Domes of Fire

Talen came galloping forward. ‘I think you’d better come back to the carriage, Sir Knights,’ he laughed, trying without much success to control his mirth.

‘What’s the trouble?’ Sparhawk asked him.

‘We’ve got company – well, not company exactly, but there’s somebody watching us.’

Sparhawk and the others wheeled their mounts and rode back along the column to the carriage.

‘You’ve got to see this, Sparhawk,’ Stragen said, trying to stifle his laughter. ‘Don’t be too obvious when you look, but there’s a man on horseback on top of that crag off to the left side of the road.’

Sparhawk leaned forward as if speaking to his wife and raised his eyes to look at the rocky crag jutting up from the forest floor.

The rider was about forty yards away, and he was outlined by the sunset behind him. He was making no attempt to conceal himself. He sat astride a black horse, and his clothing was all of the same hue. His inky cape streamed out from his shoulders in the stiff wind, and his broad-brimmed hat was crammed tightly down on his head. His face was covered with a bag-like black mask with two large, slightly off-centre eye holes in it.

‘Isn’t that the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever seen in your life?’ Stragen laughed.

‘Very impressive,’ Ulath murmured. ‘At least he’s impressed.’

‘I wish I had a crossbow,’ Kalten said. ‘Berit, do you think you could nick him a little with your long-bow?’

‘It might be a little chancy in this wind, Kalten,’ the young knight replied. ‘It might deflect my arrow and kill him instead.’

‘How long’s he going to sit there?’ Mirtai asked.

‘Until he’s sure that everybody in the column has seen him, I expect,’ Stragen said. ‘He went to a lot of trouble to deck himself out like that. What do you think, Sparhawk? Is that the fellow Elron told us about?’

‘The mask certainly fits,’ Sparhawk agreed. ‘I wasn’t expecting all the rest, though.’

‘What’s this?’ Emban asked.

‘Unless Sparhawk and I are mistaken, your Grace, we are privileged to be in the presence of a living legend. I think that’s Sabre, the masked whatever-you-call-it, making his evening rounds.’

‘What on earth is he doing?’ Oscagne sounded baffled.

‘I imagine that he’s out wronging rights, depressing the oppressed and generally making an ass of himself, your Excellency. He looks as if he’s having a lot of fun, though.’

The masked rider reared his horse dramatically, and his black cape swirled around him. Then he plunged down the far side of the crag and was gone.

‘Wait,’ Stragen urged before the others could move.

‘For what?’ Kalten asked.

‘Listen.’

From beyond the crag came the brassy note of a horn that trailed off into a distinctly unmusical squawk.

‘He had to have a horn,’ Stragen explained. ‘No performance like that would ever be complete without a horn.’ He laughed delightedly. ‘Maybe if he practises, he’ll even learn to carry a tune with it.’

Darsas was an ancient city situated on the east bank of the Astel River. The bridge which approached it was a massive arch which had probably been in place for at least a thousand years, and most of the city’s buildings showed a similar antiquity. The cobbled streets were narrow and twisting, following, quite probably, paths along which cows had gone to water aeons in the past. Although its antiquity seemed strange, there was still something profoundly familiar about Darsas. It was an almost prototypical Elene town, and Sparhawk felt as if his very bones were responding to its peculiar architecture. Ambassador Oscagne led them through the narrow streets and cluttered bazaars to an imposing square at the centre of the city. He pointed out a fairy-tale structure with a broad gate, and soaring towers bedecked with brightly-coloured pennons. ‘The royal palace,’ he told Sparhawk. ‘I’ll speak with Ambassador Fontan, our local man, and he’ll take us to see King Alberen. I’ll only be a moment.’

Sparhawk nodded. ‘Kalten,’ he called to his friend. ‘Let’s sort of form up the troops. A bit of ceremony might be in order here.’

When Oscagne emerged from the Tamul embassy, which was conveniently located in a building adjoining the palace, he was accompanied by an ancient-appearing Tamul whose head was totally hairless and whose face was as wrinkled as the skin of a very old apple. ‘Prince Sparhawk,’ Oscagne said quite formally, ‘I have the honour to present his Excellency, Ambassador Fontan, his Imperial Majesty’s representative here in the Kingdom of Astel.’

Sparhawk and Fontan exchanged polite bows.

‘Have I your Highness’ permission to present his Excellency to her Majesty, the Queen?’ Oscagne asked.

‘Tedious, isn’t it Sparhawk?’ Fontan asked in a voice as dry as dust. ‘Oscagne’s a good boy. He was my most promising pupil, but his fondness for ritual and formula overcomes him at times.’

‘I’ll borrow a sword and immolate myself at once, Fontan,’ Oscagne bantered.

‘I’ve seen you fumbling with a sword, Oscagne,’ Fontan replied. ‘If you’re suicidally inclined, go molest a cobra instead. If you try to do it with a sword, you’ll take all week.’

‘I gather that I’m watching a reunion of sorts,’ Sparhawk smiled.

‘I always like to lower Oscagne’s opinion of himself, Sparhawk,’ Fontan replied. ‘He’s brilliant, of course, but sometimes he lacks humility. Now, why don’t you introduce me to your wife? She’s much prettier than you are, and the imperial messenger from Matherion rode three horses to death bringing me the emperor’s instructions to be excruciatingly nice to her. We’ll chat for a few moments, and then I’ll take you to meet my dear, incompetent friend, the king. I’m sure he’ll swoon at the unspeakable honour your queen’s visit does him.’

Ehlana was delighted to meet the ambassador. Sparhawk knew that to be true because she said so herself. She invited the ancient Tamul, the real ruler of Astel, to join her in the carriage, and the entire party moved rather inexorably on to the palace gates.

The captain of the palace guard was nervous. When two hundred professional killers descend on one with implacable pace, one is almost always nervous. Ambassador Fontan put him at his ease, and three messengers were dispatched to advise the king of their arrival. Sparhawk decided not to ask the captain why he sent three. The poor man was having a bad enough day already. The party was escorted into the palace courtyard where they dismounted and turned their horses over to the stable hands. ‘Behave yourself,’ Sparhawk muttered to Faran as a slack-mouthed groom took the reins.