The two men looked right through him.
Ser Milus reached out with his riding whip and touched one on the shoulder. ‘Tell me what we’re laughing at, and we can all laugh together.’
The Red Knight reined in. ‘Leave it!’ he called.
Milus turned his destrier, unwillingness in every inch of his six feet of steel, and behind him, the two men smiled nastily.
‘They’re mocking us,’ he complained.
The Red Knight sighed. ‘Yes, they are. And as long as we’re paid, we don’t have to give a shit whether they love us or hate us.’
In the second rank of the second company, Sauce strained her eyes as they passed their third or fourth basilica. ‘By all the saints. I mean all the saints – they must have a church for every saint in the book.’
Ser Michael shook his head. ‘I had no idea,’ he said. He was looking at a bronze statue of a warrior of some kind. He couldn’t even identify what kind of warrior, but the quality of the statue was incredible – lifelike. The musculature – the strain on the man’s face-
‘Don’t gape like rubes,’ growled Ser Jehan. But then he smiled at Michael. ‘I thought you, at least, would ha’ been here afore.’
‘Never,’ breathed Ser Michael. ‘It even smells good.’
Ser Jehan nodded. ‘Sewers. From old times. See yon great bridges? I forget the word for them, but they carry water from the hills right into the city. In some houses, you turn a little tap, and fresh water you can drink flows right out. Crap goes right into the pipes and whish, it’s gone away. At least in good houses.’
Ranald couldn’t stop turning his head. ‘It’s huge!’
Michael leaned forward. ‘You’ve been here before,’ he said.
Jehan nodded back over the rump of his great warhorse. ‘Oh, aye. Ten years and more. I served here two years. Good pay. Not much fighting. A lot of standing around in draughty halls and listening to priests sing.’
Ser George Brewes caught a rose thrown from a high balcony by a young woman and tucked the stem behind his ear. ‘It’s beautiful,’ he said, marking the tall house with the red doors. But the street went on and on, and as they climbed the central hills, all of them realised that the city was seven miles across – fifty times the size of Harndon.
Conversation slowed.
You don’t have to be angry. I was handing control back.
Were you, though? I think perhaps it is time I was rid of you, sir. You are a troublesome guest.
Give me a little more time. This city – this is the very home of hermeticism. I might learn something-
You took control of my body, Harmodius. How can I trust you now?
Don’t be a fool, boy. I did it to save us both.
So you say. And you will rationalise it right up until the moment that you find yourself my master.
The Red Knight stamped down on his connection to the old mage and focused on the real, all about him. Count Zac had displaced Ser Gavin at his side.
‘You talk to the spirits?’ he asked, interested.
‘No,’ said the Red Knight. ‘Yes. Maybe.’
Zac tilted his head like an interested dog. ‘Which one?’ he said.
‘Maybe,’ said the Red Knight.
The Easterner made a sign with his hands. ‘Best be careful,’ he said. ‘Spirits are scary bastards. Listen to me.’ Then he grinned. ‘You know the city?’ he asked.
‘I’ve been here before,’ the Red Knight admitted.
Count Zac nodded. ‘The Porphyrogenetrix wants to see you.’ The Easterner, who had trouble with Gothic names, got out the Morean title with fluidity. ‘You know Blacharnae?’
The Red Knight shook his head. ‘Not the part of town I know,’ he said.
‘She’s going to garrison your men in the palace,’ said the Easterner. ‘As bad as spirits. Be careful.’ He shrugged. ‘When you are done at the palace, come and get that horse. Your horse-’ He waved at the Captain’s borrowed warhorse. Slapped his rear end, and laughed. ‘Listen, you like girls?’ he asked.
Through the haze of pain, the Captain had trouble following the Easterner. ‘Yes. I have, in fact, been known to like girls,’ he managed.
‘Then watch out for the princess,’ Count Zac said.
The gates of the palace were shut, and the company rumbled to a halt in the Great Square in front of the palace under the watchful eyes of Saint Aetius. Every man and woman in the company was looking around, gawping like the poorest peasant in a rich man’s house. The archers were talking so loudly that scraps of their repartee slipped up the column to the Captain, who sat calmly looking at the gates.
Never seen . . . made of fewkin’ money . . . with his parts hanging in the air . . . look at the tits on her! Most beautiful thing . . . made by gods or men . . . that bow’s too heavy to pull . . . no, you stupid sod, it’s a chariot . . . they used to wear those things . . . not solid gold . . .
Harmodius stirred, deep inside his head. May I speak?
The Red Knight sighed a little. Go right ahead. How can I stop you?
This is far more dangerous than I had imagined. The hermetical energy here is very like the Well at Lissen Carrak. I can feel the University. Across the square at the Academy are thirty men and two women each as puissant as I am – perhaps not quite, but very close.
There is a strong user in the palace, and more than a dozen competent weaker users.
I have never seen such a concentration of hermetical talent in one place . . . well, perhaps in my youth.
The Red Knight felt the pleasure in the other man’s thought as if it was his own. Where was that, old man?
Harmodius laughed in his head. Ifriqu’ya, lad. Dar-as-Salaam, the abode of peace. The very best hermetical study centre in the known world.
The Red Knight sat on his horrible gelding and watched the gates. The horse shifted and shifted again, grunted, tossed his head and tried to spit out the bit.
At the Captain’s shoulder, Ranald Lachlan spat – a more contemplative spit than the horse’s. ‘By all that’s sacred. It is like seeing the dragon. Like rain on a mountainside and the sun over the lakes. Is that a statue of Lady Tar? By the Blessed Virgin, is that sort of thing allowed?’
His cousin chuckled. ‘Boyo, I look around this square and all I see is a customer that can pay.’ Bad Tom grinned. ‘Mickle sly they are, to make us wait and drink yon in. Mayhap to make us know our place, eh?’ Despite his words, Tom looked where Ranald had pointed – spotted the golden statue of Tar with the green emerald eyes, and made a sign.
‘Christ on the cross!’ Ranald said. ‘We’ll all be burned as pagans.’
‘You spent too long in Harndon, cousin.’ Tom’s eyes crossed Ranald’s. Neither man flinched – but both put their right hands unconsciously on their hilts.
The Captain didn’t turn his head. ‘Gentlemen? While I will be the first to admit that a duel here in the Imperial forum would probably excite the locals, I suspect we’ll win greater love from the lady here if we behave with decorum.’
Bad Tom curbed his charger and laughed. ‘Just fun, Captain.’
Ranald said, ‘He didn’t get enough fighting today,’ and some of the archers laughed.
The Red Knight stood in his stirrups and called in his battlefield voice, ‘Eyes front!’
The company stopped its bickering, its commenting, its art criticism, and stood silently in the evening air. The horses’ tails swished at the late summer flies. A mule farted. A woman sighed.
Silence.
Men shifted, unlocked their knees – Sauce loosened her sword in her scabbard and her new warhorse, confused by the shift in her weight, stepped out of the column and she blushed. Wilful Murder, leading a hand of archers, tried to whisper to them about their pay, and his failed attempt to whisper floated like the sound of a small saw-mill over the column until Oak Pew leaned forward and flicked his ear with the force and accuracy of a schoolteacher. He yelped and subsided.