The Hidden City (10 page)

‘It hasn't,' Flute told him with a little shrug.

‘How can you tell?' Emban demanded.

She gave him a long-suffering look. ‘Who am I, your Grace?' she asked him.

He blinked. ‘Oh. I keep forgetting that for some reason. Is there actually a way you can tell whether or not a place has been consecrated?'

‘Well of
course
there is. Believe me, Emban, this chapel's never been consecrated to your Elene God.' She paused. ‘There
was
a spot not far from here that was consecrated to a tree about eighteen thousand years ago, though.'

‘A
tree?

‘It was a very nice tree – an oak. It's always an oak for some reason. Nobody ever seems to want to worship an elm. Lots of people used to worship trees. They're predictable, for one thing.'

‘How could anybody in his right mind worship a tree?'

‘Who ever said that religious people were in their right minds? Sometimes you humans confuse us a great deal, you know.'

Since there was an exchange of features involved in most cases here, Sephrenia and Xanetia had experimented a bit to alter the spell which had imprinted Sparhawk's face on Berit. No exchange was necessary for Sparhawk, however, so they modified him first. He sat beside his old friend, Sir Endrik, a veteran with whom he, Kalten and Martel had endured their novitiates.
Xanetia approached them with the color draining from her features and that soft radiance suffusing her face. She examined Endrik meticulously, and then her voice rose as she began to intone the Delphaeic spell in her oddly accented, archaic Tamul. Sephrenia stood at her side simultaneously casting the Styric spell.

Sparhawk felt nothing whatsoever as Xanetia released her spell. Then at the crucial instant, Sephrenia extended her hand, interposing it between Sir Endrik's face and Xanetia's and simultaneously releasing the Styric spell. Sparhawk
definitely
felt that. His features seemed to somehow soften like melting wax, and he could actually feel his face changing, almost as wet clay is changed and molded by the potter's hand. The straightening of his broken nose was a bit painful, and the lengthening of his jaw made his teeth ache as they shifted in the bone.

‘What do you think?' Sephrenia asked Vanion when the process had been completed.

‘I don't think you could get them any closer,' Vanion replied, examining the two men closely. ‘How does it feel to be twins, Endrik?'

‘I didn't feel a thing, my Lord,' Endrik replied, staring curiously at Sparhawk.

‘I did,' Sparhawk told him, gingerly touching his re-shaped nose. ‘Does the ache go away eventually, Anarae?' he asked.

‘Thou wilt notice it less as time doth accustom thee to the alteration, Anakha. I did warn thee that some discomfort is involved, did I not?'

‘You did indeed.' Sparhawk shrugged. ‘It's not unbearable.'

‘Do I really look like that?' Endrik asked.

‘Yes,' Vanion replied.

‘I should take better care of myself. The years aren't being good to me.'

‘Nobody stays young and beautiful forever, Endrik,' Kalten laughed.

‘Is that all that needs to be done to these two, Anarae?' Vanion asked.

‘The process is complete, Lord Vanion,' Xanetia replied.

‘We need to talk, Sparhawk,' the Preceptor said. ‘Let's go into the vestry where we'll be out of the way while the ladies modify the others.'

Sparhawk nodded, stood up and followed his friend to the small door to the left of the altar.

Vanion led the way inside and closed the door behind them. ‘You've made all the arrangements with Sorgi?' he asked.

Sparhawk sat down. ‘I talked with him yesterday,' he replied. ‘I told him that I had some friends that had to go to Beresa without attracting attention. He's had the usual desertions, and he's holding three berths open. Stragen, Talen and I'll merge with the crew. We should be able to slip into Beresa without being noticed.'

‘I imagine that cost you. Sorgi's prices are a little steep sometimes.'

Sparhawk massaged the side of his aching jaw. ‘It wasn't all that bad,' he said. ‘Sorgi owes me a couple of favors, and I gave him time to pick up a cargo to cover most of the cost.'

‘You'll be going directly to the harbor from here?'

Sparhawk nodded. ‘We'll use that tunnel Caalador found under the barracks. I told Sorgi that his three new crew members would report to him about midnight.'

‘You'll sail tomorrow then?'

Sparhawk shook his head. ‘The day after. We have to load Sorgi's cargo tomorrow.'

‘Honest work, Sparhawk?' Vanion smiled.

‘You're starting to sound like Khalad.'

‘He
does
have opinions, doesn't he?'

‘So did his father.'

‘Quit rubbing your face like that, Sparhawk. You'll make your skin raw.' Vanion paused. ‘What was it like?'

‘Very strange.'

‘Painful?'

‘The nose was. It feels almost as if somebody broke it again. Be glad you don't have to go through it.'

‘There wouldn't be much point in that. I won't be sneaking down alleys the way the rest of you will.' Vanion looked sympathetically at his friend. ‘We'll get her back, Sparhawk,' he said.

‘Of course. Was that all?' Sparhawk's tone was deliberately unemotional. The important thing here was
not
to feel.

‘Just be careful, and try to keep a handle on your temper.'

Sparhawk nodded. ‘Let's go see how the others are coming.'

The alterations were confusing; there was no question about that. It was hard to tell exactly who was talking, and sometimes Sparhawk was startled by just who answered his questions. They said their goodbyes and quietly left the chapel with the main body of the Church Knights. They went out into the torch-lit courtyard, crossed the drawbridge, and proceeded across the night-shrouded lawn to the barracks of the knights, where Sparhawk, Stragen and Talen changed into tar-smeared sailor's smocks while the others also donned the mis-matched clothing of commoners. Then they all went down to the cellar.

Caalador, who now wore the blocky face of a middle-aged Deiran knight, led the way into a damp, cobweb-draped tunnel with a smoky torch. When they had gone about a mile, he stopped and raised the torch. ‘This yere's yer exit, Sporhawk,' he said, pointing at a steep, narrow stairway. ‘You'll come out in an alley – which it
is ez don't smell none too sweet, but is good an' dork.' He paused. ‘Sorry, Stragen,' he apologized. ‘I wanted to give you something to remember me by.'

‘You're too kind,' Stragen murmured.

‘Good luck, Sparhawk,' Caalador said then.

‘Thanks, Caalador.' The two shook hands, and then Caalador lifted his torch and led the rest of the party off down the musty-smelling passageway toward their assorted destinations, leaving Sparhawk, Talen, and Stragen alone in the dark.

‘They won't be in any danger, Vanion,' Flute assured the Preceptor as the ladies were packing. ‘Ill be going along, after all, and I can take care of them.'

‘Ten
knights then,' he amended his suggestion downward.

‘They'd just be in our way, love,' Sephrenia told him. ‘I do want
you
to be careful, though. A body of armed men is far more likely to be attacked than a small party of travelers.'

‘But it isn't safe for ladies to travel alone,' he protested. ‘There are always robbers and the like lurking in the forest.'

‘We won't be in one place long enough to attract robbers or anybody else,' Flute told him. ‘We'll be in Delphaeus in two days. I could do it in one, but I'll have to stop and have a long talk with Edaemus before I go into his valley. He might just take a bit of convincing.'

‘When art thou leaving Matherion, Lord Vanion?' Xanetia asked.

‘About the end of the week, Anarae,' he replied. ‘We've got to spend some time on our equipment, and there's always the business of organizing the supply train.'

‘Take warm clothing,' Sephrenia instructed. ‘The weather could change at any time.'

‘Yes, love. How long will you be at Delphaeus?'

‘We can't be sure. Aphrael will keep you advised. We have a great deal to discuss with Anari Cedon. The fact that Cyrgon has summoned Klæl complicates matters.'

‘Truly,' Xanetia agreed. ‘We may be obliged to entreat Edaemus to return.'

‘Would he do that?'

Flute smiled roguishly. ‘I'll coax him, Vanion,' she said, ‘and you know how good I am at that. If I really want something, I almost always get it.'

‘You there! Look lively!' Sorgi's bull-necked bo'sun bellowed, popping his whip at Stragen's heels.

Stragen, who now wore the braids and sweeping mustaches of a blond Genidian Knight, dropped the bale he was carrying across the deck and reached for his dagger.

‘No!' Sparhawk hissed at him. ‘Pick up that bale!'

Stragen glared at him for a moment, then bent and lifted the bale again. ‘This wasn't part of the agreement,' he muttered.

‘He's not really going to hit you with that whip,' Talen assured the fuming Thalesian. ‘Sailors all complain about it, but the whip's just for show. A bo'sun who really hits his men with his whip usually gets thrown over the side some night during the voyage.'

‘Maybe,' Stragen growled darkly, ‘but I'll tell you this right now. If that cretin so much as
touches
me with that whip of his, he won't live long enough to go swimming. I'll have his guts in a pile on the deck before he can even blink.'

‘You new men!' the bo'sun shouted. ‘Do your talking on your own time! You're here to work, not to discuss the weather!' And he cracked his whip again.

* * *

‘She
could
do it, Khalad,' Berit insisted.

‘I think you've been out in the sun too long,' Khalad replied. They were riding south along a lonely beach under an overcast sky. The beach was backed by an uninviting salt marsh where dry reeds clattered against each other in the stiff onshore breeze. Khalad rose in his stirrups and looked around. Then he settled back in his saddle again. ‘It's a ridiculous idea, my Lord.'

‘Try to keep an open mind, Khalad. Aphrael's a Goddess. She can do
anything.'

I'm sure she can, but why would she
want
to?'

‘Well –' Berit struggled with it. ‘She
could
have a reason, couldn't she? Something that you and I wouldn't even understand?'

‘Is this what all that Styric training does to a man? You're starting to see Gods under every bush. It was only a coincidence. The two of them look a little bit alike, but that's all.'

‘You can be as skeptical as you want, Khalad, but I still think that something very strange is going on.'

‘And
I
think that what you're suggesting is an absurdity.'

‘Absurd or not, their mannerisms are the same, their expressions are identical, and they've both got that same air of smug superiority about them.'

‘Of course they do. Aphrael's a Goddess, and Danae's a Crown Princess. They
are
superior – at least in their own minds – and I think you're overlooking the fact that we saw them both in the same room and at the same time. They even
talked
to each other, for God's sake.'

‘Khalad, that doesn't mean anything. Aphrael's a Goddess. She can probably be in a dozen different places all at the same time if she really wants to be.'

‘That still brings us right back to the question of why? What would be the purpose of it? Not even a God does things without any reason.'

‘We don't
know
that, Khalad. Maybe she's doing it just to amuse herself.'

‘Are you really all that desperate to witness miracles, Berit?'

‘She
could
do it,' Berit insisted.

‘All right. So what?'

‘Aren't you the least bit curious about it?'

‘Not particularly,' Khalad shrugged.

Ulath and Tynian wore bits and pieces of the uniforms of one of the few units of the Tamul army that accepted volunteers from the Elene kingdoms of western Daresia. The faces they had borrowed were those of grizzled, middle-aged knights, the faces of hard-bitten veterans. The vessel aboard which they sailed was one of those battered, ill-maintained ships that ply coastal waters. The small amount of money they had paid for their passage bought them exactly that – passage, and nothing else. They had brought their own food and drink and their patched blankets, and they ate and slept on the deck. Their destination was a small coastal village some twenty-five leagues east of the foothills of the Tamul mountains. They lounged on the deck in the daytime, drinking cheap wine and rolling dice for pennies.

The sky was overcast when the ship's longboat deposited them on the rickety wharf of the village. The day was cool, and the Tamul Mountains were little more than a low smudge on the horizon.

‘What was that horse-trader's name again?' Tynian asked.

‘Sablis,' Ulath grunted.

‘I hope Oscagne was right,' Tynian said. ‘If this Sablis has gone out of business, we'll have to walk to those mountains.'

Ulath stepped across the wharf to speak to a pinch-faced fellow who was mending a fish net. ‘Tell me,
friend,' he said politely in Tamul, ‘where can we find Sablis the horse-trader?'

‘What if I don't feel like telling you?' the scrawny net-mender replied in a whining, nasal voice that identified him as one of those mean-spirited men who would rather die than be helpful, or even polite. Tynian had encountered his kind before, small men, usually, with an inflated notion of their own worth, men who delighted in irritating others just for the fun of it. ‘Let me,' he murmured, laying one gently restraining hand on his Thalesian companion's arm. Ulath's bunched muscles clearly spoke of impending violence.