by Roger Taylor
Two of a kind, Arwain thought, looking back to the envoy. They would have to come to sword strokes before any mastership was acknowledged there.
Yet somehow Menedrion was not himself. His dark, ferocious anger was muted in some way, as if part of his attention were elsewhere. Briefly Arwain found his own attention clouding with the strange events of the previous night. His awakening, apparently as Menedrion. So vivid. So intense. And the beating of the girl. He looked down at his hands. Was it Menedrion who had beaten her, or was it him doing what he thought Menedrion would do in such circumstances? No answer came.
And then the terrible truth of it all struck him fully for the first time. The truth that the chase through the cellar, Drayner's curt dismissal of his questions, and the day's bizarre events had enabled him to avoid facing squarely. The truth that it had actually happened! Arwain felt his mind beginning to teeter towards whirling uncertainty. Slowly, deliberately, he took control of his breathing and forced himself back to the present. Whatever had happened last night would have to wait yet further before he could ponder it carefully.
'Grygyr,’ his father was saying. ‘I hope the quarters we've provided are to your satisfaction…'
'A prison is a prison be it stone or silk,’ Grygyr retorted before Ibris could finish. ‘My message is delivered. I have nothing more to say. As envoy I should not have been detained thus, it is in breach of the treaty.'
Menedrion's jaw tightened, but he did not speak.
Ibris opened his hands in concession. ‘The treaty is a man-made thing, and thus flawed, Grygyr,’ he said. ‘It states that I may not detain you, but demands also that I ensure your safety. The two requirements conflict in this instance and I must decide which is the lesser breach.’ He leaned back in his chair.
'As I told you before, it's a considerable tribute to your … skill … that you managed to reach here unharmed, but news of your presence will be across the city by now and I wouldn't guarantee you safe conduct across the palace square without substantial protection. You saw in the hall how heated some people can become.’ The envoy opened his mouth to speak, but Ibris continued. ‘So, while my officers are making preparations to escort you safely back to the border, I must perforce imprison you, as it were, though I'd rather you thought of yourself as an honoured guest briefly detained at a friend's by, say, bad weather, a lame horse…’ He smiled broadly.
Arwain could feel the envoy struggling against his father's affability.
'Also,’ Ibris went on. ‘I have to consider my reply to your government's message and I'd like to use this … unavoidable delay … as an opportunity to discuss this Whendrak problem with you in further detail. Away from the public gaze where we can debate ideas more freely. Men among men. Not politicians, looking over our shoulders.'
'I have nothing to debate with you, Ibris,’ Grygyr replied tersely. ‘The Handira's message was quite clear. Restrain your people in Whendrak and restore the rights of our citizens there immediately or we shall do it for you.'
Arwain glanced at Menedrion again. He was sitting quite still, but his eyes were boring into the back of the envoy and his hands were gripping the arms of his chair so tightly that they looked as though they would crush the very wood.
Ibris looked concerned. ‘Grygyr,’ he began, almost fatherly. ‘This is the first news we've heard of any serious problems in Whendrak. It concerns us obviously. Whendrak is important to both of us. It can't be denied that they're a quarrelsome people, but they're not stupid. I'm sure a small delegation as provided for in the treaty will be able to help them resolve any problems they might have.'
The envoy did not reply.
Ibris went on. ‘Grygyr, Whendrak is neutral. And anyone choosing to live there renounces his own nationality. Neither you nor we have “people” there. And if Bethlar intervenes there then it will be an overt act of war, and we shall have to move against you. That's a treaty obligation. From there there's no telling where the conflict will end. As envoy, you're no mere messenger, you have both the authority and the responsibility to discuss this matter. Silence won't suffice.'
But silence filled the room as he finished.
Ibris shook his head. ‘I know there's little love lost between our peoples, but I've dealt with many Bethlarii in my time and none went lightly to war.'
'My people are returning to the true way,’ Grygyr said.
Ibris's expression urged him on, but the envoy offered no amplification of this remark.
There was audible concern in Ibris's voice when he spoke again. ‘Your people too, have always recognized, eventually, the futility of continued conflict. We are both strong, for all our different ways, and neither can defeat the other utterly without suffering irreparable hurt in the process; destruction of the land and the farming patterns; crop failures and famine; disruption of trade and commerce, destitution; banditry; plague even. The battlefield is the way of degradation and folly, a way utterly bereft of reason.'
The envoy straightened at this remark.
'War is necessary for the reforging of a nation, and the battlefield is where men are tested and purified,’ he said, his rough voice strident. ‘The weak are weeded out and cast aside and the followers of the true way attain glory and honour.'
'And death,’ Ibris said quietly.
The envoy sneered dismissively. ‘And immortality,’ he said, leaning forward. ‘Their names will ring down through history in song and saga and their spirits will fight forever in the ranks of the army of Ar-Hyrdyn, and carouse in his Golden Hall.'
The silence that now descended on the room was cold.
'The priests of Ar-Hyrdyn were ever prodigal with the lives of your young men,’ Ibris said softly after a long pause. ‘Should they send your army forth again then Ar-Hyrdyn can look to a great increase in the ranks of his spirit warriors.'
A knowing smile passed over Grygyr's face, but he did not speak.
Ibris looked at him enigmatically for a long moment, then he nodded slowly.
'I will ask you and your companions to accept our silken cell for a night, perhaps two, Grygyr,’ he said, smiling broadly, as if nothing had happened. ‘Then, my son, Menedrion, will escort you back to the border stone at Whendrak. As you'll appreciate, I must report our meeting to the Sened and the Gythrin-Dy, and discuss our reply to your message. But I'll ensure that you have it before you leave our dominion. Thank you for your good offices, envoy. The commander will escort you back to your quarters now. Please tell any of the servants there if you require anything.'
He gave a wave of his hand to indicate that the audience was over, and the envoy stood up awkwardly. He looked around uncertainly for a moment, until Feranc extended a hand towards the door, then, almost in spite of himself, he bowed curtly to Ibris and strode out of the room with Feranc at his heels.
As the door closed behind him, Ibris extended a hand towards Menedrion to forestall the inevitable outburst.
'Not until he's well out of earshot,’ the gesture said.
Its effect was short-lived, but Menedrion's explosion, when it came, was not what had been expected. It was a mixture of amusement and bewilderment.
'I can't believe it,’ he said, standing up. ‘The man's a lunatic. It'd be a shame to hang him. We should put him on display in the market square.’ He looked at his father, grinning broadly. ‘Are you sure his documents were in order?'
Ibris nodded, unaffected by Menedrion's humour. ‘The seal's genuine,’ he said, answering the question seriously. ‘Though the signature's illegible.'
Feranc returned and Menedrion sat down again. ‘I'm not surprised it's illegible,’ he said. ‘It was probably written by Ar-Hyrdyn himself while he was possessing the body of a temple cat. What do you think, Ciarll?'
'I think we've got a very serious problem,’ Feranc replied blandly.
Menedrion's eyes widened in surprise and he appealed to his father. ‘From the village idiot and his army?’ he said. ‘Do I have to look after him, father? What if he thinks he'
s Ar-Hyrdyn's crow in the night and tries to fly off the palace roof?’ He flapped his elbows and his laughter rose to fill the room. But while Arwain smiled and Aaken tried not to, Ibris remained unmoved.
Eventually, foundering against Ibris's silence, Menedrion's humour died down.
'I'm sorry,’ he said. ‘I was quite prepared to thrash the arrogant bastard for his manners alone. But all that nonsense. He's cracked. It's ridiculous.'
'Would that it were,’ Ibris said quietly. ‘I'd rather join in your mirth than face the reality, but I'm afraid that Arwain's guess earlier may be nearer the mark. It seems that that grotesque religion of theirs has risen to some dominance again. He grimaced and slapped the arms of his chair angrily. ‘The black, demented bigotry of it all,’ he said bitterly. ‘The waste. And the arrogance of the man. He probably didn't care whether he got killed or not. He'd walked right through our domain undetected and publicly spat in our face. That was his message: utter contempt for the treaty, the peace, his life. And I took it and smiled!’ It was the first time he had revealed any part of his inner feelings since the envoy had arrived.
No one spoke.
Then, he rested his head on his hand and, for an instant, looked very old.
'Ciarll,’ he said after a moment. ‘Your opinion.'
'Provisionally as yours, sire,’ Feranc replied, carefully omitting Arwain's contribution. ‘Whatever the reason, it seems that some of them at least have turned to their ancient creed again and we can probably look for widespread border provocations with a serious risk that they'll develop into a full-scale war.'
'Never!’ Menedrion declared, scornfully. ‘Fancy gods or not, no one's that crazy. Ever since I could handle a sword they've been pushing here, pushing there, plotting this, plotting that. Always manoeuvring for some advantage or other. And we've always sent them home with their tails between their legs whenever they went too far. They wouldn't dare attempt anything like a full-scale war. It's unthinkable. Besides, those days were dying out even before Viernce. A permanent state of war, with regular winter training and summer campaigns, almost permanent mobilization, turning the land into an armed camp? No one in his right mind wants anything like that.'
He looked around for support, but doubt hung thick in the air.
'Aaken, Arwain,’ he said in appeal.
The Chancellor shrugged uneasily. ‘I remember a priest we caught once, years ago,’ he said, his brow furrowed as if he were looking at something in the far distance. ‘He was a big man, powerful. And a tremendous … presence. We thought we'd caught ourselves a lord. I remember thinking as I looked at him, there'll be a fine ransom in this one.’ He paused and shook his head reflectively. ‘I was already planning how to spend it. There were six of us, surrounding him, with pikes. Nowhere for him to go. No dishonour in surrender. “Come on, your highness,” someone said. “Your war's over. Time to get you to market."'
He paused again, and his eyes widened. ‘He just drew himself up. Looked at us as if we were so many dog turds, then he took hold of one of the pike shafts…’ Aaken's hands came out, re-enacting the long past deed. ‘…and just walked on to the blade. Slow as you please. Just walked on to it. Didn't utter a sound. Didn't bat an eyelid.'
He turned to Menedrion. ‘That's a follower of Ar-Hyrdyn. You can forget about reason and logic. All they're interested in is dying valiantly in battle so that they can fight in Ar-Hyrdyn's legions. They're mad by any definition we know, but they're not stupid, and they're terrifying. I'll never forget the look in that priest's eyes. Triumphant even though he was dying.'
Menedrion wriggled uncomfortably.
'That envoy reminded me of him,’ Aaken finished. ‘Same carriage, same arrogance, disdain…'
'He's still only one man,’ Menedrion protested. ‘Perhaps the Handira didn't know what he was really like. We've had some strange ones in our own diplomatic corps. In fact, we've still got some, if you ask me.'
Ibris nodded and smiled faintly. ‘That's true,’ he agreed. ‘He could be here as part of some internal political strife. But the seal was genuine and we can't plan on that hope. We can only plan on what we've seen and heard. And if the Bethlarii are going to be fighting for the honour of a place in the Golden Hall of Ar-Hyrdyn then we'll have to be in top fettle to meet them.'
He paused and rubbed his nose thoughtfully. ‘Does anyone disagree with that conclusion?'
No one spoke, and Ibris became businesslike.
'We must find out what's happening in Whendrak first of all. Arwain, can you get a platoon of your guards ready to travel up there by first thing tomorrow?’ he asked.
'Probably,’ Arwain said, taken aback somewhat by this sudden commission. ‘But it'll take most of the night.'
'Good,’ Ibris replied. ‘Do it. You can sleep in the saddle tomorrow. Aaken, make sure he's properly briefed on the treaty conditions concerning Whendrak. And prepare the appropriate documents. I don't want us causing the very thing we're trying to prevent through some diplomatic carelessness.'
Menedrion scowled at this abrupt development. ‘I could…’ he began.
'You, as my heir, will be looking after our honoured guest, Irfan,’ Ibris said, cutting across his complaint before it was voiced. ‘And we'll be continuing to treat him as such until he's safely back across the border.'
Menedrion rebelled petulantly. ‘He needs a keeper, not a host,’ he protested. ‘Let Arwain do it. He's politer than I am. I can be in Whendrak before nightfall…'
'Irfan, that's an order,’ Ibris said sharply. ‘This is too serious for any of us to consider our own wants and fancies. Arwain's Mantynnai will see what's to be seen better than your guard, and Arwain's a better listener than you and he knows when to run away, which you don't. In addition, if something's seriously amiss then it'll only be my bastard son they've got, not my heir and one of my best commanders.’ He shot a glance at Arwain. ‘I'm sorry, Arwain, but you understand?'
Arwain bowed an acknowledgement.
Menedrion was still not wholly mollified. ‘In addition, Irfan,’ Ibris went on, his manner more conciliatory, ‘I want you to get a feel for this Grygyr. Talk to him, and listen to him. See what you can smell out. It'll be much needed practice for you in controlling your tongue and it could well be important. You may have to face him in the field yet. Get a … company … ready tomorrow, with a view to starting back with him the day after.'
Menedrion gave a reluctant nod. ‘And remember this, Irfan,’ Ibris added. ‘If their envoy returns not only alive and unhurt, but seemingly feted and personally escorted by no less a person than my heir, it'll do little for him at home. The Hanestra is as riddled with intrigue as our Sened and Gythrin-Dy, and suspicion and jealousy are the norm. Rot from the inside will destroy a house just as effectively as flame from the outside.'
Menedrion's eyes narrowed. ‘They may also just take it as an act of weakness on our part.'
Ibris leaned back with a shrug. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Let them underestimate us to the full.'
Menedrion's lip curled in reluctant agreement. ‘Very well. Considerate host and travelling companion I'll be,’ he said, sourly.
Arwain watched the exchange with some relief. His relationship with Menedrion was such that any sign of preferment by his father made him extremely wary.
Ibris turned to his Chancellor and the commander of his bodyguard. ‘Aaken, Ciarll, we've a lot to do,’ he said. ‘The city'll be seething with rumours by now. I can avoid holding an emergency cabinet meeting until tomorrow but no longer, I think. And I'll have to have at least an announcement ready for the Sened before they finish their business tomorrow evening. But I want our basic policy decided here and now or we'll get bogged down in endless rhetoric and debate.'
Aaken frowned. ‘They won't like that,’ he said. ‘It's not like the old days. They're used to having their say.'
Ibris was dismissive. ‘They won't know it's happening if we're careful about it,’ he said. ‘And I still have complete command of the army as
I recall.'
'True,’ Aaken conceded. ‘But without Sened approval for any action you take, you may have to pay them out of your own pocket.'
Ibris waved his hands. ‘I'm well aware of that,’ he said irritably. ‘Don't be obtuse.’ Then he brought his hands down on the arms of his chair with a crack. ‘That's exactly what I mean about getting bogged down. This is sufficient of an emergency for me to assume all executive authority quite legally, but I don't want to do that yet; or at all, if it's avoidable. It would cause a lot of bad feeling and probably outright panic among the merchants and traders. No, we treat the Sened as we treated the envoy; gently and pleasantly. But nevertheless, we decide here, now, what's needed, then we decide what we've got to say to get the necessary approval. Is that clear?'
Aaken lifted both hands in a gesture of surrender.
'That's a detail, anyway,’ Ibris went on. ‘What's more important is the state of the army and the attitudes of our border allies. I want your sharpest, most loyal people out there quickly. Doing what Arwain will be doing. Looking, listening. And get someone down to Crowhell and across to Nestar to see if any unusual groups of men have been arriving and taking ship up river.'
'If it's a crusade they're looking to start, they won't be using mercenaries, foreigners, will they?’ Arwain ventured.
Ibris looked at him. ‘I told you this morning about priests, didn't I?’ he said, though not unkindly. ‘When they're so inclined they make most politicians seem as open as little children. We've already seen one of the Bethlarii aristocracy resorting to disguise. It'll be no trouble for their priesthood to decide that anyone who wishes to fight for them for whatever reason has been led to them by the will of Ar-Hyrdyn.’ His nose curled up in distaste. ‘In any event, even if some religious clique has the ascendancy at the moment you can rest assured that there'll be plenty of straightforward opportunists rallying to their flag and bringing their influence to bear.'
Arwain inclined his head in acknowledgement of the lesson. Ibris snapped his fingers. ‘And talking of disguises, Ciarll…’ he began.
