‘It’s inside my surcoat,’ Sparhawk said. He looked closely at his friend. ‘Don’t take this wrong,’ he said, ‘but you’re looking decidedly seedy this morning.’

‘I’m tired more than anything, Sparhawk. Wargun kept us running pretty hard down there in Arcium. Take care of yourself, my friend. I want to go and talk with Sephrenia before we separate.’

Sparhawk sighed as Vanion rode back along the column to join the small, beautiful woman who had tutored generations of Pandions in the secrets of Styricum. Sephrenia and Vanion would never say anything overtly, even to each other, but Sparhawk knew how things stood between them, and he also knew how totally impossible their situation was.

Kalten pulled in beside him. ‘Well, how did the wedding night go?’ he asked, his eyes very bright.

Sparhawk gave him a long, flat look.

‘You don’t want to talk about it, I gather.’

‘It’s sort of private.’

‘We’ve been friends since boyhood, Sparhawk. We’ve never had any secrets from each other.’

‘We have now. It’s about seventy leagues to Kadach, isn’t it?’

‘That’s fairly close. If we push, we should be able to make it in five days. Did Martel sound at all concerned when he was talking with Annias down in that cellar? What I’m getting at is do you think he’ll be worried enough about our following him to hurry right along?’

‘He definitely wanted to leave Chyrellos.’

‘He’s probably pushing his horses hard then, wouldn’t you say?’

‘That’s a safe bet.’

‘His horses will tire if he runs them hard, so we still might have a chance to catch up with him after a few days. I don’t know about how you feel about him, but I’d certainly like to catch Adus.’

‘It’s something to think about, all right. How’s the country between Kadach and Motera?’

‘Flat. Mostly farmland. Castles here and there. Farm villages. It’s a great deal like eastern Elenia.’ Kalten laughed. ‘Have you taken a look at Berit this morning? He’s having a little trouble adjusting to his armour. It doesn’t fit him all that well.’ Berit, the raw-boned young novice, had been promoted to a rank seldom used by the militant orders. He was now an apprentice knight rather than a novice. This legally enabled him to wear his own armour, but he did not as yet rate a ‘sir’.

‘He’ll get used to it,’ Sparhawk said. ‘When we stop for the night, take him aside and show him how to pad the raw spots. We don’t want him to start bleeding out of the joints of his armour. Be discreet about it, though. If I remember rightly, a young fellow’s very proud and a little touchy when he first puts his armour on. That sort of passes after the first few blisters break.’