Domes of Fire

‘I seldom rise before noon,’ the young man said stiffly.

‘You should make an effort to see it sometime,’ Bevier suggested mildly. ‘An artist should be willing to make some sacrifices for his art, after all.’

‘I trust you’ll excuse me,’ the young fellow with the dark curls said brusquely. He bowed slightly and then fled, a mortified expression replacing his supercilious sneer.

‘That was cruel, Bevier,’ Sparhawk chided, ‘and you put words in my mouth. I’ll admit that you have a certain flair for language though.’

‘It had the desired effect, Sparhawk. If that conceited young ass had patronised me about one more time, I’d have strangled him. Two hundred some odd verses in an ode to the colour blue? What a donkey!’

‘The next time he bothers you about blue, describe Bhelliom to him.’

Bevier shuddered. ‘Not me, Sparhawk. Just the thought of it makes my blood run cold.’

Sparhawk laughed and went over to the window to look at the rain slashing at the glass.

Danae came to his side and took his hand. ‘Do we really have to stay here father?’ she asked. ‘These people turn my stomach.’

‘We need some place to shelter us from the rain, Danae.’

‘I can make it stop raining, if that’s all you’re worried about. If one of those disgusting women starts talking baby-talk to me one more time, I’m going to turn her into a toad.’

‘I think I have a better idea.’ Sparhawk bent and picked her up. ‘Act sleepy,’ he instructed.

Danae promptly went limp and dangled from his arms like a rag doll.

‘You’re overdoing it,’ he told her. He crossed to the far side of the room, gently laid her on a divan and covered her with her travelling cloak. ‘Don’t snore,’ he advised. ‘You’re not old enough to snore yet.’

She gave him an innocent little look. ‘I wouldn’t do that, Sparhawk. Find my cat and bring her to me.’ Then her smile turned hard. ‘Pay close attention to our host and his family, father. I think you should see what kind of people they really are.’

‘What are you up to?’

‘Nothing. I just think you should see what they’re really like.’

‘I can see quite enough already.’

‘No, not really. They’re trying to be polite, so they’re glossing over things. Let’s take a look at the truth. For the rest of the evening, they’ll tell you what they really think and feel.’

‘I’d rather they didn’t.’

‘You’re supposed to be brave, Sparhawk, and this horrid little family is typical of the gentry here in Astel. Once you understand them, you’ll be able to see what’s wrong with the kingdom. It might be useful.’ Her eyes and face grew serious. ‘There’s something here, Sparhawk – something we absolutely have to know.’

‘What?’

‘I’m not sure. Pay attention, father. Somebody’s going to tell you something important tonight. Now go find my cat.’

The supper they were offered was poorly prepared, and the conversation at the table was dreadful. Freed of constraint by Danae’s spell, the baron and his family said things they might normally have concealed, and their spiteful, self-pitying vanity emerged all the more painfully under the influence of the inferior wine they all swilled like common tavern drunkards.

‘I was not intended for this barbaric isolation,’ Katina tearfully confided to poor Melidere. ‘Surely God could not have meant for me to bloom unnoticed so far from the lights and gaiety of the capital. We were cruelly deceived before my brother’s marriage to that dreadful woman. Her parents led us to believe that the estate would bring us wealth and position, but it scarcely provides enough to keep us in this hovel. There’s no hope that we shall ever be able to afford a house in Darsas.’ She buried her face in her hands. ‘What shall become of me?’ she wailed. ‘The lights, the balls, the hordes of suitors flocking to my door, dazzled by my wit and beauty.’

‘Oh, don’t cry, Katina,’ Ermude wailed. ‘If you cry, I shall surely cry too.’ The sisters were so similar in appearance that Sparhawk had some difficulty telling them apart. Their plumpness was more like dough than flesh. Their colourless hair was limp and uninspired, and their complexions were bad. Neither of them was really very clean. ‘I try so hard to protect my poor sister,’ Ermude blubbered to the long-suffering Melidere, ‘but this dreadful place is destroying her. There’s no culture here. We live like beasts – like serfs. It’s so meaningless. Life should have meaning, but what possible meaning can there be so far from the capital? That horrid woman won’t permit our poor brother to sell this desolate waste so that we can take a proper residence in Darsas. We’re trapped here – trapped, I tell you – and we shall live out our lives in this hideous isolation.’ Then she too buried her face in her hands and wept.

Melidere sighed, rolling her eyes ceilingward.

‘I have some influence with the governor of the district,’ Baron Kotyk was telling patriarch Emban with pompous self-importance. ‘He relies heavily on my judgement. We’ve been having a deuce of a time with the burghers in town – untitled rascals, every one of them – runaway serfs, if the truth were known. They complain bitterly at each new tax and try to shift the burden to us. We pay quite enough in taxes already, thank you, and they’re the ones who are demanding all the services. What good does it do me if the streets in town are paved? It’s the roads that are important. I’ve said that to his Excellency the governor over and over again.’

The baron was deep in his cups. His voice was slurred, and his head wobbled on his neck. ‘All the burdens of the district are placed on our shoulders,’ he declared, his eyes filling with self-pitying tears. ‘I must support five hundred idle serfs – serfs so lazy that not even flogging can get any work out of them. It’s all so unfair. I’m an aristocrat, but that doesn’t count for anything any more.’ The tears began to roll down his cheeks, and his nose started to run. ‘No one seems to realise that the aristocracy is God’s special gift to mankind. The burghers treat us no better than commoners. Considering our divine origins, such disrespect is the worst form of impiety. I’m sure your Grace agrees.’ The Baron sniffed loudly.

Patriarch Emban’s father had been a tavern-keeper in the city of Ucera, and Sparhawk was fairly sure that the fat little churchman most definitely did not agree.