father was a much better instructor than the ones at the chapterhouse. This idea of yours isn’t going to work, Sparhawk. The other novices are all aristocrats, and when my brothers and I outstrip them on the practice field, they resent it. We make enemies every time we turn around.’ He lifted the saddle from Faran’s back and put it on the rail of a nearby stall. He briefly laid his hand on the big roan’s back, then bent, picked up a handful of straw and began to rub him down.
‘Wake some groom and have him do that,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘Is anybody still awake in the kitchen?’
‘The bakers are already up, I think.’
‘Have one of them throw something together for me to eat. It’s been a long time since lunch.’
‘All right. What took you so long in Chyrellos?’
‘I took a little side trip into Lamorkand. The civil war there’s getting out of hand, and the Archprelate wanted me to nose around a bit.’
‘You should have got word to your wife. She was just about to send Mirtai out to find you.’ Khalad grinned at him. ‘I think you’re going to get yelled at again, Sparhawk.’
‘There’s nothing new about that. Is Kalten here in the palace?’
Khalad nodded. ‘The food’s better here, and he isn’t expected to pray three times a day. Besides, I think he’s got his eye on one of the chambermaids.’
‘That wouldn’t surprise me very much. Is Stragen here too?’
‘No. Something came up, and he had to go back to Emsat.’
‘Get Kalten up then. Have him join us in the kitchen. I want to talk with him. I’ll be along in a bit. I’m going to the bathhouse first.’
‘The water won’t be warm. They let the fires go out at night.’
‘We’re soldiers of God, Khalad. We’re all supposed to be unspeakably brave.’
‘I’ll try to remember that, my Lord.’
The water in the bathhouse was definitely on the chilly side, so Sparhawk did not linger very long. He wrapped himself in a soft white robe and went into the dim corridors of the palace and to the brightly-lit kitchens where Khalad waited with the sleepy-looking Kalten.
‘Hail, Noble Prince Consort,’ Kalten said drily. Sir Kalten obviously didn’t care much for the idea of being roused in the middle of the night.
‘Hail, Noble Boyhood Companion of the Noble Prince Consort,’ Sparhawk replied.
‘Now there’s a cumbersome title,’ Kalten said sourly. ‘What’s so important that it won’t wait until morning?’
Sparhawk sat down at one of the work tables, and a white-smocked baker brought him a plate of roast beef and a steaming loaf still hot from the oven.
‘Thanks, neighbour,’ Sparhawk said to him.
‘Where have you been, Sparhawk?’ Kalten demanded, sitting down across the table from his friend. Kalten had a wine flagon in one hand and a tin cup in the other.
‘Sarathi sent me to Lamorkand,’ Sparhawk replied, tearing a chunk of bread from the loaf.
‘Your wife’s been making life miserable for everyone in the palace, you know.’
‘It’s nice to know she cares.’
‘Not for any of the rest of us it isn’t. What did Dolmant need from Lamorkand?’
‘Information. He didn’t altogether believe some of the reports he’s been getting.’
‘What’s not to believe? The Lamorks are just engaging in their national pastime – civil war.’
‘There seems to be something a little different this time. Do you remember Count Gerrich?’
‘The one who had us besieged in Baron Alstrom’s castle? I never met him personally, but his name’s sort of familiar.’
‘He seems to be coming out on top in the squabbles in western Lamorkand, and most everybody up there believes that he’s got his eye on the throne.’
‘So?’ Kalten helped himself to part of Sparhawk’s loaf of bread. ‘Every baron in Lamorkand has his eyes on the throne. What’s got Dolmant so concerned about it this time?’
‘Gerrich’s been making alliances beyond the borders of Lamorkand. Some of those border barons in Pelosia are more or less independent of King Soros.’
‘Everybody in Pelosia’s indep
endent of Soros. He isn’t much of a king. He spends too much time praying.’
‘That’s a strange position for a soldier of God,’ Khalad murmured.
‘You’ve got to keep these things in perspective, Khalad,’ Kalten told him. ‘Too much praying softens a man’s brains.’
‘Anyway,’ Sparhawk went on. ‘If Gerrich succeeds in dragging those Pelosian barons into his bid for King Friedahl’s throne, Friedahl’s going to have to declare war on Pelosia. The Church already has a war going on in Rendor, and Dolmant’s not very enthusiastic about a second front.’ He paused. ‘I ran across something else, though,’ he added. ‘I overheard a conversation I wasn’t supposed to. The name Drychtnath came up. Do you know anything about him?’
Kalten shrugged. ‘He was the national hero of the Lamorks some three or four thousand years ago. They say he was about twelve feet tall, ate an ox for breakfast every morning and drank a hogshead of mead every evening. The story has it that he could shatter rocks by scowling at them and reach up and stop the sun with one hand. The stories might be just a little bit exaggerated, though.’
‘Very funny. The group I overheard were all telling each other that he’s returned.’
‘That’d be a neat trick. I gather that his closest friend killed him. Stabbed him in the back and then ran a spear through his heart. You know how Lamorks are.’
‘That’s a strange name,’ Khalad noted. ‘What does it mean?’
‘Drychtnath?’ Kalten scratched his head. ‘“Dreadnought”, I think. Lamork mothers do that sort of thing to their children.’ He drained his cup and tipped his flagon over it. A few drops came out. ‘Are we going to be much longer at this?’ he asked. ‘If we’re going to sit up talking all night, I’ll get more wine. To be honest with you though, Sparhawk, I’d really rather go back to my nice warm bed.’
‘And your nice warm chambermaid?’ Khalad added.
‘She gets lonesome,’ Kalten shrugged. His face grew serious. ‘If the Lamorks are talking about Drychtnath again, it means that they’re starting to feel a little confined. Drychtnath wanted to rule the world, and any time the Lamorks start invoking his name, it’s a fair indication that they’re beginning to look beyond their borders for elbow room.’
Sparhawk pushed back his plate. ‘It’s too late at night to start worrying about it now. Go back to bed, Kalten. You too, Khalad. We can talk more about this tomorrow. I really ought to go pay a courtesy call on my wife.’ He stood up.
‘That’s all?’ Kalten said. ‘A courtesy call?’
‘There are many forms of courtesy, Kalten.’
The corridors in the palace were dimly illuminated by widely-spaced candles. Sparhawk went quietly past the throne-room to the royal apartments. As usual, Mirtai dozed in a chair beside the door. Sparhawk stopped and considered the Tamul giantess. When her face was in repose, she was heart-stoppingly beautiful. Her skin was golden in the candlelight, and her eyelashes were so long that they touched her cheeks. Her sword lay in her lap with her hand lightly enclosing its hilt.
‘Don’t try to sneak up on me, Sparhawk.’ She said it without opening her eyes.
‘How did you know it was me?’
‘I could smell you. All you Elenes seem to forget that you have noses.’
‘How could you possibly smell me? I just took a bath.’
‘Yes. I noticed that too. You should have taken the time to let the water heat up a little more.’
‘Sometimes you amaze me, do you know that?’
‘You’re easily amazed, Sparhawk.’ She opened her eyes. ‘Where have you been? Ehlana’s been nearly frantic.’
‘How is she?’
‘About the same. Aren’t you ever going to let her grow up? I’m getting very tired of being owned by a child.’ In Mirtai’s own eyes, she was a slave, the property of the Queen Ehlana. This in no way hindered her in ruling the royal family of Elenia with an iron fist, arbitrarily deciding what was good for them and what was not. She had brusquely dismissed all the queen’s attempts to emancipate her, pointing out that she was an Atan Tamul, and that her race was temperamentally unsuited for freedom. Sparhawk tended strongly to agree with her, since he was fairly certain that if she were left to follow her instincts, Mirtai could depopulate several fair-sized towns in short order.
She stood up, rising to her feet with exquisite grace. She was a good four inches taller than Sparhawk, and he felt again that odd sense of shrinking as he looked up at her. ‘What took you so long?’ she asked him.
‘I had to go to Lamorkand.’
‘Was that your idea? or somebody else’s?’
‘Dolmant sent me.’
‘Make sure Ehlana understands that right from the start. If she thinks you went there on your own, the fight will last for weeks, and all that wrangling gets on my nerves.’ She produced the key to the royal apartment and gave Sparhawk a blunt, direct look. ‘Be very attentive, Sparhawk. She’s missed you a great deal, and she needs some tangible evidence of your affection. And don’t forget to bolt the bedroom door. Your daughter might be just a little young to be learning about certain things.’ She unlocked the door.
‘Mirtai, do you really have to lock us all in every night?’
‘Yes, I do. I can’t get to sleep until I know that none of you is out wandering around the halls.’
Sparhawk sighed. ‘Oh, by the way,’ he added, ‘Kring was in Chyrellos. I imagine he’ll be along in a few days to propose marriage to you again.’
‘It’s about time,’ she smiled. ‘It’s been three months since his last proposal. I was beginning to think he didn’t love me any more.’
‘Are you ever going to accept him?’
‘We’ll see. Go wake up your wife, Sparhawk. I’ll let you out in the morning.’ She gently pushed him on through the doorway and locked the door behind him.
Sparhawk’s daughter, Princess Danae, was curled up in a large chair by the fire. Danae was six years old now. Her hair was very dark, and her skin as white as milk. Her dark eyes were large, and her mouth a small pink bow. She was quite the little lady, her manner serious and very grown-up. Her constant companion, nonetheless, was a battered and disreputable-looking stuffed toy animal named Rollo. Rollo had descended to Princess Danae from her mother. As usual, Princess Danae’s little feet had greenish grass-stains on them. ‘You’re late, Sparhawk,’ she said flatly to her father.
‘Danae,’ he said to her, ‘you know you’re not supposed to call me by name like that. If your mother hears you, she’s going to start asking questions.’
‘She’s asleep,’ Danae shrugged.
‘Are you really sure about that?’
She gave him a withering look. ‘Of course I am. I’m not going to make any mistakes. I’ve done this many, many times before, you know. Where have you been?’
‘I had to go to Lamorkand.’
‘Didn’t it occur to you to send word to mother? She’s been absolutely unbearable for the last few weeks.’
‘I know. Any number of people have already told me about it. I didn’t really think I’d be gone for so long. I’m glad you’re awake. Maybe you can help me with something.’
‘I’ll consider it – if you’re nice to me.’
‘Stop that. What do you know about Drychtnath?’
‘He was a barbarian, but he was an Elene, after all, so it was probably only natural.’
‘Your prejudices are showing.’
‘Nobody’s perfect. Why this sudden interest in ancient history?’
‘There’s a wild story running through Lamorkand that Drychtnath’s returned. They’re all sitting around sharpening swords with exalted expressions on their faces. What’s the real significance of that?’
‘He was their king several thousand years ago. It was shortly after you Elenes discovered fire and came out of your caves.’
‘Be nice.’
‘Yes, father. Anyway, Drychtnath hammered all the Lamorks into something that sort of resembled unity and then set out to con
quer the world. The Lamorks were very impressed with him. He worshipped the old Lamork Gods, though, and your Elene Church was a little uncomfortable with the notion of a pagan sitting on the throne of the whole world, so she had him murdered.’
‘The Church wouldn’t do that,’ he said flatly.
‘Did you want to listen to the story? or did you want to argue theology? After Drychtnath died, the Lamork priests disembowelled a few chickens and fondled their entrails in order to read the future. That’s really a disgusting practice, Sparhawk. It’s so messy.’ She shuddered.
‘Don’t blame me. I didn’t think it up.’
‘The “auguries”, as they called them, said that one day Drychtnath would return to take up where he’d left off and that he’d lead the Lamorks to world domination.’
‘You mean they actually believe that?’
‘They did once.’
‘There are some rumours up there of backsliding – reversion to the worship of the old Pagan Gods.’
‘It’s the sort of thing you’d expect. When a Lamork starts thinking about Drychtnath, he automatically hauls the old Gods out of the closet. It’s so foolish. Aren’t there enough real Gods for them?’
‘The old Lamork Gods aren’t real, then?’
‘Of course not. Where’s your mind, Sparhawk?’
‘The Troll-Gods are real. What’s the difference?’
‘There’s all the difference in the world, father. Any child can see that.’