it smell almost edible.’
‘It’s probably the cloves,’ he shrugged. ‘Nobody’s really all that fond of the taste of pork, when you get right down to it, but my mother taught me that almost anything can be made edible – if you use enough spices. You might want to keep that in mind the next time you’re thinking about serving up a goat.’
She stuck her tongue out at him, and then she vanished.
It was snowing in the mountains of Zemoch, a dry, brittle snow that settled like a cloud of feathers in the dead calm air. It was bitterly cold, and a huge cloud of steam hung like a low-lying fog over the horses of the army of the Knights of the Church as they plodded forward, their hooves sending the powdery snow swirling into the air again. The preceptors of the militant orders rode in the lead, dressed in full armor and bundled in furs. Preceptor Abriel of the Cyrinic Knights, still vigorous despite his advanced age, rode with Darellon, the Alcione Preceptor, and with Sir Heldin, a scarred old veteran who was filling in as leader of the Pandions during Sparhawk’s absence. Patriarch Bergsten rode somewhat apart. The huge Churchman was muffled to the ears in fur, and his Ogre-horned helmet made him look very warlike, an appearance offset to some degree by the small, black-bound prayer book he was reading. Preceptor Komier of the Genidians was off ahead with the scouts.
‘I don’t think I’ll ever be warm again,’ Abriel groaned, pulling his fur cloak tighter about him. ‘Old age thins the blood. Don’t ever get old, Darellon.’
‘The alternative isn’t very attractive, Lord Abriel.’ Darellon was a slender Deiran who appeared to have been swallowed up by his massive armor. He lowered his voice. ‘You didn’t really have to come along, my friend,’ he said. ‘Sarathi would have understood.’
‘Oh, no, Darellon. This is probably my last campaign. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’ Abriel peered ahead. ‘What’s Komier doing out there?’
‘Lord Komier said that he wanted to take a look at the ruins of Zemoch,’ Sir Heldin replied in his rumbling basso. ‘I guess Thalesians take a certain pleasure in viewing the wreckage after a war’s over.’
‘They’re a barbaric people,’ Abriel muttered sourly. He glanced quickly at Bergsten, who seemed totally immersed in his prayer book. ‘You don’t necessarily have to repeat that, gentlemen,’ he said to Darellon and Heldin.
‘I wouldn’t dream of it, Abriel,’ Bergsten said, not looking up from his prayer book.
‘You’ve got unwholesomely sharp ears, your Grace.’
‘It comes from listening to confessions. People tend to shout the sins of others from the rooftops, but you can barely hear them when they’re describing their own.’ Bergsten looked up and pointed. ‘Komier’s coming back.’
The Preceptor of the Genidian Knights was in high spirits as he reined in his horse, swirling up a huge billow of the dustlike snow. ‘Sparhawk doesn’t leave very much standing when he destroys a place,’ he announced cheerfully. ‘I didn’t entirely believe Ulath when he told me that our broken-nosed friend blew the lid off the Temple of Azash, but I do now. You’ve never seen such a wreck. I doubt if there’s a habitable building left in the whole city.’
‘You really enjoy that sort of thing, don’t you, Komier?’ Abriel accused.
‘That’s enough of that, gentlemen!’ Bergsten cut in quickly. ‘We’re not going to resurrect that worn-out old dispute again. We make war in different ways. Arcians like to build forts and castles, and Thalesians like to knock them down. It’s all part of making war, and that’s what we get paid for.’
‘We, your Grace?’ Heldin rumbled mildly.
‘You know what I mean, Heldin. I don’t personally get involved in that any more, of course, but –’
‘Why did you bring your axe along then, Bergsten?’ Komier asked him.
Bergsten gave him a flat stare. ‘For old times’ sake – and because you Thalesian brigands pay closer attention to a man who’s got an axe in his hands.’
‘Knights, your Grace,’ Komier mildly corrected his countryman. ‘We’re called knights now. We used to be brigands, but now we’re behaving ourselves.’
‘The Church appreciates your efforts to mend your ways, my son, even though she knows that you’re lying in your teeth.’
Abriel carefully covered a smile. Bergsten was a former Genidian Knight himself, and sometimes his cassock slipped a bit. ‘Who’s got the map?’ he asked, more to head off the impending argument than out of any real curiosity.
Heldin unbuckled one of his saddle-bags, his black armor clinking. ‘What did you want to know, my Lord?’ he asked, taking out his map.
‘The usual. How far? How long? What sort of unpleasantness up ahead?’
‘It’s just over a hundred leagues to the Astellian border, my Lord,’ Heldin replied, consulting his map, ‘and nine hundred leagues from there to Matherion.’
‘A hundred days at least,’ Bergsten grunted sourly.
‘That’s if we don’t run into any trouble, your Grace,’ Darellon added.
‘Take a look back over your shoulder, Darellon. There are a hundred thousand Church Knights behind us. There’s no trouble that we can’t deal with. What sort of terrain’s up ahead, Heldin?’
‘There’s some sort of divide about three days east of here, your Grace. All the rivers on this side of it run down into the Gulf of Merjuk. On the other side, they run off into the Astel Marshes. I’d imagine that we’ll be going downhill after we cross that divide – unless Otha fixed it so that water runs uphill here in Zemoch.’
A Genidian Knight rode forward. ‘A messenger from Emsat just caught up with us, Lord Komier,’ he reported. ‘He says he has important news for you.’
Komier nodded, wheeled his horse and rode back toward the army. The rest of them pushed on as it started to snow a little harder.
Komier was laughing uproariously when he returned with the travel-stained messenger who had chased them down.
‘What’s so funny?’ Bergsten asked him.
‘We have good news from home, your Grace,’ Komier said gaily. ‘Tell our beloved Patriarch what you just told me,’ he instructed the messenger.
‘Yes, my Lord,’ the blond-braided Thalesian said. ‘It happened a few weeks back, your Grace. One morning the palace servants couldn’t find a trace of the Prince Regent anywhere at all. The guards tore the place apart for two straight days, but the little weasel seemed to have vanished entirely.’
‘Mind your manners, man,’ Bergsten snapped. ‘Avin’s the Prince Regent, after all – even if he is a little weasel.’
‘Sorry, your Grace. Anyway, the whole capital was mystified. Avin Wargunsson never went anywhere without taking a brass band along to blow fanfares announcing his coming.
