by Roger Taylor
He would go into his room and read a little; think a little. He smiled to himself. Perhaps his dream had been no more than his wiser self shaking him from his natural lethargy and giving him this opportunity to consider quietly some of the many problems that, as usual, were besetting him.
His face became grimmer. Problems was an inadequate word to describe the confusion of plotting and counter-plotting that always seemed to be swirling through the palace, as members of the court and the Sened and the Gythrin-Dy struggled endlessly for power and advantage. Plotting that at times he would willingly walk away from were it not for the fact that to do so would turn him into a ready victim. Almost certainly it would see Menedrion falsely accusing him again of some treachery against his father, or perhaps even making some attempt against his life. He scowled. Walking away-that was a dream. All his life he had known intrigue, and he was as good a player as most of the others … yet now, since his marriage to Yanys, it seemed to be both so much worse and so much more important. Now, it was no longer a game. Should he fall, she would fall with him. And perhaps her family …
He set the thoughts aside. He knew from past experience that he could do only so much planning, not least in dealing with Menedrion. More important to his survival were his continuing vigilance, his good standing in the city and its institutions, and the protection his father's affection gave him. He struggled with a stiff belt buckle. No, instead, he would pause and reflect on the dream-the dreams-that had woken him to give him this strange unsought interlude at the stillest time of the night when amid the soft-breathing silence the dreams of a myriad sleepers roamed unfettered and unchallenged through the dark by-ways of the world.
For a moment he paused and looked up, as if he might suddenly be able to hear this silent pandemonium.
Then he realized that the dream-the first dream, from which he, as Menedrion, had awakened, terrified and drenched with sweat-was gone.
No, it can't be, he thought. Not such a nightmare. And, briefly, there was a sliver of a sensation-a swirling distant darkness? — then like a snowflake that had drifted into the warmth through an open door, it was gone. Not a vestige remained. He was no longer Menedrion and the dream was no longer his.
He puffed out his cheeks in self-mockery, and shook his head. It would seem that dreams had the power to irritate and torment as well as frighten, he decided.
And he let it go. If the dream had meant anything then it would reveal itself in due course. If not, then why waste time fretting about it?
He finished fastening his tunic and walked over to the heavy curtains that covered almost half the length of one wall. They were decorated with scenes from the mythology of the founding of Serenstad and were not really to either his or his wife's taste. But they were thick and he was grateful for the warmth they kept in the room during the city's cold winters.
Indeed, as he stepped through the curtains into the wide windowed alcove beyond, the difference in temperature was immediately noticeable and he closed them behind himself quickly to prevent the room becoming chilled.
The alcove overlooked a courtyard lit by a great many bright torches. Despite their smoking efforts, however, they seemed only to emphasize the yellow opacity of the fog and the far side of the courtyard was barely visible.
Arwain leaned forward against a stout timber mullion and took in the sight. Then he looked up above the choked brightness for some indication that this was only some shallow emanation of nature, but neither stars nor moon were to be seen; the fog would be as deep as it was wide. It was as if it wanted to smother the city forever.
Strange thoughts, he mused. Born out of strange dreams, doubtless.
His breath clouded the glass and he reached up idly to wipe it clear. As he did so, a movement caught his eye in the courtyard below; it was a figure.
All Arwain's musings and concerns evaporated immediately and he stepped behind the mullion so that he could observe without himself being seen. It was an unnecessary action in such light but it was an inevitable one for anyone who lived in the palace and it was done before he even thought about it.
Peering intently through the yellow gloom he made out not one, but three figures. They were walking rapidly across the courtyard, but they were not guards, and there was a stealthiness in their behaviour. And at least one of them appeared to be armed.
Arwain's brow furrowed. Something was wrong. There was no curfew, but no one wandered the palace grounds so late without ensuring that one of the guards was with him. He did not wait to see anything further, but stepped back through the curtains and, snatching up his sword and dagger, slipped quietly from the bedroom.
Leaving his personal quarters, he ran silently along a short, dimly lit corridor, then down a wide, curving stairway that brought him to the spacious entrance hall which opened on to the courtyard.
'Be quiet,’ he hissed as he saw the two door guards moving forward to intercept and challenge him.
As ordered, the men remained silent, but their pikes came down ready to destroy the unexpected arrival well before he came within a sword's length if need arose. Only when Arwain moved into the light did they raise them again.
He acknowledged them with a nod but, without pausing, pushed open a nearby door. Of the four men inside the room, two were half dozing in their chairs, and two were sitting at a table playing a board game.
Standing in the doorway, Arwain made no preamble as they began rising hastily to their feet. ‘There are three men in the courtyard, at least one of them armed,’ he said with an unflustered urgency. ‘Two of you stay at this door. Sterne…’ He met the gaze of one of the men at the table, and raised a significant finger. ‘Guard my rooms.’ Then, with a glance at the others, ‘The rest of you follow me.'
He added no injunctions to haste but simply turned and strode across the entrance hall towards the outer door. One of the duty guards opened it for him and, without even breaking step, Arwain stepped out into the torchlit fog.
Sterne, the officer in charge of the guard, allocated the duties with a few silent gestures as he left the room and then ran softly towards the staircase. The others were less ordered in their departure, but Arwain had barely gone ten paces through the gloom before they were running alongside him, pulling on helmets and fastening straps and buckles.
At a corner, Arwain hesitated, momentarily confused by the fog.
'This way,’ he said, almost to himself. And then he was running, with the three guards following anxiously. Briefly, Arwain cast a glance up towards the window of his bedroom. Whatever was happening, it was moving away from him this time, but it reassured him to know that Sterne would be quietly guarding Yanys.
It occurred to him for a moment that perhaps he was being foolish. Perhaps the figures he had seen were no more than lingering figments of his strange dreaming? But he dismissed the thought. He had been awake, and the figures had been real, and armed. And just as they were not apparently moving against him in his isolated wing of the palace, so they were moving into the main body of the palace, and that might bode anything.
Reaching the far side of the courtyard, Arwain peered into the glowing fog for some sign of the three figures, his head craning forward anxiously as though, like a hound, he might catch some elusive scent. But nothing was to be seen.
'Sir.’ One of the guards took his arm. He was pointing towards a small door at the bottom of a short flight of stone steps. It was an entrance to part of the palace's labyrinthine cellars and it should have been bolted from the inside. Now it stood ajar.
Arwain nodded towards a nearby torch rack and then ran down the steps. They were damp and treacherous due to the fog and he slipped as he reached the bottom. Reaching out to recover his balance, he bumped into the door and it swung wide open, striking the wall with an echoing thud.
He cursed to himself. Little chance of a discreet pursuit if they're still nearby, he thought. But no sounds of alarm or sudden haste reached him and, taking a torch from one of the guards, he stepped in
side. The guards followed.
The door opened into a cavernous cellar with a low vaulted ceiling supported on rows of squat, square columns. Each was scrolled about with ornate carved patterns and capped with a wide flaring stone, from which peered carvings of strange, watching faces, all of them different.
A vanguard of the fog had preceded them into the cellar, as if searching for its natural home, and a faint yellow haze hovered like a miasma among the barrels and kegs, and anonymous piles of materials too precious to be discarded but for which no other place could be found. Through it the flickering torches cut great swathes of dancing black shadow, bringing the stillness abruptly alive.
Arwain's gaze, however, was drawn almost immediately to the damp footprints which moved down one of the wider aisles. He set off in the same direction.
'Should we sound the alarm, sir?’ one of the guards asked. Arwain shook his head. ‘No. Their coming down here shows that they know the palace and that they're on some ill errand. If we sound the alarm it'll be easier for them to move around in the confusion. We must find them quickly.’ And, his actions following his words, he began to run.
The damp footprints soon disappeared, but not before they had clearly confirmed which aisle their creators had taken and, for a while, the four men ran on as silently as they could past the host of carved, watching faces.
Arwain hesitated as they passed under an arch at the end of the long chamber to find themselves at a junction of four aisles. The head of some kind of demon had been carved on the keystone of the arch and in the torchlight its gaping mouth seemed to laugh silently and malevolently at Arwain's doubt.
'Hood the torches, and be quiet,’ one of the guards whispered urgently.
Blackness and silence closed round the group, then, as the dull glow of the hooded torches began to appear, ‘There.'
Arwain felt rather than saw the pointing arm come past him to draw his gaze to a faint light in the distance.
'Quietly,’ he whispered, fearing that one of the guards might suddenly shout out a challenge. ‘They don't seem to have heard us. Unhood one of the torches a little so that we can see where we're walking.'
Cautiously he drew his sword and started forward, keeping the light ahead only in the side of his vision so that he could still see the floor faintly in front of him.
As he drew nearer he felt his heart begin to pound. So far, the heat of the chase had protected him from more sober considerations, but now he was closing, sword in hand, with a possibly armed group about whom he knew nothing, except that they were sufficiently desperate to wander the palace grounds at the darkest time of the night, and knew their way through the palace cellars.
'Mistake,’ part of him said. ‘Starting a battle without proper intelligence.’ But his reason just managed to hold the reproach at bay. It was no mistake. He had three palace guards with him and he himself had faced men in combat before now. To have sounded the alarm might indeed have enabled these … conspirators? … to escape, or worse, to fulfil their mission quietly amid the confusion. He had had no alternative.
Abruptly he found he was angry at having to justify himself to himself. He found too that he was baring his teeth and loosening his sword arm.
The light was coming from around a corner ahead, throwing the faces on the column heads into silhouette. And, as if the faces themselves were talking to one another in the gloom, there came the sound of lowered voices. Arwain turned to the guards and whispered a brief order, then, suddenly, the torches were unhooded and with the guards at his back Arwain stepped around the corner with his sword levelled.
'Stand, in the Duke's name,’ he shouted authoritatively. There was a gasp and a scream, then someone dropped a torch. Finally came the sound of a sword being drawn as a figure pushed to the front of the surprised group. The three guards brought their pikes down alongside Arwain's sword.
'No, wait, Dirkel,’ came a stern voice from the group. Arwain took in his quarry at a glance. There were five in all, but they were not what he had expected. True, the man who had stepped forward looked sinister, with the hood of his cloak hiding his face, but from the guard he was presenting with his sword it was clear that he was no swordsman; and he was faltering, either at the sudden command or the sight of Arwain's grim face and the three pikemen with him. Behind him stood two others, an old palace manservant who looked as if he had been running and who had obviously thrown on his livery in great haste, and another man with his cowl pulled forward. Between these two and leaning heavily on the hooded man was a young woman. Her head was bowed and her long brown hair had fallen forward hiding most of her face, but Arwain could see blood on her gown and her hands. At the rear of the group was an old woman, wringing her hands; another servant, Arwain guessed, probably from the laundry or the kitchens.
With an irritable gesture, the man supporting the young woman threw back his hood to identify himself.
Arwain stared in disbelief. He had thought the voice was familiar.
'Drayner?’ he exclaimed. Then, after an awkward pause, ‘What's my father's personal physician doing prowling the courtyards and the cellars in the middle of the night?'
'Nearly suffering an early demise thanks to young men leaping out of the darkness and waving swords at me,’ the old man replied acidly. Arwain winced a little at the characteristic tone, but having delivered his barb, Drayner turned fussily to practical matters.
'Dirkel, put your sword down,’ he said. ‘You're only going to cut yourself and I'm going to have enough to do tonight without sewing you up as well. And someone pick up that torch for mercy's sake, there's enough fog outside without making more in here.'
The old woman's hands disentangled themselves and fluttered nervously for a moment until with a noisy effort, she bent down and picked up the spluttering torch. Drayner's defender somewhat sulkily sheathed his sword, as did Arwain, and the three guards raised their pikes. Eron Drayner was not only Duke Ibris's personal physician, he was highly respected both in Serenstad and beyond, and was one of the few men in public life who could stand contemptuously aloof from the perpetual bickering and scheming that marred it.
He also had a tongue ‘worth ten pikemen’ according to those who had cause to know, and pointing a weapon at him was a decidedly unwise act.
Drayner's face puckered indecisively for a moment, as if he had lost his train of thought, then the woman he was supporting gave a low moan and with a brief grimace of self-reproach he took abrupt charge of the proceedings.
'Anyway, now you're here, you can help me get this young lady to my surgery,’ he declared. He turned to the servants. ‘You two can go back now, Lord Arwain will escort us from here.'
The manservant bowed and turned to leave, but the old woman laid a hand on his arm to restrain him. She cast an anxious look first at the young woman and then at Drayner. ‘Go, go,’ Drayner said urgently, but gently. ‘She'll be all right.’ Adding significantly, ‘Look to yourselves.’ The old woman hesitated a little longer, then, at another nod from Drayner, she made a brief curtsy and left.
Without being asked, Arwain stepped forward and put his arm round the young woman, but she started violently at his touch and shook it off, taking hold of Drayner's arm tightly. ‘I can manage, now,’ she said, her voice muffled and distressed.
Arwain looked at Drayner, puzzled.
'Let the lord support you. He's stronger than I am,’ the physician said, patting her arm reassuringly. ‘And he's not like…’ He stopped in mid-sentence and turned away from Arwain sharply.
'Dirkel, run ahead with one of the guards and make the surgery ready,’ he said briskly to cover the apparent slip. Arwain nodded his confirmation to the guards and then hesitantly reached out to support the young woman again. This time she accepted his arm.
'What's happened?’ Arwain asked as they walked slowly back. ‘And why were you trailing through the cellars?'
'The young lady's had a nasty fall,’ Drayner said. ‘And we came this way because it's the quickest
way and because the fog will chill this poor girl into a fever in her present condition.’ His voice, however, was a little too loud, as if he were anxious not to elaborate on the incident. For a moment, Arwain considered pressing him, but the woman was obviously in need of attention and if Drayner was choosing to lie about what had happened then it was not a matter to be aired in front of the guards: Drayner might be above politics but he was not oblivious to them.
Arwain nodded but remained silent until they eventually arrived at Drayner's surgery where he dismissed the guards.
'Thank you, Lord Arwain,’ Drayner said as they entered the surgery. ‘I apologize for disturbing your sleep, but your help was most timely. If you'll excuse me I'll have to look to my patient now. I'll let you get back to your bed.'
He was leading the woman into a nearby room while he was speaking and he concluded his comments over his shoulder, almost offhandedly. Arwain made no reply, but instead of leaving, sat down on a long wooden bench.
The surgery was warm and bright after the journey through the cold cellars and the even colder fog, but welcome though the warmth was, Arwain felt uneasy.
Apart from the effects of his strange early rising, and his curiosity about the events that had brought no less a person than Drayner from his bed, the room held old childhood memories for him, most of which were not particularly pleasant. Drayner had been the court physician for many years before he had risen to become the Duke's, and Arwain had been his reluctant patient on more than one occasion.
As he sat waiting Drayner's pleasure, he did as he had done as a child-he stared around at the shelves that lined the room. A battle array of ancient mysteries defied his adult gaze: tall bottles, green and bulbous; short ones, brown and squat; dull ones, red and menacing. Dusty bottles with peeling, faded labels, strangely stained; shiny, freshly labelled bottles; bottles with strange fluted spouts and twisted necks. Then there were the flank guards: ranks of small boxes and solid commonplace clear glass jars full of pills and powders and … other things.
