The Ruby Knight

very fine table. I’ll mention your place to my friends.’
    ‘Why, that’s very kind of you, Sir Knight.’
    Sparhawk nodded to him and went outside to join the others.
    ‘What’s the plan?’ Kalten asked.
    ‘The innkeeper thinks there’s a monastery near a village about five leagues away. We should reach it by morning. I want to get word of all this to Dolmant in Chyrellos.’
    ‘I could take the message to him for you, Sir Sparhawk,’ Berit offered eagerly.
    Sparhawk shook his head. ‘The Seeker probably has your scent by now, Berit. I don’t want you getting ambushed on the road to Chyrellos. Let’s send some anonymous monk instead. That monastery’s on our way anyhow, so we won’t be losing any time. Let’s mount up.’
    The moon was full and the night sky was clear as they rode away from the inn. ‘That way,’ Kurik said, pointing.
    ‘How do you know that?’ Talen asked him.
    ‘The stars,’ Kurik replied.
    ‘Do you mean you can actually tell direction by the stars?’ Talen sounded impressed.
    ‘Of course you can. Sailors have been doing that for thousands of years.’
    ‘I didn’t know that.’
    ‘You should have stayed in school.’
    ‘I don’t plan to be a sailor, Kurik. Stealing fish sounds a little too much like work to me.’
    They rode on through the moon-drenched night, moving almost due east. By morning they had gone perhaps five leagues, and Sparhawk rode to a hilltop to look around. ‘There’s a village just ahead,’ he told the others when he returned. ‘Let’s hope it’s the one we’re looking for.’
    The village lay in a shallow valley. It was a small place, perhaps a dozen stone houses with a church at one end of its single cobbled street and a tavern at the other. A large, walled building stood atop a hill just outside the town. ‘Excuse me, neighbour,’ Sparhawk asked a passer-by as they clattered into town. ‘Is this Verine?’
    ‘It is.’
    ‘And is that the monastery up on that hill there?’
    ‘It is,’ the man replied again, his voice a bit sullen.
    ‘Is there some problem?’
    ‘The monks up there own all the land hereabouts,’ the fellow replied. ‘Their rents are cruel.’
    ‘Isn’t that always the way? All landlords are greedy.’
    ‘The monks insist on tithes as well as the rent. That’s going a bit far, wouldn’t you say?’
    ‘You’ve got a point there.’
    ‘Why do you call everybody “neighbour”?’ Tynian asked as they rode on.
    ‘Habit, I suppose,’ Sparhawk shrugged. ‘I got it from my father, and I think it puts people at their ease.’
    ‘Why not call them “friend”?’
    ‘Because I never know that for sure. Let’s go talk to the Abbot of that monastery.’
    The monastery was a severe-looking building surrounded by a wall made of yellow sandstone. The fields around it were well-tended, and monks wearing conical hats woven from local straw worked patiently under the morning sun in long, straight rows of vegetables. The gates of the monastery stood open, and Sparhawk and the others rode into the central courtyard. A thin, haggard-looking brother came out to meet them, his face a little fearful.
    ‘Good day, brother,’ Sparhawk said to him. He opened his cloak to reveal the heavy silver amulet hanging on a chain about his neck which identified him as a Pandion Knight. ‘If it’s not too much trouble, we’d like to have a word with your Abbot.’
    ‘I’ll bring him immediately, My Lord.’ The brother scurried back inside the building.
    The Abbot was a jolly little fat man with a well-shaven tonsure and a bright red, sweaty face. His was a small, remote monastery and had little contact with Chyrellos. He was embarrassingly obsequious at the sudden, unexpected appearance of Church Knights on his doorstep. ‘My Lords,’ he grovelled, ‘how may I serve you?’
    ‘It’s a small thing, my Lord Abbot,’ Sparhawk told him gently. ‘Are you acquainted with the Patriarch of Demos?’
    The Abbot swallowed hard. ‘Patriarch Dolmant?’ he said in an awed voice.
    ‘Tall fellow,’ Sparhawk agreed. ‘Sort of lean and underfed-looking. Anyway, we need to get a message to him. Have you a young monk who’s got some stamina and a good horse who could carry a message to the Patriarch for us? It’s in the service of the Church.’
    ‘O-of course, Sir Knight.’
    ‘I’d hoped you’d feel that way about it. Do you have a quill pen and ink handy, My Lord Abbot? I’ll compose the message, and then we won’t