by Roger Taylor
‘You certainly seem to have a way with words,’ Antyr said.
‘Well, I’m certainly having more success with the residents than you are,’ Tarrian replied. ‘You should learn how to explain yourself properly like I do.’
Antyr smiled. ‘I think you’re probably right,’ he said. ‘But I doubt either the Duke or Menedrion would appreciate that kind of language. Not to mention Ciarll Feranc or even Aaken Uhr Candessa.’
‘Talking of whom,’ Tarrian said, standing up. ‘We’d better find him and get all this sorted out. I wasn’t being sarcastic when I said we might starve to death wandering about here.’
Antyr pushed his plate to one side and wiped his mouth. The food had made him feel more settled. He nodded in agreement with Tarrian’s comment. They could blunder about the palace indefinitely, relying on chance and their wits to feed and house them unless they came to some clear arrangement with someone . . . somewhere . . .
A small spark of indignation flickered unexpectedly into life inside him. After all, they hadn’t asked to come here. They had been sought out by the Duke himself – and his son – and escorted through the streets by no less a personage than Ciarll Feranc himself. They shouldn’t have to be buffeted about by minor clerks and splashed by kitchen servants.
He stood up with great dignity and began walking towards the door. ‘You’ve got gravy on your chin,’ Tarrian said padding after him. Antyr glared down at him, and surreptitiously wiped his face.
Outside the refectory, however, Antyr’s new-found purpose faltered. On arrival, he had been following Tarrian’s accelerating hunt for food and he had scarcely noticed where he was. Now he found himself in a wide brightly lit corridor, lined, as seemed to be the case throughout the palace, with magnificent works of art: pictures, carvings, tapestries. Even the cornices around the ceiling were an example of the finest plasterers’ art with their elaborate interwoven patterns of branches and leaves housing strange birds and insects and occasional haunting faces.
And the lamps here don’t smoke, he thought. Unexpectedly, he felt a twinge of homesickness for his own bare room with its cracked and stained walls.
Tarrian stood silent by his side until the moment passed.
‘Where do we start?’ Antyr said, recovering.
At each end of the corridor there were large open spaces and it was intersected by at least three other corridors and a staircase. ‘I don’t know,’ Tarrian said, in a mildly injured tone. ‘I can get us back to our rooms but even if I could remember Aaken’s scent I couldn’t find him in this lot.’
Antyr nodded. Obviously he should ask someone, but who? There were a great many people walking about, some in formal livery, some wearing what were obviously robes of office. He recognized palace messengers and Sened couriers, and there were a few black-gowned clerks, though they were more expensively dressed than those he had already encountered. Then there were various guards and servants, and a random assortment of what he would have classed as ordinary folk had it not been for their wealth being manifest in their clothing and their authority being manifest in their bearing.
Some were moving slowly in pairs and small groups, engaged in earnest conversations, some were striding out alone, others were fussing along busily bearing documents. But all were moving with confident and intimidating purposefulness.
Antyr stood motionless for a moment but no opportunity for a timely interruption seemed to present itself and the small flame of indignation guttered uncertainly as he began to feel profoundly conspicuous again.
‘Ask one of the guards,’ both he and Tarrian said simultaneously.
Before they could begin to implement this decision, however, a commotion at one end of the corridor brought all activity to a halt and drew all eyes.
The cause soon became apparent as Menedrion strode round the corner flanked by a bustling assembly of guards, officials, scribes and young courtiers. He was talking loudly and, each time he paused, one of the satellites would detach itself from the mass and run off to execute some command.
‘Go on,’ Tarrian urged, but Antyr hesitated as the group moved relentlessly towards them.
Tarrian sighed.
‘Lord,’ he said distinctly into both Menedrion’s and Antyr’s minds as the Duke’s son strode past.
Menedrion stopped abruptly and turned to Antyr.
‘There, that wasn’t difficult, was it?’ Tarrian said to Antyr. ‘Go on, ask him. And stand up straight, for pity’s sake!’
Antyr, however, merely gaped as he found himself not only the focus of Menedrion s attention, but everyone else’s as well.
‘Your pardon, Lord. But your servant neglected to tell me . . .’ Tarrian prompted.
‘Your pardon, Lord . . .’ Antyr said hesitantly. ‘But your servant neglected to tell me . . .’
‘When I should attend on you . . .’
‘When I should attend on you tonight . . . and where,’ he added finally in response to another nudge from Tarrian.
Menedrion gazed at him blankly for a moment, then, as he noted Tarrian, recognition dawned. For the briefest instant, panic flitted through his eyes, then anger and confusion.
‘Stand up straight,’ Tarrian repeated. ‘And meet his gaze, politely.’
Antyr obeyed.
Menedrion’s brief confusion ended in relief. ‘You won’t be needed tonight,’ he said curtly.
Antyr looked concerned, but this was no place to remonstrate.
‘Sir,’ someone said urgently, nodding significantly along the corridor. Menedrion raised an impatient hand and frowned.
‘Report to my . . . private office tomorrow . . . afternoon,’ he said to Antyr. ‘I’ll have decided what to do with you then.’
Antyr bowed then he gave Menedrion a significant look, as discreetly as he could. ‘May I leave the palace in the morning, sir?’ he asked. ‘I have matters to . . . research.’
Menedrion stopped and returned his gaze. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘Yes, you may.’ Then he was off again, towing his entourage after him. ‘But make sure you get everything you require. You’ll need to be available to leave with my company the day after tomorrow.’
‘Leave, sir?’ Antyr managed as the tide swept by him. ‘Company? Leave for where . . .?’
The question faded as Menedrion retreated but a passing figure said, ‘To the border. Escorting the envoy.’
Envoy? Antyr mouthed as the corridor began to revert back to its previous rhythm. ‘What’s happening, Tarrian?’
Tarrian shook his head. ‘I don’t eavesdrop, you know?’ he said, his tone mildly injured. ‘Except on business.’
‘I know,’ Antyr said. ‘But I also know that some people shout a lot. What did you just pick up from that lot?’
‘It’s all jumble,’ Tarrian replied. ‘I’ve been getting whiffs of something all day, there’s a lot of excitement washing about.’ He hesitated and his concern seeped through to Antyr.
‘What is it?’ Antyr said.
‘It’s the Bethlarii, I’m afraid,’ Tarrian replied reluctantly. ‘Something about a Bethlarii envoy.’ He hesitated again. ‘And Menedrion’s mind was full of images of war.’
Antyr went suddenly cold, and the splendour around him seemed to become just so much dross.
‘You’re not on the reserves now, are you?’ Tarrian asked gently.
‘I’m well down the list,’ Antyr replied. ‘They’d be at the gates before my turn came, I think, but . . .’
‘I understand,’ Tarrian said. ‘There are no words to measure the folly of it.’ He tried to offer a little solace. ‘Still I might be wrong,’ he said. ‘Menedrion’s a wild man, and he’s looking for something to take his mind off his real problem. And I wasn’t really listening.’
Antyr reached down and stroked him. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said needlessly. ‘I’ve no doubt we’ll find out what we need to know in due course. In the meantime Menedrion’s real problems are also our real problems and we’d better bend our mind to them. We’ll hav
e to find this Nyriall tomorrow and hope he can help us.’
‘There’s another problem now,’ Tarrian said.
Antyr looked at him inquiringly.
‘We can’t go anywhere with Menedrion,’ Tarrian answered. ‘The Duke told us not to leave the city.’
Antyr caught a glimpse of a worried-looking middle-aged man across the corridor. He was stooping slightly. With a jolt he realized it was himself reflected with fearful accuracy by an elegant silver-framed mirror.
‘Not pretty, is it?’ Tarrian said. Antyr ignored the comment but straightened up, adjusted his robe, and smoothed down his hair.
‘Well, we’d better go and speak to the Duke then, hadn’t we?’ he said.
Chapter 17
Antyr’s encounter with Menedrion had at least overcome his hesitancy about inquiring of anyone as to where in the palace he might be and, still buoyed up, he fixed the first guard he found with an imperious stare and demanded to know the whereabouts of the Duke’s private quarters.
Fortunately, the guard in question had just seen him talking to Menedrion and gave him the information without even submitting him to a suspicious look.
Now, as he walked through the palace, Tarrian’s disturbing news conspired with the eerie problems mounting around him to unsettle him again and send his mood swinging rapidly between excitement and depression.
Gradually, he brought his thoughts into some semblance of order. Practical problems first: he had to see the Duke about Menedrion’s order that he prepare to leave the city. That was a conflict of instructions that he had no intention of attempting to resolve on his own! He could see that any meeting with the Duke about it might lead to complications concerning how it had come to pass that Menedrion had contacted him, but on balance, he decided that a naive craftsman’s openness and honesty was his best protection; indeed, it was perhaps his only protection.
Then, though largely at Tarrian’s prompting, came the problem of payment. Should he try and find Aaken and debate that with him, or should he raise it with the Duke? He quailed at the prospect of either, and decided to make his final decision when he was on the battlefield itself. As for Menedrion’s fee – he was glad he’d waived it.
Then there were the other, darker, problems: the Duke’s strange dream. Menedrion’s even stranger one, if dream it had been. And his own frightening . . . visitation. It was difficult but he knew he must try to accept that he could do nothing about any of these until something else happened or unless the old Dream Finder Nyriall gave him some help. A siren voice somewhere down inside him still tried to lure him away from this terrifying, clinging quagmire he felt he was sinking into. Get drunk! Run away! But somehow he managed to shout it down.
He shook his head as he walked along. His encounter with Pandra and Kany earlier seemed like distant memories and his aching walk to the Aphron Dennai was an eternity away.
As for the possibility of war? True, it was only Tarrian’s vaguely snatched impression, but his stomach plunged again, even though, of all his problems it was perhaps the one that he could do least about.
‘We’re nearly there.’ Tarrian’s voice interrupted his uneasy reverie.
Antyr looked up with a start. He had been so absorbed that for a moment he could not remember where he was. As he gazed around he was startled to see dark windows on either side of the corridor. Then he realized that they were passing over one of the palace’s many high-soaring covered walkways.
He stopped by a window and looked out.
‘Tarrian,’ he said softly. ‘Look.’
The wolf had been walking some way ahead, his head lowered intently, but he turned without comment and came back.
As the two of them stared out of the window, a ghostly Dream Finder and his Companion gazed back at them, but shining through these images was the sprawl of Serenstad with its fog-blurred lights expanding steadily outwards.
‘I didn’t realize we’d come so high,’ Antyr said.
‘You’ve been a bit preoccupied,’ Tarrian said. ‘We’ve come up quite a few stairs. And don’t forget, the palace is built on a slope.’
Antyr nodded absently. It was still a breathtaking sight. What must it be like on a clear day? Glancing from side to side he could just make the edges of the two buildings that were joined by the walkway; both of them disappeared up into the darkness. And what must be the view from up there?
‘Come on,’ Tarrian prompted gently. ‘Let’s find our client.’
Reluctantly, Antyr pulled himself away from the window and set off after Tarrian again.
As they passed through the door at the end of the walkway, they emerged into what appeared to be a large foyer. It was not as brightly lit as the corridors they had been walking along, but its most striking feature was the silence as the echoing marble floor gave way to a lush carpet.
‘Where now?’ Antyr asked, instinctively whispering.
‘Nowhere,’ Tarrian answered significantly, and even as he spoke, two large guards appeared silently in front of them.
‘Have you lost your way, sir?’ one of them said politely. He had a slight foreign accent. Mantynnai, Antyr deduced. These would be the elite of the Duke’s personal bodyguard; men under the direct, personal command of Ciarll Feranc. Though neither of them exuded any menace, Antyr felt afraid.
‘Have you lost your way, sir?’ the man was repeating, a little more emphatically.
‘I’m . . . I’m . . . looking for . . . I need to speak to the . . . to the . . . Duke. Sir,’ Antyr stammered. He braced himself for a sarcastic response, but none was forthcoming.
‘If you have a message for the Duke, it could have been left downstairs, but you may give it to me,’ the guard said, still polite.
Antyr shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t have a message from anyone, I have to see him personally. It’s important.’
It wasn’t important, he realized, as soon as he had spoken the words. It was a trivial organizational problem that certainly didn’t need the personal and immediate attention of the Duke.
Then again, another part of him said, it was important, and it did concern the Duke personally.
Briefly the two opinions struggled for dominance, then it dawned on him that probably the worst that could happen to him would be for the Duke to have him thrown out, and, fee or no, that was not an unhappy solution to his problems. He must plough on.
‘My name’s Antyr,’ he said hastily as he saw the guard’s eyes begin to narrow. ‘I saw the Duke last night. He’ll remember. If he isn’t . . . available, then perhaps I could speak to Commander Feranc or Chancellor Aaken.’
The guard’s manner, however, changed perceptibly at the mention of Antyr’s own name, making the references to Aaken and Feranc superfluous. His look of growing suspicion was replaced by a barely hidden curiosity. He turned to his companion, who nodded him towards a nearby door.
‘I’ll see if a member of his staff can be found to look after you, sir,’ he said. ‘Would you wait here.’
And he was gone, leaving Antyr and Tarrian alone with the other guard, an older man with a seemingly easy-going manner. However, he wore a slightly different insignia on his uniform which, coupled with the fact that it was the first guard who was running the errand, identified him to Antyr as the senior in rank.
He looked at Antyr and smiled broadly though it did little to ease Antyr’s trepidation.
‘An unusual profession, Dream Finding,’ the man said casually, his accent stronger than his companion’s. ‘In my time I’ve met many shamans and priests and so-called wise men who’d listen to the telling of dreams and then foretell the future and suchlike, but I’d never heard of a skill such as yours until I came to this land.’
It seemed an odd remark, but then, for all their known loyalty, the Mantynnai were foreigners.
Antyr returned the smile nervously. ‘We make no silk here, because we don’t have the knowledge,’ he said. ‘And where they make the silk I understand they make no steels because
they don’t have the knowledge. Not all countries practice all crafts.’
The guard nodded and laughed softly. ‘True,’ he conceded. ‘But Dream Finding is a strange profession, for all that. I suppose I could learn how to make silk and steel if I had to, but could I become a Dream Finder?’
‘No,’ Antyr conceded in turn, warming to the man a little. ‘It’s usually passed from father to son in some way, if it’s passed on at all.’
‘It is a mystery then, not a craft,’ the guard went on. ‘A bridge to places beyond the sight of other men.’
Antyr shrugged slightly. ‘A mystery to you, but a craft to me,’ he said. ‘Just as you are a mystery to me, but a craftsman also, Mantynnai.’
The guard smiled and nodded, though, for an instant, his eyes became distant and sad.
‘Move away,’ Tarrian said softly into Antyr’s mind. ‘You’re hurting him.’
‘I heard that there was a Bethlarii envoy at the palace today,’ Antyr said, taken aback slightly by Tarrian’s unexpected interruption and snatching at the first topic that came to mind.
‘There was indeed,’ the man replied.
He offered no further explanation however, and there was a finality in his answer that made Antyr loath to press him.
He glanced at the door through which the other guard had gone.
‘He’ll be a little while yet,’ the guard said. ‘Sit down. Make yourself comfortable.’ He pointed to a wide bench seat in an alcove and his manner became jocular, teasing. ‘Is your message very urgent? Have you foreseen a great Bethlarii army mustering against us in some subtle cranny of the Duke’s dreams?’
Antyr hesitated. ‘I must speak to the Duke certainly,’ he replied. ‘Or Commander Feranc . . .’
‘Or Chancellor Aaken.’ The guard finished his answer for him, nodding and laughing. ‘Then you must have seen an army.’
Antyr went suddenly cold, something had to be stopped here and he was uncertain how to do it. He leaned towards the man. ‘Dreams are beyond all understanding,’ he said, almost aggressively. ‘They spring from who knows what ancient sources deep inside us, for who knows what ancient reasons. I can foretell nothing. Nor see through mountains to distant places. I help the dreamers see their dreams again, for whatever reason they wish. And I talk to them about it if they wish. But that is all. The future is the future. Perhaps some can foresee it, perhaps not. But no Dream Finder can.’
