clenched his teeth. ‘I’m going to go back to Cimmura and disembowel Annias,’ he grated, ‘with a dull knife.’
The disreputable little physician suddenly looked interested. ‘You do it this way,’ he suggested. ‘Make a lateral incision just below the navel. Then kick him over backwards. Everything ought to fall out at that point.’
‘Thank you.’
‘No charge. If you’re going to do something, do it right. I take it that this Annias person is the one you think was responsible?’
‘Undoubtedly.’
‘Go ahead and kill him then. I despise a poisoner.’
‘Is there an antidote for this poison?’ Sephrenia asked.
‘None that I know of. I’d suggest talking with several physicians I know in Cippria, but your friend will be dead before you could get back.’
‘No,’ Sephrenia disagreed. ‘She’s being sustained.’
‘I’d like to know how you managed that.’
‘The lady is Styric,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘She has access to certain unusual things.’
‘Magic? Does that really work?’
‘At times, yes.’
‘All right, then. Maybe you do have time.’ The seedy-looking doctor ripped a corner off one of the papers on his desk and dipped a quill into a nearly dry inkpot. ‘The first two names here are those of a couple of fairly adept physicians in Cippria,’ he said as he scrawled on the paper. ‘This last one is the name of the poison.’ He handed the paper to Sparhawk. ‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘Now get out of here so I can continue what I was doing before you kicked in my door.’
‘Because you don’t look like Rendors,’ Sparhawk told them. ‘Foreigners attract a great deal of attention there – usually unfriendly. I can pass for a native in Cippria. So can Kurik. Rendorish women wear veils, so Sephrenia’s appearance won’t be a problem. The rest of you are going to have to stay behind.’
They were gathered in a large room on the upper floor of the inn near the university. The room was bare with only a few benches along the walls and no curtains at the narrow window. Sparhawk had reported what the tipsy physician had said and the fact that Martel had attempted subterfuge this time rather than a physical confrontation.
‘We could put something on our hair to change the colour,’ Kalten protested. ‘Wouldn’t that get us by?’
‘It’s the manner, Kalten,’ Sparhawk explained. ‘I could dye you green, and people would still know that you’re an Elenian. The same’s more or less true of the rest of you. You all have the bearing of knights. It takes years to erase that.’
‘You want us to stay here, then?’ Ulath asked.
‘No. Let’s all go down to Madel,’ Sparhawk decided. ‘If something unexpected comes up in Cippria, I can get word to you there faster.’
‘I think you’re overlooking something, Sparhawk,’ Kalten said. ‘We know that Martel’s moving around down here, and he’s probably got eyes everywhere. If we all ride out of Borrata in full armour, he’ll know about it before we cover half a league.’
‘Pilgrims,’ Ulath grunted cryptically.
‘I don’t quite follow you,’ Kalten said, frowning.
‘If we pack our armour in a cart and dress in sober clothes, we can join a group of pilgrims, and nobody’s going to give us a second glance.’ He looked at Bevier. ‘Do you know very much about Madel?’ he asked.
‘We have a chapterhouse there,’ Bevier replied. ‘I visit it from time to time.’
‘Are there any shrines or holy places there?’
‘Several. But pilgrims seldom travel in winter.’
‘They do if they get paid. ‘We’ll hire some – and a clergyman to sing hymns as we go along.’
‘It’s got possibilities, Sparhawk,’ Kalten said. ‘Martel doesn’t really know which way we’re going when we leave here, so his spies are going to be spread fairly thin.’
‘How will we know this Martel person?’ Bevier asked. ‘Should we encounter him while you’re in Cippria, I mean?’
‘Kalten knows him,’ Sparhawk replied, ‘and Talen has seen him once.’ Then he remembered something. He looked over at the boy, who was making a cat’s cradle to entertain Flute. ‘Talen,’ he said, ‘could you draw pictures of Martel and Krager?’
‘Of course.’
‘And we can conjure up the image of Adus as well,’ Sephrenia added.
‘Adus is easy,’ Kalten said. ‘Just put armour on a gorilla and you’ve got him.’
‘All right, we’ll do it that way, then,’ Sparhawk said. ‘Berit.’
‘Yes, Lord Sparhawk?’
‘Go and find a church somewhere – a poor one. Talk with the vicar. Tell him that we’ll finance a pilgrimage to the shrines in Madel. Ask him to pick a dozen or so of his neediest parishioners and to bring them here tomorrow morning. We’ll want him to come with us as well – to be the caretaker of our souls. And tell him that we’ll make a sizeable contribution to his church if he agrees.’
‘Won’t he ask about our motives, my Lord?’
‘Tell him that we’ve committed a dreadful sin and want to atone for it,’ Kalten shrugged. ‘Just don’t be too specific about the sin.’
‘Sir Kalten!’ Bevier gasped. ‘You would lie to a churchman?’
‘It’s not exactly a lie, Bevier. We’ve all committed sins. I’ve sinned at least a half-dozen times this week already. Besides, the vicar of a poor church isn’t going to ask too many questions when there’s a contribution involved.’
Sparhawk took a leather pouch from inside his tunic. He shook it a few times, and a distinctive jingling sound came from it. ‘All right, gentlemen,’ he said, untying the top of the pouch, ‘we’ve reached the part of this service you all enjoy the most – the offertory. God appreciates a generous giver, so don’t be shy. The vicar will need cash to hire pilgrims.’ He passed the pouch around.
‘Do you think God might accept a promissory note?’ Kalten asked.
‘God might. I won’t. Put something in the pouch, Kalten.’
The group that gathered in the innyard the following morning was uniformly shabby – widows in patched mourning, out-of-work artisans and several hungry beggars. They were all mounted on weary nags or sleepy-looking mules. Sparhawk looked at them from the window. ‘Tell the innkeeper
