The Diamond Throne. David Eddings
Krager. He can hold more than a regiment. He’ll be along.’
Kalten thrust his head out of the opening of the alleyway and squinted at the sky. ‘It’s going to rain,’ he predicted.
‘We’ve both been rained on before.’
Kalten plucked at the front of his gaudy doublet and rolled his eyes. ‘But Thparhawk,’ he lisped outrageously. ‘You know how thatin thpotth when it getth wet.’
Sparhawk doubled over with laughter, trying to muffle the sound.
They waited once more, and another hour dragged by.
‘The sun’s going to go down before long,’ Kalten said. ‘Maybe he found another wine shop.’
‘Let’s wait a little longer,’ Sparhawk replied.
The rush came without warning. Eight or ten burly fellows in rough clothing came charging down the alley with swords in their hands. Kalten’s rapier came whistling out of its sheath even as Sparhawk’s hand flashed to the hilt of his short sword. The man leading the charge doubled over and gasped as Kalten smoothly ran him through. Sparhawk stepped past his friend as the blond man recovered from his lunge. He parried the sword stroke of one of the attackers and then buried his sword in the man’s belly. He wrenched the blade as he jerked it out to make the wound as big as possible. ‘Get that box open!’ he shouted at Kalten as he parried another stroke.
The alleyway was too narrow for more than two of them to come at him at once; even though his sword was not as long as theirs, he was able to hold them at bay. Behind him he heard the splintering of wood as Kalten kicked the rectangular box apart. Then his friend was at his shoulder with his broadsword in his hand. ‘I’ve got it now,’ Kalten said. ‘Get your sword.’
Sparhawk spun and ran back to the mouth of the alley. He discarded the short sword, jerked his own weapon out of the wreckage of the box, and whirled back again. Kalten had cut down two of the attackers, and he was beating the others back step by step. He did, however, have his left hand pressed tightly to his side, and there was blood coming out from between his fingers. Sparhawk rushed past him, swinging his heavy sword with both hands. He split one fellow’s head open and cut the sword arm off another. Then he drove the point of his sword deep into the body of yet a third, sending him reeling against the wall with a fountain of blood gushing from his mouth.
The rest of the attackers fled.
Sparhawk turned and saw Kalten coolly pulling his sword out of the chest of the man with the missing arm. ‘Don’t leave them behind you like that, Sparhawk,’ the blond man said. ‘Even a one-armed man can stab you in the back. Besides, it isn’t tidy. Always finish one job before you go on to the next.’ He still had his left hand tightly pressed to his side.
‘Are you all right?’ Sparhawk asked him.
‘It’s only a scratch.’
‘Scratches don’t bleed like that. Let me have a look.’
The gash in Kalten’s side was sizeable, but it did not appear to be too deep. Sparhawk ripped the sleeve off the smock of one of the casualties, wadded it up, and placed it over the cut in Kalten’s side. ‘Hold that in place,’ he said. ‘Push in on it to slow the bleeding.’
‘I’ve been cut before, Sparhawk. I know what to do.’
Sparhawk looked around at the crumpled bodies littering the alley. ‘I think we ought to leave,’ he said. ‘Somebody in the neighbourhood might get curious about all the noise.’ Then he frowned. ‘Did you notice anything peculiar about these men?’ he asked.
Kalten shrugged. ‘They were fairly inept.’
‘That’s not what I mean. Men who make a living by waylaying people in alleys aren’t usually very interested in their personal appearance, and these fellows are all clean-shaven.’ He rolled over one of the bodies and ripped open the front of his canvas smock. ‘Isn’t that interesting?’ he observed. Beneath the smock the dead man wore a red tunic with an embroidered emblem over the left breast.
‘Church soldier,’ Kalten grunted. ‘Do you think that Annias might possibly dislike us?’
‘It’s not unlikely. Let’s get out of here. The survivors might have gone for help.’
‘The chapterhouse then – or the inn?’
Sparhawk shook his head. ‘Somebody’s seen through our disguises, and Annias would expect us to go to one of those places.’
‘You could be right about that. Any ideas?’
‘I know of a place. It’s not too far. Are you all right to walk?’
‘I can go as far as you can. I’m younger, remember?’
‘Only by six weeks.’
‘Younger is younger, Sparhawk. Let’s not quibble about numbers.’
They tucked their broadswords under their belts and walked out of the mouth of the alley. Sparhawk supported his wounded friend as they moved out into the open.
The street along which they walked grew progressively shabbier, and they soon entered a maze of interconnecting lanes and unpaved alleys. The buildings were large and run-down, and they teemed with roughly dressed people who seemed indifferent to the squalor around them.
‘It’s a rabbit warren, isn’t it?’ Kalten said. ‘Is this place much farther? I’m getting a little tired.’
‘It’s just on the other side of that next intersection.’
Kalten grunted and pressed his hand more tightly to his side.
They moved on. The looks directed at them by the inhabitants of this slum were unfriendly, even hostile. Kalten’s clothing marked him as a member of the ruling class, and these people at the very bottom of society had little use for courtiers and their servants.
When they reached the intersection, Sparhawk led his friend up a muddy alley. They had gone about halfway when a thick-bodied man with a rusty pike in his hands stepped out of a doorway to bar their path. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he demanded.
‘I need to talk to Platime,’ Sparhawk replied.
‘I don’t think he wants to hear anything you have to say. If you’re smart, you’ll get out of this part of town before nightfall. Accidents happen here after dark.’
‘And sometimes even before dark,’ Sparhawk said, drawing his sword.
‘I can have a dozen men here in two winks.’
‘And my broken-nosed friend here can have your head off in one,’ Kalten told him.
The man stepped back, his face apprehensive.
‘What’s it to be, neighbour?’ Sparhawk asked. ‘Do you take us to Platime, or do you and I play for a bit?’
‘You’ve got no right to threaten me.’
Sparhawk raised his sword so that the fellow could get a good look at it. ‘This gives me all sorts of rights, neighbour. Lean your pike against that wall and take us to Platime – now!’
The thick-bodied man flinched and then carefully set his pike against the wall, turned, and led them on up the alley. It came to a dead end a hundred paces farther on, and a stone stairway ran down to what appeared to be a cellar door.
‘Down there,’ the man said, pointing.
‘Lead the way,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘I don’t want you behind me, friend. You look like the sort who might make errors in judgement.’
Sullenly, the fellow went down the mud-coated stairs and rapped twice on the door. ‘It’s me,’ he called. ‘Sef. There are a couple of nobles here who want to talk to Platime.’
There was a pause followed by the rattling of a chain. The door