to bite Sparhawk three times as the big knight was climbing out of his saddle. The bites were intended more as an indication of disapproval than arising from any serious desire to injure or maim. Faran had discovered early in life that biting his master when he was wearing full armour only led to aching teeth. When the big roan half-whirled and kicked Sparhawk solidly on the hip, however, Sparhawk felt that it was time to take steps. With Kalten’s help, he rose to his feet, pushed back his visor and pulled himself hand over hand up the reins to glare directly into the ugly warhorse’s face. ‘Stop it!’ he snapped.
Faran glared back at him with hate-filled eyes.
Sparhawk moved his hand very quickly then and grasped the roan’s left ear in his gauntleted fist. Grimly he began to twist.
Faran ground his teeth together, and tears actually appeared in his eyes. ‘Do we understand each other?’ Sparhawk grated.
Faran kicked him in the knee with one fore-hoof.
‘It’s up to you, Faran,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘You’re going to look ridiculous without that ear, though.’ He twisted harder until his horse grudgingly squealed in pain.
‘Always nice talking with you, Faran,’ Sparhawk said, releasing the ear. Then he stroked the sweat-soaked neck. ‘You big old fool,’ he said gently. ‘Are you all right?’
Faran flicked his ears – his right one, anyway – with an ostentatious display of indifference.
‘It’s really necessary, Faran,’ Sparhawk explained. ‘I’m not riding you this hard for fun. It won’t be much farther. Can I trust you now?’
Faran sighed and pawed at the ground with one fore-hoof.
‘Good,’ Sparhawk said. ‘Let’s walk for a while.’
‘That is truly uncanny,’ Preceptor Abriel said to Vanion. ‘I’ve never seen horse and man so totally linked before.’
‘It’s a part of Sparhawk’s advantage, my friend,’ Vanion said. ‘He’s bad enough by himself, but when you put him on that horse, he turns into a natural disaster.’
They walked on for a mile or so, then remounted and rode on through the afternoon sunlight towards the Holy City.
It was nearly midnight when they crossed the wide bridge over the River Arruk and approached one of the west gates of Chyrellos. The gate, of course, was guarded by church soldiers. ‘I cannot grant you entry until sunrise, My Lords,’ the captain in charge of the guard detachment said firmly. ‘By order of the Hierocracy, no one under arms may enter Chyrellos during the hours of darkness.’
Preceptor Komier reached for his axe.
‘A moment, my friend,’ Preceptor Abriel cautioned mildly. ‘I believe there’s a way to resolve this difficulty without unpleasantness. Captain,’ he addressed the red-tunicked soldier.
‘Yes, My Lord?’ The captain’s voice was insultingly smug.
‘This order you mentioned, does it apply to members of the Hierocracy itself?’
‘My Lord?’ The captain seemed confused.
‘It’s a simple question, Captain. A yes or a no will suffice. Does the order apply to the Patriarchs of the Church?’
‘No one may hinder a Church Patriarch, My Lord,’ the captain floundered a bit.
‘Your Grace,’ Abriel corrected.
The captain blinked stupidly.
‘The correct form of address when speaking to a Patriarch is “Your Grace”, Captain. By Church Law, my three companions and I are, in fact, Patriarchs of the Church. Form up your men, Captain. We will inspect them.’
The captain hesitated.
‘I speak for the Church, Lieutenant,’ Abriel said. ‘Will you defy her?’
‘Uh – I’m a captain, Your Grace,’ the man mumbled.
‘You were a captain, Lieutenant, but not any more. Now, would you like to be a sergeant again? If not, you’ll do as I say immediately.’
‘At once, Your Grace,’ the shaken man replied. ‘You there!’ he shouted. ‘All of you! Fall in and prepare for inspection!’
The appearance of the detachment at the gate was, in Preceptor – ah, shall we say instead Patriarch – Darellon’s words, disgraceful. Reprimands were freely distributed in blistering terms, and then the column entered the Holy City without any further hindrance. There was no laughter – nor even any smiles – until the armoured men were well out of earshot of the gates. The discipline of the Knights of the Church is the wonder of the known world.
Despite the lateness of the hour, the streets of Chyrellos were heavily patrolled by church soldiers. Sparhawk knew these kinds of men, and he knew that their loyalty was for sale. They served only for the pay in most cases. Because of their numbers here in the Holy City, they had become accustomed to behaving with a certain arrogant rudeness. The appearance of four hundred armoured Church Knights in the streets at the ominous hour of midnight engendered what Sparhawk felt to be a becoming humility, however – at least among the common troops. It took the officers a bit longer to grasp the truth. It always does, somehow. One obnoxious young fellow tried to block their path, demanding to examine their documents. He seemed quite puffed-up with his own importance and failed to look behind him. He was thus unaware of the fact that his troops had discreetly gone somewhere else. He continued to deliver his peremptory commands in a shrill voice, demanding this and insisting on that until Sparhawk loosened Faran’s reins and rode him down at a deliberate walk. Faran made a special point of grinding his steel-shod hooves into a number of very sensitive places on the officer’s body.
‘Feel better now?’ Sparhawk asked his horse.
Faran nickered wickedly.
‘Kalten,’ Vanion said, ‘let’s get started. Break the column up into groups of ten. Fan out through the city and let it be generally known that the Knights of the Church offer their protection to any Patriarch desiring to go to the Basilica to participate in the voting.’
‘Yes, My Lord Vanion,’ Kalten said. ‘I’ll go and wake up the Holy City. I’m sure everybody is breathlessly waiting to hear the news I bring.’
‘Do you think there’s ever going to be any hope that someday he’ll grow up?’ Sparhawk said.
‘I rather hope not,’ Vanion said gently. ‘No matter how old the rest of us get, we’ll always have an eternal boy in our midst. That’s sort of comforting, really.’
The Preceptors, followed by Sparhawk, his friends and a twenty-man detachment under the command of Sir Perraine proceeded along the broad avenue.
Dolmant’s modest house was guarded by a platoon of soldiers, and Sparhawk recognized their officer as one loyal to the Patriarch of Demos. ‘Thank God!’ the young man exclaimed as the knights reined in just outside Dolmant’s gate.
‘We were in the area and thought we’d stop by to pay a courtesy call,’ Vanion said with a dry smile. ‘His Grace has been well, I trust?’
‘He’ll
