That's going to get aggravating," he noted, laying one hand gently against his side.

"You'll heal," Sparhawk told him. "You always do."

"The only problem is that it takes longer to heal every time. We're not getting any younger, Sparhawk. Is Bevier going to be all right to ride?"

"As long as we don't push him," Sparhawk replied.

"Tynian's better, but we'll take it slowly for the first day or so. I'm going to put Sephrenia in the wagon. Every time she gets another of those swords, she gets a little weaker. She's carrying more than she's willing to let us know about."

Kurik led the rest of the horses out into the yard. He was wearing his customary black leather vest. "I suppose I should give Bevier his armour back," he said hopefully.

"Keep it for the time being," Sparhawk disagreed. "I don't want him to start feeling brave just yet. He's a little headstrong. Let's not encourage him until we're sure he's all right."

"This is very uncomfortable, Sparhawk," Kurik said.

"I explained the reasons to you the other day."

"I'm not talking about reasons. Bevier and I are close to the same size, but there are differences. I've got raw places all over me."

"It's probably only for a couple more days."

"I'll be a cripple by then."

Berit a.s.sisted Sephrenia out through the door of the inn. He helped her up into the wagon and then lifted Flute up beside her. The small Styric woman was wan looking, and she cradled Olven's sword gently, almost as one would carry a baby.

"Are you going to be all right?" Sparhawk asked her.

"I just need some time to get used to it, that's all," she replied.

Talen led his horse out of the stable.

"Just tie him on behind the wagon," Sparhawk told the boy. "You'll be driving."

"Whatever you say, Sparhawk," Talen agreed.

"No arguments?" Sparhawk was a little surprised.

"Why should I argue? I can see the reason for it Besides, that wagon seat's more comfortable than my saddle - much more comfortable, when you get right down to it."

Tynian and Bevier came out of the inn. Both wore mail-shirts and walked a bit slowly.

"No armour?" Ulath asked Tynian lightly.

"It's heavy," Tynian replied. "I'm not sure I'm up to it just yet."

"Are you sure we didn't leave anything behind?" Sparhawk asked Kurik.

Kurik gave him a flat, unfriendly stare.

"Just asking," Sparhawk said mildly. "Don't get irritable this early in the morning." He looked at the others. "We're not going to push today," he told them. "I'll be satisfied with five leagues, if we can manage it."

"You're saddled with a group of cripples, Sparhawk," Tynian said. "Wouldn't it be better if you and Ulath went on ahead? The rest of us can catch up with you later."

"No," Sparhawk decided. "There are unfriendly people about, and you and the others aren't in any condition to defend yourselves just yet." He smiled briefly at Sephrenia. "Besides," he added, "we're supposed to be ten. I wouldn't want to offend the Younger G.o.ds."

They helped Kalten, Tynian and Bevier to mount and then rode slowly out of the inn yard into the still-dark and largely deserted streets of Paler. They proceeded at a walk to the north gate, and the gate guards hurriedly opened it for them.

"Bless you, my children," Kalten said grandly to them as he rode through.

"Did you have to do that?" Sparhawk asked him.

"It's cheaper than giving them money. Besides, who knows? My blessing might actually be worth something."

"I think he's going to get better," Kurik said.

"Not if he keeps that up, he won't," Sparhawk disagreed.

The sky to the east was growing lighter, and they moved at an easy pace along the road that ran northwesterly from Paler to Lake Venne. The land lying between the two lakes was rolling and given over largely to the growing of grain. Grand estates dotted the countryside, and here and there were villages of the log huts of the serfs. Serfdom had been abolished in western Eosia centuries before, but it still persisted here in Pelosia, since, as best Sparhawk could tell, the Pelosian n.o.bility lacked the administrative skills to make any other system work. They saw a few of those n.o.bles, usually in bright satin doublets, supervising the work of the linen-shirted serfs from horseback. Despite everything Sparhawk had heard of the evils of serfdom, the workers in the fields seemed well-fed and not particularly mistreated.

Berit was riding several hundred yards to the rear, and he kept turning in his saddle to look back.

"He's going to wrench my armour completely askew if he keeps doing that," Kalten said critically.

"We can always stop by a smith and have it re-tailored for you," Sparhawk said. "Maybe we could have some of the seams let out at the same time, since you're so bent on stuffing Yourself full of food every chance you get."

"You're in a foul humour this morning, Sparhawk."

"I've got a lot on my mind."

"Some people are just not suited for command," Kalten observed grandly to the others. "My ugly friend here seems to be one of them. He worries too much."

"Do you want to do this?" Sparhawk asked flatly.

"Me? Be serious, Sparhawk. I couldn't even herd geese, much less direct a body of knights."

"Then would you like to shut up and let me do it?"

Berit rode forward, his eyes narrowed and his hand slipping his axe up and down in the sling at the side of his saddle. "The Zemochs are back there, Sir Sparhawk," he said. "I keep catching glimpses of them."

"How far back?"

"About a half a mile. Most of them are hanging back but they've got scouts out. They're keeping an eye on us."

"If we charged to the rear, they'd just scatter," Bevier advised. "And then they'd pick up our trail again."

"Probably," Sparhawk agreed glumly. "Well, I can't stop them. I don't have enough men. Let them trail along if it makes them happy. We'll get rid of them when we're all feeling a little better. Berit, drop back and keep an eye on them - and no heroics."

"I understand completely, Sir Sparhawk."

The day grew hot before noon, and Sparhawk began to sweat inside his armour.

"Am I being punished for something?" Kurik asked him, mopping his streaming face with a piece of cloth.

"You know I wouldn't do that."

"Then why am I locked up in this stove?"

"Sorry. It's necessary."

About mid-afternoon, when they were pa.s.sing through a long verdant valley, a dozen or so gaily dressed young men galloped from a nearby estate to bar their way. "Go no farther," one of them, a pale, pimply young fellow in a green velvet doublet and with a supercilious, self-important expression, commanded, holding up one hand imperiously.

"I beg your pardon?" Sparhawk asked.

"I demand to know why you are trespa.s.sing on my father's lands." The young fellow looked around at his sn.i.g.g.e.ring friends with a smugly self-congratulatory expression.

"We were led to believe that this is a public road," Sparhawk replied.

"Only at my father's sufferance." The pimply fellow puffed himself up, trying to look dangerous.

"He's showing off for his friends," Kurik muttered.

"Let's just sweep them out of the way and ride on. Those rapiers they're carrying aren't really much of a threat."

"Let's try some diplomacy first," Sparhawk replied.

"We really don't want a crowd of angry serfs on our heels."

"I'll do it. I've handled his sort before." Kurik rode forward deliberately, Bevier's armour gleaming in the afternoon sun and his white cape and surcoat resplendent.

"Young man," he said in a stern voice, "you seem to be somewhat unacquainted with the customary courtesies.

Is it possible that you don't recognize us?"

"I've never seen you before."

"I wasn't talking about who we are. I was talking about what. It's understandable, I suppose. It's obvious that you're not widely travelled."

The young fellow's eyes bulged with outrage. "Not so.

Not so," he objected in a squeaky voice. "I have been to the city of Venne at least twice."

"Ah," Kurik said. "And when you were there, did you perhaps hear about the Church?"

"We have our own chapel right here on the estate. I need no instruction in that foolishness." The young man sneered. It seemed to be his normal expression. An older man in a black brocade doublet was riding furiously from the estate.

"It's always gratifying to speak with an educated man," Kurik was saying. "Have you ever by chance heard of the Knights of the Church?"

The young fellow looked a bit vague at that. The man in the black doublet was approaching rapidly from behind the group of young men. His face appeared white with fury.

"I'd strongly advise you to stand aside," Kurik continued smoothly. "What you're doing imperils your soul - not to mention your life."

"You can't threaten me - not on my father's own estate."

Jaken!" the man in black roared, "have you lost your mind?"

"Father," the pimply young man faltered, "I was just questioning these trespa.s.sers."

"Trespa.s.sers?" the older man spluttered. "This is the Kings highway, you jacka.s.s!"

The man in the black doublet moved his horse in closer, rose in his stirrups and knocked his son from the saddle with a solid blow of his fist. Then he turned to face Kurik. "My apologies, Sir Knight," he said. "My half-wit son didn't know to whom he was speaking. I revere the church and honour her Knights. I hope and pray that you were not offended."

"Not at all, My Lord," Kurik said easily. "Your son and I had very nearly resolved our differences."

The n.o.ble winced. "Thank G.o.d I arrived in time then. That idiot isn't much of a son, but his mother would have been distressed if you'd been obliged to cut off his head."

"I doubt that it would have gone that far, My Lord."

"Father!" the young man on the ground said in horrified shock. "You hit me!" There was blood streaming from his nose. "I'm going to tell mother!"

"Good. I'm sure she'll be very impressed." The n.o.ble looked apologetically at Kurik. "Excuse me, Sir Knight. I think some long overdue discipline is in order. "He glared at his son. "Return home, Jaken," he said coldly. "When you get there, pack up this covey of parasitic wastrels and send them away. I want them off the estate by sundown."

"But they're my friends." his son wailed.

"Well, they're not mine. Get rid of them. You will also pack. Don't bother to take fine clothing, because you're going to a monastery. The brothers there are very strict, and they'll see to your education - which I seem to have neglected."

"Mother won't let you do that!" his son exclaimed, his face going very pale.

"She doesn't have anything to say about it. Your mother has never been more to me than a minor inconvenience."

"But - " the young brat's face seemed to disintegrate.

"You sicken me, Jaken. You're the worst excuse for a son a man has ever been cursed with. Pay close attention to the monks, Jaken. I have some nephews far more worthy than you. Your inheritance is not all that secure, and you could be a monk for the remainder of your life."

"You can't do that."

"Yes, actually, I can."

"Mother will punish you."

The n.o.ble's laugh was chilling. "Your mother has begun to tire me, Jaken," he said. "She's self-indulgent, shrewish and more than a little stupid. She's turned you into something I'd rather not look at. Besides, she's not very attractive any more. I think I'll send her to a nunnery for the rest of her life. The prayer and fasting may bring her closer to heaven, and the amendment of her spirit is my duty as a loving husband, wouldn't you say?"

The sneer had slid off Jaken's face, and he began to shake violently as his world crashed down around his ears.

"Now, my son," the n.o.ble continued disdainfully, "will you do as I tell you, or shall I unleash this Knight of the Church to administer the chastis.e.m.e.nt you so richly deserve?"

Kurik took his cue from that and slowly drew Bevier's sword. It made a singularly unpleasant sound as it slid from its sheath.

The young man scrambled away on his hands and knees. "I have a dozen friends with me," he threatened shrilly.