thinks of everything, doesn’t she?’ Sparhawk observed.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Let’s see what we can do.’
Several acolytes were sent scurrying to various places in the chapterhouse for a number of articles. Sephrenia considered each one of them, selecting some and discarding others. What emerged after about an hour were two men who only faintly resembled the pair of Pandions who had first entered the room. Sparhawk now wore a plain livery not unlike Kurik’s, and he carried a short sword. A fierce black beard was glued to his face, and a purple scar ran across his broken nose and up under a black patch that covered his left eye.
‘This thing itches,’ he complained, reaching up to scratch at the false beard.
‘Keep your fingers off of it until the glue dries,’ she told him, lightly slapping his knuckles. ‘And put on a glove to cover that ring.’
‘Do you actually expect me to carry this toy?’ Kalten demanded, flourishing a light rapier. ‘I want a sword, not a knitting needle.’
‘Courtiers don’t carry broadswords, Kalten,’ she reminded him. She looked at him critically. His doublet was bright blue, gored and inset with red satin. His hose matched the goring, and he wore soft half-boots, since no pair of the pointed shoes currently in fashion could be found to fit his huge feet. His cape was of pale pink, and his freshly curled blond hair spilled down over the collar. He also wore a broad-brimmed hat adorned with a white plume. ‘You look beautiful, Kalten,’ she complimented him. ‘I think you might pass – once I rouge your cheeks.’
‘Absolutely not!’ He backed away from her.
‘Kalten,’ she said quite firmly, ‘sit down.’ She pointed at a chair and reached for a rouge pot.
‘Do I have to?’
‘Yes. Now sit.’
Kalten looked at Sparhawk. ‘If you laugh, we’re going to fight, so don’t even think about it.’
‘Me?’
Since the chapterhouse was watched at all times by the agents of the Primate Annias, Vanion came up with a suggestion that was part subterfuge and part utilitarian. ‘I need to transfer some things to the inn anyway,’ he explained. ‘Annias knows that the inn belongs to us, so we’re not giving anything away. We’ll hide Kalten in the wagon bed and turn this good, honest fellow into a teamster.’ He looked pointedly at the patch-eyed, bearded Sparhawk. ‘Where on earth did you find so close a match to his real hair?’ he asked Sephrenia curiously.
She smiled. ‘The next time you go into the stables, don’t look too closely at your horse’s tail.’
‘My horse?’
‘He was the only black horse in the stable, Vanion, and I didn’t take all that much, really.’
‘My horse?’ he repeated, looking injured.
‘We must all make sacrifices now and then,’ she told him. ‘It’s a part of the Pandion oath, remember?’
The wagon was rickety, and the horse was spavined. Sparhawk slouched on the wagon seat with the reins held negligently in one hand and apparently paying very little attention to the people in the street around him.
The wheels wobbled and creaked as the wagon jolted over a rutted place in the stone-paved street. ‘Sparhawk, do you have to hit every single bump?’ Kalten’s muffled voice came from under the boxes and bales loosely piled around him in the back of the wagon.
‘Keep quiet,’ Sparhawk muttered. ‘Two church soldiers are coming this way.’
Kalten grumbled a few choice oaths, then fell silent.
The church soldiers wore red livery and disdainful expressions. As they walked through the crowded streets, the workmen and blue-clad merchants stepped aside for them. Sparhawk reined in his nag, stopping the wagon in the exact centre of the street so that the soldiers would be forced to go around him. ‘Morning, neighbours,’ he greeted them.
They glared at him, then walked on around the wagon.
‘Have a pleasant day,’ he called after them.
They ignored him.
‘What was that all about?’ Kalten demanded in a low voice from the wagon bed.
‘Just checking my disguise,’ Sparhawk replied, shaking the reins.
‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘Does it work?’
‘They didn’t give me a second glance.’
‘How much farther to the inn? I’m suffocating under all this.’
‘Not too much farther.’
‘Give me a big surprise, Sparhawk. Miss a bump or two – just for the sake of variety.’
The wagon creaked on.
At the barred gate of the inn, Sparhawk climbed down from the wagon and pounded the rhythmic signal on its stout timbers. After a moment the knight porter opened the gate. He looked at Sparhawk carefully. ‘Sorry, friend,’ he said. ‘The inn’s all full.’
‘We won’t be staying, Sir Knight,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘We just brought a load of supplies from the chapterhouse.’
The porter’s eyes widened and he peered more closely at the big man. ‘Is that you, Sir Sparhawk?’ he asked incredulously. ‘I didn’t even recognize you.’
‘That was sort of the idea. You aren’t supposed to.’
The knight pushed the gate open, and Sparhawk led the weary horse into the courtyard. ‘You can get out now,’ he said to Kalten as the porter closed the gate.
‘Help get all this off me.’
Sparhawk moved a few of the boxes, and Kalten came squirming out.
The knight porter gave the big blond man an amused look.
‘Go ahead and say it,’ Kalten said in a belligerent tone.
‘I wouldn’t dream of it, Sir Knight.’
Sparhawk took a long, rectangular box out of the wagon bed and hoisted it up onto his shoulder. ‘Get somebody to help you with these supplies,’ he told the porter. ‘Preceptor Vanion sent them. And take care of the horse. He’s tired.’
‘Tired? Dead would be closer.’ The porter eyed the disconsolate-looking nag.
‘He’s old, that’s all. It happens to all of us sooner or later. Is the back door to the tavern open?’ He looked across the courtyard at a deeply inset doorway.
‘It’s
