Dream Finder

by Roger Taylor

  ‘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. Tentatively 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.

  Several ragged children were playing a hectic and noisy game, elfin voices already becoming raucous with the sharp-edged accent of the Moras. As Antyr and Estaan gazed around, at a loss to know where to look next, the children were drawn inexorably to them like stray planets to a new sun. Once in arm’s-length orbit, they stopped and stared up at the new arrivals curiously.

  ‘What y’looking for?’ one of them demanded proprietorially.

  ‘We’re looking for Nyriall, the Dream Finder,’ Antyr replied courteously. ‘Do you know where he lives?’

  There was a collective wrinkling of noses and shaking of heads, and some giggling mimicry of his voice.

  ‘He’s an old man,’ Antyr offered, wilfully calm and still courteous. ‘With a . . . dog . . . like this one.’ He pointed at Tarrian who looked at him balefully.

  ‘That’s a wolf, not a dog, mister,’ the boy replied contemptuously.

  ‘Delightful child,’ Tarrian muttered caustically to Antyr. ‘I’ll eat him last, I think.’

  The reference to Tarrian, however, had provoked a response among the children and a huddled conference ensued with some gabbled arguments and denials, much pointing and one or two threats of violence.

  ‘You got any money, mister,’ the leader inquired after he had silenced the group.

  ‘Thanks, men,’ Estaan said suddenly to the children, briskly terminating the conference with a comradely salute, and taking Antyr’s elbow.

  Antyr resisted slightly but Estaan was unyielding. ‘This way,’ he said, pointing to a dingy building some way down the street.

  ‘How do you know?’ Antyr said glancing back at the children who were now regaling them with cries of abuse. ‘He could live anywhere in any of these buildings.’

  ‘They told us,’ Estaan replied with a smile. ‘You should listen more carefully.’

  Antyr gave up, and contented himself with following his escort’s lead.

  ‘Wait here,’ Estaan said as they reached the building he had indicated. A short flight of uneven and worn stone steps led up to an open door and into a dark passageway. Entering first, Estaan looked round for a moment before beckoning Antyr forward.

  As he reached the top of the steps Antyr hesitated in the crooked doorway. Tarrian growled.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Estaan asked urgently, his eyes suddenly anxious.

  Antyr shook his head as if to clear it. ‘I don’t know,’ he said vaguely. ‘Something’s . . . about.’ But the words were not adequate.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked Tarrian silently.

  But Tarrian was no wiser than he was. ‘I don’t know,’ he echoed. ‘But I scent something nearby. Something bad. Like I felt in the distance last night, but . . . nearer. Take care.’ Distaste, distress and alarm leaked into Antyr’s mind. Then, unexpectedly, the wolf cried out as if a careless boot had crushed his paw, and with two bounds he was up the steps and into the building.

  Estaan stepped smartly to one side to allow him past, but held out a restraining hand as Antyr, overcoming his shock at Tarrian’s sudden action, ran up the steps after him.

  ‘Careful,’ he said. ‘He’s gone up those stairs there and they don’t look too safe.’

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ Antyr said desperately. ‘Let me past.’

  ‘Wait,’ Estaan commanded, as he looked intently up the stairs. The sound of Tarrian’s flight was floating down to them. He was half whispering, half howling.

  Antyr pushed Estaan to one side and set off up the stairs two and three at a time.

  ‘Tread lightly and keep close to the wall,’ came Estaan’s urgent command as he followed behind him.

  On the third storey, the stairs ended, leaving Estaan breathing deeply and Antyr gasping for breath in a long corridor lit by the occasional grimy window. Tarrian was not in sight, but his yelping was beginning to fill the entire building.

  A door opened nearby and a burly figure emerged, swearing foully at the noise Tarrian was creating. Oblivious, and drawn on by Tarrian’s distress, Antyr tried to push by him, only to be seized roughly and lifted up on to his toes. An angry, shouting face intruded into his alarm, filling his vision.

  ‘Shut your blistering dog up or . . .’ it continued, but an upsweeping arm blow ended the imprecation and released Antyr abruptly.

  As he staggered backwards into the wall, Antyr saw Estaan deliver an open-handed blow to the man’s chest that lifted him clean off his feet and sent him skidding along the floor back into his room. Briefly, Estaan was silhouetted in the doorway as he reached in to take the door handle.

  His other hand was extended purposefully towards the still-sliding figure. ‘Stay there and be quiet,’ he said in a voice whose authority was indisputable. Then he slammed the door loudly and, turning to Antyr, nodded him in the direction of Tarrian’s crying.

  Not that Antyr needed urging. The sound of frenzied scratching was now accompanying Tarrian’s frantic yelping, and great uncontrolled waves of distress and frustration were so filling his mind that he barely knew which of the partnership he was.

  He staggered as his arms became Tarrian’s flailing paws. ‘Quieten down,’ he thundered into the din of his head, but it had no effect other than to add to it.

  ‘Here,’ Estaan’s voice intruded.

  Although not fully understanding what was happening, the Mantynnai could see Antyr’s disorientation and, seizing him forcefully, supported him as he tottered along the corridor until they came to the foot of another narrow flight of stairs. At the top was a short landing and a single door and scrabbling frantically at it was Tarrian.

  Abruptly he stopped and let out a heart-rending howl.

  Estaan ran up the stairs, with Antyr, still unsteady, close behind him, almost on all fours.

  For a moment, he wrestled with the door handle, then he stood back and gave the door a powerful kick. The wooden landing shook with the impact, but the door did not yield. Tarrian fell silent and Antyr saw Estaan relax before he delivered another blow. He found himself holding his breath. At the fourth kick, the door yielded and Tarrian dashed through the opening, brushing violently through Estaan�
��s legs and unbalancing him.

  Antyr, infected by Tarrian’s mood, also pushed recklessly past Estaan, unbalancing him further.

  Inside he came to an abrupt halt.

  A single, inadequate lamp lit the room, and facing him was a wolf, its upper lip drawn back into a fearsome snarl. It was as large as Tarrian but it was thin, unkempt and savage-looking. And, to Antyr’s horror, its eyes were glowing bright yellow.

  Even as he sensed the wolf preparing to spring, Antyr took in his vision of an old man lying on a low bed behind the wolf. His hand hung down limply to trail on the floor, and his face was turned towards the door, his mouth gaping. His open eyes were like black pits.

  A tidal wave of mingling emotions swept over Antyr; the unbridled death savagery of the Dream Finder’s Companion, demented and protecting its charge; the instinctive animal reaction of Tarrian faced suddenly by a challenge from his own kind and with a threat to his own Dream Finder. All added to his own horror at the scene. And there was something else . . .

  And amidst it all was an almost unbearable poignancy as the life and death of this old Dream Finder was borne in upon him by the simple utilitarian neatness of the few small ornaments and articles of furniture that decorated this dank, chilly room.

  Then he was pushed violently to one side, and Estaan was in front of him, a long knife in his right hand. He was hastily winding his heavy cloak about his left.

  The turmoil in Antyr’s mind rose to an agonizing pitch as Estaan and the two wolves accelerated towards a seemingly inevitable conflict. In response, he felt some force inside him surging upwards.

  It burst out suddenly.

  ‘No!’

  His voice rang out both audibly in the room and in the minds of the two wolves, overwhelming the hurtling intentions of the three antagonists.

  The power and command in it shook Antyr, but it had a momentum of its own.

  ‘No!’ it went on, as intense and dominating as before, but calmer. ‘There are no enemies here, only frightened friends.’

  Following in its wake, Antyr stepped forward quickly, gently easing past Estaan and laying a restraining hand on his knife arm.