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.Close to the capital, the farms were larger and seemed to be under some powerful lord’s protection—likely King Geoff.Peasants toiled in the fields, harvesting wheat and oats and beans and hay, with armed guards overseeing them.Han wondered if the guards were there to protect the farmers, or to keep them at their work.Apple trees groaned under the burden of fruit—varieties that Han had never seen before, green and yellow and pink, as well as red.The Red Hawk of Arden flew from estate houses along the road, and soldiers wore the signia everywhere.The newly declared Montaigne king held the capital city and the estates surrounding it in an iron grip, but his influence didn’t seem to extend far into the countryside.They encountered more flatland temples built in the austere style of the Church of Malthus.They passed groups of priests and holy sisters, like flocks of black crows to Han’s eyes.“Their priests are all men, I hear,” Dancer said.“Strange.”“What do the sisters do?” Han asked.“Pray, mostly.Sing and teach.Do good works.”Han and Dancer planned to circle around the city and intersect Tamron Road to the west, but they soon realized that the city was huge, spread out, and sloppy, and it would take them far out of their way to ride clear around it.That night, they stopped at an inn on the outskirts.It drew a mixed crowd—soldiers and farmers and even a Malthus crow or two.Dinner was chicken legs and brown bread, with cloyingly sweet southern cider.At home, a fire on the hearth would be welcome this time of year, but on this balmy evening the door stood open and the hearth lay cold.A half dozen men occupied two tables, loudly demanding food and drink whenever they ran short.They had the look of soldiers, but wore no signia or uniform.One of them, a stocky man in his early twenties with a stubble of beard, had an incandescence about him that said he was gifted and leaking magic.Han eyed him curiously.The soldier must have an amulet, perhaps hidden under his shirt, but he didn’t seem to know the trick of drawing magic off to dim his aura.A good thing for him that only other gifted could see it.A veiled Malthusian sister sat alone at a table nearest the door.A half-empty plate sat before her, but she kept the barman coming and going, refilling her mug.The maids of Malthus like their ale, Han thought, amused.He’d seen at least one in every tavern and common room since they’d reached the flatlands.In contrast, the tall, skinny Malthusian priest huddling in the back corner picked at his supper, engrossed in a large, leather-bound book with onionskin pages.Several oversized golden keys hung from a cord around the priest’s waist, his only ornamentation save for elaborate jeweled spectacles dangling from a chain around his neck.The priest looked up suddenly and caught Han staring at him.Scowling, he bent his head over the holy book on the table.Han guessed it was a holy book, anyway.It was hard to imagine this sour-faced pudding-sleeve reading a romance or an adventure story.Oddly, the priest didn’t use his spectacles for reading text.Han finished his meal and sat back, relaxed and sociable.“You ready to go up?” Dancer said, having finished long before Han.As usual, Dancer was eager to go upstairs to read and study charms, away from the crowd.Han, however, had no desire to leave the common room and hide out in their tiny, windowless room in the attic.It would be stuffy and hot, and they’d have to sit in the dark or pay for candles, since there was no natural light.Plus, one of the pretty servers had winked at him, and he was waiting to see what developed.“Let’s stay a little while,” Han said, slathering butter on soft tavern bread, so different from their hard waybiscuits.Dancer shrugged and nodded, yawning to make his position clear.The priest had raised his peculiar spectacles to his eyes and scanned the room.When his gaze swept across Han and Dancer, he stiffened and fixed on them, his eyes unnaturally large and owl-like through the lenses.The priest lowered the spectacles and glared at them.“Sinners!” he said.“Idolators!”Han and Dancer sat frozen for a long moment.“Does he mean us, do you suppose?” Dancer asked without moving his lips.“How can he tell we’re sinners?” Han whispered, aiming for a look of polite confusion.Was that what the spectacles were for? Identifying sinners?The priest rose in a swish of fabric and stalked toward them, one arm extended, the other clutching his rising-sun pendant like a wizard might grip an amulet.“Repent, northerners!” he said.“Repent and accept the holy church and ye shall be saved [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]