squire grunted and rose to his feet. ‘You two must be hungry,’ he said. ‘I’ll go down to the galley and get you some supper. We can talk some more while you’re eating.’
‘No pork,’ Sephrenia told him firmly.
‘Bread and cheese, then?’ he suggested. ‘And maybe some fruit?’
‘That would be fine, Kurik. You’d probably better bring enough for Flute as well. I know she’s not going to eat that stew.’
‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’ll eat it for her. I don’t have the same kind of prejudices that you Styrics do.’
It was overcast when they reached the port city of Cippria three days later. The cloud cover was high and thin, and there was no trace of moisture in it. The city was low, with squat white buildings thickly walled to ward off the heat of the southern sun. The wharves jutting out into the harbour were constructed of stone, since Rendor was a kingdom largely devoid of trees.
Sparhawk and the others came up on deck, wearing hooded black robes, just as the sailors were mooring Captain Sorgi’s ship to one of the wharves. They went up the three steps to the quarterdeck to join the curly-haired seaman.
‘Get some fenders between our side and that wharf!’ Sorgi roared at the seamen who were snubbing off the mooring lines. He shook his head in disgust. ‘I have to tell them that every single time we dock,’ he muttered. ‘All they can think about when we make port is the nearest alehouse.’ He looked at Sparhawk. ‘Well, Master Cluff,’ he said. ‘Have you changed your mind?’
‘I’m afraid not, Captain,’ Sparhawk replied, setting down the bundle containing his spare clothing. ‘I’d like to oblige you, but the lady I mentioned seems to have all her hopes pinned on me. It’s for your own good, actually. If you show up at her house with an introduction from me, her cousins might decide to wring my location out of you. Being wrung is not my idea of a good time. Besides, I don’t want to take any chances.’
Sorgi grunted. Then he looked at them all curiously. ‘Where did you come by the Rendorish clothing?’
‘I did some bargaining in your forecastle yesterday.’ Sparhawk shrugged, plucking at the front of the hooded black robe he wore. ‘Some of your sailors like to be unobtrusive when they make port here in Rendor.’
‘How well I know,’ Sorgi said wryly. ‘I spent three days looking for the ship’s cook the last time I was in Jiroch.’ He looked at Sephrenia, who was also robed in black and wore a heavy veil across her face. ‘Where did you find anything to fit her?’ he asked. ‘None of my sailors are that small.’
‘She’s very adept with her needle.’ Sparhawk did not think it necessary to explain exactly how Sephrenia had changed the colour of her white robe.
Sorgi scratched at his curly hair. ‘I can’t for the life of me understand why most Rendors wear black,’ he said. ‘Don’t they know that it’s twice as hot?’
‘Maybe they haven’t realized that yet,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Rendors are none too bright in the first place, and they’ve only been here for five thousand years.’
Sorgi laughed. ‘Maybe that’s it,’ he said. ‘Good fortune here in Cippria, Master Cluff,’ he said. ‘If I happen to run across any cousins, I’ll tell them that I’ve never heard of you.’
‘Thank you, Captain,’ Sparhawk said, clasping Sorgi’s hand. ‘You have no idea how much I appreciate that.’
They led their horses down the slanting gangway to the wharf. At Kurik’s suggestion, they covered their saddles with blankets to conceal the fact that they were not of Rendorish construction. Then they all tied their bundles to their saddles, mounted, and moved away from the harbour at an unobtrusive walk. The streets were teeming with Rendors. The city dwellers sometimes wore lighter-coloured clothing, but the desert people were all dressed in unrelieved black and had their hoods up. There were few women in the street, and they were all veiled. Sephrenia rode subserviently behind Sparhawk and Kurik with her hood pulled far forward and her veil drawn tightly across her nose and mouth.
‘You know the customs here, I see,’ Sparhawk said back over his shoulder.
‘I was here many years ago,’ she replied, drawing her robe around Flute’s knees.
‘How many years?’
‘Would you like to have me tell you that Cippria was only a fishing village then?’ she asked archly. ‘Twenty or so mud huts?’
He looked back at her sharply. ‘Sephrenia, Cippria’s been a major seaport for fifteen hundred years.’
‘My,’ she said, ‘has it really been that long? It seems like only yesterday. Where does the time go?’
‘That’s impossible!’
She laughed gaily. ‘How gullible you can be sometimes, Sparhawk,’ she said. ‘You know I’m not going to answer that kind of question, so why keep trying?’
He suddenly felt more than a little sheepish. ‘I suppose I asked for that, didn’t I?’ he admitted.
‘Yes, you did.’
Kurik was grinning broadly.
‘Go ahead and say it,’ Sparhawk told him sourly.
‘Say what, my Lord?’ Kurik’s eyes were wide and innocent.
They rode up from the harbour, mingling with robed Rendors in the narrow, twisting streets. Although the overcast veiled the sun, Sparhawk could still feel the heat radiating out from the white-plastered walls of the houses and shops. He could also catch the familiar scents of Rendor. The air was close and dusty, and there was the pervading odour of mutton simmering in olive oil and pungent spices. There was the cloying fragrance of heavy perfumes, and overlaying it all was the persistent reek of the stockyards.
Near the centre of town, they passed the mouth of a narrow alley. A chill touched Sparhawk, and suddenly, as clearly as if they were actually ringing out their call, he seemed once again to hear the sound of the bells.
‘Something wrong?’ Kurik asked as he saw his lord shudder.
‘That’s the alley where I saw Martel last time.’
Kurik peered up the alley. ‘Tight quarters in there,’ he noted.
‘That’s all that kept me alive,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘They couldn’t come at me all at once.’
‘Where are we going, Sparhawk?’ Sephrenia asked from the rear.
‘To the monastery where I stayed after I was wounded,’ he replied. ‘I don’t think we want to be seen in the streets. The abbot and most of the monks out there are Arcian, and they know how to keep secrets.’
‘Will I be welcome there?’ she asked dubiously. ‘Arcian monks are conservative, and they have certain prejudices where Styrics are concerned.’
‘This particular abbot is a bit more cosmopolitan,’ Sparhawk assured her, ‘and I have a few suspicions about his monastery anyway.’
‘Oh?’
