Domes of Fire

‘It’s a brutal world, your Excellency,’ Ulath shrugged.

‘I’d have to disagree,’ Bevier stubbornly asserted.

‘Go right ahead, my young friend,’ Ulath smiled. ‘I don’t mind all that much when people disagree with me.’

‘There is such a thing as genuine political progress. The people’s lot is much better now than it was five hundred years ago.’

‘Granted, but what’s it going to be like next year?’ Ulath leaned back in his saddle, his blue eyes speculative. ‘Ambitious people need followers, and the best way to get people to follow you is to promise them that you’re going to correct everything that’s wrong with the world. The promises are all very stirring, but only babies expect leaders to actually keep them.’

‘You’re a cynic, Ulath.’

‘I think that’s the word people use, yes.’

The weather grew increasingly threatening as the morning progressed. A thick bank of purplish cloud marched steadily in from the west, and there were flickers of lightning along the horizon. ‘It’s going to rain, isn’t it?’ Tynian asked Khalad.

Khalad looked pointedly toward the cloud-bank. ‘That’s a fairly safe bet, Sir Knight,’ the young man replied.

‘How long until we start to get wet?’

‘An hour or so – unless the wind picks up.’

‘What do you think, Sparhawk?’ Tynian asked. ‘Should we look for some kind of shelter?’

There was a far-off rumble of thunder from the west.

‘I think that answers that question,’ Sparhawk decided. ‘Men dressed in steel don’t have any business being out in a thunderstorm.’

‘Good point,’ Tynian agreed. He looked around. ‘The next question is where? I don’t see any woods around.’

‘We might have to set up the tents.’

‘That’s awfully tedious, Sparhawk.’

‘So’s being fried in your armour if you get struck by lightning.’

Kring came riding back toward the main column with a small, two-wheeled carriage following him. The man in the carriage was blond, plump and soft-looking. He wore clothing cut in a style which had gone out of fashion in the west forty years ago. ‘This is the landowner Kotyk,’ the Domi said to Sparhawk. ‘He calls himself a baron. He wanted to meet you.’

‘I am overwhelmed to meet the stalwarts of the Church, Sir Knights,’ the plump man gushed.

‘We are honoured, Baron Kotyk,’ Sparhawk replied, inclining his head politely.

‘My manor house is nearby,’ Kotyk rushed on, ‘and I do foresee unpleasant weather on the horizon. Might I offer my poor hospitality?’

‘As I’ve told you so many times in the past, Sparhawk,’ Bevier said mildly, ‘you have but to put your trust in God. He will provide.’

Kotyk looked puzzled.

‘A somewhat feeble attempt at humour, my Lord,’ Sparhawk explained. ‘My companions and I were just discussing our need for shelter. Your most generous offer solves a rather vexing problem for us.’ Sparhawk was not familiar with local customs, but the Baron’s ornate speech hinted at a somewhat stiff formality.

‘I note that you have ladies in your company,’ Kotyk observed, looking toward the carriage in which Ehlana rode. ‘Their comfort must be our first concern. We can become better acquainted once we are safely under my roof.’

‘We shall be guided by you, my Lord,’ Sparhawk agreed. ‘I pray you, lead us whither you will, and I shall inform the ladies of this fortuitous encounter.’ If Kotyk wanted formal, Sparhawk would give him formal. He wheeled Faran and rode back along the column.

‘Who’s the fat fellow in the carriage, Sparhawk?’ Ehlana asked.

‘Speak not disparagingly of our host, light of my life.’

‘Aren’t you feeling well?’

‘The fat fellow has just offered us shelter from that thunderstorm snapping at our heels. Treat him with gratitude if not respect.’

‘What a nice man.’

‘It might not be a bad idea for us to sort of keep your identity to ourselves. We don’t know exactly what we’re walking into. Why don’t I just introduce you as an aristocrat of some kind, and –’

‘A Margravine, I think,’ she improvised. ‘Margravine Ehlana of Cardos.’

‘Why Cardos?’

‘It’s a nice district with mountains and a beautiful coastline. Absolutely perfect climate and industrious, law-abiding people.’

‘You’re not trying to sell it to him, Ehlana.’

‘But I need to know the pertinent details so that I can gush suitably.’

Sparhawk sighed. ‘All right, my Lady, practise gushing then, and come up with suitable stories for the others.’ He looked at Emban. ‘Are your morals flexible enough to stand a bit of falsehood, your Grace?’ he asked.

‘That depends on what you want me to lie about, Sparhawk.’

‘It won’t exactly be a lie, your Grace,’ Sparhawk smiled. ‘If we demote my wife, you’ll be the ranking member of our party. The presence of Ambassador Oscagne here suggests a high-level visit of some sort. I’ll just tell Baron Kotyk that you’re the Archprelate’s personal emissary to the Imperial court, and that the Knights are your escort instead of the Queen’s.’

‘That doesn’t stretch my conscience too far,’ Emban grinned. ‘Go ahead, Sparhawk. You lie, and I’ll swear to it. Say whatever you have to. That storm is coming this way very fast.’

‘Talen,’ Sparhawk said to the boy, who was riding beside the carriage, ‘sort of move up and down the column and let the knights know what we’re doing. A misplaced “your Majesty” or two could expose us all as frauds.’

‘Your husband shows some promise, Margravine Ehlana,’ Stragen noted. ‘Give me some time to train him a bit, and I’ll make an excellent swindler of him. His instincts are good, but his technique’s a little shaky.’

Baron Kotyk’s manor house was a palatial residence in a park-like setting, and there was a fair-sized village at the foot of the hill upon which it stood. There were a number of large out-buildings standing to the rear of the main house. ‘Fortunately, Sir Knights, I have ample room for even so large a party as yours,’ the baron told them. ‘The quarters for the bulk of your men may be a bit crude, though, I’m afraid. They’re dormitories for the harvest crews.’