The Hidden City

the rain off?’
    The Styric ignored that. ‘I’m instructed to give you this,’ he said, reaching inside his homespun smock and drawing out an oilskin-covered packet.
    ‘Tell me what you’re going to do before you stick your hand inside your clothes like that, neighbor,’ Berit cautioned him in a low voice and squinting at him as he said it. ‘As my friend just pointed out, we’ve got some wonderful opportunities for misunderstandings here. Startling me when I’m this close to you isn’t a good way to keep your guts on the inside.’
    The Styric swallowed hard and stepped back as soon as Berit took the packet.
    ‘Would you care for a slice of ham while my Lord Sparhawk reads his mail, friend?’ Khalad offered. ‘It’s nice and greasy, so it’ll lubricate your innards.’ The Styric shuddered, and his face took on a faintly nauseated look. ‘There’s nothing quite like a few gobs of oozy pork-fat to slick up a man’s gullet,’ Khalad told him cheerfully. ‘It must come from all the garbage and half-rotten swill that pigs eat.’
    The Styric made a retching sound.
    ‘You’ve delivered your message, neighbor,’ Berit said coldly. ‘I’m sure you have someplace important to go, and we certainly wouldn’t want to keep you.’
    ‘Are you sure you understand the message?’
    ‘I’ve read it. Elenes read very well. We’re not illiterates like you Styrics. The message didn’t make me very happy, so it’s not going to pay you to stay around.’
    The Styric messenger backed away, his face apprehensive. Then he turned and fled.
    ‘What does it say?’ Khalad asked.
    Berit gently held the identifying lock of the Queen’s hair in his hand. ‘It says that there’s been a change of plans. We’re supposed to go on down past the Tamul Mountains and then turn west. They want us to go to Sepal now.’
    ‘You’d better get word to Aphrael.’
    There was a sudden, familiar little trill of pipes. The two young men spun around quickly. The Child Goddess sat cross-legged on Khalad’s blankets, breathing a plaintive Styric melody into her many-chambered pipes. ‘Why are you staring at me?’ she asked them. ‘I told you I was going to look after you, didn’t I?’
    ‘Is this really wise, Divine One?’ Berit asked her. ‘That Styric’s no more than a few hundred yards away, you know, and he can probably sense your presence.’
    ‘Not right now, he can’t,’ Aphrael smiled. ‘Right now he’s too busy concentrating on keeping his stomach from turning inside out. All that talk about pork-fat was really cruel, Khalad.’
    ‘Yes. I know.’
    ‘Did you have to be so graphic?’
    ‘I didn’t know you were around. What do you want us to do?’
    ‘Go to Sepal the way they told you to. I’ll get word to the others.’ She paused. ‘What did you do to that ham, Khalad?’ she asked curiously. ‘You’ve actually managed to make it smell almost edible.’
    ‘It’s probably the cloves,’ he shrugged. ‘Nobody’s really all that fond of the taste of pork, when you get right down to it, but my mother taught me that almost anything can be made edible—if you use enough spices. You might want to keep that in mind the next time you’re thinking about serving up a goat.’
    She stuck her tongue out at him, and then she vanished.

Chapter 7
    It was snowing in the mountains of Zemoch, a dry, brittle snow that settled like a cloud of feathers in the dead calm air. It was bitterly cold, and a huge cloud of steam hung like a low-lying fog over the horses of the army of the Knights of the Church as they plodded forward, their hooves sending the powdery snow swirling into the air again. The preceptors of the militant orders rode in the lead, dressed in full armor and bundled in furs.
    Preceptor Abriel of the Cyrinic Knights, still vigorous despite his advanced age, rode with Darellon, the Alcione Preceptor, and with Sir Heldin, a scarred old veteran who was filling in as leader of the Pandions during Sparhawk’s absence. Patriarch Bergsten rode somewhat apart. The huge Churchman was muffled to the ears in fur, and his Ogre-horned helmet made him look very warlike, an appearance offset to some degree by the small, black-bound prayer book he was reading. Preceptor Komier of the Genidians was off ahead with the scouts.
    ‘I don’t think I’ll ever be warm again,’ Abriel groaned, pulling his fur cloak tighter about him. ‘Old age thins the blood. Don’t ever get old, Darellon.’
    ‘The