‘He’s got a cold. His mother – and yours – decided that he shouldn’t go out in the weather, and I certainly wasn’t going to argue with them.’

‘Wise decision,’ Khalad said, absently slapping Faran on the nose as the big roan tried to bite him. ‘How are they?’

‘Your mothers? Fine. Aslade’s still trying to fatten Elys up, but she’s not having too much luck. How did you find out I was in town?’

‘One of Platime’s cut-throats saw you coming through the gate. He sent word.’

‘I suppose I should have known. You didn’t wake my wife, did you?’

‘Not with Mirtai standing watch outside her door, I didn’t. Give me that wet cloak, my Lord. I’ll hang it in the kitchen to dry.’

Sparhawk grunted and removed his sodden cloak.

‘The mail shirt too, Sparhawk,’ Khalad added, ‘before it rusts away entirely.’

Sparhawk nodded, unbelted his sword and began to struggle out of his chain-mail shirt. ‘How’s your training going?’

Khalad made an indelicate sound. ‘I haven’t learned anything I didn’t already know. My father was a much better instructor than the ones at the chapterhouse. This idea of yours isn’t going to work, Sparhawk. The other novices are all aristocrats, and when my brothers and I outstrip them on the practice field, they resent it. We make enemies every time we turn around.’ He lifted the saddle from Faran’s back and put it on the rail of a nearby stall. He briefly laid his hand on the big roan’s back, then bent, picked up a handful of straw and began to rub him down.

‘Wake some groom and have him do that,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘Is anybody still awake in the kitchen?’

‘The bakers are already up, I think.’

‘Have one of them throw something together for me to eat. It’s been a long time since lunch.’

‘All right. What took you so long in Chyrellos?’

‘I took a little side trip into Lamorkand. The civil war there’s getting out of hand, and the Archprelate wanted me to nose around a bit.’

‘You should have got word to your wife. She was just about to send Mirtai out to find you.’ Khalad grinned at him. ‘I think you’re going to get yelled at again, Sparhawk.’

‘There’s nothing new about that. Is Kalten here in the palace?’

Khalad nodded. ‘The food’s better here, and he isn’t expected to pray three times a day. Besides, I think he’s got his eye on one of the chambermaids.’

‘That wouldn’t surprise me very much. Is Stragen here too?’

‘No. Something came up, and he had to go back to Emsat.’

‘Get Kalten up then. Have him join us in the kitchen. I want to talk with him. I’ll be along in a bit. I’m going to the bathhouse first.’

‘The water won’t be warm. They let the fires go out at night.’

‘We’re soldiers of God, Khalad. We’re all supposed to be unspeakably brave.’

‘I’ll try to remember that, my Lord.’

The water in the bathhouse was definitely on the chilly side, so Sparhawk did not linger very long. He wrapped himself in a soft white robe and went into the dim corridors of the palace and to the brightly-lit kitchens where Khalad waited with the sleepy-looking Kalten.

‘Hail, Noble Prince Consort,’ Kalten said drily. Sir Kalten obviously didn’t care much for the idea of being roused in the middle of the night.

‘Hail, Noble Boyhood Companion of the Noble Prince Consort,’ Sparhawk replied.

‘Now there’s a cumbersome title,’ Kalten said sourly. ‘What’s so important that it won’t wait until morning?’

Sparhawk sat down at one of the work tables, and a white-smocked baker brought him a plate of roast beef and a steaming loaf still hot from the oven.

‘Thanks, neighbour,’ Sparhawk said to him.

‘Where have you been, Sparhawk?’ Kalten demanded, sitting down across the table from his friend. Kalten had a wine flagon in one hand and a tin cup in the other.

‘Sarathi sent me to Lamorkand,’ Sparhawk replied, tearing a chunk of bread from the loaf.

‘Your wife’s been making life miserable for everyone in the palace, you know.’

‘It’s nice to know she cares.’

‘Not for any of the rest of us it isn’t. What did Dolmant need from Lamorkand?’

‘Information. He didn’t altogether believe some of the reports he’s been getting.’

‘What’s not to believe? The Lamorks are just engaging in their national pastime – civil war.’

‘There seems to be something a little different this time. Do you remember Count Gerrich?’

‘The one who had us besieged in Baron Alstrom’s castle? I never met him personally, but his name’s sort of familiar.’

‘He seems to be coming out on top in the squabbles in western Lamorkand, and most everybody up there believes that he’s got his eye on the throne.’

‘So?’ Kalten helped himself to part of Sparhawk’s loaf of bread. ‘Every baron in Lamorkand has his eyes on the throne. What’s got Dolmant so concerned about it this time?’

‘Gerrich’s been making alliances beyond the borders of Lamorkand. Some of those border barons in Pelosia are more or less independent of King Soros.’

‘Everybody in Pelosia’s independent of Soros. He isn’t much of a king. He spends too much time praying.’

‘That’s a strange position for a soldier of God,’ Khalad murmured.

‘You’ve got to keep these things in perspective, Khalad,’ Kalten told him. ‘Too much praying softens a man’s brains.’

‘Anyway,’ Sparhawk went on. ‘If Gerrich succeeds in dragging those Pelosian barons into his bid for King Friedahl’s throne, Friedahl’s going to have to declare war on Pelosia. The Church already has a war going on in Rendor, and Dolmant’s not very enthusiastic about a second front.’ He paused. ‘I ran across something else, though,’ he added. ‘I overheard a conversation I wasn’t supposed to. The name Drychtnath came up. Do you know anything about him?’

Kalten shrugged. ‘He was the national hero of the Lamorks some three or four thousand years ago. They say he was about twelve feet tall, ate an ox for breakfast every morning and drank a hogshead of mead every evening. The story has it that he could shatter rocks by scowling at them and reach up and stop the sun with one hand. The stories might be just a little bit exaggerated, though.’