They rode on down the hill to the great bronze gates of the holy city The guards there saluted Dolmant and let them all pass without question. Beyond the gate lay a broad street that could only be called a boulevard. Huge houses stood on either side, seeming almost to shoulder at each other in their eagerness to command the undivided attention of passers-by. The street teemed with people. Although many of them wore the drab smocks of workmen, the vast majority were garbed in sombre, ecclesiastical black.

‘Is everybody here a churchman?’ Talen asked. The boy’s eyes were wide as the sights of Chyrellos overwhelmed him. The cynical young thief from the back alleys of Cimmura had finally seen something he could not shrug off.

‘Hardly,’ Kalten replied, ‘but in Chyrellos one commands a bit more respect if he’s thought to be affiliated with the Church, so everybody wears black.’

‘Frankly, I wouldn’t mind seeing a bit more colour in the streets of Chyrellos,’ Dolmant said. ‘All this unrelieved black depresses me.’

‘Why not start a new trend then, your Grace?’ Kalten suggested. ‘The next time you present yourself at the Basilica, wear a pink cassock – or maybe emerald green. You’d look very nice in green.’

‘The dome would collapse if I did,’ Dolmant said wryly.

The patriarch’s house, unlike the palaces of most other high churchmen, was simple and unadorned. It was set slightly back from the street and was surrounded by well-trimmed shrubs and an iron fence.

‘We’ll go on to the chapterhouse then, your Grace,’ Sparhawk said as they stopped at Dolmant’s gate.

The patriarch nodded. ‘And I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Sparhawk saluted and then led the others on down the street.

‘He’s a good man, isn’t he?’ Kalten said.

‘One of the best,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘The church is lucky to have him.’

The chapterhouse of the Pandion Knights in Chyrellos was a bleak-looking stone building on a little-travelled side street. Although it was not moated as was the one in Cimmura, it was nonetheless surrounded by a high wall and blocked off from the street by a formidable gate. Sparhawk went through the ritual which gained them entry, and they dismounted in the courtyard. The governor of the chapterhouse, a stout man named Nashan, came bustling down the stairs to greet them. ‘Our house is honoured, Sir Sparhawk,’ he said, clasping the big knight’s hand. ‘How did things turn out in Cimmura?’

‘We managed to pull Annias’ teeth,’ Sparhawk replied.

‘How did he take it?’

‘He looked a little sick.’

‘Good.’ Nashan turned to Sephrenia. ‘Welcome, little mother,’ he greeted her, kissing both her palms.

‘Nashan,’ she replied gravely. ‘I see that you’re not missing too many meals.’