Berit rode forward, his eyes narrowed and his hand slipping his axe up and down in the sling at the side of his saddle. "The Zemochs are back there, Sir Sparhawk," he said. "I keep catching glimpses of them."

"How far back?"

"About a half a mile. Most of them are hanging back but they've got scouts out. They're keeping an eye on us."

"If we charged to the rear, they'd just scatter," Bevier advised. "And then they'd pick up our trail again."

"Probably," Sparhawk agreed glumly. "Well, I can't stop them. I don't have enough men. Let them trail along if it makes them happy. We'll get rid of them when we're all feeling a little better. Berit, drop back and keep an eye on them - and no heroics."

"I understand completely, Sir Sparhawk."

The day grew hot before noon, and Sparhawk began to sweat inside his armour.

"Am I being punished for something?" Kurik asked him, mopping his streaming face with a piece of cloth.

"You know I wouldn't do that."

"Then why am I locked up in this stove?"

"Sorry. It's necessary."

About mid-afternoon, when they were passing through a long verdant valley, a dozen or so gaily dressed young men galloped from a nearby estate to bar their way. "Go no farther," one of them, a pale, pimply young fellow in a green velvet doublet and with a supercilious, self-important expression, commanded, holding up one hand imperiously.

"I beg your pardon?" Sparhawk asked.

"I demand to know why you are trespassing on my father's lands." The young fellow looked around at his sniggering friends with a smugly self-congratulatory expression.

"We were led to believe that this is a public road," Sparhawk replied.

"Only at my father's sufferance." The pimply fellow puffed himself up, trying to look dangerous.

"He's showing off for his friends," Kurik muttered.

"Let's just sweep them out of the way and ride on. Those rapiers they're carrying aren't really much of a threat."

"Let's try some diplomacy first," Sparhawk replied.

"We really don't want a crowd of angry serfs on our heels."

"I'll do it. I've handled his sort before." Kurik rode forward deliberately, Bevier's armour gleaming in the afternoon sun and his white cape and surcoat resplendent.

"Young man," he said in a stern voice, "you seem to be somewhat unacquainted with the customary courtesies.

Is it possible that you don't recognize us?"

"I've never seen you before."

"I wasn't talking about who we are. I was talking about what. It's understandable, I suppose. It's obvious that you're not widely travelled."

The young fellow's eyes bulged with outrage. "Not so.

Not so," he objected in a squeaky voice. "I have been to the city of Venne at least twice."

"Ah," Kurik said. "And when you were there, did you perhaps hear about the Church?"

"We have our own chapel right here on the estate. I need no instruction in that foolishness." The young man sneered. It seemed to be his normal expression. An older man in a black brocade doublet was riding furiously from the estate.

"It's always gratifying to speak with an educated man," Kurik was saying. "Have you ever by chance heard of the Knights of the Church?"

The young fellow looked a bit vague at that. The man in the black doublet was approaching rapidly from behind the group of young men. His face appeared white with fury.

"I'd strongly advise you to stand aside," Kurik continued smoothly. "What you're doing imperils your soul - not to mention your life."

"You can't threaten me - not on my father's own estate."

Jaken!" the man in black roared, "have you lost your mind?"

"Father," the pimply young man faltered, "I was just questioning these trespassers."

"Trespassers?" the older man spluttered. "This is the Kings highway, you jackass!"

The man in the black doublet moved his horse in closer, rose in his stirrups and knocked his son from the saddle with a solid blow of his fist. Then he turned to face Kurik. "My apologies, Sir Knight," he said. "My half-wit son didn't know to whom he was speaking. I revere the church and honour her Knights. I hope and pray that you were not offended."

"Not at all, My Lord," Kurik said easily. "Your son and I had very nearly resolved our differences."

The noble winced. "Thank God I arrived in time then. That idiot isn't much of a son, but his mother would have been distressed if you'd been obliged to cut off his head."

"I doubt that it would have gone that far, My Lord."

"Father!" the young man on the ground said in horrified shock. "You hit me!" There was blood streaming from his nose. "I'm going to tell mother!"

"Good. I'm sure she'll be very impressed." The noble looked apologetically at Kurik. "Excuse me, Sir Knight. I think some long overdue discipline is in order. "He glared at his son. "Return home, Jaken," he said coldly. "When you get there, pack up this covey of parasitic wastrels and send them away. I want them off the estate by sundown."

"But they're my friends." his son wailed.

"Well, they're not mine. Get rid of them. You will also pack. Don't bother to take fine clothing, because you're going to a monastery. The brothers there are very strict, and they'll see to your education - which I seem to have neglected."

"Mother won't let you do that!" his son exclaimed, his face going very pale.

"She doesn't have anything to say about it. Your mother has never been more to me than a minor inconvenience."

"But - " the young brat's face seemed to disintegrate.

"You sicken me, Jaken. You're the worst excuse for a son a man has ever been cursed with. Pay close attention to the monks, Jaken. I have some nephews far more worthy than you. Your inheritance is not all that secure, and you could be a monk for the remainder of your life."

"You can't do that."

"Yes, actually, I can."

"Mother will punish you."

The noble's laugh was chilling. "Your mother has begun to tire me, Jaken," he said. "She's self-indulgent, shrewish and more than a little stupid. She's turned you into something I'd rather not look at. Besides, she's not very attractive any more. I think I'll send her to a nunnery for the rest of her life. The prayer and fasting may bring her closer to heaven, and the amendment of her spirit is my duty as a loving husband, wouldn't you say?"

The sneer had slid off Jaken's face, and he began to shake violently as his world crashed down around his ears.

"Now, my son," the noble continued disdainfully, "will you do as I tell you, or shall I unleash this Knight of the Church to administer the chastisement you so richly deserve?"

Kurik took his cue from that and slowly drew Bevier's sword. It made a singularly unpleasant sound as it slid from its sheath.

The young man scrambled away on his hands and knees. "I have a dozen friends with me," he threatened shrilly.

Kurik looked the pampered boys up and down, then he laughed derisively. "So?" he said, shifting his shield and flexing his sword arm. "Did you want to keep his head, My Lord?" he asked the noble politely, " - as a keepsake, naturally?"

"You wouldn't!" Jaken was very nearly in a state of collapse now.

Kurik moved his horse forward, his sword glinting ominously in the sunlight. "Try me," he said in a tone dreadful enough to make the very rocks shrink.

The young man's eyes bulged in horror, and he scrambled back into his saddle with his satin-dressed sycophants rushing along behind him.

"Was that more or less what you had in mind, My Lord!" Kurik asked the noble.

"It was perfect, Sir Knight. I've wanted to do that myself for years." Then he sighed. "Mine was an arranged marriage, Sir Knight," he said by way of explanation. "My wife's family had a noble title, but they were deeply in debt. My family had money and land, but our title was not impressive. Our parents felt that the arrangement was sound, but she and I scarcely speak to each other. I've avoided her whenever possible. I've solaced myself with other women, I'm ashamed to admit. There are many accommodating young ladies - if one has the price. My wife's solaced herself with that abomination you just saw. She has few other enthusiasms - aside from making my life as miserable as she possibly can. I've neglected my duties, I'm afraid."

"I have sons myself, My Lord," Kurik told him as they all rode on. "Most of them are good boys, but one has been a great disappointment to me."

Talen rolled his eyes heavenward, but didn't say anything.

"Do you travel far, Sir Knight?" the noble asked, obviously wanting to change the subject.

"We go towards Venne," Kurik replied.

"A journey of some distance. I have a summer house near the west end of my estate. Might I offer you its comfort? We should reach it by evening, and the servants there can see to your needs." He made a wry face. "I'd offer you the hospitality of the manor, but I'm afraid tonight may be a bit noisy there. My wife has a penetrating voice, and she's not going to take kindly to certain decisions I've made this afternoon."

"You're most kind, My Lord. We'll be happy to accept your hospitality."

"It's the least I can do in recompense for my son's behaviour. I wish I could think of some appropriate form of discipline to salvage him."

"I've always got good results with a leather belt, My Lord," Kurik suggested.

The nobleman laughed wryly. "That might not be a bad idea, Sir Knight," he agreed.

They rode on through a lovely afternoon, and as the sun was just going down, they reached the "summer house" which appeared to be only slightly less opulent than a mansion. The nobleman gave instructions to the household servants and then remounted his horse. "I'd gladly stay, Sir Knight," he said to Kurik, "but I think I'd better get back home before my wife breaks every dish in the house. I'll find a comfortable cloister for her, and live out my life in peace."

"I quite understand, My Lord," Kurik replied. "Good luck."

"Godspeed, Sir Knight." And the noble turned and rode back the way they had come.

"Kurik," Bevier said gravely as they entered the marble-floored foyer of the house, "you did honour to my armour back there. I'd have had my sword through that young fellow after his second remark."

Kurik grinned at him. "It was much more fun this way, Sir Bevier."

The Pelosian noble's summer house was even more splendid on the inside than it had appeared from the exterior. Rare woods, exquisitely carved, panelled the walls. The floors and fireplaces were all of marble, and the furnishings were covered with the finest brocade.

The serving staff was efficient and unobtrusive, and they saw to every need.

Sparhawk and his friends dined splendidly in a dining room only slightly smaller than a grand ballroom. "Now this is what I call living," Kalten sighed contentedly.

"Sparhawk, why is it that we can't have" a bit more luxury in our lives?"

"We're Knights of the Church," Sparhawk reminded him. "Poverty toughens us up."

"But do we have to have so much of it?"

"How are you feeling," Sephrenia asked Bevier.

"Much better, thanks," the Arcian replied. "I haven't coughed up any blood since this morning. I think I'll be up to a canter tomorrow, Sparhawk. This leisurely stroll is costing us time."

"Let's go easy for one more day," Sparhawk said.

"According to my map, the country beyond the city of Venne is a little rugged and very under populated. It's ideal for ambushes, and we're being followed. I want you and Kalten and Tynian fit to defend yourselves."

"Berit," Kurik said.

"Yes?"

"Would you do me a favour before we leave here?"

"Of course."

"First thing in the morning, take Talen out into the courtyard and search him - thoroughly. The noble who owns this place was very hospitable, and I don't want to offend him."

"What makes you think I'd steal anything?" Talen objected.

"What makes you think I wouldn't? It's just a precaution. There are a great number of small, valuable things in this house. Some of them might just accidentally find their way into your pockets."

The beds in the house were down-filled, and they were deep and comfortable. They rose at dawn and ate a splendid breakfast. Then they thanked the servants, mounted their waiting horses and rode on out. The new-risen sun was golden, and larks whirled and sang overhead. Flute, sitting in the wagon, accompanied them on her pipes. Sephrenia seemed stronger, but at Sparhawk's insistence, she still rode in the wagon.

It was shortly before noon when a group of perhaps fifty fierce-looking men came galloping over a nearby hill. They were booted and dressed in leather, and their heads were all shaved.

"Tribesmen from the eastern marches," warned Tynian, who had been in Pelosia before. "Be very careful, Sparhawk. These are reckless men."

The tribesmen swooped down the hill with superb horsemanship. They had savage-looking sabres at their belts, carried short lances and wore round shields on their left arms. At a curt signal from their leader, most of them reined in so sharply that their horses' rumps skidded on the grass. With five cohorts, the leader, a lean man with narrow eyes and a scarred scalp, came forward. With ostentatious display, the advancing tribesmen moved their horses sideways, the proud stallions prancing in perfect unison. Then, plunging their lances into the earth, the warriors drew their flashing sabres with a grand flourish.

"No!" Tynian said sharply as Sparhawk and the others instinctively went for their swords. "This is a ceremony. Stand fast."

The shaven-headed men came forward at a stately walk, and then at some hidden signal their horses all went down on their front knees in a kind of genuflection as the riders raised their sabres to their faces in salute.

"Lord!" Kalten breathed. "I've never seen a horse do that before!"

Faran's ears flicked, and Sparhawk could feel him twitching irritably.