Somewhere ahead he saw the bobbing of hazy-looking torches and heard the measured tread of several men marching in unison. He muttered an oath and ducked up a smelly alley.
A half-dozen men marched by, their red tunics bedewed by the fog and with long pikes leaning slantwise over their shoulders. "It's that place in Rose Street," their officer was saying arrogantly, "where the Pandions try to hide their ungodly subterfuge. They know we're watching, of course, but our presence restricts their movements and leaves His Grace, the Primate, free from their interference."
"We know the reasons, Lieutenant," a bored-sounding corporal said. "We've been doing this for over a year now."
"Oh." The self-important young lieutenant sounded a bit crestfallen. "I just wanted to be sure that we all understood, that's all."
"Yes, sir," the corporal said tonelessly.
"Wait here, men," the lieutenant said, trying to make his boyish voice sound gruff. "I'll look on ahead." He marched on up the street, his heels smashing noisily on the fog-wet cobblestones.
"What a jackass," the corporal muttered to his companions.
"Grow up, corporal," an old, grey-haired veteran said "We take the pay, so we obey their orders and keep our opinions to ourselves. Just do your job and leave opinions to the officers."
The corporal grunted sourly. "I was at court yesterday," he said. "Primate Annias had summoned that young Puppy up there, and the fool absolutely had to have an escort. Would you believe he was actually fawning all over the bastardLycheas?"
"That's what lieutenants do best," the veteran shrugged. "They're born boot-lickers, and the bastard is the Prince Regent, after all. I'm not sure if that makes his boots taste any better, but the lieutenant's probably got calluses on his tongue by now."
The corporal laughed. "That's God's truth, but wouldn't he be surprised if the queen recovered and he found out that he'd eaten all that boot polish for nothing?"
"You'd better hope she doesn't, corporal," one of the other men said. "If she wakes up and takes control of her own treasury again, Annias won't have the money to pay us next month."
"He can always dip into the church coffers."
"Not without giving an accounting, he can't. The Hierocracy in Chyrellos squeezes every penny of church money until it squeaks."
"All right, you men," the young officer called out of the fog, "the Pandion inn is just up ahead. I've relieved the soldiers who were on watch, so we'd better go there and take up our positions."
"You heard him," the corporal said. "Move out." The church soldiers marched off into the fog.
Sparhawk smiled briefly in the darkness. It was seldom that he had the opportunity to hear the casual conversations of the enemy. He had long suspected that the soldiers of the Primate of Cimmura were motivated more by greed than from any sense of loyalty or piety. He stepped out of the alley and then jumped soundlessly back as he heard other footsteps coming up the street.
For some reason the usually empty night-time streets of Cimmura were awash with people. The footsteps were loud, so whoever it was out there was not trying to sneak up on anybody. Sparhawk shifted the short-handled spear in his hands. Then he saw the fellow looming out of the fog. The man wore a dark-coloured smock, and he had a large basket balanced on one shoulder. He appeared to be a workman of some kind, but there was no way to be sure of that. Sparhawk remained silent and let him pass. He waited until the sound of the footsteps was gone, then he stepped into the street again. He walked carefully, his soft boots making little sound on the wet cobblestones, and he kept his grey cloak wrapped tightly about him to muffle any clinking of his chain-mail.
He crossed an empty street to avoid the flickering yellow lamplight coming through the open door of a tavern where voices were raised in bawdy song. He shifted the spear to his left hand and pulled the hood of his cloak even farther forward to shadow his face as he passed through the mist-shrouded light.
He stopped, his eyes and ears carefully searching the foggy street ahead of him. His general direction was towards the east gate, but he had no particular fanaticism about that. People who walk in straight lines are predictable, and predictable people get caught. It was absolutely vital that he leave the city unrecognized and unseen by any of Annias's men, even if it took him all night. When he was satisfied that the street was empty, he moved on, keeping to the deepest shadows. At a corner beneath a misty orange torch, a ragged beggar sat against a wall. He had a bandage across his eyes and a number of authentic-looking sores on his arms and legs. Sparhawk knew that this was not a profitable time for begging, so the fellow was probably up to something else. Then a slate from a rooftop crashed into the street not far from where Sparhawk stood.
"Charity," the beggar called in a despairing voice, although Sparhawk's soft-shod feet had made no sound.
"Good evening, neighbour," the big knight said softly, crossing the street. He dropped a couple of coins into the begging bowl.
"Thank you, My Lord. God bless you."
"You're not supposed to be able to see me, neighbour," Sparhawk reminded him. "You don't know if I'm a Milord or a commoner."
"It's late," the beggar apologized, "and I'm a little sleepy. Sometimes I forget."
"Very sloppy," Sparhawk chided. "Pay attention to business. Oh, by the way, give my best to Platime."
Platime was an enormously fat man who ruled the underside of Cimmura with an iron fist.
The beggar lifted the bandage from his eyes and stared at Sparhawk, his eyes widening in recognition.
"And tell your friend up on that roof not to get excited, "
Sparhawk added. "You might tell him, though, to watch where he puts his feet. That last slate he kicked loose almost brained me."
"He's a new man." The beggar sniffed. "He still has a lot to learn about burglary."
That he does," Sparhawk agreed. "Maybe you can help me, neighbour. Talen was telling me about a tavern up against the east wall of the city. It's supposed to have a garret that the tavern-keeper rents out from time to time.
"Do you happen to know where it's located?"
"It's in Goat Lane, Sir Sparhawk. It's got a sign that's supposed to look like a bunch of grapes. You can't miss it." The beggar squinted. "Where'sTalen been lately? Haven't seen him for quite a while."
"His father's sort of taken him in hand."
"I didn't know Talen even had a father. That boy will go far if he doesn't get himself hanged. He's just about the best thief in Cimmura."
"I know," Sparhawk said. "He's picked my pocket a few times." He dropped a couple more coins in the begging bowl. "I'd appreciate it if you'd keep the fact that you saw me tonight more or less to yourself, neighbour."
"I never saw you, Sir Sparhawk." The beggar grinned.
"And I never saw you and your friend on the roof, either."
"Something for everybody then."
"My feelings exactly. Good luck in your enterprise.
"And the same to you in yours."
Sparhawk smiled and moved off down the street. His brief exposure to the seedier side of Cimmuran society had paid off again. Though not exactly a friend, Platime and the shadowy world he controlled could be very helpful. Sparhawk cut over one street to make sure that, should the clumsy burglar on the roof be surprised in the course of his activities, the inevitable hue and cry would not bring the watch running down the same street he was traversing.
As they always did when he was alone, Sparhawk's thoughts reverted to his queen. He had known Ehlana since she had been a little girl, though he had not seen her during the ten years he had been in exile in Rendor The memory of her seated on her throne encased in diamond-hard crystal wrenched at his heart. He began to regret the fact that he had not taken advantage of the opportunity to kill the Primate Annias earlier tonight. A poisoner is always contemptible, but the man who had poisoned Sparhawk's queen had placed himself in mortal danger, since Sparhawk was not one to let old scores simmer too long.
Then he heard furtive footsteps behind him in the fog, and he stepped into a recessed doorway and stood very still.
There were two of them, and they wore nondescript clothing. "Can you still see him?" one of them whispered to the other.
"No. This fog's getting thicker. He's just ahead of us, though."
"Are you sure he's a Pandion?"
When you've been in this business as long as I have, you'll learn to recognize them. It's the way they walk and the way they hold their shoulders. He's a Pandion all right."
"What's he doing out in the street at this time of night?"
"That's what we're here to find out. The Primate wants reports on all their movements."
The notion of trying to sneak up behind a Pandion on a foggy night makes me just a little nervous. They all use magic, and they can feel you coming. I'd rather not get his sword in my guts. Did you ever see his face?"
"No. He had his hood up, so his face was in shadow."
The two of them kept on up the street, unaware of the fact that their lives had hung in the balance for a moment.
Had either of them seen Sparhawk's face, they would have died on the spot. Sparhawk was a very pragmatic man about things like that. He waited until he could no longer hear their footfalls. Then he retraced his steps to an intersection and went up a side street.
The tavern was empty except for the owner, who dozed with his feet up on a table and with his hands clasped over his paunch. He was a stout, unshaven man wearing a dirty smock.
"Good evening, neighbour," Sparhawk said quietly as he entered.
The tavern-keeper opened one eye. "Morning is more like it," he grunted.
Sparhawk looked around. The tavern was a fairly typical working-man's place with a low, beamed ceiling smudged with smoke and with a utilitarian counter across the back. The chairs and benches were scarred, and the sawdust on the floor had not been swept up and replaced for months. "It seems to be a slow night," he noted in his quiet voice.
"It's always slow this late, friend. What's your pleasure?"
"Arcian red - if you've got any."
"Arcium's hip-deep in red grapes. Nobody ever runs out of Arcian red." With a weary sigh the tavern-keeper heaved himself to his feet and poured Sparhawk a goblet of red wine. The goblet, Sparhawk saw, was none too clean. "You're out late, friend," the fellow observed, handing the big knight the sticky goblet.
"Business," Sparhawk shrugged. "A friend of mine said you have a garret on the top floor of the house."
The tavern-keeper's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You don't look like the sort of fellow who'd have a burning interest in garrets," he said. "Does this friend of yours have a name?"
"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-keepers 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.