Dream Finder cohs-1

by Roger Taylor

  'Yes,’ Feranc agreed, not without some feeling. ‘He can be a very zealous guardian of our coffers at times.’ Then, in an echo of Tarrian's own observation, ‘Antyr could well starve to death in this place if we're not careful.'

  Ibris nodded. ‘Him starving is one thing,’ he said. ‘That wolf starving is another.'

  As Feranc quietly closed the door, Ibris turned and stared again into the flickering landscape of the fire with its black cliffs and crags, and its clefts and fissures glowing red and scorching yellow under the touch of invisible winds. He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees and allowed the fire to fill his vision.

  Smoke swirled hither and thither, sparks rose and scattered up into the blackness of the chimney or tumbled in cascades into the depths. Spurts of flame burst out angrily. The more he looked, the more intense and complex became the activity.

  Where can such frenzy come from? he thought as he glanced at the unburnt coals at the edge of the fire, black and lifeless; just so many dull, inert stones, their appearance not giving the slightest indication of the forces bound within.

  * * * *

  Once again, Antyr found himself following a servant in a daze. He and Tarrian had been taken from one office to another and had their names and needs noted by one officer after another. At each stage they had been treated with increasing deference, especially after a brief intervention by Ciarll Feranc at one point, but Antyr was in no mood to notice.

  Now they were being taken to their official quarters.

  'What have I done?’ Antyr said to Tarrian.

  'The right thing for once,’ Tarrian retorted. His excitement swept over Antyr. ‘Working for the Duke himself,’ he exulted. ‘Just like your father. I never thought I'd see the day.'

  The comment released a long-restrained bubble of resentment within Antyr. ‘You might have mentioned that, incidentally,’ he said, sourly.

  'To what point?’ Tarrian replied immediately. ‘You felt overshadowed by your father as it was. To be constantly reminding you that he once worked for the Duke would only have depressed you further. Besides, it's none of your business, you know that.'

  'Well…’ Antyr concluded sulkily.

  'Oh, come on,’ Tarrian said. ‘It's not important, nor ever was. But if it'll make you feel better you should know that he was never resident here, not once. Now forget it. We've present matters to concern ourselves with now. Just be thankful that the Duke will deal with Menedrion for us and that we'll be close to the heart of events where we can be of real value.'

  'You'll forgive me if I don't share your enthusiasm,’ Antyr replied. ‘But just how are we going to be of value? I certainly don't know what's happening let alone know what to do about it. And now it seems there might be a war in the offing. Ye gods, it's awful.'

  'These are your quarters, sir,’ the servant said, his high, fluting voice unwittingly interrupting the silent conversation. He was holding open a door.

  Startled, Antyr managed to stutter his thanks as he stepped into the room.

  'Nice,’ said Tarrian, who was already inside and sniffing out the bounds of his new territory. ‘Very nice.'

  As Antyr gazed around, he felt his dark preoccupations yielding to Tarrian's continuing elation. And it was indeed a nice room. Plainly decorated and with a few pictures and some elegant furniture, it was not as lavish as the Duke's rooms by any means, but it was certainly better than those he had occupied previously.

  The servant finished lighting the lamps and then withdrew with a final fluted instruction that Antyr shouldn't forget to wear his temporary badge of office and that, if he needed anything, he was to ring the bell.

  When he had gone, Antyr stood still and silent for some time. Then he felt the soft pile of the carpet under his feet and a smile sneaked on to his face. Tarrian chuckled. ‘That's better,’ he said. ‘If we keep our wits about us, and keep well clear of politics, we can do very well for ourselves here.'

  Images of unlimited supplies of food drifted into Antyr's mind and he nodded knowingly. ‘I admire your altruism and sense of civic duty, dog,’ he said.

  'I'm impervious to your sarcasm,’ Tarrian replied. ‘This is splendid, and I intend to enjoy it while I can.'

  Antyr sat down on a nearby chair. Suddenly he was tired. It had been a bizarre and exhausting day and he realized that both emotionally and physically he was drained.

  'The bedroom's through there,’ Tarrian offered.

  Antyr nodded and, heaving himself to his feet again, he trudged off in the direction that Tarrian had indicated.

  The sight of the bed merely increased his feelings of fatigue and pausing only to kick off his boots he flopped down on to it without either dignity or ceremony.

  'I've not even got anything to wear,’ he thought vaguely, as he drifted into sleep. ‘I'll have to go back home tomorrow … and … pick … up…'

  Tarrian looked at the sleeping form for a moment and then dropped down with a noisy breath and a dull thud and almost immediately joined his friend in sleep.

  Nothing disturbed the dreamless sleep of the Dream Finder and his Companion that night and when Tarrian's voice woke him gently the next morning Antyr half expected to see summer sunshine pouring in through the windows, so rested was he.

  But the light was only that of the lamps which he had left burning all night. He glanced at the window. The sky outside was still a wintry grey.

  A winter campaign. The thought came suddenly and unbidden and made him shiver despite the warmth of the room. What madness was afoot in Bethlar?

  'Let's attend to our own problems,’ Tarrian said, catching the thought. ‘Good grief, Antyr. There's not even a war yet and you're already doing pike drills.'

  Antyr was about to remonstrate with him, but the wolf was in high spirits and taking the lead. He mimicked the high-pitched voice of the servant who had acted as their guide the previous night. ‘Put on your temporary badge of office…’ then, himself again, ‘…And let's find some food.'

  'Sorry,’ Antyr managed, with some sincerity, stretching himself luxuriously. He reached down and stroked Tarrian, then another cold thought struck him. The Duke! Had anything happened during the night while his newly appointed Dream Finder had been lying unconscious?

  'No,’ Tarrian answered. ‘I've been keeping watch on both of you. Something unusual was happening somewhere, I think, I kept getting whiffs of it.’ Briefly he became excited. ‘I feel so sharp … so far-seeing … it's incredible…’ Then it was set aside. ‘But nothing untoward came near you, and Ibris scarcely dreamed at all.’ There was an uncharacteristic note of awe in his voice. ‘He's a stern man. Such control. More so than I remember. I'm sure he knew I was there.'

  'That's not possible,’ Antyr said off-handedly, still stroking him.

  'Maybe,’ Tarrian said. ‘But the impossible happened in Menedrion's dream, didn't it? Anyway, that was my feeling. We'll see if he mentions it if we meet him today.'

  Antyr stood up and scratched himself.

  'Really!’ Tarrian exclaimed, mocking again. ‘Can't you do that outside?'

  Antyr eyed him narrowly. ‘I think we should go and find Nyriall before we eat,’ he threatened.

  Tarrian did not argue. ‘It just so happens that the way out passes by our refectory,’ he said smugly. ‘The special one for the Duke's personal assistants.'

  Thus they resolved to eat before they ventured out into the streets that morning.

  As they left their room, a man sitting nearby stood up and walked over to them. He had a confident and purposeful manner and obviously belonged to the palace. Antyr looked at him warily, suddenly filled with trepidation. Perhaps the Duke had repented of his appointment already. Perhaps they'd offended someone in their blunderings through the palace the previous day. Perhaps Menedrion …

  He chose not to finish that thought.

  Catching his eye, however, the man smiled affably and then bowed slightly. Uncertainly, Antyr bowed in reply.

  'Antyr Petranson
?’ the man inquired, though his tone indicated he knew the answer.

  'Yes,’ Antyr replied, his trepidation not being eased by the use of this formal address.

  'My name is Estaan,’ the man said. ‘Commander Feranc has appointed me to be your escort and to help you settle into palace life.'

  He had a slight accent.

  'Oh,’ Antyr said in relieved surprise. ‘That's very thoughtful of the Commander. This is a bewildering place in every way.'

  Estaan nodded slightly in agreement but did not seem inclined to continue with any conversation on the topic.

  'We were just going to eat,’ Antyr said. ‘Will you join us?'

  There was a glint of gratitude in Estaan's eyes. ‘It's been a long and busy night, sir,’ he said, his accent a little more pronounced. ‘Breakfast would be appreciated.'

  'Come on.’ Tarrian's impatient voice intruded into Antyr's mind. Having satisfied himself that the newcomer was harmless, the wolf was already halfway along the corridor. Antyr set off after him, motioning Estaan to follow.

  'You know the way to the refectory already?’ Estaan asked, mildly surprised.

  'He does,’ Antyr replied pointing after Tarrian who was disappearing round a corner.

  A little later as they sat in a smaller and much more congenial refectory than the one they had used the previous day, Antyr weighed his escort. He had an oval, weather-beaten face, with alert, deep-set eyes and short, dark hair which was greying in places, though Antyr could not have attempted to guess his age. And though he was similar in size and build to Antyr, if anything slightly more spare, he had a quality about him that made Antyr feel he was much bigger.

  And there was that accent.

  'Where do you come from, Estaan?’ he asked eventually. Estaan glanced at him briefly as if the question had a significance beyond its immediate content, then, discreetly, he turned his eyes away. ‘Far away, sir,’ he replied after a slight pause. ‘But I am Serens now.'

  Though there was no offence in the voice, Antyr sensed that his question had caught the man unawares and he raised an apologetic hand. As he did so, his several disparate impressions of the man fell into place. It was the lack of a uniform that had confused him.

  'Don't call me sir, Estaan,’ he said. ‘It's not fitting. Call me Antyr. I'm just a Guildsman temporarily in the Duke's service. You're one of the Mantynnai.'

  'As you wish, Antyr,’ Estaan replied pleasantly, but showing no reaction to Antyr's revelation.

  'Why should a senior officer of the Duke's personal bodyguard be appointed to look after a mere Dream Finder?’ Antyr asked, provoked by this lack of response.

  Estaan smiled disarmingly. ‘I think I'll have to let you question Commander Feranc on that point,’ he said with open evasiveness.

  Antyr nodded knowingly and pushed his empty plate to one side.

  'What do you want to do now?’ Estaan asked.

  'What I want to do is one thing, what I have to do is another,’ Antyr replied, smiling ruefully. ‘I'll need to get some of my things from home, then I'm afraid I've got to seek out a colleague in the Moras district.'

  Estaan nodded. ‘Well, we can ride on the first errand but we'd better walk on the second,’ he said. ‘And I'll need to wear something a little less ostentatious.’ There was some irony in his voice as his clothes were simple and virtually unadorned. They were, however, of a high quality and would be provocatively conspicuous in many parts of the Moras.

  A short while later, Antyr found himself mounted on a horse carefully selected by Estaan, and clattering nervously through the damp, grey streets towards his home.

  He found the brief visit strangely poignant, experiencing an unexpected sense of betrayal as he removed some of his clothes and bits and pieces from the protection of the house's stained and worn familiarity. The front door screeched its traditional call reproachfully as he closed it, and he locked it with a peculiar gentleness.

  Estaan watched his reluctant parting in silence, then took the small package of goods from him and held out his hand to support him as he mounted his horse again.

  Tarrian chuckled as he walked along by the two riders. ‘It's fortunate for Serenstad that you weren't needed in the cavalry,’ he said. ‘I could ride better myself.’ Antyr, however, was absorbed totally in remaining in the saddle and declined to reply.

  Later again, and following Estaan's advice, it was a much more untidy pair that walked down through the city towards the Moras to seek out Nyriall.

  Situated by the edge of the River Seren, the Moras was the oldest part of Serenstad. A mixture of warehouses, workshops and ramshackle, multi-storeyed houses, some occupied, some abandoned, it had grown out indiscriminately from the jetties and landing stages which had been built, and were still being built, to serve the ever-increasing numbers of barges and ships that carried the life-blood of trade to and from the city.

  A hectic bustling area, packed with all manner of trades and businesses, it was also a congested and, in parts, largely decaying home for the people who served its needs in their turn; some permanent residents, many transient. Relentlessly, however, it drew all down to its decaying, disordered level and, inevitably, became also a haven for those who wished not to be seen, or who knew how to feed off the misery and squalor that grew there.

  Though it was the artery for its wealth and well-being, the Moras was as far from Ibris's ‘dazzling city’ as could reasonably be imagined, and he was well aware of the horror and deprivation it housed. Yet, by a bitter irony, the very momentum of its success and frantic industry left little time and resource for its improvement and, despite considerable efforts on Ibris's part, the greater part of the Moras had remained effectively unchanged for generations.

  Antyr and Estaan, with Tarrian loping along close beside them, walked steadily through the maze of narrow, crowded streets and alleyways that meandered between the tight-packed, jostling buildings.

  As they moved into an area dominated by old housing, Antyr instinctively hunched his head down into his shoulders as the overhanging upper storeys of the houses began to close in overhead like watchful giants.

  The lowering presence of the old buildings was made worse by the fact that nearly all of them showed signs of the settlement that was the hallmark of the area and that had resulted in the city gradually spreading up the valley's sides on to more solid ground. Indeed, hereabouts, this settlement had conspired with the original architecture to extend some of the houses so far across the narrow streets that anyone so inclined could reach from the upper windows and touch the buildings opposite.

  Here and there also, crudely nailed boarding ineffectively sealed twisted doors and windows, and tattered notices pronounced buildings unsafe. While at other points, the grey sky burst through into the streets, incongruously bright, where some building had finally succumbed to the lure of gravity and collapsed completely.

  Antyr was vaguely familiar with the part of the Moras in which, according to the Guild House porter, Nyriall lived, but he found that Estaan was striding through the area as if he knew it intimately.

  'You seem well acquainted with the place,’ he said eventually.

  'Yes,’ Estaan answered simply.

  Antyr felt a twinge of irritation. The man seemed to speak only when he was spoken to and then he confided nothing other than what was sought of him.

  'Did Commander Feranc tell you not to talk to me or something?’ he blurted out abruptly.

  To his surprise Estaan stopped briefly, looked at him and then shook with internal mirth. ‘I'm sorry, Antyr,’ he said, setting off again when it had faded away. ‘I didn't mean to be rude, but I'm afraid that discretion becomes a deeply ingrained habit in the palace.'

  Even as he spoke, he flicked out his hand to direct his charge into a narrow alley. Antyr followed him automatically, and for the moment he set his inquiry aside as he picked his way through the anonymous debris and filth that lined his path. He grimaced at the succession of foul smells that assailed him. T
entatively he reached out to Tarrian.

  'Don't ask,’ the wolf warned menacingly. ‘How you creatures can live like this defies all reason. In fact, it defies everything! And if you'd got the remotest sense of smell…'

  Antyr withdrew quickly and turned his attention back to his escort.

  'Well,’ he said out loud, inadvertently venting some of Tarrian's anger on to the Mantynnai. ‘Why are you so familiar with this place?'

  They had reached the end of the alley and Estaan led them diagonally across a noisy, crowded street before he replied. ‘Apart from silks and cotton and foods, animals and timbers and all the other things that the city uses, what else comes out of the Moras?’ he shouted above the din, looking at Antyr significantly.

  'Plague,’ Antyr said.

  Estaan acknowledged the reply but waved it aside. ‘Apart from plague,’ he said.

  Memories of violent riots and street fighting came to Antyr. ‘Trouble,’ he replied.

  Estaan nodded. ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘And if guards are to be led into a place like this to sort it all out, then we need to know the terrain at least as well as the natives, don't we? What was that address again?'

  Caught between the rhetorical and the actual question, Antyr stuttered briefly before he repeated the address. Estaan pointed to the entrance of a narrow street just ahead of them.

  'That's it,’ he said. ‘Down there somewhere.'

  They turned out of the crowd and into the quieter side street. Antyr puffed out his cheeks in weary dismay. Like many parts of the Moras, this had obviously been an attractive, if not select, area. Now, every little recess and alcove in the large, once dignified, houses that lined the street had been adapted by successive landlords to accommodate as many individuals and families as possible, and neglect hung almost palpably in the air.