‘Thanks, my Lord,’ the whore said. She looked around the tavern. ‘This is a sorry place,’ she said with a certain amount of resignation in her voice ‘I wouldn’t even come in here – except that I don’t like to work the streets.’ She sighed. ‘Do you know something?’ she said. ‘My feet hurt. Isn’t that a strange thing to happen to someone in my profession? You’d think it would be my back. Thanks again, my Lord.’ She turned and shuffled back to the table where she had been sitting.

‘I like talking with whores,’ Kalten said. They’ve got a nice, uncomplicated view of life.’

‘That’s a strange hobby for a Church Knight.’

‘God hired me as a fighting man, Sparhawk, not as a monk. I fight whenever He tells me to, but the rest of my time is my own.’

The tavern keeper brought them tankards of beer and a plate with bread and cheese on it. They sat eating and talking quietly

After about an hour the tavern had attracted several more customers sweat-smelling workmen who had slipped away from their chores and a few of the keepers of nearby shops. Sparhawk rose, went to the door and looked out. Although the narrow back street was not exactly teeming with traffic, there were enough people moving back and forth to provide some measure of concealment. Sparhawk returned to the table. ‘I think it’s time to be on our way, my Lord,’ he said to Kalten. He picked up his box.

‘Right,’ Kalten replied. He drained his tankard and rose to his feet, swaying slightly and with his hat on the back of his head. He stumbled a few times on the way to the door and he was reeling just a bit as he led the way out into the street. Sparhawk followed him with the box once again on his shoulder. ‘Aren’t you overdoing that just a little?’ he muttered to his friend when they turned the corner.

‘I’m just a typical drunken courtier, Sparhawk. We’ve just come out of a tavern.’

‘We’re well past it now If you act too drunk, you’ll attract attention. I think it’s time for a miraculous recovery.’

‘You’re taking all the fun out of this, Sparhawk,’ Kalten complained. He stopped staggering and straightened his white-plumed hat.

They moved on through the busy streets with Sparhawk trailing respectfully behind his friend as a good squire would.

When they reached another intersection, Sparhawk felt a familiar prickling of his skin. He set down his wooden box and wiped at his brow with the sleeve of his smock.

‘What’s the matter?’ Kalten asked, also stopping.

‘The case is heavy, my Lord,’ Sparhawk explained in a voice loud enough to be heard by passers-by Then he spoke in a half-whisper ‘We’re being watched,’ he said as his eyes swept the sides of the street.