The Complete Elenium Trilogy: The Diamond Throne, The Ruby Knight, The Sapphire Rose. David Eddings
life of me understand why most Rendors wear black,’ he said. ‘Don’t they know that it’s twice as hot?’
‘Maybe they haven’t realized that yet,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Rendors are none too bright in the first place, and they’ve only been here for five thousand years.’
Sorgi laughed. ‘Maybe that’s it,’ he said. ‘Good fortune here in Cippria, Master Cluff,’ he said. ‘If I happen to run across any cousins, I’ll tell them that I’ve never heard of you.’
‘Thank you, Captain,’ Sparhawk said, clasping Sorgi’s hand. ‘You have no idea how much I appreciate that.’
They led their horses down the slanting gangway to the wharf. At Kurik’s suggestion, they covered their saddles with blankets to conceal the fact that they were not of Rendorish construction. Then they all tied their bundles to their saddles, mounted, and moved away from the harbour at an unobtrusive walk. The streets were teeming with Rendors. The city dwellers sometimes wore lighter-coloured clothing, but the desert people were all dressed in unrelieved black and had their hoods up. There were few women in the street, and they were all veiled. Sephrenia rode subserviently behind Sparhawk and Kurik with her hood pulled far forward and her veil drawn tightly across her nose and mouth.
‘You know the customs here, I see,’ Sparhawk said back over his shoulder.
‘I was here many years ago,’ she replied, drawing her robe around Flute’s knees.
‘How many years?’
‘Would you like to have me tell you that Cippria was only a fishing village then?’ she asked archly. ‘Twenty or so mud huts?’
He looked back at her sharply. ‘Sephrenia, Cippria’s been a major seaport for fifteen hundred years.’
‘My,’ she said, ‘has it really been that long? It seems like only yesterday. Where does the time go?’
‘That’s impossible!’
She laughed gaily. ‘How gullible you can be sometimes, Sparhawk,’ she said. ‘You know I’m not going to answer that kind of question, so why keep trying?’
He suddenly felt more than a little sheepish. ‘I suppose I asked for that, didn’t I?’ he admitted.
‘Yes, you did.’
Kurik was grinning broadly.
‘Go ahead and say it,’ Sparhawk told him sourly.
‘Say what, my Lord?’ Kurik’s eyes were wide and innocent.
They rode up from the harbour, mingling with robed Rendors in the narrow, twisting streets. Although the overcast veiled the sun, Sparhawk could still feel the heat radiating out from the white-plastered walls of the houses and shops. He could also catch the familiar scents of Rendor. The air was close and dusty, and there was the pervading odour of mutton simmering in olive oil and pungent spices. There was the cloying fragrance of heavy perfumes, and overlaying it all was the persistent reek of the stockyards.
Near the centre of town, they passed the mouth of a narrow alley. A chill touched Sparhawk, and suddenly, as clearly as if they were actually ringing out their call, he seemed once again to hear the sound of the bells.
‘Something wrong?’ Kurik asked as he saw his lord shudder.
‘That’s the alley where I saw Martel last time.’
Kurik peered up the alley. ‘Tight quarters in there,’ he noted.
‘That’s all that kept me alive,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘They couldn’t come at me all at once.’
‘Where are we going, Sparhawk?’ Sephrenia asked from the rear.
‘To the monastery where I stayed after I was wounded,’ he replied. ‘I don’t think we want to be seen in the streets. The abbot and most of the monks out there are Arcian, and they know how to keep secrets.’
‘Will I be welcome there?’ she asked dubiously. ‘Arcian monks are conservative, and they have certain prejudices where Styrics are concerned.’
‘This particular abbot is a bit more cosmopolitan,’ Sparhawk assured her, ‘and I have a few suspicions about his monastery anyway.’
‘Oh?’
‘I don’t think these monks are entirely what they seem, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find a secret armoury inside the monastery complete with burnished armour, blue surcoats and a variety of weapons.’
‘Cyrinics?’ she asked, a bit surprised.
‘The Pandions aren’t the only ones who want to keep an eye on Rendor,’ he replied.
‘What’s that smell?’ Kurik asked as they approached the western outskirts of town.
‘The stockyards,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘A great deal of beef is shipped out of Cippria.’
‘Do we have to go through any kind of a gate to get out?’
Sparhawk shook his head. ‘The city walls were pulled down during the suppression of the Eshandist Heresy. The local people didn’t bother to rebuild them.’
They emerged from the narrow street they were following into acre upon acre of stock pens filled with bawling, scrubby-looking cows. It was late afternoon by now, and the overcast had begun to take on a silvery sheen.
‘How much farther to the monastery?’ Kurik asked.
‘A mile or so.’
‘It’s quite a distance from that alley back there, isn’t it?’
‘I noticed that myself about ten years ago.’
‘Why didn’t you take shelter someplace closer?’
‘There wasn’t anyplace safe. I could hear the bells from the monastery, so I just kept following the sound. It gave me something to think about.’
‘You could have bled to death.’
‘That same thought crossed my mind a few times that night.’
‘Gentlemen,’ Sephrenia said, ‘do you suppose we could move along? The night comes on very quickly here in Rendor, and it gets cold in the desert after the sun goes down.’
The monastery lay beyond the stockyards on a high, rocky hill. It was surrounded by a thick wall, and the gate was closed. Sparhawk dismounted before the gate and tugged on a stout cord hanging beside it. A small bell tinkled inside. After a moment, the shutter of a narrow, barred window cut into the stones beside the gate opened. The brown-bearded face of a monk peered out warily.
‘Good evening, brother,’ Sparhawk said. ‘Do you suppose I might have a word with your abbot?’
‘Can I give him your name?’
‘Sparhawk. He might remember me. I stayed here for a time a few years back.’
‘Wait,’ the monk said brusquely, closing the shutter again.
‘Not very cordial, is he?’ Kurik said.
‘Churchmen aren’t really welcome in Rendor,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘A bit of caution is probably only natural.’
They waited as the twilight faded.
Then the shutter opened again. ‘Sir Sparhawk!’ a voice more suited to a parade ground than a religious community boomed.
‘My Lord Abbot,’ Sparhawk replied.
‘Wait there a moment. We’ll open the gate.’
There was a rattling of chains and the grating sound of a heavy bar sliding through thick iron rings. Then the gate ponderously swung open, and the abbot came out to greet them. He was a bluff, hearty-looking man with a ruddy face and an imposing black beard. He was quite tall, and his shoulders were massive. ‘It’s good to see you