David Eddings - The Complete Elenium Trilogy - The Diamond Throne, The Ruby Knight, The Sapphire Rose

Sparhawk took a leather pouch from inside his tunic. He shook it a few times, and a distinctive jingling sound came from it. ‘All right, gentlemen,’ he said, untying the top of the pouch, ‘we’ve reached the part of this service you all enjoy the most – the offertory. God appreciates a generous giver, so don’t be shy. The vicar will need cash to hire pilgrims.’ He passed the pouch around.

‘Do you think God might accept a promissory note?’ Kalten asked.

‘God might. I won’t. Put something in the pouch, Kalten.’

The group that gathered in the innyard the following morning was uniformly shabby – widows in patched mourning, out-of-work artisans and several hungry beggars. They were all mounted on weary nags or sleepy-looking mules. Sparhawk looked at them from the window. ‘Tell the innkeeper to feed them,’ he said to Kalten.

‘There’s quite a number of them, Sparhawk.’

‘I don’t want them fainting from hunger a mile out of town. You take care of that while I go and talk with the vicar.’

‘Anything you say.’ Kalten shrugged. ‘Should I bathe them, too? Some of them look a bit unwashed.’

‘That won’t be necessary. Feed their horses and mules as well.’

‘Aren’t we being a little overgenerous?’

‘You get to carry any horse that collapses.’

‘Oh. I’ll see to it right away, then.’

The vicar of the poor church was a thin, anxious-looking man in his sixties. His silvery hair was curly and his face was drawn and deeply lined with care. ‘My Lord,’ he said, bowing deeply to Sparhawk.

‘Please, good vicar,’ Sparhawk said to him, ‘just “pilgrim” is adequate. We are all equal in the service of God. My companions and I wish simply to join with your good, pious folk and to journey to Madel that we may worship at the holy shrines there for the solace of our souls and in the certain knowledge of the infinite mercy of God.’

‘Well said – uh – pilgrim.’

‘Would you join us at table, good vicar?’ Sparhawk asked him. ‘We will go many miles before we sleep tonight.’

The vicar’s eyes grew suddenly bright. ‘I would be delighted, my Lord – uh, pilgrim, that is.’

The feeding of the Cammorian pilgrims and their mounts took quite some time and stretched the capacity of the kitchen and the stable grain bins to a considerable degree.

‘I’ve never seen people eat so much,’ Kalten grumbled. Clad in a sturdy, unmarked cloak, he swung up into his saddle just outside the inn.

‘They were hungry,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘At least we can see to it that they get a few good meals before they have to return to Borrata.’

‘Charity, Sir Sparhawk?’ Bevier asked. ‘Isn’t that a bit out of character? The grim-faced Pandions are not noted for their tender sensibilities.’

‘How little you know them, Sir Bevier,’ Sephrenia murmured. She mounted her white palfrey, then held out her hands to Flute, but the little girl shook her head, walked over to Faran and reached out her tiny hand. The big roan lowered his head, and she caressed his velvety nose. Sparhawk felt an odd quiver run through his mount’s body. Then Flute insistently raised her hands to the big Pandion. Gravely, Sparhawk leaned over and lifted her into her accustomed place in front of the saddle and enfolded her in his cloak. She nestled against him, took out her pipes, and began to play that same minor melody she had been playing when they had first found her.

The vicar at the head of their column intoned a brief prayer, invoking the protection of the God of the Elenes during their journey, an invocation punctuated by questioning – even sceptical – trills from Flute’s pipes.

‘Behave yourself,’ Sparhawk whispered to her. ‘He’s a good man and he’s doing what he thinks is right.’

She rolled her eyes roguishly. Then she yawned, snuggling closer to him, and promptly went to sleep.

They rode south out of Borrata under a clear morning sky with Kurik and the two-wheeled cart containing their armour and equipment clattering along behind them. The breeze was gusty and it tugged at the ragged clothing of the pilgrims patiently plodding along behind their vicar. A line of low mountains lay to the west, touched with snow on their peaks, and the sunlight glistened on those white fields. Their pace as they rode seemed to Sparhawk leisurely – even lackadaisical – though the panting and wheezing of the poor mounts of the pilgrims was a fair indication that the beasts were being pressed as hard as was possible.

It was about noon when Kalten rode forward from his station at the rear of the column. ‘There are riders coming up behind us,’ he reported quietly to avoid alarming nearby pilgrims. ‘They’re pushing hard.’

‘Any idea of who they are?’

‘They’re wearing red.’

‘Church soldiers, then.’

‘Notice how quick he is?’ Kalten observed to the others.

‘How many?’ Tynian asked.

‘It looks like a reinforced platoon.’

Bevier loosened his Lochaber axe in its sling.

‘Keep that under cover,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘The rest of you hide your weapons as well.’ Then he raised his voice. ‘Good vicar,’ he called ahead. ‘How about a hymn? The miles go easier with sacred music for company.’

The vicar cleared his throat and began to sing in a rusty, off-key voice. Wearily, but responding automatically to their pastor’s lead, the other pilgrims joined in.

‘Sing!’ Sparhawk commanded his companions, and they all raised their voices in the familiar hymn. As they bawled their song, Flute lifted her pipes and played a mocking little counterpoint.

‘Stop that,’ Sparhawk murmured to her. ‘And if there’s trouble, slide down and run out into that field.’

She rolled her eyes at him.

‘Do as you’re told, young lady. I don’t want you getting trampled if there’s a fight.’

The church soldiers, however, pounded past the column of hymn-singing pilgrims with hardly a glance and were soon lost in the distance ahead.

‘Tense,’ Ulath commented.

‘Truly,’ Tynian agreed. ‘Trying to fight in the middle of a crowd of terrified pilgrims might have been interesting.’

‘Do you think they were searching for us?’ Berit asked.

‘It’s hard to say,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘I wasn’t going to stop them to ask, though.’

They moved southward towards Madel in easy stages to conserve the sorry mounts of the vicar’s parishioners, and they arrived on the outskirts of the port city about noon on the fourth day out of Borrata. When the town came into view, Sparhawk rode forward to join the vicar at the head of the column. He handed the good man a pouch full of coins. ‘We’ll be leaving you here,’ he said. ‘A matter has come up that needs our attention.’

The vicar gave him a speculative look. ‘This was all subterfuge, wasn’t it, my Lord?’ he asked gravely. ‘I may be only the poor pastor of a poverty-stricken chapel, but I recognize the manner and bearing of Church Knights when I see them.’

‘Forgive us, good vicar,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Take your people to the holy places here in Madel. Lead them in prayer and then see to it that they’re well fed. Then return to Borrata and use whatever money is left as you see fit.’

‘And may I do this with a clear conscience, my son?’

‘The clearest, good pastor. My friends and I serve the Church in a matter of gravest urgency, and your aid will be appreciated by the members of the Hierocracy in Chyrellos – most of them, at any rate.’ Then Sparhawk turned Faran around and rode back to his companions. ‘All right, Bevier,’ he said. ‘Take us to your chapterhouse.’

‘I have been considering that, Sir Sparhawk,’ Bevier replied. ‘Our chapterhouse here is closely watched by local authorities and all manner of other folk. Even garbed as we are, we would surely be recognized.’