‘Not one he cares to have generally known,’ Sparhawk replied, taking a sip of his wine. It was a distinctly inferior vintage.
‘Friend, I don’t know you, and you have a sort of official look about you. Why don’t you just finish your wine and leave? – that’s unless you can come up with a name I can recognize.’
‘This friend of mine works for a man named Platime. You may have heard the name.’
The tavern-keeper’s eyes widened slightly. ‘Platime must be branching out. I didn’t know that he had anything to do with the gentry – except to steal from them.’
‘He owed me a favour.’ Sparhawk shrugged.
The unshaven man still looked dubious. ‘Anybody could throw Platime’s name around,’ he said.
‘Neighbour,’ Sparhawk said flatly, setting his wineglass down, ‘this is starting to get tedious. Either we go up to your garret or I go out looking for the watch. I’m sure they’ll be very interested in your little enterprise.’
The tavern-keeper’s face grew sullen. ‘It’ll cost you a silver half-crown.’
‘All right.’
‘You’re not even going to argue?’
‘I’m in a bit of a hurry. We can haggle about the price next time.’
‘You seem to be in quite a rush to get out of town, friend. You haven’t killed anybody with that spear tonight, have you?’
‘Not yet.’ Sparhawk’s voice was flat.
The tavern-keeper swallowed hard. ‘Let me see your money.’
‘Of course, neighbour. And then let’s go upstairs and have a look at this garret.’
‘We’ll have to be careful. With this fog, you won’t be able to see the guards coming along the parapet.’
‘I can take care of that.’
‘No killing. I’ve got a nice little sideline here. If somebody kills one of the guards, I’ll have to close it down.’
‘Don’t worry, neighbour. I don’t think I’ll have to kill anybody tonight.’
The garret was dusty and appeared unused. The tavern-keeper carefully opened the gabled window and peered out into the fog. Behind him, Sparhawk whispered in Styric and released the spell. He could feel the fellow out there. ‘Careful,’ he said quietly. ‘There’s a guard coming along the parapet.’
‘I don’t see anybody.’
‘I heard him,’ Sparhawk replied. There was no point in going into extended explanations.
‘You’ve got sharp ears, friend.’
The two of them waited in the darkness as the sleepy guard strolled along the parapet and disappeared in the fog.
‘Give me a hand with this,’ the tavern-keeper said, stooping to lift one end of a heavy timber up onto the window-sill. ‘We slide it across to the parapet, and then you go on over. When you get there, I’ll throw you the end of this rope. It’s anchored here, so you’ll be able to slide down the outside of the wall.’
‘Right,’ Sparhawk said. They slid the timber across the intervening space. ‘Thanks, neighbour,’ Sparhawk said. He straddled the timber and inched his way across to the parapet. He stood up and caught the coil of rope that came out of the misty darkness. He dropped it over the wall and swung out on it. A few moments later, he was on the ground. The rope slithered up into the fog, and then he heard the sound of the timber sliding back into the garret. ‘Very neat,’ Sparhawk muttered, walking carefully away from the city wall. ‘I’ll have to remember that place.’
The fog made it a bit difficult to get his bearings, but by keeping the looming shadow of the city wall to his left, he could more or less determine his location. He set his feet down carefully. The night was quiet, and the sound of a stick breaking would be very loud.
Then he stopped. Sparhawk’s instincts were very good, and he knew that he was being watched. He drew his sword slowly to avoid the tell-tale sound it made as it slid out of its sheath. With the sword in one hand and the battle-spear in the other, he stood peering out into the fog.
And then he saw it. It was only a faint glow in the darkness, so faint that most people would not have noticed it. The glow drew closer, and he saw that it had a slight greenish cast to it. Sparhawk stood perfectly still and waited.
There was a figure out there in the fog, indistinct perhaps, but a figure nonetheless. It appeared to be robed and hooded in black, and that faint glow seemed to be coming out from under the hood. The figure was quite tall and appeared to be impossibly thin, almost skeletal. For some reason it chilled Sparhawk. He muttered in Styric, moving his fingers on the hilt of the sword and the shaft of the spear. Then he raised the spear and released the spell with its point. The spell was a relatively simple one, its purpose being only to identify the emaciated figure out in the fog. Sparhawk almost gasped when he felt the waves of pure evil emanating from the shadowy form. Whatever it was, it was certainly not human.
After a moment, a ghostly metallic chuckle came out of the night. The figure turned and moved away. Its walk was jerky as if its knees were put together backwards. Sparhawk stayed where he was until that sense of evil faded away. Whatever the thing was, it was gone now. ‘I wonder if that was another of Martel’s little surprises,’ Sparhawk muttered under his breath. Martel was a renegade Pandion Knight who had been expelled from the order. He and Sparhawk had once been friends, but no more. Martel now worked for Primate Annias, and it had been he who had provided the poison with which Annias had very nearly killed the queen.
Sparhawk continued slowly and silently now, his sword and the spear still in his hands. Finally he saw the torches which marked the closed east gate of the city, and he took his bearings from them.
Then he heard a faint snuffling sound behind him, much like the sound a tracking dog would make. He turned, his weapons ready. Again he heard that metallic chuckle. He amended that in his mind. It was not so much a chuckle as it was a sort of stridulation, a chittering sound. Again he felt that sense of overpowering evil, which once again faded away.
Sparhawk angled slightly out from the city wall and the filmy light of those two torches at the gate. After about a quarter of an hour, he saw the square, looming shape of the Pandion chapterhouse just ahead.
He dropped into a prone position on the fog-wet turf and cast the searching spell again. He released it and waited.
Nothing.
He rose, sheathed his sword and moved cautiously across the intervening field. The castle-like chapterhouse was, as always, being watched. Church soldiers, dressed as workmen, were encamped not far from the front gate with piles of the cobblestones they were ostensibly laying heaped around their tents. Sparhawk, however, went around to the back wall and carefully picked his way through the deep, stake-studded fosse surrounding the structure.
The rope down which he had clambered when he had left the house was still dangling behind a concealing bush. He shook it a few times to be certain the grappling hook at its upper end was still firmly attached. Then he tucked the war-spear under his sword-belt. He grasped the rope and pulled down hard.
Above him, he could hear the points of the hook grating into the stones of the battlement. He started to climb up, hand over hand.
‘Who’s there?’ The voice came sharply out of the fog overhead. It was a youthful voice, and familiar.
Sparhawk swore under his breath. Then he felt a tugging on the rope he was climbing. ‘Leave it alone, Berit,’ he grated, straining to pull himself up.
‘Sir Sparhawk?’ the novice said in a startled voice.
‘Don’t jerk on the rope,’ Sparhawk ordered. ‘Those stakes in the ditch are very sharp.’
‘Let