‘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.’