It was probably about midnight when the door to Sparhawk’s cell banged open. He rolled quickly out of his narrow cot and came to his feet with his sword in his hand.

‘Don’t do that,’ the big blond-haired man in the doorway said in disgust. He was holding a candle in one hand and a wineskin in the other.

‘Hello, Kalten,’ Sparhawk greeted his boyhood friend. ‘When did you get in?’

‘About a half-hour ago. I thought I was going to have to scale the walls there for a while.’ He looked disgusted. ‘It’s peacetime Why do they raise the drawbridge every night?’

‘Probably out of habit.’

‘Are you going to put that down?’ Kalten asked, pointing at the sword in Sparhawk’s hand, ‘or am I going to have to drink this whole thing by myself?’

‘Sorry,’ Sparhawk said. He leaned his plain sword against the wall.

Kalten set his candle on the small table in the corner, tossed the wineskin onto Sparhawk’s bed, and then caught his friend in a huge bear hug. ‘It’s good to see you,’ he declared.

‘And you, too,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Have a seat.’ He pointed at the stool by the table and sat down on the edge of his cot. ‘How was Lamorkand?’

Kalten made an indelicate sound. ‘Cold, damp, and nervous,’ he replied. ‘Lamorks are not my favourite people in the world. How was Rendor?’

Sparhawk shrugged. ‘Hot, dry, and probably just as nervous as Lamorkand.’

‘I heard a rumour that you ran into Martel down there. Did you give him a nice funeral?’

‘He got away’

‘You’re slipping, Sparhawk.’ Kalten unfastened the collar of his cloak. A great mat of curly blond hair protruded out of the neck cf his mail coat. ‘Are you going to sit on that wineskin all night?’ he asked pointedly.

Sparhawk grunted, unstoppered the skin and lifted it to his lips. ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘Where did you get it?’ He handed the skin to his friend.

‘I picked it up in a wayside tavern about sundown,’ he replied. ‘I remembered that all there is to drink in Pandion chapterhouses is water – or tea, if Sephrenia happens to be around. Stupid custom.’

‘We are a religious order, Kalten.’

‘There are a half-dozen patriarchs in Chyrellos who get drunk as lords every night.’ Kalten lifted the wineskin and took a long drink. Then he shook the skin. ‘I should have picked up two,’ he observed. ‘Oh, by the way, Kurik was in the tavern with some young puppy wearing your armour’

‘I should have guessed that,’ Sparhawk said wryly.

‘Anyway, Kurik told me that you were here. I was going to spend the night there, but when I heard that you’d come back from Rendor, I rode on the rest of the way’

‘I’m touched.’

Kalten laughed and handed back the wineskin.

‘Were Kurik and the novice staying out of sight?’ Sparhawk asked.