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 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
