Eddings David - Tamuli - 01 - Domes of Fire Page 2

  run-down houses standing tightly packed beside each

  other, their second storeys projecting out over the wet

  littered streets. Sparhawk rode up a narrow, cobbled

  street with the slow clatter of the big roan's steel-shod

  hooves echoing back from the buildings. The night

  breeze had come up, and the crude signs identifying

  this or that tightly-shuttered shop on the street-level

  floors swung creaking on rusty hooks.

  A dog with nothing better to do came out of an alley to

  bark at them with brainless self-importance. Sparhawk's

  horse turned his head slightly to give the wet cur a

  long, level stare that spoke eloquently of death. The

  empty-headed dog's barking trailed off and he cringed

  back, his rat-like tail between his legs. The horse bore

  down on him purposefully. The dog whined, then

  yelped, turned and fled. Sparhawk's horse' snorted

  derisively.

  'That make you feel better, Faran?' Sparhawk asked

  the roan.

  Faran flicked his ears.

  "Shall we proceed then?'

  A torch burned fitfully at an intersection, and a buxom

  young whore in a cheap dress stood, wet and

  bedraggled, in its ruddy, flaring light. Her dark hair was

  plastered to her head, the rouge on her cheeks

  was streaked and she had a resigned expression on

  her face.

  'What are you doing out here in the rain, Naween?'

  Sparhawk asked her, reining in his horse.

  'I've been waiting for you, Sparhawk.' Her tone was

  arch, and her dark eyes wicked.

  'Or for anyone else?'

  'Of course. I am a professional, Sparhawk, but I still

  owe you. Shouldn't we settle up one of these days?'

  He ignored that. 'What are you doing working the

  streets?'

  "Shanda and I had a fight,' she shrugged. "I decided

  to go into business for myself.'

  'You're not vicious enough to be a street-girl,

  Naween.' He dipped his fingers into the pouch at his

  side, fished out several coins and gave them to her.

  'Here,' he instructed. 'Get a room in an inn someplace

  and stay off the streets for a few days. I'll talk with

  Platime, and we'll see if we can make some arrangements

  for you . '

  Her eyes narrowed. 'You don't have to do that,

  Sparhawk. I can take care of myself.'

  'Of )course you can. That's why you're standing out

  here in the rain. Just do it Naween. It's too late and too

  wet for arguments.'

  'This is two I owe you, Sparhawk. Are you absolutely

  sure . . . ?' She left it hanging.

  "Quite sure, little sister. I'm married now, remember?'

  'So?'

  'Never mind. Get in out of the weather.' Sparhawk

  rode on, )shaking his head. He liked Naween, but she

  was hopelessly incapable of taking care of herself.

  He passed through a quiet square where all the shops

  and booths were shut down. There were few people

  abroad tonight, and few business opportunities. He let

  his mind drift back over the past month and a half. No

  one in Lamorkand had been willing to talk with him.

  Archprelate Dolmant was a wise man, learned in doctrine

  and Church politics, but he was woefully ignorant

  of the way the common people thought. Sparhawk had

  patiently tried to explain to him that sending a Church

  Knight out to gather information was a waste of time,

  but Dolmant had insisted, and Sparhawk's oath obliged

  him to obey. And so it was that he had wasted six weeks

  in the ugly cities of southern Lamorkand where no one

  had been willing to talk with him about anything more

  serious than the weather. To make matters even worse,

  Dolmant had quite obviously blamed the knight for his

  own blunder.

  In a dark side-street where the water dripped monotonously

  onto the cobblestones from the eaves of the

  houses, he felt Faran's muscles tense. 'Sorry,' he said

  quietly. "I wasn't paying attention." Someone was

  watching him, and he could clearly sense the animosity

  which had alerted his horse. Faran was a war-horse,

  and he could probably sense antagonism in his veins.

  Sparhawk muttered a quick spell in the Styric tongue,

  concealing the gestures which accompanied it beneath

  his cloak. He released the spell slowly to avoid alerting

  whoever was watching him.

  The watcher was not an Elene. Sparhawk sensed that

  immediately. He probed further. Then he frowned.

  There were more than one, and they were not Styrics

  either. He pulled his thought back, passively waiting for

  some clue as to their identity.

  The realization came as a chilling shock. The watchers

  were not human. He shifted slightly in his saddle, sliding

  his hand toward his sword-hilt.

  Then the sense of the watchers was gone, and Faran

  shuddered with relief. He turned his ugly face to give

  his master a suspicious look.

  'Don't ask me, Faran,' Sparhawk told him. "I don't

  know either.' But that was not entirely true. The touch

  of the minds in the darkness had been vaguely familiar,

  and that familiarity had raised questions in Sparhawk's

  mind, questions he did not want to face.

  He paused at the palace gate long enough to firmly

  instruct the soldiers not to wake the whole house, and

  then he dismounted in the courtyard.

  A young man stepped out into the rain-swept yard

  from the stable. 'Why didn't you send word that you

  were coming, Sparhawk?' he asked very quietly.

  'Because I don't particularly like parades and wild

  celebrations in the middle of the night,' Sparhawk told

  his squire, throwing back the hood of his cloak. 'What

  are you doing up so late? I promised your mothers I'd

  make sure you got your rest. You're going to get me in

  trouble, Khalad.'

  'Are you trying to be Funny?' Khalad's voice was

  gruff, abrasive. He took Faran's reins. 'Come inside,

  Sparhawk. You'll rust if you stand out here in the

  rain.'

  'You're as bad as your father was.'

  "It's an old family trait.' Khalad led the prince consort

  and his evil-tempered warhorse into the hay-smelling

  stable where a pair of lanterns gave off a golden light.

  Khalad was a husky young man with coarse black hair

  and a short-trimmed black beard. He wore tight-fitting

  black leather breeches, boots and a sleeveless leather

  vest that left his arms and shoulders bare. A heavy

  dagger hung from his belt, and steel cuffs encircled his

  wrists. He looked and behaved so much like his father

  that Sparhawk felt again a brief, brief pang of loss. "I

  thought Talen would be coming back with you,' Sparhawk's

  squire said as he began unsaddling Faran.

  'He's got a cold. His mother - and yours - decided

  that he shouldn't go out in the weather, and I certainly

  wasn't going to argue with them.'

  'Wise decision,' Khalad said, absently slapping Faran

  on the nose as the big roan tried to bite him. 'How are


  they?'

  'Your mothers? Fine. Aslade's still trying to fatten Elys

  up, but she's not having too much luck. How did you

  find out I was in town?'

  'One of Platime's cut-throats saw you coming through

  the gate. He sent word.'

  "I suppose I should have known. You didn't wake my

  wife, did you?'

  'Not with Mirtai standing watch outside her door, I

  didn't. Give me that wet cloak, my Lord. I'll hang it in

  the kitchen to dry.'

  Sparhawk grunted and removed his sodden cloak.

  'The mail shirt too, Sparhawk,' Khalad added, 'before

  it rusts away entirely.'

  Sparhawk nodded, unbelted his sword and began to

  struggle out of his chain-mail shirt. 'How's your training

  going?' Khalad made an indelicate sound. "I haven't learned

  anything I didn't already know. My father was a much

  better instructor than the ones at the chapterhouse. This

  idea of yours isn't going to work, Sparhawk. The other

  novices are all aristocrats, and when my brothers and I

  outstrip them' on the practice field, they resent it. We

  make enemies every time we turn around.' He lifted the

  saddle from Faran's back and put it on the rail of a

  nearby stall. He briefly laid his hand on the big roan's

  back, then bent, picked up a handful of straw and began

  to rub him down.

  'Wake some groom and have him' do that,' Sparhawk

  told him. 'is anybody still awake in the kitchen?'

  'The bakers are already up, I think.'

  'Have one of them throw something together for me

  to eat. It's been a long time since lunch.'

  'All right. What took you so long in Chyrellos?'

  "I took a little side trip into Lamorkand. The civil war

  there's getting out of hand, and the Archprelate wanted

  me to nose around a bit.'

  'You should have got word to your wife. She was just

  about to send Mirtai out to find you.' Khalad grinned at

  him. "I think you're going to get yelled at again,

  Sparhawk.'

  There's nothing new about that. Is Kalten here in the

  palace?'

  Khalad nodded. 'The food's better here, and he isn't

  expected to pray three times a day. Besides, I think he's

  got his eye on one of the chambermaids.'

  That wouldn't surprise me very much. Is Stragen

  here too?'

  'No. Something came up, and he had to go back to

  Emsat.'

  'Get Kalten up then. Have him join us in the kitchen.

  I want to talk with him. I'll be along in a bit. I'm going

  to the bathhouse first.'

  'The water won't be warm. They let the fires go out

  at night.'

  'We're soldiers of God, Khalad. We're all supposed to

  be unspeakably brave.'

  'I'll try to remember that, my Lord.'

  The water in the bathhouse was definitely on the

  chilly side, so Sparhawk did not linger very long. He

  wrapped himself in a soft white robe and went into

  the dim corridors of the palace and to the brightly-lit

  kitchens where Khalad waited with the sleepy-looking

  Kalten.

  'Hail, Noble Prince Consort,' Kalten said drily. Sir

  Kalten obviously didn't care much for the idea of being

  roused in the middle of the night.

  'Hail, noble Boyhood Companion of the Noble Prince

  Consort,' Sparhawk replied.

  'Now there's a cumbersome title,' Kalten said sourly.

  What's so important that it won't wait until morning?'

  Sparhawk sat down at one of the work tables, and a

  white-smocked baker brought him a plate of roast beef

  and a steaming loaf still hot from the oven.

  'Thanks, neighbour,' Sparhawk said to him.

  'Where have you been, Sparhawk?' Kalten

  demanded, sitting down across the table from his friend.

  Kalten had a wine flagon in one hand and a tin cup in

  the other.

  'Sarathi sent me to Lamorkand,' Sparhawk replied,

  tearing a chunk of bread from the loaf.

  'Your wife's been making life miserable for everyone

  in the palace, you know.'

  "It's nice to know she cares.'

  'Not for any of the rest of us it isn't. What did Dolmant

  need from Lamorkand?'

  'information. He didn't altogether believe some of the

  reports he's been getting.'

  'What's not to believe? The Lamorks are just engaging

  in their national pastime - civil war.'

  'There seems to be something a little different this

  time. Do you remember Count Gerrich?'

  'The one who had us besieged in Baron Alstrom's

  castle? I never met him personally, but his name's sort

  of familiar.'

  'He seems to be coming out on top in the squabbles

  in western Lamorkand, and most everybody up there

  believes that he's got his eye on the throne.'

  'So?' Kalten helped himself to part of Sparhawk's loaf

  of bread. 'Every baron in Lamorkand has his eyes on

  the throne. What's got Dolmant so concerned about it

  this time?'

  'Gerrich's been making alliances beyond the borders

  of Lamorkand. Some of those border barons in Pelosia

  are more or less independent of King Saros.'

  'Everybody in Pelosia's independent of Saros. He isn't

  much of a king. He spends too much time praying.'

  'That's a strange position for a soldier of God,' Khalad

  murmured.

  'You've got to keep these things in perspective,

  Khalad,' Kalten told him. 'Too much praying softens a

  man's brains.'

  'Anyway,' Sparhawk went on. 'if Gerrich succeeds in

  dragging those Pelosian barons into his bid for King

  Friedahl's throne, Friedahl's going to have to declare

  war on Pelosia. The Church already has a war going on

  in Render, and Dolmant's not very enthusiastic about a

  second front.' He paused. "I ran across something else,

  though,' he added. "I overheard a conversation I wasn't

  supposed to. The name Drychtnath came up. Do you

  know anything about him?'

  Kalten shrugged. 'He was the national hero of the

  Lamorks some three or four thousand years ago. They

  say he was about twelve feet tall, ate an ox for breakfast

  every morning and drank a hogshead of mead every

  evening. The story has it that he could shatter rocks by

  scowling at them and reach up and stop the sun with

  one hand. The stories might be just a little bit exaggerated,

  though.'

  'Very funny. The group I overheard were all telling

  each other that he's returned.'

  'That'd be a neat trick. I gather that his closest friend

  killed him. Stabbed him in the back and then ran a spear

  through his heart. You know how Lamorks are.'

  'That's a strange name,' Khalad noted. 'What does it

  mean?'

  'Drychtnath?' Kalten scratched his head. "'Dreadnought",

  I think. Lamork mothers do that sort of thing

  to their children.' He drained his cup and tipped his

  flagon over it. A few drops came out. 'Are we going to

  be much longer at this?' he asked. 'if we're going to sit

  up talking all night, I'll get more wine. To be hones
t

  with you though, Sparhawk, I'd really rather go back to

  my nice warm bed.'

  'And your nice warm chambermaid?' Khalad added.

  "She gets lonesome,' Kalten shrugged. His face grew

  serious. 'if the Lamorks are talking about Drychtnath

  again, it means that they're starting to feel a little confined.

  Drychtnath wanted to rule the world, and any

  time the Lamorks start invoking his name, it's a fair

  indication that they're beginning to look beyond their

  borders for elbow room.'

  Sparhawk pushed back his plate. "It's too late at night

  to start worrying about it now. Go back to bed, Kalten.

  You too, Khalad. We can talk more about this tomorrow.

  I really ought to go pay a courtesy call on my wife.' He

  stood up.

  'That's all?' Kalten said. 'A courtesy call?'

  'There are many forms of courtesy, Kalten.'

  The corridors in the palace were dimly illuminated by

  widely-spaced candles. Sparhawk went quietly past the

  throne-room to the royal apartments. As usual, Mirtai

  dozed in a chair beside the door. Sparhawk stopped and

  considered the Tamul giantess. When her face was in

  repose, she was heart-stoppingly beautiful. Her skin

  was golden in the candlelight, and her eyelashes were

  so long that they touched her cheeks. Her sword lay in

  her lap with her hand lightly enclosing its hilt.

  'Don't try to sneak up on me, Sparhawk.' She said it

  without opening her eyes.

  'How did you know it was me?'

  "I could smell you. All you Elenes seem to forget that

  you have noses.'

  'How could you possibly smell me? I just took a bath.'

  'Yes. I noticed that too. You should have taken the

  time to let the water heat up a little more.'

  'Sometimes you amaze me, do you know that?'

  'You're easily amazed, Sparhawk.' She opened her

  eyes. 'Where have you been? Ehlana's been nearly

  frantic.'

  'How is she?'

  'About the same. Aren't you ever going to let her

  grow up? I'm getting very tired of being owned by a

  child.' In Mirtai's own eyes, she was a slave, the property

  of the Queen Ehlana. This in no way hindered her

  in ruling the royal family of Elenia with an iron fist,

  arbitrarily deciding what was good for them and what

  was not. She had brusquely dismissed all the queen's

  attempts to emancipate her, pointing out that she was

  an Atan Tamul, and that her race was temperamentally

  unsuited for freedom. Sparhawk tended strongly to

  agree with her, since he was fairly certain that if she