The Diamond Throne

around until he was resolutely facing aft. Sparhawk patted his rump familiarly and went back forward.
    They took a cold supper of bread and cheese, then spread their blankets on the deck.
    ‘Sparhawk,’ Kurik said after they had settled down for the night.
    ‘Yes, Kurik?’
    ‘I’ve just had a thought. Are there many people riding in and out of Dabour?’
    ‘Usually, yes. Arasham’s presence there tends to attract large crowds.’
    ‘I sort of thought so. Wouldn’t we be a little less conspicuous if we got off this boat a league or so this side of Dabour and joined one of the groups of pilgrims riding into the city?’
    ‘You think of everything, don’t you, Kurik?’
    ‘That’s what you pay me for, Sparhawk. Sometimes you knights aren’t too practical. It’s a squire’s job to keep you out of trouble’
    ‘I appreciate that, Kurik.’
    ‘No extra charge,’ Kurik said.
    The night passed uneventfully, and at dawn the sailors cast off their moorings and raised the sail again. They passed the town of Kodhl about midmorning of the following day and sailed on upriver towards the holy city of Dabour. The river between towns was heavily travelled. There seemed to be no organized pattern to the traffic, and the boats occasionally bumped into each other. Such incidents were usually accompanied by an exchange of curses and insults.
    It was about noon on the fourth day when Sparhawk went aft to have a word with the one-eyed captain. ‘We’re getting fairly close, aren’t we?’ he asked.
    ‘About five more leagues,’ the captain replied, moving his tiller slightly to avoid an oncoming boat. ‘Mangy son of a three-legged donkey!’ he bellowed at the steersman of the other vessel.
    ‘May your mother break out in warts!’ the steersman replied pleasantly
    ‘I think my friends and I might want to go ashore before we actually reach the city,’ Sparhawk said to the captain. ‘We want to look around a bit before we meet any of Arasham’s followers, and the docks are likely to be watched rather closely’
    That might be a wise move,’ the captain agreed. ‘Besides, I get a feeling that you might be up to no good and I’d rather not get involved.’
    ‘It works out for both of us, then, doesn’t it?’
    It was early afternoon when the captain put his tiller over and drove the prow of his boat up onto a narrow strip of sandy beach. ‘This is about as close as I can get you,’ he told Sparhawk. ‘The bank gets marshy just up ahead.’
    ‘How far is Dabour from here?’ Sparhawk asked him.
    ‘Four, maybe five miles.’
    ‘Close enough, then.’
    The sailors ran the gangway out to the sand from amidships, and Sparhawk and his friends led their horses and their pack mule down to the beach. They had no sooner disembarked than the sailors pulled in the gangway and pushed the boat out into the river with long poles. Then the captain manoeuvred his craft out into the current and moved back downriver. There was no exchange of farewells.
    ‘Are you going to be all right?’ Sparhawk asked Sephrenia. Her face was still drawn, although the dark circles under her eyes had begun to fade.
    ‘I’ll be fine, Sparhawk,’ she assured him.
    ‘If we lose too many more of those knights, though, you won’t be, will you?’
    ‘I don’t really know,’ she replied. ‘I’ve never been in this exact position before. Let’s go on to Dabour and talk with Doctor Tanjin.’
    They rode up off the beach through the scrubby bushes that bordered it and soon reached the dusty road that led to Dabour. There were other travellers on that road, black-robed nomads for the most part, with their dark eyes afire with religious fervour. Once they were forced to the side of the road by a herd of sheep. The herders, mounted on mules, rode arrogantly and deliberately blocked the road as much as possible with their animals. Their expressions clearly dared anyone to object.
    ‘I never liked sheep very much,’ Kurik muttered, ‘and I like sheep-herders even less.’
    ‘Don’t let it show,’ Sparhawk advised him.
    ‘They eat a lot of mutton down here, don’t they?’
    Sparhawk nodded.
    ‘Isn’t it sort of inconsistent to butcher and eat a sacred animal?’
    ‘Consistency is not one of the more notable characteristics of the Rendorish mind.’
    As the sheep passed, Flute raised her pipes and played a peculiarly discordant little melody The sheep suddenly grew wild-eyed, milled for a moment, then stampeded across the desert