‘Pilgrims,’ Ulath snorted contemptuously as he rose to his feet.
Sparhawk, however, sat staring hard across the chamber at the Primate of Cimmura, who looked back at him with a faint smile on his face.
Vanion had risen with the other Patriarchs and looked quickly up at Sparhawk. He made a curt motion with one hand and moved towards the door.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ Sparhawk muttered to his friends over the sound of the excited conversation in the chamber. The black-robed Patriarchs were filing slowly towards the door, their progress impeded by knots of their brothers who had stopped to discuss the matter. Sparhawk led his armoured friends out to the stairway and then down to the marble floor of the audience chamber. The big Pandion resisted his impatient impulse to shove assorted clergymen out of his way as he descended.
He encountered Annias near the door. ‘Ah, there you are, Sparhawk,’ the thin, grey-faced Primate of Cimmura said with a faintly malicious smile. ‘Do you plan to visit the city wall to witness the approach of the throngs of the faithful?’
Sparhawk kept a very tight rein on his temper at that point. ‘Interesting notion, neighbour,’ he drawled in a tone hovering on insult, ‘but I thought I might go and have a bite of lunch instead. Would you care to join me, Annias? Sephrenia’s roasting a goat, I think. Roast goat thickens the blood, I’m told, and you’ve been looking just a bit watery of late, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
‘So kind of you to invite me, Sparhawk, but I have a pressing engagement elsewhere. Church business, you understand.’
‘Of course. Oh, by the way, Annias, when you speak with Martel, give him my regards. Tell him how eager I am to continue the conversation we began back in Dabour.’
‘I’ll be certain to tell him, Sir Knight. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’ There was a faint look of annoyance on the Primate’s face as he turned and went out through the wide doorway.
‘What was that all about?’ Tynian asked.
‘You have to know Sparhawk a little better,’ Kalten told him. ‘He’d have died before he gave Annias any satisfaction right there. He didn’t even blink when I broke his nose. He just gave me a friendly smile and then kicked me in the stomach.’
‘Did you blink?’
‘No, as a matter of fact, I was too busy trying to get my breath back. What are we doing, Sparhawk?’
‘Vanion wants to talk with us.’
The Preceptors of the militant orders were talking together tensely just to one side of the huge door. Patriarch Emban of Ucera was with them. ‘I think our major concern at the moment is the condition of the city gates,’ Preceptor Abriel was saying. Abriel’s burnished armour and his gleaming white surcoat and cloak gave him a deceptively saint-like appearance, but there was not much of saintliness in his face just now.
‘Do you think we can count on the church soldiers at all?’ the blue-cloaked Preceptor Darellon asked. Darellon was a slender man and seemed not quite robust enough to carry his heavy Deiran armour. ‘They could demolish the bridges at least.’
‘I wouldn’t advise it,’ Emban said bluntly. ‘They take their orders from Annias, and Annias isn’t likely to put any impediments in the way of this Martel person. Sparhawk, exactly what are we facing out there?’
‘You tell him, Berit,’ Sparhawk told the raw-boned young novice. ‘You’re the one who actually saw them.’
‘Yes, My Lord,’ Berit agreed. ‘We have Lamorks coming down from the north, Your Grace,’ he told Emban, ‘and Cammorians and Rendors coming up from the south. Neither army is actually massive, but in combination they’re serious enough to threaten the Holy City.’
‘This army to the south,’ Emban said, ‘how are they deployed?’
‘The Cammorians are in the van, Your Grace, and covering the flanks. The Rendors are in the centre and bringing up the rear.’
‘Are they wearing those traditional black Rendorish robes?’ Emban pressed, his eyes intent.
‘It’s rather difficult to say, Your Grace,’ Berit replied. ‘They’re beyond the rivers and there’s a great deal of dust out there. They seemed to be dressed differently from the Cammorians, though. That’s about all I can really say.’
‘I see. Vanion, is this young man any good?’
‘Very good, Your Grace,’ Sparhawk answered for his Preceptor. ‘We have high expectations for him.’
‘Good. Can I borrow him? And I think I’ll want your squire Kurik as well. I need something, and I want them to go and get it for me.’
‘Of course, Your Grace,’ Sparhawk agreed. ‘Go with him, Berit. Kurik’s at the chapterhouse. You can pick him up there.’
Emban waddled away with Berit close behind him.
‘We’d better split up, My Lords,’ Preceptor Komier suggested. ‘Let’s go and have a look at those gates. Ulath, you’re with me.’
‘Yes, My Lord.’
‘Sparhawk,’ Vanion said, ‘you come with me. Kalten, I want you to stay close to Patriarch Dolmant. Annias might try to take advantage of the confusion, and Dolmant’s the one he has to worry about the most. Do your very best to keep His Grace inside the Basilica. It’s a little safer in here.’ Vanion put on his plumed black helmet and turned with a swirl of his inky cloak.
‘Which way, My Lord?’ Sparhawk asked when they emerged from the Basilica and started down the marble steps to the broad court below.
‘We’ll go to the south gate,’ Vanion said grimly. ‘I want to have a look at Martel.’
‘Right,’ Sparhawk agreed. ‘I’d be the last in the world to say “I told you so”, Vanion, but I did, you know. I wanted to kill Martel right from the start.’
‘Don’t push it, Sparhawk,’ Vanion snapped tersely as he hauled himself up into his saddle. His face became grimly set. ‘The situation’s changed, though. You have my permission now.’
‘It’s a little late,’ Sparhawk muttered as he mounted Faran.
‘What was that?’
‘Nothing, My Lord.’
The south gate of the city of Chyrellos had not been closed for over two centuries, and its condition was painfully obvious. Many of its timbers showed signs of dry rot, and the massive chains that operated it were thick with rust. Vanion took one look and shuddered. ‘Totally indefensible,’ he growled. ‘I could kick that thing down all by myself. Let’s go on top of the wall, Sparhawk. I want to see these armies.’