‘Somebody has to keep an eye on things, Sir Sparhawk,’ Berit objected.
‘There’s a cupola on top of the dome of the Basilica,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘Go and get Kurik, and then the two of you go up there to watch.’
‘All right, Sir Sparhawk.’ Berit’s tone was slightly sullen.
‘Berit,’ Kalten said as he pulled on his mail-shirt.
‘Yes, Sir Kalten?’
‘You don’t have to like it, you know. All you have to do is to do it.’
Sparhawk and the others went through the ancient narrow streets of the inner city and mounted to the wall. The streets of the outer city were filled with bobbing torches as the mercenaries under Martel’s command ran from house to house, stealing what they could. The occasional screams of women clearly said that looting was not the only thing on the minds of the attacking force. A crowd of panicky and wailing citizens stood outside the now-closed gates of the inner city, pleading to be admitted, but the gates remained steadfastly closed to them.
A somewhat delicate Patriarch with sagging pouches under his eyes came running up the stairs to the top of the wall. ‘What are you doing?’ he almost shrieked at Dolmant. ‘Why aren’t these soldiers out there defending the city?’
‘It’s a military decision, Cholda,’ Dolmant replied calmly. ‘We don’t have enough men to defend the whole of Chyrellos. We’ve had to pull back inside the walls of the old city.’
‘Are you mad? My house is out there!’
‘I’m sorry, Cholda,’ Dolmant told him, ‘but there’s nothing I can do.’
‘But I voted for you!’
‘I appreciate that.’
‘My house! My things! My treasures!’ Patriarch Cholda of Mirischum stood wringing his hands. ‘My beautiful house! All my furnishings! My gold!’
‘Go and take refuge in the Basilica, Cholda,’ Dolmant told him coldly. ‘Pray that your sacrifice may find favour in the eyes of God.’
The Patriarch of Mirischum turned and stumbled back down the stairs, weeping bitterly.
‘I think you lost a vote there, Dolmant,’ Emban said.
‘The voting’s all over, Emban, and I’m sure I could live without that particular vote anyway.’
‘I’m not so sure, Dolmant,’ Emban disagreed. ‘There’s still one ballot yet to come. It’s fairly important, and we might just need Cholda before it’s over.’
‘They’ve started,’ Tynian said sadly.
‘What has?’ Kalten asked him.
‘The fires,’ Tynian replied, pointing out across the city as a sudden pillar of golden orange flame and black smoke shot up through the roof of a house. ‘Soldiers always seem to get careless with their torches when they’re looting at night.’
‘Isn’t there something we can do?’ Bevier asked urgently.
‘Not a thing, I’m afraid,’ Tynian said, ‘except maybe pray for rain.’
‘It’s the wrong season for it,’ Ulath said.
‘I know,’ Tynian sighed.
Chapter 12
The looting of the outer city continued throughout the day on into the night. The fires spread quickly, since no one was available to check them, and the city was soon enveloped in a thick pall of smoke. From the top of the wall, Sparhawk and his friends could see wild-eyed mercenaries running through the streets, each carrying an improvised sack over his shoulder. The crowd of citizens gathered before the gates of the inner city to plead for admittance melted away as Martel’s mercenaries began to appear.
There were murders, of course – many of them in plain sight – and there were other atrocities as well. One unshaven Cammorian dragged a young woman from a house by the hair and disappeared with her up an alley. Her screams quite clearly told the watchers what was happening to her.
A red-tunicked young church soldier standing beside Sparhawk atop the city wall began to weep openly. Then, as the somewhat shame-faced Cammorian emerged from the alley, the soldier raised his bow, aimed and released all in one motion. The Cammorian doubled over, clutching at the arrow buried to the feathers in his belly.
‘Good man,’ Sparhawk said shortly to the young fellow.
‘That could have been my sister, Sir Knight,’ the soldier said, wiping at his eyes.
Neither of them was really prepared for what happened next. The woman, dishevelled and weeping, emerged from the alley and saw her attacker writhing in the rubble-littered street. She lurched to where he lay and kicked him solidly in the face several times. Then, seeing that he was unable to defend himself, she snatched his dagger from his belt. It were best, perhaps, not to describe what she did to him next. His screams, however, echoed in the streets for quite some time. When at last he fell silent, she discarded the bloody knife, opened the sack he had been carrying and looked inside. Then she wiped her eyes on her sleeve, tied the sack shut and dragged it back to her house.
The soldier who had shot the Cammorian started to retch violently.
‘Nobody’s very civilized in those circumstances, neighbour, ’ Sparhawk told him, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder, ‘and the lady did have a certain justification for what she just did.’
‘That must have hurt him terribly,’ the soldier said in a shaking voice.
‘I think that’s what she had in mind, neighbour. Go and get a drink of water and wash your face. Try not to think about it.’
‘Thank you, Sir Knight,’ the young fellow said, swallowing hard.
‘Perhaps not all church soldiers are so bad,’ Sparhawk muttered to himself, revising a long-held opinion.
As the sun went down, they gathered in Sir Nashan’s red-draped study in the Pandion chapterhouse, what Sir Tynian and Sir Ulath had come to call – not entirely in jest – ‘the high command’, the Preceptors, the three Patriarchs and Sparhawk and his friends. Kurik, Berit and Talen, however, were not present.
Sir Nashan hovered diffidently near the door. Nashan was an able administrator, but he was just a bit uncomfortable in the presence of so much authority. ‘If there’s nothing further you need, My Lords,’ he said, ‘I’ll leave you to your deliberations now.’
‘Stay, Nashan,’ Vanion told him. The Preceptor smiled. ‘We certainly don’t want to dispossess you, and your knowledge of the city may prove very useful.’
‘Thank you, Lord Vanion,’ the stout knight said, slipping into a chair.