It did not show Belkuthas, though the citadel had first risen not only before this map but before the art of map-making was known to men. No doubt it had not been inhabited a century ago, perhaps with the consent of the dwarves, perhaps by their wish.
Sir Marod leaned forward again, and drifted into a reverie that allowed Knights of Solamnia to use certain small spells, for keeping swords sharp, water pure, and maps up to date.
Even in the reverie, though, he did not forget the problems the spell might cause, entirely apart from violating the Oath and the Measure in ways that both gods and men might oppose. Of late, those who claimed to speak for the kingpriest had found harsh words to use about wizards-White, Red, and Black Robes, alike. Marod’s transgression of their strict prohibition might waken anger in places where the Knights of Solamnia needed goodwill.
Also, not all magic-users were staunch allies. Some might see spying on the enemies of the kingpriest as a way to win favor withheld from their comrades. The Solamnic Orders already had too many factions without inviting vipers to nest in their armor.
The gods might not have spoken unequivocally on this matter. Pirvan himself had once known and even used a minor spell without injury to his later career as a knight. Recently, however, the good sense of men sent a plain messenger.
Sir Marod felt coldness against his cheek, but warmth over his back, and sat up with a start. The last light had departed from the window, and he felt a stiffness in more joints than his knee. He’d spent too long in an awkward position in this chilly room.
A second candle stood on the table before him, where there had been only one-and that first candle was burned to a stub. Sir Marod groped for his cloak and discovered that someone had draped it over his shoulders.
“Elius?” he said. Then he remembered that his former squire had been dead for ten years. The man who stepped into view was a candidate young enough to be Elius’s grandson.
“Your pardon, Sir Marod,” the young man said. “I didn’t think you’d want to be hauled off to your bed like a drunkard, but it would be ill-done to let you take cold. When I saw you waking, I sent to the kitchen for a posset cup. It should be here in a moment.”
“Thank you,” Marod said. He groped for the young man’s name and was relieved to find it behind only the fog of sleep. “Thank you, Candidate Grandzhin. Have the posset sent to my bedchamber. If I can fall asleep on this table, it’s time I was in bed.”
“At your command, Sir Marod.”
Pirvan was about to open the council of war, but he noticed two faces missing.
“Where are the kender?”
Everyone looked at everyone else, as if seeking the answer on other faces or in the thin air. Gerik finally said, hesitatingly, “I think I heard one of them-I don’t know which-say to the other that they should take watches up by Zephros’s men.”
Not everyone cursed, but those who did included Pirvan. “The little fools,” he added. “If Zephros’s men see them, they’ll say the truce is broken and the kender will die slowly!”
“There’s a saying in Karthay,” Haimya put in. “ ‘The definition of futility is telling a kender not to go somewhere he wants to go.’ ”
Even the Gryphons laughed at that, and Threehands added, “Kender are hard to see even by day, let alone by night, and Zephros’s men have not seemed overly desert-wise. Besides, the kender may give us extra warning if Zephros’s men do turn truce breakers.”
There was nothing else anybody could propose in the matter of Zephros’s men, except to give them more bloody noses if they started another fight. Pirvan also intended that the knights send a message to Istar, for passing on to Aurhinius, but since Zephros deserted from Aurhinius’s service, no one expected miracles or even results from that.
The sell-swords were another matter.
“None of them can pay a ransom without stripping themselves bare,” Darin said. “Then they would have no choice but to perish or join up with Zephros’s band, as they originally seemed intent on doing.”
“Nor are they the only ones,” Tarothin said. His voice rasped like that of a man with lung-fever, but the words marched out audibly and in good order. “I have read hints in the minds of some of the captains, of many other bands of sell-swords now on the way to join Zephros. Zephros, not Aurhinius.”
“The kingpriest,” Haimya said, “or those about him, who seek to undo all the victories won by reason in the past generation. Including ours,” she added, and if her voice had been applied to the kingpriest’s throat it would have decapitated him on the spot. Even Pirvan shivered as he heard it.
“Which means that we need to march to Belkuthas as quickly as possible,” Threehands put in. “Unburdened by prisoners, either. I trust none of those dung-eaters out of my sight.”
Pirvan ignored the implied solution; honor would demand a quarrel if Threehands took offense, and that would end nowhere good. “We can take their oath, to not fight against us until they have paid ransom. Then we can put the sigil of the knights on their weapons. No one will enlist sell-swords with such weapons. They can throw them away, of course, but then they will be disarmed.”
“If the kingpriest is behind this, Istar’s treasury will buy them new weapons,” Haimya said. “But I doubt we can do better.”
“So be it,” Pirvan said. “Who says otherwise?”
None did, either because they agreed or because they were too weary to put their disagreement into sensible words. At least the sell-swords and Pirvan’s party were safe from each other, and both from Zephros’s men, until sunset tomorrow.
Bloodier battles had been fought to win less.
At the crest of Shammal Pass, Sir Lewin of Trenfar had dismounted to save his mount. Now he stood holding its reins, as the remainder of his company and its pack animals moved down the first rough hundred paces of the far side.
A young knight came up and saluted. Lewin recognized Sir Esthazas of Narol, Knight of the Crown for barely a year.
“All well?” Lewin asked.
“All well, in spite of the risks of this night passage,” Sir Esthazas said.
“Are you questioning my orders?” Lewin said.
“No, you yourself spoke of this passage as fraught with danger.”
“You remember correctly. Have you forgotten what else I said?”
“That we hide ourselves from dwarven spies by traveling at night. But-”
“Yes?”
“I beg your pardon for what may seem-what you said-but-”
“I will grant pardon for anything you say without hesitation,” Lewin snapped.
“Then-why assume the dwarves are enemies? Also, if the tales run true, they have night vision like cats. How then can we hide ourselves from them, even if we need to?”
“Never assume friendship from folk without proper notions of honor,” Lewin said. “And as for their night vision-it is easy to believe old tales about the other races, and so make them into fearful monsters to frighten children.”
The light of Solinari was bright enough to show Lewin the other knight’s flush. That reminded him just how young Sir Esthazas was-and also, that his mentor had been Sir Niebar the Tall, Knight of the Sword, friend to Sir Pirvan the Wayward, and outspokenly overfond of the other races.
Sir Esthazas would bear watching. Lewin was prepared to believe in spies deliberately assigned to his band, and in tales borne out of zeal. But insulting the young knight would only raise doubts about Lewin’s own honor among those whose goodwill-or at least, cooperation-he needed.
“I ask your pardon, Sir Esthazas. You raise these questions for the same reason I do mine, for the safety of our company. I can find no fault with that, and apologize if I seemed to do so.”