by Roger Taylor
Kany was silent and Antyr could feel his sense of impotence.
'There's old Nyriall, of course, perhaps he can help,’ said Pandra.
Antyr felt Kany's mood fill with self-reproach and then brighten. ‘Ah,’ he exclaimed. ‘I'm a useless old doe. I'm getting so forgetful. Of course, Nyriall. And he's got a wolf for a Companion too. Or he used to have.’ He became ecstatic. ‘Yes, yes, that's it. Go now. Go quickly. See Nyriall.'
Antyr found himself standing up under the urgency of Kany's appeal.
'Where does he live?’ he asked in some bewilderment.
'I've no idea,’ Kany said brusquely. ‘See that old fool of a porter. He'll have it somewhere in one of his precious books. Go along. Hurry up.'
Bustled out of the library by Kany's urging, Antyr turned to Tarrian as they trotted up the stairs. ‘What are we doing, running about like this at the behest of a rabbit?'
'I really can't comment about a fellow Companion,’ Tarrian said, with dignity.
'Yes. Unless they happen to be feline,’ Antyr replied with some amusement, finding an unexpected release in the simple physical activity of walking. ‘I noticed he had you jumping as well.'
Tarrian glowered at him. ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘I just deferred to an older colleague as is fitting.'
Antyr was still chuckling at Tarrian's discomfiture as they crossed the wide hallway with a purposeful clatter.
Reaching the main door, they found they had to wait through another of the porter's rambling rituals after Antyr made his request for the address of Nyriall. First came the look over the eye glasses and then the scowl at this interruption to his duties. Next came an inquiry: ‘And what is the reason for wanting this address?'
'Don't take that,’ Tarrian said indignantly. ‘It's none of his business, cheeky old devil.'
'A Dream Finding matter,’ Antyr said diplomatically but firmly, returning to the porter a portion of his scowl.
Then came another search through the book, even more leisurely than before, and finally there was a painstaking search for paper, pen and ink and a writing down of the address. Throughout this Antyr managed to maintain a fixed smile, but as the porter finally began to wave the paper with exaggerated slowness in order to dry the ink, Tarrian put his forelegs on the counter and, craning forward, fixed him with a grim grey-eyed gaze.
The porter thrust the paper into Antyr's hand quickly and gave him a surly nod of dismissal.
Antyr looked at the smudged writing as he moved to the door and his heart sank.
'What's the matter?’ Tarrian asked.
'Dream Finder Nyriall might find favour with our bumptious rabbit, but seemingly not with anyone else,’ Antyr replied. ‘He lives in the Moras district.'
Before Tarrian could voice his opinion on this revelation, however, the main door opened and two soldiers entered. Antyr recognized the livery of the Duke's bodyguard again and he stepped back to let them enter. As they passed him, he saw they wore the insignia of the eagle without the lamb. They were the guards seconded to Lord Menedrion.
'Wait a minute,’ Tarrian said as Antyr made to leave. ‘Let's see how Happiness here treats the Duke's men. I doubt they'll be as patient as we were.'
Tarrian's prognostication was correct.
'You,’ said the first man authoritatively, slapping his hand smartly on the counter.
Antyr and Tarrian chuckled privately at the alacrity with which the porter stood up and, smiling sycophantically, began rubbing his hands together.
The soldier eyed him coldly. ‘We're looking for the Dream Finder Antyr. Where can we find him?'
The porter's eyes gleamed knowingly.
Chapter 11
Arwain was still soiled and sweating as he dismissed the messenger and walked towards the large stateroom that he had indicated.
Already puzzled by the sudden summons from his father, Arwain's curiosity was further heightened by being directed towards this particular room. It was not the one which the Duke normally used for day-to-day business matters, but one of several small halls which were generally used for private entertaining and minor state occasions, such as the presenting of an honour or the receiving of some petition or a work of art. Yet no such occasion had been planned for today as far as he knew.
Two servants opened the double doors to admit him, at the same time releasing the considerable hubbub that was filling the room. Taken aback by the unexpected noise, Arwain hesitated, then stepped inside quickly.
The room was very full. Looking around, he saw his father was at the far end, sitting in a large wooden chair richly inlaid with gold and decorated with engraved marble panels. From the top of it stared the glittering, watchful eyes of a great eagle.
Indeed, so skilfully had the bird been carved and painted, that no matter where an observer stood in the room, its eyes would always seem to be staring at him. Significantly, its wings were raised slightly so that it might be either landing or just about to take flight after some prey. The detail that Arwain always appreciated, however, was in the carving of the talons, which had been done in such a way that they appeared to be crushing the wide, carved, top rail of the chair.
Seated either side of the Duke were Ciarll Feranc and Aaken Uhr Candessa, the one very still, the other fidgeting restlessly. In front of them was a semicircle of empty floor while behind them stood various other of the Duke's close advisers. Behind the whole arced a semicircle of the Duke's bodyguard.
The rest of the hall was filled with a random assortment of senior court officials, both civilian and military; high-ranking Senedwr and Gythrinwr, standing conspicuously apart; various lords and their advisers; some senior Guild officials; several of the city's major merchants, and a leavening of scholars and artists. As usual too there were petitioners from Serenstad's allied towns and cities, distinctive in their local dress and noticeably brighter eyed than the normal courtiers.
Arwain raised his eyebrows in surprise. This was a far larger gathering than normally surrounded his father. Had he indeed forgotten some formal event that required his presence? He could remember nothing and, moreover, there was a feeling of tension in the air which had an uncharacteristically sharp edge to it.
As he made his way towards his father, Arwain also saw that several of the Duke's bodyguard were wearing their normal court clothes and mingling casually with the crowd.
With a little gentle pushing and apologizing he managed eventually to reach the empty space in front of his father.
'Father,’ he said, stepping forward a few paces.
The Duke, who had been talking quietly to Aaken, turned to him and beckoned him forward.
'Ye gods, Arwain, you look like an ostler's rag,’ he said, then, wrinkling his nose, ‘and you smell like one, too. What have you been doing?'
'Just training with Ryllans and the others,’ Arwain replied. Ibris gave a shrug eloquent with both approval and regret. ‘Ah well, I did tell you to come immediately so I suppose it's my own fault.’ He took Arwain's arm and pulled him forward so that he could talk more quietly. ‘Anyway, you're here,’ he said. ‘Menedrion's nowhere to be found, as usual, and Goran's down at Farlan looking at some new marble that one of our merchants has managed to import from somewhere…’ He furrowed his brow and waved his hand to bring his conversation from the desirable to the necessary. ‘It's perhaps as well you look so rough. We've a Bethlarii envoy coming. Ciarll's men are bringing him and his escort from the Norstseren Gate right now.'
Arwain's face darkened. ‘An envoy?’ he said. ‘And escort? Here? Now?’ He put his hand to his head and shook it as if to waken himself. ‘Without a formal request? Notice to the Sened and the Gythrin-Dy? Toing and froing of heralds etc? Endless debates about location and precedence? Have they forgotten we've a treaty with them which deals with these procedures? What are they up to?'
Ibris acknowledged Arwain's bluster with an offhand shrug, and, taking a letter from Aaken, held it out to his son. Arwain wiped his hands on his tunic, took the l
etter, and unfolded it carefully. It was written in the harsh, angular script typical of the Bethlarii scribes.
'To our vassal, Ibris of Serenstad. You will receive our envoy and discuss with him a matter of great mutual concern. His person and escort of three are inviolate. Harm to them will constitute an act of war.'
Underneath this brief missive was an illegible signature and the seal of the Handira, the council of five that governed Bethlar.
Arwain looked up from the sheet and stared at his father open-mouthed. ‘This is unbelievable,’ he said. ‘Coming unannounced is a breach of the treaty, as is bringing their own escort, but…’ He gaped as he struggled for words, waving the paper about vaguely. Ibris took it from him gently and returned it to Aaken. ‘The tone. It's arrogant by even their standards. Their vassal! It's a … wilful provocation … How did it get here?'
'It arrived barely an hour ago,’ Ibris said, watching his son carefully. ‘Brought by a Bethlarii Ghaler disguised as a messenger from Hyndrak, and…'
Arwain interrupted before Ibris could continue. ‘In disguise? A Ghaler?’ he exclaimed. ‘A Bethlarii foot soldier?’ He shook his head. ‘Never. Their colours are sacred. A Ghaler wouldn't go into enemy territory with them covered under any circumstances. It would be sacrilege. Whatever the man is, he's no Ghaler. He's probably one of their officer corps. And probably an assassin. Has he been questioned? Searched? Don't let him near you…'
Arwain stopped as he caught a small admonitory gesture from Ciarll Feranc and looked up to see the irritation on his father's face.
'Arwain, I need thoughtful counsel, not lectures on Bethlarii religion and elementary personal security,’ Ibris said coldly. ‘Besides you should know by now that priests of any colour don't hesitate to excuse the gullible the trappings of their creeds when political necessity demands. The man could be a Ghaler or anything, though I incline to your view that he's likely to be an officer. Probably tasked with noting our initial response to that letter. Anyway, what he is is irrelevant. To question him would have been in breach of the treaty, and at the moment all the breaches lie with them. He's been offered food, drink and rest-all of which he's declined, I understand-and he's being quietly but very well guarded by Ciarll's men.'
Arwain lowered his eyes. ‘I'm sorry, father,’ he said. ‘You're right, I should think before I speak. I'm still heated with the training and rushing over here.’ He risked a smile. ‘Perhaps I should take a leaf from the Bethlarii way and wait for your permission before I speak.'
Ibris leaned back in his chair and some of the coldness left his voice. ‘Perhaps you should,’ he said. ‘The Bethlarii are not without some worthwhile ideas.'
Then he tapped his temple with his forefinger, looking significantly at Arwain. There was a father's need in his eyes. ‘Diplomacy or battle, Arwain, always the head first,’ he said. ‘Always. It'll tell you when to use your instincts. I'm sure that Ryllans has told you that, I know I have often enough.'
Arwain nodded and looked down again. It was true that he had come from the training yard too heated and flustered, but it was also irrelevant. There was never an excuse for not thinking. He must calm himself before he spoke again. His father would be more troubled by this unexpected and bizarre visit from Bethlar than he would allow anyone to see and he should not have to take pause to instruct his children. He should be able to look to them for support.
Arwain looked across the crowded stateroom with its broad cross-section of Serenstad's ruling and commercial classes and the sprinkling of travellers from its dominion cities and towns. It was, he realized, a testimony to Ibris's own advice. His father's initial response to the letter must have been something to behold, yet the messenger was not hanging from the battlements. Arwain knew that it would have taken but seconds for his father to channel his doubtless monumental rage into cold calculation.
He risked a cautious irony. ‘I sit at your feet, father,’ he said. ‘Allow me to redeem myself.'
Ibris looked at him and slowly raised one eyebrow.
Arwain, in reply, raised a confidential finger. ‘Since Viernce, the Bethlarii have been much less inclined to do any extensive political or military adventuring.’ He cast a glance at Feranc. ‘I'm assuming that there's been no unusual military activity very recently. Just the usual, eternal war games and minor raiding between border villages.’ Feranc nodded a confirmation.
'I need no history lesson either, Arwain,’ Ibris said, glancing over the room impatiently.
Arwain continued. ‘They've been too long without war. The futility of their endless training saps their spirit. Indeed, peace gnaws at the very roots of the reason for the existence of their whole society. And it grieves them bitterly too that we thrive and prosper in peacetime.’ He paused briefly, gathering his thoughts. ‘They could, of course, send their army against us without pretext, but that would almost certainly turn their less enthusiastic allies on the borders against them. I don't think it's beyond imagining that some clique in the Hanestra has sent this envoy, with his … appalling … letter, to be sacrificed to your anger so that his death can be used as a justification for abandoning the treaty and beginning the old round of armed campaigning again.'
'No man goes lightly to his death, Arwain,’ Ibris said. ‘Not even a Bethlarii. Don't you confuse reality with myth. They like fighting and killing, not dying.'
Arwain pointed to the letter in Aaken's hand. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But I can't imagine that and their secret journey here being just diplomatic carelessness-an inadvertent forgetting of the details of the treaty. They're too fussy about the niceties of form when it suits them. Given that, what are we left with? I think this … envoy … and his escort, have been sent to die.’ A new thought occurred to him abruptly. ‘I'll wager that there's some fanatical new sect of their grotesque religion beginning to seize power.'
Ibris's face became impassive. ‘And my response?’ he asked.
Arwain waved his hand across the crowd. ‘Exactly what you're doing,’ he said. ‘You've scraped this civic greeting together and you're going to welcome their envoy formally and courteously, in public audience as befits a representative of a … friendly … neighbouring state.’ He looked at his father intently. ‘Your reasoning's like mine,’ he went on. ‘You've even placed a large number of your bodyguard inconspicuously throughout the crowd not only to protect yourself should this be an assassination attempt but also to protect them should they wilfully provoke this crowd to anger.’ He looked at his father expectantly, but Ibris still did not respond.
'The simple straight thrust is invariably the best and the least expected.’ Ryllans’ often given advice came back to him, and he smiled.
'Of course, with the Handira being appointed every year they may indeed simply be inept in procedural matters and you're accepting their envoy like this just to listen to what he says. However…’ He allowed himself a theatrical pause. ‘I think you hope that the absence of a violent reproach on your part will so unsettle him that, one way or another, he'll inadvertently disclose the true purpose hidden under his apparent one, or at least give an insight into their thinking.’ Ibris smiled a little and nodded approvingly. ‘Convoluted and rather long-winded, Arwain,’ he said, ‘but interesting. I am indeed going to listen to this envoy and I'm certainly going to ensure that he isn't harmed in any way, if that's possible.’ He beckoned Arwain to bend forward to that he could speak more softly. ‘But heed this. Though no arrows and spears are flying here, don't be deluded. This will be as dangerous as any battle and we'll have to ride the avalanche. When we meet this man we're going to jump from rock to rock and our sole concern is not to fall. That's all. You're learning. But don't seek too diligently to guess the motives of others, you'll miss the obvious looking for the hidden. And what you need to know, you'll learn if you just listen with your whole spirit.'
'The simple straight thrust,’ Arwain said, echoing his earlier thought.
Ibris nodded, then he looked a little pensive. ‘Besides,’ he s
aid, almost wryly, ‘you'll find in time that you don't even know your own reasons for much of what you're doing, let alone anyone else's.'
Arwain looked at him quizzically but Ibris offered no amplification of this cryptic comment. Abruptly he was businesslike. ‘Stand at the back of my chair … here … between me and Aaken.’ As Arwain moved between the chairs, Ibris pulled him forward again and spoke in a whisper. ‘Loosen your knife and be ready but leave a clear sightline for the archers in the balcony alcoves behind us.’ Then with both ducal and paternal urgency he repeated his advice. ‘Don't speak; just listen and watch. And don't let the faintest shadow of your mind appear on your face.'
Arwain acknowledged the comment by a pressure on his father's arm and moved to the position he had indicated. He was about to ask how long it would be before the envoy arrived, when the doors at the far end of the room opened suddenly and a group of the Duke's bodyguard marched in, pikes raised.
Chapter 12
There was a flurry of activity through the crowd, then an aisle opened up before the advancing guards, and the hubbub faded abruptly.
Arwain looked at the approaching group intently. There were three Bethlarii, one walking in front of the other two. Envoy and escort, Arwain presumed, judging by the insignia that the leader wore and his easier though equally contemptuous manner as he gazed freely over the watching crowd. The other two stared fixedly forward.
They were completely surrounded by Ciarll Feranc's men, but Arwain noticed that while they maintained the pace of their escort comfortably enough, they marched in step with one another and not in step with the guards. It was a simple act but it betokened a chilling discipline.
As with most Bethlarii, it was difficult to estimate their ages as they were all bronzed and weather-beaten from their wilfully harsh life. That said, and despite their manner, they were fine-looking men, straight and limber and dressed in simple, virtually undecorated tunics. They contrasted greatly with the motley assortment of fashions, complexions and bodily shapes currently gazing at them in a mixture of amusement, distaste, plain curiosity and, in some cases, downright lust.
