The palace lay in the centre of town. It was a very grandiose sort of building, much taller than those around it, with high, pointed towers surmounted by damply flapping coloured pennons. It was walled off from the rest of the city, and the walls were surmounted by battlements. At some time in the past, one of the kings of Elenia had ordered the exterior of those walls to be sheathed in white limestone. The climate and the pervasive pall of smoke that lay heavy over the city in certain seasons, however, had turned the sheathing a dirty, streaked grey.

The palace gates were broad and patrolled by a half-dozen guards wearing the dark blue livery that marked them as members of the regular palace garrison.

‘Halt!’ one of them barked as Sparhawk approached. He stepped into the centre of the gateway, holding his pike slightly advanced. Sparhawk gave no indication that he had heard, and Faran bore down on the man. ‘I said to halt, Sir Knight!’ the guard commanded again. Then one of his fellows jumped forward, seized his arm, and pulled him out of the roan’s path. ‘It’s the Queen’s Champion,’ the second guard exclaimed. ‘Don’t ever stand in his way.’

Sparhawk reached the central courtyard and dismounted, moving a bit awkwardly because of the weight of his armour and the encumbrance of his shield. A guard came forward, his pike at the ready

‘Good morning, neighbour,’ Sparhawk said to him in his quiet voice.

The guard hesitated.

‘Watch my horse,’ the knight told him then. ‘I shouldn’t be too long.’ He handed the guard Faran’s reins and started up the broad staircase towards the heavy double doors that opened into the palace.

‘Sir Knight,’ the guard called after him.

Sparhawk did not turn, but continued on up the stairs. There were two blue-liveried guards at the top, older men, he noted, men he thought he recognized. One of the guards’ eyes widened, then he suddenly grinned. ‘Welcome back, Sir Sparhawk,’ he said, pulling the door open for the black-armoured knight.

Sparhawk gave him a slow wink and went on inside, his mail-shod feet and his spurs clinking on the polished flagstones. Just beyond the door, he encountered a palace functionary with curled and pomaded hair and wearing a maroon-coloured doublet. ‘I will speak with Lycheas,’ Sparhawk announced in a flat tone. ‘Take me to him.’

‘But –’ The man’s face had gone slightly pale. He drew himself up, his expression growing lofty ‘How did you –?’

‘Didn’t you hear me, neighbour?’ Sparhawk asked him.