The Sapphire Rose. David Eddings

      ‘The correct form of address when speaking to a Patriarch is “Your Grace”, Captain. By Church Law, my three companions and I are, in fact, Patriarchs of the Church. Form up your men, Captain. We will inspect them.’

      The captain hesitated.

      ‘I speak for the Church, Lieutenant,’ Abriel said. ‘Will you defy her?’

      ‘Uh – I’m a captain, Your Grace,’ the man mumbled.

      ‘You were a captain, Lieutenant, but not any more. Now, would you like to be a sergeant again? If not, you’ll do as I say immediately.’

      ‘At once, Your Grace,’ the shaken man replied. ‘You there!’ he shouted. ‘All of you! Fall in and prepare for inspection!’

      The appearance of the detachment at the gate was, in Preceptor – ah, shall we say instead Patriarch – Darellon’s words, disgraceful. Reprimands were freely distributed in blistering terms, and then the column entered the Holy City without any further hindrance. There was no laughter – nor even any smiles – until the armoured men were well out of earshot of the gates. The discipline of the Knights of the Church is the wonder of the known world.

      Despite the lateness of the hour, the streets of Chyrellos were heavily patrolled by church soldiers. Sparhawk knew these kinds of men, and he knew that their loyalty was for sale. They served only for the pay in most cases. Because of their numbers here in the Holy City, they had become accustomed to behaving with a certain arrogant rudeness. The appearance of four hundred armoured Church Knights in the streets at the ominous hour of midnight engendered what Sparhawk felt to be a becoming humility, however – at least among the common troops. It took the officers a bit longer to grasp the truth. It always does, somehow. One obnoxious young fellow tried to block their path, demanding to examine their documents. He seemed quite puffed-up with his own importance and failed to look behind him. He was thus unaware of the fact that his troops had discreetly gone somewhere else. He continued to deliver his peremptory commands in a shrill voice, demanding this and insisting on that until Sparhawk loosened Faran’s reins and rode him down at a deliberate walk. Faran made a special point of grinding his steel-shod hooves into a number of very sensitive places on the officer’s body.

      ‘Feel better now?’ Sparhawk asked his horse.

      Faran nickered wickedly.

      ‘Kalten,’ Vanion said, ‘let’s get started. Break the column up into groups of ten. Fan out through the city and let it be generally known that the Knights of the Church offer their protection to any Patriarch desiring to go to the Basilica to participate in the voting.’

      ‘Yes, My Lord Vanion,’ Kalten said. ‘I’ll go and wake up the Holy City. I’m sure everybody is breathlessly waiting to hear the news I bring.’

      ‘Do you think there’s ever going to be any hope that someday he’ll grow up?’ Sparhawk said.

      ‘I rather hope not,’ Vanion said gently. ‘No matter how old the rest of us get, we’ll always have an eternal boy in our midst. That’s sort of comforting, really.’

      The Preceptors, followed by Sparhawk, his friends and a twenty-man detachment under the command of Sir Perraine proceeded along the broad avenue.

      Dolmant’s modest house was guarded by a platoon of soldiers, and Sparhawk recognized their officer as one loyal to the Patriarch of Demos. ‘Thank God!’ the young man exclaimed as the knights reined in just outside Dolmant’s gate.

      ‘We were in the area and thought we’d stop by to pay a courtesy call,’ Vanion said with a dry smile. ‘His Grace has been well, I trust?’

      ‘He’ll be much better now that you and your friends are here, My Lord. It’s been a bit tense here in Chyrellos.’

      ‘I can imagine. Is His Grace still awake?’

      The officer nodded. ‘He’s meeting with Emban, Patriarch of Ucera. Perhaps you know him, My Lord?’

      ‘Heavy-set fellow – sort of jolly?’

      ‘That’s him, My Lord. I’ll tell His Grace you’ve arrived.’

      Dolmant, Patriarch of Demos, was as lean and severe as always, but his ascetic face actually broke into a broad smile when the Church Knights trooped into his study. ‘You made good time, gentlemen,’ he told them. ‘You all know Emban, of course.’ He indicated his stout fellow Patriarch.

      Emban was definitely more than ‘heavy-set’. ‘Your study’s starting to resemble a foundry, Dolmant,’ he chuckled, looking around at the armoured knights. ‘I haven’t seen so much steel in one place in years.’

      ‘Comforting, though,’ Dolmant said.

      ‘Oh my, yes.’

      ‘How do things stand in Cimmura, Vanion?’ Dolmant asked intently.

      ‘I’m happy to report that Queen Ehlana has recovered and now has her government firmly in her own hands,’ Vanion replied.

      ‘Thank God!’ Emban exclaimed. ‘I think Annias just went into bankruptcy.’

      ‘You managed to find the Bhelliom then?’ Dolmant asked Sparhawk.

      Sparhawk nodded. ‘Would you like to see it, Your Grace?’ he asked.

      ‘I don’t believe so, Sparhawk. I’m not supposed to admit its power, but I’ve heard some stories – folklorish superstition no doubt – but let’s not take any chances.’

      Sparhawk heaved an inward sigh of relief. He did not much fancy another encounter with that flickering shadow nor the prospect of walking around for several days with the uneasy feeling that someone might be aiming a crossbow at him.

      ‘It’s peculiar that the news of the queen’s recovery hasn’t reached Annias yet,’ Dolmant observed. ‘At least he’s shown no signs of chagrin so far.’

      ‘I’d be very surprised if he’s heard of it yet, Your Grace,’ Komier rumbled. ‘Vanion sealed the city to keep the Cimmurans at home. As I understand it, people who try to leave are turned back quite firmly.’

      ‘You didn’t leave your Pandions there, did you, Vanion?’

      ‘No, Your Grace. We found assistance elsewhere. How’s the Archprelate?’

      ‘Dying,’ Emban replied. ‘Of course, he’s been dying for several years, but he’s a little more serious about it this time.’

      ‘Is Otha making any more moves, Your Grace?’ Darellon asked.

      Dolmant shook his head. ‘He’s still encamped just inside the border of Lamorkand. He’s making all kinds of threats and demanding that the mysterious Zemoch treasure be returned to him.’

      ‘It’s not so mysterious, Dolmant,’ Sephrenia told him. ‘He wants Bhelliom, and he knows Sparhawk has it.’

      ‘Someone’s bound to suggest that Sparhawk turn it over to him in order to prevent an invasion,’ Emban suggested.

      ‘That will never happen, Your Grace,’ she said firmly. ‘We’ll destroy it first.’

      ‘Have any of the Patriarchs who were in hiding returned as yet?’ Preceptor Abriel asked.

      ‘Not a one,’ Emban snorted. ‘They’re probably down the deepest ratholes they can find by now. Two of them had fatal accidents a couple of days ago, and the rest went to ground.’

      ‘We have knights scouring the city looking for them,’ Preceptor Darellon reported. ‘Even the most timid of rabbits might regain some degree of courage if they’re protected by Church Knights.’

      ‘Darellon,’ Dolmant said reproachfully.

      ‘Sorry, Your Grace,’ Darellon said perfunctorily.

      ‘Will that change the numbers?’ Komier asked Talen. ‘The two that