by Roger Taylor
Antyr in his turn shook his head, but with the confidence of a man certain in his resolution. ‘How do you know when to commit your forces in battle, sir?’ Antyr replied. ‘You do it when your head and your stomach tell you, and they know through years of study and experience. So I know. But where a battle decision is subtle and difficult, and fraught with hazard, this is as clear to me as knowing that I'm here now and not out in the fog. And…’ He stopped.
'And?’ Menedrion demanded.
Antyr took a deep breath. ‘And I've felt a similar assault … a presence … in the dream of another before…'
'Who? When?’ Menedrion leaned forward, his eyes wide. ‘What happened?'
'I can't tell you who, sir, or what happened,’ Antyr replied nervously. ‘Not without the dreamer's permission. Their secrets are as sound with me as are yours. But it was very recent.’ Then, anxious to deflect Menedrion's curiosity, ‘And I too have been … sought out by some strange … power. I was about to seek the help of another Dream Finder when your men found me at the Guild House.'
Menedrion put his hand to his head. Trust and angry doubt distorted his features. ‘I don't know,’ he said after a while. ‘You seem honest enough. And I'm no bad judge of men usually. But all this is beyond me…’ He clenched his fist and looked at it as if wishing to see a sword there and a problem that it could solve.
'You mentioned farriers and fletchers, sir,’ Antyr said. ‘You can judge their work by your own needs for what they make, but isn't the finding and casting of iron a mystery quite beyond you? And the choosing of woods and feathers?'
Menedrion looked at him suspiciously. His ownership of many of the city's workshops and forges was an object of some cautious superciliousness by certain factions of the court. However, he sensed no subtle insult. ‘That's not the same,’ he said, flatly.
'It's exactly the same,’ Antyr risked. ‘Judge me by my deeds so far. You can inquire of others afterwards, and I'm powerless before you.'
Menedrion did not answer.
'Tell me about the dream you had that sent you looking for me, sir,’ Antyr said, picking up the chair he had been using, and forcing himself to relax. ‘You said it was the same place, and the same enemy … and that someone possessed you.'
Still Menedrion did not speak.
'Sir?’ Antyr prompted. ‘Do you want me to leave?'
Menedrion scowled. ‘What will happen when I sleep again?’ he asked unexpectedly.
Despite himself, Antyr grimaced. Menedrion had voiced the concern that had been hovering on the edges of his own thoughts.
'I don't know, sir,’ he answered immediately and straightforwardly. Then, more insistently, ‘But tell me about the dream that's disturbed you and why you sent for me instead of one of the more … popular … Dream Finders who tend courtiers, Senedwrs and the like.'
'Your name was given to me by my mother,’ Menedrion said irritably, annoyed at being distracted from his main anxiety. ‘What relevance is that?’ he added, though in a tone that suggested he wanted no answer.
Nefron!
It was not, as Menedrion had said, of any relevance to their present problem, but to Antyr it was a matter for some alarm, and he recoiled inwardly from the revelation, as he felt himself take an inadvertent step into the treacherous marshland of palace politics.
No one at the palace knew him-even the porter at the Guild House didn't know him! No one except those few who had been involved in his visit to the Duke. His name could only have come to her attention through one of these, who must be among the Duke's chosen. He felt chilled at the thought of his name being bandied about such politically charged circles. Another loose piece to be discarded when the play was over!
For a moment the fear of the very real dangers that faced casual players in Serenstad's political life set aside the darker mysteries that were waiting in the shadow lands of sleep.
'Forget it!’ Tarrian said, sharply, jolting him back to the present. ‘The danger there is only for those who threaten others. Concentrate on the matter in hand, that's far more serious.'
'The dream, sir,’ Antyr persisted, accepting Tarrian's advice. Another military analogy occurred to him. ‘I must have intelligence about our enemy if I'm to decide what to do.'
Menedrion grunted, then, a little self-consciously, he retold the tale he had told to his mother a few hours earlier, neglecting the assault on the girl. When he had finished, he looked at Antyr.
'And can I sleep tonight?’ he asked again.
Antyr pondered what Menedrion had told him, but it gave him no insight. Rather, it raised more questions and uncertainties. He felt his feet reach the end of the road and an abyss open up in front of him. ‘I still don't know, sir,’ he said. ‘I see two choices. Tarrian and I can stay and watch over you tonight, or I can seek out the other Dream Finder I mentioned.'
Menedrion frowned. ‘What prevents you doing both?’ he asked.
'Nyriall lives in the Moras district,’ Antyr replied.
Menedrion's frown deepened and he looked Antyr up and down. ‘You're precious little advertisement for your trade, yourself, Antyr,’ he said. ‘Now you tell me that this person you need advice from isn't some senior Guildsman, but someone even more impoverished than you!'
Antyr's temper flared abruptly. ‘When you go into battle do you use a ceremonial sword, sir? Embossed, engraved, inlaid, beautified-useless? Or do you choose a simple well-balanced one that will hold its edge?'
Menedrion sat up and glared at him. ‘Curb your insolence, Dream Finder,’ he said angrily. But he answered the question. ‘I use a sword I've used before. One I know I can rely on.’ And he went no further with his rebuke. Nor did Antyr apologize.
Menedrion stood up purposefully. ‘You'll have to stay here, then,’ he said. ‘Though it's damned inconvenient. I had … plans … for tonight. Still, you can't go wandering round the Moras at this time, especially with the fog coming down again. And I'm not sending an escort in, it'd start a riot for sure.’ He banged his fist into his hand and swore in frustration.
'We needn't disturb your plans, sir,’ Antyr said helpfully. ‘We don't need to be in the same chamber, just nearby will suffice. And we can't begin our watch until you're asleep anyway.'
This seemed to mollify Menedrion to some extent, but a knocking on the door forestalled any further debate.
'Come in,’ he shouted.
The door opened to reveal the woman who had escorted Antyr through the palace. She beckoned Menedrion forward and there was a brief whispered conversation.
When it was finished, the woman left and Menedrion turned to Antyr, frowning. ‘Come with me. I'll find a servant to look after you,’ he said. ‘An urgent matter has arisen.'
Chapter 15
Menedrion looked round the room as he closed the door. His father, Aaken Uhr Candessa, Ciarll Feranc, and Arwain were seated in a wide circle and there were no servants or guards present.
His father turned towards him as he entered, and the other three stood up.
It needed no great perception on Menedrion's part to know that he had entered into the middle of a vigorous debate. Indeed, he got the impression of the last words fading into the corners of the room even as he took in the fact that his father's mood was stern. He braced himself.
'Gracious of you to favour us with your presence, Menedrion,’ Ibris said caustically, before his son could offer any greetings.
Menedrion looked at him with a mixture of annoyance and bewilderment. ‘What's the matter?’ he asked, less than diplomatically.
'What's the matter is that I've had the palace turned upside down trying to find you all day,’ Ibris replied. ‘While you've been doubtless dallying in the arms of your latest paramour, we've had the privilege of a visit from a Bethlarii envoy no less. Why the devil don't you tell one of your secretaries where you're going occasionally instead of using them to cover your tracks?’ He began to warm to his topic. ‘My God, we could have had the whole Bethlarii army at the palace gat
es by now while everybody was wandering round looking…'
Aaken cleared his throat awkwardly.
Ibris cast him an irritated look but stopped his diatribe with a snort. ‘Well, at least you're here now, anyway,’ he concluded reluctantly. ‘On reflection, it's perhaps as well you weren't at the audience.'
Menedrion's mouth dropped open as he floundered between preparing an account of his day, and shock at Ibris's news. ‘What do you mean, audience? Bethlarii envoy?’ he managed, eventually.
But Ibris had returned his attention to the others. ‘Sit down. Sit down,’ he said to them with a wave of his arm. ‘And Irfan, find yourself a chair and sit down as well. There…’ He pointed a busy finger. ‘Next to Aaken. He'll tell you what's happened.'
He was barely two minutes into his renewed discussion with Feranc and Arwain, however, when Menedrion escaped Aaken's telling and his voice exploded over the proceedings.
'What?’ he thundered, jumping to his feet.
'Sit down, Irfan!’ His father's equally loud, but more authoritative voice made Menedrion rock back on his heels. When he recovered, he leaned forward towards his father. ‘You hanged them all, of course,’ he said.
'I hanged nobody, Irfan,’ Ibris said in weary frustration. ‘How many times do I have to tell you to restrain your behaviour? Will you sit down and listen, and use your head for once.'
'But you can't let them…'
'Sit down, damn it!’ Ibris declared definitively.
Menedrion held his gaze defiantly for a moment then turned his face away sharply and dropped heavily back into his chair. It creaked in protest.
Ibris winced at the chair's distress. ‘Irfan,’ he said deliberately. ‘When you can make a chair as fine as that, you can treat it like that. Otherwise, don't!’ Then, in continuing exasperation. ‘I don't know how long it's going to take you to take you to grasp this. You'll be Duke one day. You must control your tongue. You must control everything. An outburst like that could launch an army, and impetuosity like that could send it to its doom.'
'There was no one here to see it,’ Menedrion protested unconvincingly.
'There's everyone who matters here,’ Ibris replied angrily. ‘And you'd have behaved just the same in the market place.’ Menedrion pondered a reply, then rejected it. Grinding his teeth, he folded his arms and sat back.
'Good,’ Ibris said. ‘That's a start. Next, learn to control your face.'
Then, placatory, ‘I understand your anger, Irfan. God knows I do. My reaction was the same.’ He almost snarled. ‘It still is,’ he added viciously. ‘But there's obviously a lot more going on here than meets the eye. You're commander enough to smell an ambush and to know the importance of good intelligence and careful planning. This business needs thought and consideration before it needs action.'
Menedrion grunted a surly agreement.
'Aaken's told you the heart of it,’ Ibris went on quietly. ‘And I wanted to discuss it between ourselves before I consult the Cabinet and report to the Sened. I also want to talk to this envoy more informally. See if we can get a better idea of what they're really up to. He might be more forthcoming in private. What he's said so far seems to make precious little sense.'
He frowned. ‘Arwain's of the opinion that it's some religious group that's taken over and that they're looking for a full-scale war-a crusade. It's happened before, and this Grygyr's obviously a fanatic. And he's certainly been sent to provoke something. But I can't see it being a crusade myself … it's…’ He left the sentence unfinished.
'Aaken thinks they're just using the Whendreachi as an excuse to distract us while they pull off some other coup such as quietly annexing Meck,’ he went on. ‘Ciarll's keeping quiet until he's something to say, as usual. And I'm listening to all three-silence and all. Irfan, from the little you've heard, what do you think?'
Menedrion did not speak at first.
'What do you think?’ Ibris asked again.
Menedrion shrugged, though not as a mark of indifference or ignorance, but because his body was still rebelling against being restrained from dealing out summary justice to these impudent upstarts who had arrived out of nowhere to insult his father and the city.
'I don't know,’ he said, looking up at the ceiling. ‘The whole thing sounds preposterous to me, but…’ He raised his hands to forestall any rebuke from his father. ‘Not being there of course, I've got no feeling for it. It could be anything. Certainly they've always had their eye on Meck. It would free them from the independents at Crowhell and they could use it for trade or as a base for a navy, or both. That's why we've always kept such a large garrison there. Whendrak, I don't know. It's strategically vital for both of us, because of its location, but…’ He shook his head. ‘That's why it's neutral. They must know we'd fight them to the last man if they tried to move the army in, under whatever pretext. It would be a desperate affair. And these days I think we'd both end up having to fight the Whendreachi themselves. After the last time I doubt they're going to allow their city to be used as a battleground again.'
Feranc nodded slightly.
'But we can talk about this until the Seren runs dry and be none the wiser,’ Menedrion went on. ‘We'll have to question this … envoy … to find out what they're up to. And then get up to Whendrak as soon as possible to see what's really happening there.'
Ibris was seemingly pleased. ‘That, we were just coming to when you arrived,’ he said. He motioned to Feranc who stood up and left the room quietly, then returned his gaze to Menedrion. ‘Put a chair there for him,’ he said, pointing some way in front of himself. ‘Then I want you to one side of him, but behind, so that he can't see your face. And you too, Arwain, other side,’ he added, mindful that Menedrion should not consider himself demeaned in front of his half-brother. ‘Don't speak, either of you. And don't respond in any audible way to anything he says, however provocative. I can't read him yet. We're about evens on insults so far, so I'm not going to mention any of that and hope that our protection of him in the hall has perhaps had some beneficial effect on him.'
Menedrion made a disparaging noise. ‘My men would soon get it out of him,’ he said grimly, standing up and moving his chair.
Ibris shook his head. ‘I doubt it, Irfan,’ he said. ‘You forget what pride they take in their own personal courage and endurance. He could well die before he'd part with a secret. We never had much success with their spies in the field. Force won't be the way. We'll have to lure it out of him. And it may well lie in what he doesn't say.'
Menedrion looked doubtful, but did not argue.
'Besides,’ Ibris went on. ‘We've accepted him publicly as an envoy now so we've got an obligation to look after him. Arwain thinks he's come as a martyr anyway, though personally I doubt that, but whatever, we mustn't turn him into one.'
'Pity,’ Menedrion muttered.
'Irfan,’ Ibris said, affecting not to hear the comment. ‘I'm holding you responsible for his safety and his well-being. He and his men will be treated as honoured guests and given every comfort. Believe me, that kind of treatment will unsettle them as much as any amount of beating.’ He leaned forward purposefully. ‘And make it clear to some of your noisier cronies that if they start talking about summary justice for these men, they'll get it themselves, parentage and patronage notwithstanding.'
'Yes, father,’ Menedrion said flatly. ‘And what would you like me to do if he decides to attack you here and now?'
Ibris's eyes flashed momentarily at Menedrion's tone. ‘You heard me, Irfan,’ he said. ‘He's not to be hurt. I don't want him clubbed and stabbed whatever he does. If needs be, use your garotte to immobilize him. There's nothing like a shortage of air for making people change their minds.'
Menedrion raised his eyebrows. ‘And that's the other reason you want me sitting behind him,’ he said.
Ibris's face abruptly wrinkled into a smile and then he chuckled. ‘There's some hope for you yet, Irfan,’ he said. The tension between father and son evaporated as
they shared a brief moment of dark, family, humour.
Menedrion dropped a chair into position for the envoy, then settled back into his own. Arwain sat down next to him on the opposite side of the envoy's chair. Almost immediately, Ciarll Feranc returned, accompanying Grygyr Ast-Darvad. Once again, Arwain was impressed by the presence of the man as he strode into the room, though, oddly, in these more intimate surroundings he seemed smaller, less confident. He sensed too that the envoy was subtly wary of his companion. Immediately, Arwain's mind went back to the meeting in the hall when Feranc had moved to intercept the envoy and with a few soft words and his calm unsettling gaze had held him in thrall.
Despite almost certainly possessing considerable fighting skills, some depth in the man instinctively knew Feranc as his master, Arwain decided. The envoy had already lost any future combat with the Duke's bodyguard. There would be no trouble at this meeting.
Arwain found the realization chilling, though whether it was a new measure of himself or of Feranc he could not have said. He knew however that it was some quality in his training that had given him the insight and he congratulated himself on his assessment of the situation. Then, remembering another attribute of his training, he immediately reminded himself that he could be wrong and that the envoy was carrying his sword and knife again. He cast another quick glance at his half-brother.
Ibris had charged him with the quelling of the envoy if need arose, but Arwain suspected that, for all his fighting ability, Menedrion would scarcely have begun to move before Feranc would have finished the work himself. He found confirmation of this in the relatively casual manner in which his father had delegated the task.
With the exception of the Duke, they had all stood up when the envoy entered the room. Arwain noticed with some slight amusement that although Menedrion managed to keep his feelings from his face as the envoy passed him, he gave up the effort as soon as the man sat down, and his expression became one of undisguised hostility.
