LITMIR.BIZ

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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’s Talen been lately? I 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 seamier 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 crept 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

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