The Diamond Throne
Page 89‘Cyrinics?’ she asked, a bit surprised.
‘The Pandions aren’t the only ones who want to keep an eye on Rendor,’ he replied.
‘What’s that smell?’ Kurik asked as they approached the western outskirts of town.
‘The stockyards,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘A great deal of beef is shipped out of Cippria.’
‘Do we have to go through any kind of a gate to get out?’
Sparhawk shook his head. ‘The city walls were pulled down during the suppression of the Eshandist Heresy. The local people didn’t bother to rebuild them.’
They emerged from the narrow street they were following into acre upon acre of stock pens filled with bawling, scrubby-looking cows. It was late afternoon by now, and the overcast had begun to take on a silvery sheen.
‘How much farther to the monastery?’ Kurik asked.
‘A mile or so.’
‘It’s quite a distance from that alley back there, isn’t it?’
‘I noticed that myself about ten years ago.’
‘Why didn’t you take shelter someplace closer?’
‘You could have bled to death.’
‘That same thought crossed my mind a few times that night.’
‘Gentlemen,’ Sephrenia said, ‘do you suppose we could move along? The night comes on very quickly here in Rendor, and it gets cold in the desert after the sun goes down.’
The monastery lay beyond the stockyards on a high, rocky hill. It was surrounded by a thick wall, and the gate was closed. Sparhawk dismounted before the gate and tugged on a stout cord hanging beside it. A small bell tinkled inside. After a moment, the shutter of a narrow, barred window cut into the stones beside the gate opened. The brown-bearded face of a monk peered out warily.
‘Good evening, brother,’ Sparhawk said. ‘Do you suppose I might have a word with your abbot?’
‘Can I give him your name?’
‘Sparhawk. He might remember me. I stayed here for a time a few years back.’
‘Wait,’ the monk said brusquely, closing the shutter again.
‘Not very cordial, is he?’ Kurik said.
‘Churchmen aren’t really welcome in Rendor,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘A bit of caution is probably only natural.’
They waited as the twilight faded.
‘My Lord Abbot,’ Sparhawk replied.
‘Wait there a moment. We’ll open the gate.’
There was a rattling of chains and the grating sound of a heavy bar sliding through thick iron rings. Then the gate ponderously swung open, and the abbot came out to greet them. He was a bluff, hearty-looking man with a ruddy face and an imposing black beard. He was quite tall, and his shoulders were massive. ‘It’s good to see you again, my friend,’ he said, clasping Sparhawk’s hand in a crushing grip. ‘You’re looking well. You seemed a bit pale and wan when you left the last time you were here.’
‘It’s been ten years, my Lord,’ Sparhawk pointed out. ‘In that length of time a man either heals or dies.’
‘So he does, Sir Sparhawk. So he does. Come inside and bring your friends.’
Sparhawk led Faran through the gate with Sephrenia and Kurik close behind. There was a court inside, and the walls surrounding it were as bleak as those surrounding the monastery They were unadorned by the white mortar customary on the walls of Rendorish buildings, and the windows which pierced them were perhaps a trifle narrower than monastic architecture would have dictated. They would, Sparhawk noted professionally, make excellent vantage points for archers.
‘How can I help you, Sparhawk?’ the abbot asked.
‘I need refuge again, my Lord Abbot,’ Sparhawk replied. That’s getting to be sort of a habit, isn’t it?’
The abbot grinned at him. ‘Who’s after you this time?’ he asked.
‘No one that I know of, my Lord, and I think I’d like to keep it that way. Is there someplace we can talk privately?’
‘Of course.’ The abbot turned to the brown-bearded monk who had first opened the shutter. ‘See to their horses, brother.’ It was not a request, but had all the crispness of a military command. The monk straightened noticeably, though he did not quite salute.
Kurik dismounted and went to help Sephrenia. She handed Flute down to him and slipped from her saddle.
The abbot led them on through the main door and into a vaulted stone corridor dimly lighted at intervals by small oil lamps. Perhaps it was the scent of the oil, but the place had a peculiar odour of sanctity – and of safety – about it. That smell sharply reminded Sparhawk of the night ten years before. ‘The place hasn’t changed much,’ he noted, looking around.
‘The Church is timeless, Sir Sparhawk,’ the abbot replied sententiously, ‘and her institutions try to match that quality’
At the far end of the corridor, the abbot opened a severely simple door, and they followed him into a book-lined room with a high ceiling and an unlighted charcoal brazier in the corner. The room was quite comfortable-looking – far more so than the studies of abbots in the monasteries of the north. The windows were made of thick triangular pieces of glass joined with strips of lead, and they were draped in pale blue. The floor was strewn with white sheep-skin rugs, and the unmade bed in the far corner was quite a bit wider than the standard monastic cot. The jammed bookcases reached from floor to ceiling.
‘Please, sit down,’ the abbot said, pointing at several chairs standing in front of a table piled high with documents.
‘Still trying to catch up, my Lord?’ Sparhawk smiled, pointing at the documents and taking one of the chairs.
The abbot made a wry face ‘I give it a try every month or so,’ he replied. ‘Some men just aren’t made for paperwork.’ He looked sourly at the litter on his table. ‘Sometimes I think a fire in here might solve the problem. I’m sure the clerks in Chyrellos wouldn’t even miss all my reports.’ He looked curiously at Sparhawk’s companions.
‘My man Kurik,’ Sparhawk introduced his squire.
‘Kurik,’ the abbot nodded.