The Diamond Throne

She nodded. ‘They’re concentrated in the quarter near the east gate. They have a house there somewhere that seems to be a headquarters of some sort. We weren’t able to locate it exactly, though.’

‘Why don’t we go see if we can find it?’ he suggested. ‘I need something to do. I’m feeling a bit restless.’

‘Restless? You, Sparhawk? The man of stone?’

‘Impatience, I suppose I want to get started for Borrata.’

She nodded. Then she rose, lifting Flute easily, and laid the child on the bed. Gently she covered the little girl with a grey woollen blanket. Flute briefly opened her dark eyes, then smiled and went back to sleep. Sephrenia kissed the small face, then turned to Sparhawk. ‘Shall we go then?’ she said.

‘You’re very fond of her, aren’t you?’ Sparhawk asked as the two of them walked along the corridor leading towards the courtyard.

‘It goes a bit deeper than that. Someday perhaps you’ll understand.’

‘Have you any idea where this Styric house might be?’

‘There’s a shopkeeper in the market near the east gate. He sold some Styrics a number of sides of meat. The porter who delivered them knows where the house is.’

‘Why didn’t you question the porter?’

‘He wasn’t there yesterday.’

‘Maybe he’ll make it to work today.’

‘It’s worth a try’

He stopped and gave her a direct look. ‘I’m not trying to pry into the secrets you’ve chosen not to reveal, Sephrenia, but could you distinguish between ordinary rural Styrics and Zemochs?’

‘It’s possible,’ she admitted, ‘unless they’re taking steps to conceal their true identity.’

They went on down into the courtyard where Kalten waited with Faran and Sephrenia’s white palfrey. The blond knight had an angry expression on his face. ‘Your horse bit me, Sparhawk,’ he said accusingly

‘You know him well enough not to turn your back on him. Did he draw blood?’

‘No,’ Kalten admitted.

‘Then he was only being playful. It shows that he likes you.’

‘Thanks,’ Kalten said flatly. ‘Do you want me to come along?’

‘No. I think we want to be more or less inconspicuous, and on occasion you have trouble managing that.’

‘Sometimes your charm overwhelms me, Sparhawk.’

‘We’re sworn to speak the truth.’ Sparhawk helped Sephrenia into her saddle, then mounted Faran. ‘We should be back before dark,’ he told his friend.

‘Don’t hurry on my account.’

Sparhawk led the small Styric woman out through the gate and into the side street beyond.

‘He turns everything into a joke, doesn’t he?’ Sephrenia observed.

‘Most things, yes. He’s been laughing at the world since he was a boy. I think that’s why I like him so much. My view of things tends to be a little more bleak, and he helps me keep my perspective.’

They rode on through the now-teeming streets of Chyrellos. Although many local merchants affected the sombre black of churchmen, visitors usually did not, and their bright clothing stood out by contrast. Travellers from Cammoria in particular were highly colourful, since their customary silk garments did not fade with the passage of time and remained brightly red or green or blue.

The market place to which Sephrenia led him was some distance from the chapterhouse, and it was perhaps three-quarters of an hour before they reached it.

‘How did you find this shopkeeper?’ Sparhawk asked.

‘There are certain staples in the Styric diet,’ she replied. ‘Elenes don’t eat those things very often.’

‘I thought you said that this porter delivered some sides of meat.’

‘Goat, Sparhawk. Elenes don’t care much for goat.’

He shuddered.

‘How provincial you are,’ she said lightly ‘If it doesn’t come from a cow, you won’t eat it.’

‘I suppose it’s what you’re used to.’

‘I’d better go to the shop alone,’ she said. ‘Sometimes you’re a bit intimidating, dear one. We want answers from the porter, and we might not get them if you frighten him. Watch my horse.’ She handed him her reins and then moved off through the market. Sparhawk watched as she went across the bustling square to speak with a shabby-looking fellow in a blood-smeared canvas smock. After a short time she returned. He got down and helped her back onto her horse.

‘Did he tell you where the house is?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘It’s not far – near the east gate.’

‘Let’s go have a look.’

As they started out, Sparhawk did something uncharacteristically impulsive. He reached out and took the small woman’s hand. ‘I love you, little mother,’ he told her.

‘Yes,’ she said calmly, ‘I know. It’s nice of you to say it, though.’ Then she smiled. It was an impish little smile that somehow reminded him of Flute. ‘Another lesson for you, Sparhawk,’ she said. ‘When you’re having dealings with a woman, you cannot say “I love you” too often.’

‘I’ll remember that. Does the same thing apply to Elene women?’

‘It applies to all women, Sparhawk. Gender is a far more important distinction than race.’

‘I shall be guided by you, Sephrenia.’

‘Have you been reading medieval poetry again?’

‘Me?’

They rode through the market place and on into the run-down quarter near the east gate of Chyrellos. While not perhaps the same as the slums of Cimmura, this part of the holy city was far less opulent than the area around the Basilica. There was less colour here, for one thing. The tunics of the men in the street were uniformly drab, and the few merchants there were in the crowd wore garments which were faded and threadbare. They did, however, have the self-important expressions which all merchants, successful or not, automatically assume. Then, at the far end of the street, Sparhawk saw a short man in a lumpy, unbleached smock of homespun wool. ‘Styric,’ he said shortly

Sephrenia nodded and drew up the hood of her white robe so that it covered her face. Sparhawk straightened in his saddle and carefully assumed an arrogant, condescending expression such as the servant of some important personage might wear. They passed the Styric, who stepped cautiously aside without paying them any particular heed. Like all members of his race, the Styric had dark, almost black, hair and a pale skin. He was shorter than the Elenes who passed him in this narrow street, and the bones in his face were prominent, as if he had somehow not quite been completed.