by Roger Taylor
‘You’ll doom us both.’ Tarrian’s words returned to him in the wake of the memory of his father’s anxious words. Antyr tried to curse the wolf again, but the oath died unborn as he gazed up at the kitchen window, etched a dim yellow in the darkness by the fog-strained torchlight outside. He knew that Tarrian was right and that even now the wolf would be silently prowling the dark edges of his addled mind to protect him from unseen dangers, just as its wilder fellows would prowl the woods in search of prey. No matter what Antyr did or thought, Tarrian would do what he knew to be his duty, waiting for that moment when his charge would accept the burden of his calling.
Antyr wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood up. His head ached with it all. He walked to the stone sink and took a ladle full of water from a bucket. After noisily rinsing his mouth he drank a little. Its coldness mapped out the route down to his rebelling stomach where it landed like retribution.
Then he dashed a handful into his face by way of penance. ‘Tomorrow, we will talk, Tarrian,’ he said to the yellow window.
A faint whiff of doubt and regret seeped reluctantly into his mind that he knew came from the watching wolf.
‘No, I mean it this time,’ Antyr said earnestly, well conscious of the fact that his protestation of good intentions was by no means new. ‘I mean it,’ he repeated, pointlessly.
‘Someone’s coming.’ Tarrian’s voice was suddenly awake and alert. Antyr started. It never failed to amaze him that the wolf could come from the deepest sleep to the fullest wakefulness in the blink of an eye.
‘No,’ Antyr said, shaking his head slowly. ‘The streets outside are as dark as any dream likely to be dreamt tonight.’
‘There’s several of them,’ Tarrian said, ignoring the denial. ‘I can smell no danger, but . . .’
Antyr felt Tarrian rising up and walking inquisitively into the hallway, but before he could speak again, someone beat a purposeful tattoo on the door.
‘Ye gods,’ Antyr muttered, frowning. ‘I don’t care who it is, I’m not turning out tonight for anyone.’ Then, as Tarrian’s comment registered, the concerns of the daily round impinged on him. ‘Several of them! It’s not the Exactors is it, Tarrian?’ he hissed, lowering his voice.
Tarrian’s voice was scornful. ‘Since when did you earn enough to warrant the midnight attention of the Exactors, Antyr? Just answer the door quickly, this is intriguing.’
Reinforcing Tarrian’s advice, the tattoo sounded again, echoing through the darkened house. Antyr picked up the lamp.
‘Are you sure it’s not the Exactors?’ he whispered again to Tarrian.
The wolf’s sigh filled his head. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ came the irritable reply, then, with an unexpected touch of humour, ‘Besides, the Exactors are predators, they wear soft-soled boots so that you can’t hear them coming – and they don’t knock.’
‘Very droll, Tarrian,’ Antyr replied, as he cautiously opened the small sentry flap in the door. He was relieved that these unexpected visitors had set the mood of acrimony aside, at least for the time being, but he was a little concerned by the excitement he sensed surrounding the wolf’s thoughts. Tarrian had probably smelt an ‘interesting’ client and he really was in no mood for working tonight.
‘Who is it?’ he shouted as he peered through the small opening. ‘Don’t you know what time it is?’
By way of reply, a clenched fist appeared immediately in front of his face so that he had to withdraw a little to focus on it. On the middle finger of the fist was a signet ring. It was the seal of the Sened Watch.
‘Open the door,’ came a commanding voice.
Hastily Antyr drew back the bolts and opened the door.
He twitched an apologetic smile as it screeched its usual protest, then he stepped forward and peered, bleary-eyed, at the unexpected visitors.
The man who had offered him the seal of the Watch stepped deferentially to one side and raised a torch high to reveal another figure standing about a pace behind. Despite the large cloak wrapped about him and the hood hiding his face, this second figure radiated authority, and behind him again, merging into the fog, as Tarrian had said, were several others. Some were carrying torches. The others were carrying – Antyr peered further into the gloom, then his eyes widened in alarm – the others were carrying the lethal-bladed short pikes of the palace guard.
The Sened Watch? Palace guards? What . . .?
‘You are Antyr the Dream Finder, the son of Petran,’ said the man. His voice confirmed his posture, and cut through Antyr’s mounting confusion.
Antyr swallowed nervously. ‘Er, yes,’ he managed after a moment. ‘Who are . . .?’
‘Come with us. You are needed,’ the man continued, disregarding the half-formed question.
‘But . . .’
‘We will escort you,’ said the figure, turning away and indicating the men behind him. ‘Bring your Companion.’
Antyr was about to repeat his question when the man’s cloak fell open to reveal the insignia on his tunic. It was an eagle with a lamb in its talons: Duke Ibris’s insignia. And the only people who wore that were . . .
‘The Duke’s personal bodyguard.’ Tarrian finished the thought for him.
Chapter 2
Aaken Uhr Candessa, once humble Aaken Candes, sheep-herder, mercenary, shield-bearer and successful conspirator, now chancellor to the Duke Ibris, stood fretfully by as his erstwhile co-conspirator and now master paced to and fro.
The room was lit by only three lamps, and though they were bright they reflected the Duke’s mood and cast more darkness than they did light: the lavish paintings around the walls had become like black night-watching windows, and the faces of the many carved figures that graced the room were prematurely aged in their motionless vigils by shadow-etched lines.
Only the armour and the weapons responded to the lamps, glittering watchfully as if lit by the light of some blazing enemy camp.
‘Sire . . .’ Aaken ventured.
The Duke waved him silent and continued his pacing. Aaken surreptitiously shifted his weight from one foot to another and resigned himself to not returning to his bed for some considerable time that night – if at all.
The Duke might be four years his senior but in his many appetites and strengths he could have been ten years his junior, and he was more than capable of pacing the floor all night in pursuit of some unspoken problem without saying a word until the palace began to rouse itself the next day.
Aaken began to fidget with his sparse grey beard.
Abruptly the Duke stopped in front of a small statuette. It was a warrior crouching forward behind his shield and preparing to thrust with his spear. As was the current fashion, his eyes had neither iris nor pupil, giving him a cold and deathly gaze, yet the work was alive with the desperate and immediate passions of the fighting man.
Duke Ibris was a ruthless and cruel man when the needs of his office required, but he was also a man of fine discernment who cherished all manner of beautiful and well crafted things. Thus, despite his fearsome reputation among his enemies, many artists and craftsmen flourished under his patronage and, in turn, both his palace and his city flourished under their many talents.
‘I will make Serenstad a city so dazzling that the whole universe will be drawn to it,’ he had once said, at the same time resting his hand on his sword hilt.
He reached up and touched the statuette. ‘Buonardi’s work is magnificent,’ he said, without turning. ‘So vivid. He trained with the Mantynnai, didn’t he?’
Aaken nodded. ‘Yes, sire. He left them just before the siege of Viernce, I believe. It seems he’s as fine a judge of events as he is a sculptor.’
The Duke turned to look at him. ‘Or lucky,’ he retorted, recommencing his pacing.
Aaken shrugged a little and risked a smile. ‘An essential attribute in a soldier,’ he said.
The remark, however, did not seem to impinge on the Duke who was once more engrossed in the concern that had brought him fr
om his bed.
‘How long is it since Feranc left?’ he said, stopping and looking at his chancellor again.
Aaken retrieved an ungainly timepiece from his robe and manoeuvred it until some of the room’s light fell on it.
‘Almost an hour, sire,’ he said. ‘But the city’s choked with fog and we’ve no guarantee that this . . . Antyr . . . will be at his home, or even indeed if he still lives in that district.’
The Duke scowled.
‘Feranc will find him if he’s in the city,’ Aaken added reassuringly. ‘You know that. But it may take some time. Is this matter truly urgent?’
The Duke did not answer immediately but scratched his stubbled chin pensively. ‘I don’t know,’ he said hesitantly after a moment. ‘But I fear so.’
Involuntarily, Aaken’s eyes flicked quickly from side to side, to see if any servants might have witnessed this uncharacteristic uncertainty in their lord. All this nocturnal activity was enough in itself to fuel a dozen rumours which could swirl into as many plots and conspiracies, or cause alarm, even panic, among the city’s merchants. If such rumours were to be laced with some sign of weakness on the Duke’s part then who knew what consequences might come to pass?
But even as he peered into the shadows, Aaken knew that his action was merely one of habit. He knew that the room was empty save for himself and Ibris. The Duke above all was aware of the need to guard against ill-considered utterances.
‘You fear so?’ Aaken echoed. He risked a battlefield familiarity on the strength of the confidence that this remark implied. ‘Ibris, what’s happened?’ he said. ‘There’ve been no messengers tonight have there? I’ve not seen you so agitated for years. Even in wartime . . .’ He paused, becoming agitated himself at the direction of his own remarks. ‘You haven’t caught wind of a Bethlarii attack have you? Or one of our border cities seceding?’
The Duke shook his head absently. No, Aaken thought, Serenstad had never been stronger, both militarily and economically. In any event, had news come of an unexpected defection of one of their subject cities then it would have been a foolish servant who disturbed the Duke’s sleep to tell him. And as for a Bethlarii attack after all this time, the Duke would have been mobilizing the army, not pacing anxiously to and fro.
Receiving no rebuff, Aaken pressed on to the point that most concerned him. ‘And why a Dream Finder, sire?’ he asked, lowering his voice. ‘They were much respected when we were young, but this is a different age. Superstitions wane in the light of reason and civilization . . .’
The Duke held up his hand to end the questions. ‘Sit down, Aaken, you look tired,’ he said as if only now aware of his chancellor’s presence.
Aaken bowed and lowered himself stiffly into a nearby chair. The Duke watched him and smiled slightly. ‘You look older than me, old friend,’ he said. ‘I always said you were too anxious to get out of the saddle and into a chair. Now see what it’s done for you. You creak like a galleon in a wind.’
Then his smile faded, unable to sustain itself against his darker thoughts. ‘And you were ever without faith,’ he concluded softly, his manner preoccupied again.
Aaken almost started at the word, faith. Ye gods, it’s something religious, he thought. His mind raced and he bowed his head. He must keep his feelings hidden and be more circumspect than ever in his questioning if that were the case.
Ibris’s remark was quite true. Aaken had no faith, least of all in the preposterous and vast pantheon of gods that were called upon from time to time by the peoples of the cities. Like most practical, rational men of this age, he believed that chance and the wit to respond to its vagaries shaped his destiny, and certainly he feared his fellows far more than he feared any deity. But religion was a potent and dangerous force; one which had brought chaos to the streets, and dreadful, savage armies to the field within his own memory. And one which the Duke never ignored or treated lightly, although he never hesitated to use it for his own highly secular ends.
Yet, despite his own seeming cynicism, Ibris would brook neither mockery nor intolerance of religion, and indeed he carried within him some belief of his own, some strange, deep silence which over the years Aaken had learned to avoid as he might avoid the lair of a dangerous animal.
He had seen many leaders of men in his time and had truly understood none of them. Suffice it that he knew that the Duke was the man to rule Serenstad. What inner forces made him so were of no concern . . . at least while they remained hidden and thus unassailable, he had concluded.
As Aaken gradually recovered from the initial alarm that the Duke’s remark had caused, his curiosity and concern rose to dominate again. There had been no recent unrest, religious or otherwise, in the city, not even in the Moras district. Nor had there been news or even rumours of some new ‘Messenger of God’ causing problems elsewhere in the land. He risked his question again.
‘Sire, what’s happened?’ he asked. ‘And what’s my faith, or lack of it, got to do with it? Dukes pace the floor at night and call their creaking chancellors from their beds to solve urgent political problems, not to debate philosophy. And Dream Finders . . .’ He allowed himself a modest sneer. ‘Are for quietening the overheated imaginations of rich and idle women.’
Ibris raised his eyebrows and a faint smile appeared again, albeit briefly. ‘I’d forgotten how petulant you could be when your sleep was disturbed, Aaken,’ he said. ‘But bear with me in this and stay silent for the moment. Help me wait. Soon you’ll know all that I know.’
Help me wait! A warrior’s plea, it could not be denied. Aaken blew out a short breath of surrender and acquiescence and sank back into his chair. The Duke seemed to consider his own request for a moment, and then he too sat down. Choosing a long, winged couch, he threw one leg along it casually, draped his arms along the back and one side and leaned his head back so that he was staring up at the dimly lit ceiling high above.
The two men became as motionless as the watching statues, and the night’s silence slowly returned to the room. The soft hiss of the lamps served only to deepen it.
* * * *
Antyr drew his cloak about him and pulled his hood forward. From its confines he cast a surreptitious glance at the leader of his escort. On two occasions, as was the duty of all the male citizens of Serenstad, Antyr had served with the army in defending the city’s increasingly widespread domain, and although he was no expert in military hierarchies, he had the foot-soldier’s pride that he could smell a senior officer at fifty paces: and this was indisputably one. His latest examination, however, yielded no more than his previous attempts. The man was half a head taller than he was, though he seemed more, holding himself very straight as he walked, yet without the rigidity that Antyr associated with the officers of the palace guard.
‘You’re slouching, as well.’ Tarrian’s acid comment entered his head, and he straightened up in an involuntary response.
An indignant reply began to form in his mind, but he dismissed it. Tarrian was preparing himself and Antyr knew better than to try verbal knocks with his Companion as the wolf’s ancient hunting instinct rose up to join his incisive intellect in readiness for the search.
Then Tarrian was ready and, for a moment, Antyr found himself looking through the wolf’s eyes and rebelling at the assault of the smoke-laden fog on the wolf’s keen sense of smell. More pleasantly he felt also the strange, deeply balanced movement of his four-legged gait. Despite the disturbing implications of the fact that he was being escorted through the city in the middle of the night by palace guards and someone from the Duke’s own bodyguard, he was amused by Tarrian’s underlying vexation at the slowness of the pace of these ungainly long-legged creatures towering around him.
Antyr stumbled slightly as Tarrian returned his mind to its own body, and a powerful hand caught his arm. ‘Sorry,’ came the thought from Tarrian. ‘Never could manage the way you walk.’
‘Are you all right?’ The officer’s voice seemed loud and raucous in Antyr’s ear after t
he subtle nuances of his thought conversation with Tarrian. But though it was authoritative, it was leavened with some genuine concern. It was the first time the man had spoken since they had left the Dream Finder’s house apart from answering Antyr’s initial surge of questions with a polite, ‘In due course.’
Antyr nodded. ‘Just cold and a little tired, thank you . . . sir,’ Antyr replied. The man nodded and released his arm, but did not speak again. The pressure of the man’s grip seemed to linger for a little while and Antyr felt a small but uneasy swirl of emotions eddy through him. The hand had sustained and, for whatever reason, cared for him. It was a long time since anyone had touched him thus. Yet that same hand, with that same purposefulness, would surely have killed men in the past as its owner had made his way through the wars and through the sometimes bloody labyrinth of city and palace politics to serve with the Duke’s bodyguard.
Antyr felt an unexpected surge of approval from Tarrian at this insight.
Tentatively, Antyr tried again to reach this hooded guardian. ‘I hadn’t expected to be out in this filth again tonight,’ he began. ‘I haven’t seen it so bad since . . .’ But the attempt faded into nothingness as he felt it rebound off the man’s indifference.
This time it was dark amusement from Tarrian. ‘I told you before, you weasel,’ he said. ‘He’s a pack leader. He won’t deal with the runts of the litter except to tell them what to do.’
From the shade of his hood Antyr gave his Companion a malevolent look.
‘Forgive me if I don’t share your levity about this, Tarrian,’ he said. ‘But these are palace guards escorting us, and this “pack leader” is one of Ibris’s personal bodyguard.’ Fear churned inside him again. ‘We could be heading for one of the palace dungeons for all we know.’
Tarrian replied as if to an exasperating child. ‘What for?’ he said wearily. ‘Personally I’d lock you up for the crimes you’ve committed against yourself, but you’ve certainly not committed any against city law. And since when do Ibris’s personal officers do the Watch’s work? This is business, that’s all, I can feel it in my fur. It’ll be some important courtier’s wife . . .’ His tone became ironic. ‘Seeing “great horrors ahead” for the . . . city . . . the land . . . the whole world. A routine nightmare, nothing more.’ He paused. ‘But there should be a good fee in it – and good contacts if you shape yourself.’