Perraine shrugged. ‘I think he’s running out of things to forbid, and his imagination is severely limited. You want some more of this mutton?’

‘Thanks all the same, Perraine,’ Sparhawk said, taking a fig instead, ‘but one chunk of mutton is my limit.’

‘One chunk a day?’

‘No. One a year.’

Chapter 22

The sun was turning the western sky a rusty colour when Sparhawk and Sephrenia entered the square near the centre of Dabour, and the light reflecting from the late-afternoon sky bathed the walls of the buildings and the faces of the people in the square with a ruddy glow. Sephrenia had her left arm bound up in a makeshift sling, and Sparhawk held her other elbow solicitously as they walked.

‘It’s right over there,’ he said quietly, nodding his head towards the far side.

Sephrenia drew her veil a bit tighter across her nose and mouth, and they moved through the crowd milling around in the middle of the square.

Here and there along the walls of the buildings leaned hooded nomads in black robes, their eyes alert and filled with suspicion as they peered at every face that passed.

‘True believers,’ Sparhawk muttered sardonically, ‘ever alert for the sins of their neighbours.’

‘It’s always been that way, Sparhawk,’ she replied. ‘Self-righteousness is one of the most common – and least attractive – characteristics of man.’ They passed one of the watchers and entered the smelly shop.

The apothecary was a chubby little man with an apprehensive expression on his face. ‘I don’t know if he’ll consent to see you,’ he said when they asked to speak with Doctor Tanjin. ‘He’s being watched, you know.’

‘Yes,’ Sparhawk said. ‘We saw several of the watchers outside. Please advise him that we’re here. My sister’s arm needs attention.’

The nervous apothecary scurried through a curtained doorway at the back of the shop. A moment later, he came back. ‘I’m sorry,’ he apologized. ‘He said he’s not taking any new patients.’

Sparhawk raised his voice. ‘How can a healer refuse to see an injured person? Does the oath they take mean so little to them here in Dabour? In Cippria, the physicians are more honourable My good friend, Doctor Voldi, would never refuse his aid to the sick or hurt.’

It hung there for a moment, and then the curtains parted. The man who thrust his head out between them had a very large nose, a pendulous lower lip, jutting ears, and weak, watery eyes. He wore the white smock of a physician. ‘Did you say Voldi?’ he asked in a high-pitched, nasal voice ‘Do you know him?’

‘Of course,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘He’s a small man who’s going bald, and he dyes his hair. He has a very large opinion of himself.’

‘That’s Voldi, all right. Bring your sister back here and be quick. Don’t let anybody outside the shop see you.’