man called after him shrilly. ‘I’m going straight to Baron Harparin. I’m going to tell him that you’ve come back to Cimmura and about how you hit me and threatened me.’
‘Good,’ Sparhawk replied without turning. ‘Do that.’ He continued to walk away, his irritation and disappointment rising to the point where he had to clench his teeth tightly to keep himself under control. Then an idea came to him. It was petty –even childish – but for some reason it seemed quite appropriate. He stopped and straightened his shoulders, muttering under his breath in the Styric tongue, even as his fingers wove intricate designs in the air in front of him. He hesitated slightly, groping for the word for carbuncle. He finally settled for boils instead and completed the incantation. He turned slightly, looked at his tormentor, and released the spell. Then he turned back and continued on across the square, smiling slightly to himself. It was, to be sure, quite petty, but Sparhawk was like that sometimes.
He handed the food vendor a coin for minding Faran, swung up into his saddle, and rode across the square in the misty drizzle, a big man shrouded in a rough woollen cloak, astride an ugly-faced roan horse.
Once he was past the square, the streets were dark and empty again, with guttering torches hissing in the rain at intersections and casting their dim, sooty orange glow. The sound of Faran’s hooves was loud in the empty street. Sparhawk shifted slightly in his saddle. The sensation he felt was very faint, a kind of prickling of the skin across his shoulders and up the back of his neck, but he recognized it immediately. Someone was watching him, and the watcher was not friendly. Sparhawk shifted again, carefully trying to make the movement appear to be no more than the uncomfortable fidgeting of a saddle-weary traveller. His right hand, however, was concealed beneath his cloak, and it sought the hilt of his sword. The oppressive sense of malevolence increased, and then, in the shadows beyond the flickering torch at the next intersection, he saw a figure robed and hooded in a dark grey garment that blended so well into the shadows and wreathing drizzle that the watcher was almost invisible.
The roan tensed his muscles, and his ears flicked.
‘I see him, Faran.’ Sparhawk replied very quietly.
They continued on along the cobblestone street, passing through the pool of orange torchlight and on into the shadowy street beyond. Sparhawk’s eyes readjusted to the dark, but the hooded figure had already vanished up some alleyway or through one of the narrow doors along the street. The sense of being watched was gone, and the street was no longer a place of danger. Faran moved on, his hooves clattering on the wet stones.
The inn which was Sparhawk’s destination was on an unobtrusive back street. It was gated at the front of its central courtyard with stout oaken planks. Its walls were peculiarly high and thick, and a single, dim lantern glowed beside a much-weathered wooden sign that creaked mournfully as it swung back and forth in the rain-filled night breeze. Sparhawk pulled Faran close to the gate, leaned back in his saddle, and kicked the rain-blackened planks solidly with one spurred foot. There was a peculiar rhythm to the kicks.
He waited.
Then the gate creaked inward and the shadowy form of a porter, hooded in black, looked out. He nodded briefly, then pulled the gate wider to admit Sparhawk. The big knight rode into the rain-wet courtyard and slowly dismounted. The porter swung the gate shut and barred it, then he pushed his hood back from his steel helm, turned, and bowed. ‘My Lord,’ he greeted Sparhawk respectfully.
‘It’s too late at night for formalities, Sir Knight,’ Sparhawk responded, also with a brief bow.
‘Formality is the very soul of gentility, Sir Sparhawk,’ the porter replied ironically. ‘I try to practise it whenever I can.’
‘As you wish.’ Sparhawk shrugged. ‘Will you see to my horse?’
‘Of course. Your man, Kurik, is here.’
Sparhawk nodded, untying the two heavy leather bags from the skirt of his saddle.
‘I’ll take those up for you, my Lord,’ the porter offered.
‘There’s no need. Where’s Kurik?’
‘First door at the top of the stairs. Will you want supper?’
Sparhawk shook his head. ‘Just a bath and a warm bed.’ He turned to his horse, who stood dozing with one hind leg cocked slightly so that his hoof rested on its tip. ‘Wake up, Faran,’ he told the animal.
Faran opened his eyes and gave him a flat, unfriendly stare.
‘Go with this knight,’ Sparhawk instructed firmly. ‘Don’t try to bite him, or kick him, or pin him against the side of the stall with your rump – and don’t step on his feet, either.’
The big roan briefly laid back his ears and then sighed.
Sparhawk laughed. ‘Give him a few carrots,’ he instructed the porter.
‘How can you tolerate this foul-tempered brute, Sir Sparhawk?’
‘We’re perfectly matched,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘It was a good ride, Faran,’ he said then to the horse. ‘Thank you, and sleep warm.’
The horse turned his back on him.
‘Keep your eyes open, Sir Knight,’ Sparhawk cautioned the porter. ‘Someone was watching me as I rode here, and I got the feeling that it was a little more than idle curiosity.’
The knight porter’s face hardened. ‘I’ll attend to it, my Lord,’ he said.
‘Good.’ Sparhawk turned and crossed the wet, glistening stones of the courtyard and mounted the steps leading to the roofed gallery on the upper floor of the inn.
The inn was a well-kept secret that few in Cimmura knew about. Though ostensibly no different from any of dozens of others, this particular establishment was owned and operated by the Knights Pandion, and it provided a safe haven for any of their number who, for one reason or another, were reluctant to avail themselves of the facilities of their chapterhouse on the eastern outskirts of the city.
At the top of the stairs, Sparhawk stopped and tapped his fingertips lightly on the first door. After a moment, the door opened. The man inside was burly, and he had iron-grey hair and a coarse, short-trimmed beard. His hose and boots were of black leather, and his long waistcoat was of the same material. A heavy dagger hung from his belt, steel cuffs encircled his wrists, and his heavily-muscled arms and shoulders were bare. He was not a handsome man, and his eyes were as hard as agates. ‘You’re late,’ he said flatly.
‘A few interruptions along the way,’ Sparhawk replied laconically, stepping into the warm, candlelit room. The bare-shouldered man closed the door behind him and slid the bolt with a solid clank. Sparhawk looked at him. ‘I trust you’ve been well, Kurik?’ he said to the man he had not seen for ten years.
‘Passable. Get out of that wet cloak.’
Sparhawk grinned, dropped his saddlebags to the floor and undid the clasp of his dripping woollen cloak. ‘How are Aslade and the boys?’
‘Growing,’ Kurik grunted, taking the cloak. ‘My sons are getting taller and Aslade’s getting fatter. Farm life agrees with her.’
‘You like plump women, Kurik,’ Sparhawk reminded his squire. ‘That’s why you married her.’
Kurik
