“Fe Paladas cado,” the First Marshal intoned, “bid Istaras apalo.”
In Paladine’s name, with Istar’s might.
So Cathan lost his squire.
Of course it was Marto’s idea to head to the mudubas. The Lordcity’s wine shops were famous throughout the empire and were completely unlike the dark, smoky taverns Cathan remembered from his youth. They were open to the air, white-walled courtyards where the tables and benches stood among flower beds and marble statuary. Tiled fountains bubbled in their midst, and covered colonnades provided shade for those who wished it. The servants-men and women who never spoke-brought jugs of wine and water from stone urns and mixed them with spices in bowls of sparkling crystal. Each wine shop had its own ambience. In one, turquoise silk draped from pole to pole across the yard; in the next, green-furred monkeys chattered among the branches of the lemon trees; in another, the courtyard floor was a mosaic of the empire itself, with miniature replicas of its mighty cities, carved from ivory and rosewood, standing on plinths throughout. There were hundreds of them, all different, and it seemed to Cathan that he visited them all that day.
Cathan led the party at the start, but it wasn’t long before Sir Marto took over. When it came to carousing, the big Karthayan knew no match. He had a stomach for the grape that would have toppled a minotaur, and his great, booming voice drew attention whether he was shouting for more food, laughing at his own jokes, or singing bawdy songs. He knew a great many such songs, and while his ability to stay in tune was often lacking, he more than made up for it in gusto. The men sang along, echoing the choruses, while Sir Pellidas played on a short-necked lute. Every now and then, the crash of crockery rang across the taverns, sending the servants and other patrons scattering. Together the knights smashed enough cups and pitchers to keep the city’s clayworks busy for a week. The mudubas’ owners didn’t complain, though, nor did they ask for payment. The Divine Hammer protected the realm from evil, after all. What god-fearing tavernkeeper could object if their revelry ate up some of his profits?
Somewhere in there, amid the wine and the noise, the sun decided to set. The shadows across the city deepened as the sky grew dark, and linkboys made their way about the city, setting light to countless lanterns that made the streets glitter.
The Mirrorgarden, the mudubo where the Divine Hammer had ended up, was one of Istar’s grander ones. Its walls, tables, and pillars were covered with beaten silver. Cathan sat at the end of a long table, a flagon in his hand, his head spinning as his men cheered Sir Marto on. The big Karthayan was telling the tale of the Hullbreaker, gesturing often to Tithian. The young knight turned bright red whenever Marto called him Swordflinger … which he did with practically every other breath.
Cathan sighed, shaking his head ruefully. It was maybe the sixth time Marto had told the story today, and every time his boasts grew more preposterous. The Chemoshans numbered two thousand now, to listen to him, and fought like a wild ogres, led by a dozen sorcerers of the Black Robes. They’d be riding dragons next, the way things were going.
Chuckling at Marto’s bravado, Cathan pushed himself to his feet, waited for everything to stop swaying, and went outside to relieve himself into a sewer grate. Afterward, he made his way back into the mudubo, his eyes fixed on the huge, blustering figure of Marto, now bellowing a chorus of “My Horse, My Wife, and My Sword,” while standing on a table-top.
The other knights carried the refrain, stamping their feet and thumping their cups on the tables. Cathan smiled, watching them-and so he didn’t see the drink coming until it hit him in the face.
The wine struck him like a cold slap, soaking his tunic. Sputtering, he wiped at his burning eyes, trying to clear them. All sound in the tavern stopped, except for a few scattered gasps and the thud of chairs falling over as the knights rose from their seats, their hands fumbling for their swords. Cathan held up a dripping hand to stay them, looking down at his attacker.
His eyes widened in surprise. It was a woman, stout and somewhere past sixty from her looks, dressed in a fur-trimmed cloak and a red wimple that marked her as hailing from the city of Jaggana. Her face drawn into a contemptuous sneer, she spat on the floor at Cathan’s feet.
“Bastard!” she snapped.
Another gasp. Rumbling deep in his chest, Marto clambered down from the table and started forward until Cathan looked at him and shook his head. All eyes fixed on the old woman.
“Mafura,” Cathan began, bobbing his head respectfully,“if I have done anything to offend you-”
“Offend me?” the woman repeated, her eyes blazing. “Offend me? Your kind murdered both my sons, knight!”
Cathan blinked at her, unsure what to say. He didn’t get the chance to do anything more. Marto was stomping forward again, his wine-flushed face darkening from red to purple.
“The Divine Hammer does not murder,” he declared. “We smite darkness at the Lightbringer’s will!”
“Marto,” Cathan said, “stay back.”
Marto looked ready to grab up the woman and pitch her over the mudubo’s wall. More than a few of the other knights had the same spark in their eyes. If this went much more wrong, they’d tear the tavern down. Swallowing, he laid a hand on the woman’s shoulder.
“My man speaks truly, I fear,” he explained, as patient as he could manage. “There is much evil in Jaggana, a great many dark cults. If the Hammer killed your sons, it must have been because they were involved in one.”
“That’s what the priests told me,” the woman shot back. “I came here to plead to the Church, but they said Ettel and Meras would not have died if they had been free of sin. Arrogant filthmongers, the lot of them-and you too, for saying the same!”
Glancing across the wine shop, Cathan saw that Tithian and Pellidas were both holding Marto back. No one who wasn’t looking to be arrested called a knight or a priest such a vulgar name.
“Mafura,” he insisted, “you must listen-”
“No,” she snapped, rapping at his chest with a bony finger. “You listen. My sons weren’t evil. They were devout Shinereans, nothing more. They never harmed anyone-until you knights stormed their chapel and put them all to the sword! Burned their bodies and scattered the ashes-and all for worshiping Shinare! Do you call that evil?”
Shinare was one of the gray gods who served neither light nor darkness. Until recently, the empire had tolerated Shinareans, allowing them to worship in the open. The Lightbringer had put an end to that a year ago, declaring that anyone who didn’t serve the good gods opposed Paladine’s will. As a result, the knights had expanded their crusade. If the woman’s sons had been worshiping Shinare, they were breaking the law. He wanted to tell her that made them enemies of the church and that they deserved what had happened to them-but looking into her eyes, at the anger shimmering beneath the tears, he found he couldn’t do it.
“I am sorry for your loss, Mafura,” he said. “I will speak to the Kingpriest, if you like. The church can make remuneration … whatever you ask.”
She slapped him.
“I don’t want your Kingpriest’s cursed gold!” she shouted as he recoiled, one hand touching the red mark on his cheek. “Give me back my sons!”
“Enough!” Marto roared. Furious, he shook off both Tithian and Pellidas; a moment later his meaty hand locked around the woman’s arm, and he dragged her toward the mudubo’ s gates.
“You’ve insulted our honor enough, you old hag,” Marto growled as they went. “Not to mention soiling the Lightbringer’s name with your serpent’s tongue. Your sons deserved what they got-and if you’re not on your way back to Jaggana in the morning, you’ll get the same!”