by Roger Taylor
He paused briefly. ‘You can read, can you, Grygyr?'
Though spoken with the concern that had filled all Ibris's words so far, the question hissed through the atmosphere like an ice-chilled dagger.
Even Arwain winced. No small part of the Bethlarii's hatred for the Serens lay in the latter's scorn for what they considered to be the impoverishment of Bethlarii culture and with it the implications of stupidity, barbarism and general oafish inferiority. It was an attitude not without an element of truth in that many Bethlarii did despise such matters as reading and learning except in so far as they were associated with warfare. But it was also an attitude that the Duke disapproved of, and he would not let it go unrebuked if it was expressed in his presence. ‘The simplicity in some of their art has a profundity that you'll search long to find in many a piece of Serenstad ostentation. And though their philosophy isn't ours, it's valid and consistent and not without intellectual merit.'
Nonetheless, the attitude was widespread and indeed had grown over the recent years as Serenstad had continued to prosper while Bethlar had remained static and, by comparison, declined.
Maybe you came here prepared to die, warrior, or maybe you didn't, Arwain thought. But whatever you expected I doubt it was such a death by humiliation. He felt anger, pity and admiration for his father all at the same time, and knew again why he had little desire ever to be Duke in his stead.
The Duke's sudden thrust had destroyed the Bethlarii utterly. What answer could he give? No, and bring down the ultimate mockery on his head? Yes, as if he were some chastened schoolboy with an ill-prepared exercise? Both were unthinkable. Nor could he walk away with stony dignity for that would cause him to lose face in front of his own men and these gleeful enemies.
Would he perhaps strike down the offender? Would he indeed use this as an opportunity to sacrifice himself to ensure the destruction of the treaty?
No, Arwain concluded. Not unless his father had pushed him totally beyond reason. There were too many unidentified witnesses here for the truth to be hidden. The Bethlarii would know that at such a gathering there could well be visitors and dignitaries from the border communities present; people from Herion, Veldan, Nestar, any one of a score of towns and cities whose allegiance to either side was both uncertain and critical in the event of a war. No, his death would have to be away from such extremely public view if subsequent rumours were to be effective.
As these alternatives flitted instantly through Arwain's thoughts, Grygyr's eyes widened in a combination of fury and disbelief. Arwain watched him being swept away by the avalanche that his father had so successfully ridden.
His hand came out and pointed at the Duke and his mouth opened to speak, but for some time, though his lips quivered, no sound emerged. When it did it was raw with emotion and again Arwain found it difficult to maintain his expression of indifference.
'I read well enough, Ibris,’ he managed eventually. ‘I read the history of this land, our land, to the shores in the east, the west and the south and beyond the shores to the islands. I read enough to know of the treacheries through the ages that your forebears used to usurp our divine authority to rule here, and which you, apostate, continue.'
Released, Grygyr's rage did not spend itself, but rather seemed to gather momentum, growing upon itself, and sweeping its creator along with it.
His voice grew more powerful and a strident quality began to edge it. ‘Mark this well, Ibris, vassal regent for the moment of this, our city. The day of retribution is at hand. The Bethlarii are turning again to the true way, the old way, and soon you and your corruption will be swept away for ever. And so total will be your destruction that the very memory of you and all your kind will be gone utterly before the year is passed.'
There was a brief, stunned silence, then a single raucous cry of denunciation from someone released the crowd's fury and on the instant there was uproar. Immediately, two ranks of the guards that had escorted the Bethlarii through the city lowered their pikes to form a protective ring around their charge, while his three companions moved to protect the envoy himself. But they were forestalled by the other guards, who seized and disarmed them with an overwhelming suddenness that bore the hallmark of Ciarll Feranc's planning. The envoy too found himself politely but rapidly disarmed and surrounded by a double ring of guards, one facing inwards, the other outward and both with swords drawn.
The arc of guards at the rear of the Duke's entourage moved rapidly round in front of him and Arwain stepped forward, knife in hand, to be by his father's side.
Ibris watched these proceedings critically for a moment and then slowly stood up. He made no attempt, however, to shout above the din. Instead he gestured to a nearby guard, making a clapping motion with his hands. The guard nudged his fellow then the two of them swung up their shields and began beating them slowly and steadily with their swords like a great heartbeat.
Soon the persistent tattoo began to dominate the noise of the crowd, and the fury began to subside, first into a menacing rumble and finally into an awkward, expectant shuffling as all eyes turned back once again to the Duke.
Ibris nodded to the two guards and the hammering, now relentlessly loud in the silence, stopped.
He paused for a moment before speaking and when he did, his voice was calm and regretful. ‘The envoy, I fear, is fatigued from his arduous journey and has misjudged a perhaps ill-expressed remark on my part. Before he leaves we shall talk again in private and go into the details of his concerns about the Whendreachi, but…’ His voice became more commanding. ‘…you here are all witness to what has happened today. You are witness to the fact that despite many breaches of the treaty which we have with Bethlar for dealing with such matters, the envoy, Grygyr Ast-Darvad, was greeted peacefully and given due protection.’ He cast about through the crowd, catching an eye here and there. ‘Those of you, in particular, who are from our allied cities I ask especially to take note of this, so that truth may prevail over rumour. Further, I give you my word that he and his companions will continue to receive our protection and hospitality during their stay here, which shall be as long as they determine, and throughout their journey back to Bethlar.'
The consensus of the crowd was one of approval at this speech, though amid the applause were isolated cries to the effect that the Bethlarii should be ‘Strung up’ or ‘Chucked off the Aphron'.
With a wave of his hand, Ibris dismissed the crowd, then turned and left the room. The envoy and his companions were ushered after him.
Chapter 13
'I don't know whether this is becoming repetitive or alarming,’ Tarrian said as, head bent low, he loped steadily along beside Antyr and Menedrion's guards through the busy afternoon crowds that were thronging the wide streets of Serenstad's commercial district.
'Alarming,’ Antyr replied with conviction. ‘No. Terrifying. My stomach's churning. First the Duke, now Menedrion. They say he's a mad dog. Like the Duke but without his good qualities. What on earth can he want? I really don't think I want to think about any of this too closely … I think.'
'Perhaps word got round about last night. Perhaps we're becoming fashionable,’ Tarrian said optimistically. ‘You'll have to buy some court clothes. You'll be able to declare yourself Dream Finder by appointment to the Duke and his court and…'
'Stop it,’ Antyr snapped. ‘You're not helping. I told you, I'm scared.'
'You didn't have to come,’ Tarrian said off-handedly.
'Oh no. Of course not,’ Antyr replied acidly. ‘I told them we had to see someone urgently, you heard me. And you heard the guard. No threats, no arguments, just “Yes sir, of course. Would you like me to tell the Lord Menedrion to wait for you, sir?” What am I supposed to say to that?'
Tarrian offered no reply and they walked on in silence for some time, each occupied with his own thoughts.
The small outburst, however, seemed to have eased Antyr's tension. ‘Still, these two are pleasant enough, and at least we're not being marched along a
t dead of night like prisoners under escort this time,’ he said eventually. ‘And the Duke was a surprise. Much pleasanter than I'd imagined.'
He felt an ill-disguised wave of irritation rise up from Tarrian, but when the wolf spoke, his voice was conciliatory. ‘I'm sorry,’ he said. ‘I know this isn't much fun but all I can think about at the moment is my pads. They're sore as the devil with all the walking I've done today. And whoever thought these cobbles were a good idea must have been a shoemaker. And these crowds…'
He left the sentence unfinished, with an expression of disgust.
Then, like the sun appearing from behind a dark cloud, he brightened suddenly. ‘Still, on the whole, I'd rather be going to the palace than to the Moras district at this time of day. We can always visit Nyriall tomorrow. And there might be more food at the palace. At least they've got some regard for a creature's needs there.’ The sun retreated behind the cloud again. ‘And we can get our fee from that Aaken while we're at it. Typical civil servant. Wants this, wants that, wants it now. But doesn't want to pay for it until he's good and ready-if at all. You take some poor artisan's wife now, she's only too anxious to pay you on the dot. It's…'
'Oh, shut up,’ Antyr said, brushing the subject aside and then immediately picking it up again. ‘And by “we” getting our fee off Chancellor Aaken, I presume you mean me?'
'That's normal procedure,’ Tarrian replied sharply. ‘What good's money to me? You're the only one who can use it. You're the one with the much prized opposing thumbs, after all.'
Despite his anxiety, Antyr chuckled at the remark. One of the guards turned to him inquiringly. ‘Sorry,’ Antyr said. ‘Just something my Companion said.'
The guard looked at him uncertainly and then down at Tarrian. ‘I didn't hear anything,’ he said.
'They talk in their heads,’ the other guard said before Antyr could reply, and as if he were not there. ‘My mother used to use one. Swore by him. He had a cat. Big ginger thing.’ His expression became reflective. ‘He was all right. Bit oily, but down-to-earth when you got to know him. But that cat used to give me the creeps, especially when its eyes lit up.’ He shuddered.
Antyr smiled.
The first guard caught the expression and scowled from Antyr to Tarrian. ‘He's not talking about me, is he?’ he inquired suspiciously.
Antyr shook his head hastily. ‘No, no,’ he replied. ‘I was smiling at…’ He indicated the second guard. ‘…your friend … and the cat. Tarrian doesn't like cats either.'
'Well, him being a dog, he wouldn't, would he?’ came the knowing reply.
Tarrian's groan filled Antyr's mind.
'Can he talk to me in my head?’ the first guard asked after a short silence.
'No,’ Antyr lied.
'I'd be deafened by the echo,’ Tarrian muttered.
'Will you be quiet,’ Antyr snapped at him. ‘This is hard enough as it is.'
'Can he hear what I'm saying in my head?’ the guard persisted.
'No, no!’ Antyr lied again with great conviction. ‘It's not talking and hearing like we're doing now. It's a special thing, and we were both born with it. No one really understands how it works.'
'Oh,’ the guard replied, mollified, though still looking at Tarrian uncertainly. He screwed up his face in concentration.
'He's shouting “Cats, boy, cats!"’ Tarrian wailed in disbelief.
Antyr looked up, rubbing his slight growth of beard with casual vigour to stop himself from laughing. As he did so, he saw the familiar shape of the Ibrian monument at the far end of the long street, its spiky irregular pyramid black in the growing gloom.
'Oh, we're here already,’ he said out loud, in some relief, his voice a little strained. ‘I didn't realize we'd walked so far.'
Immediately all interest in Antyr's craft disappeared and the two guards quickened their pace. It was to little avail, however, for the street was quite narrow and still filled with all manner of people going about their many businesses and, Duke's men or no, they were obliged to continue following the pace of the many.
In the distance, Antyr saw a bright spark dancing in front of the monument. It split into smaller sparks that danced away in their turn. For some reason he felt a fleeting lightness touch him as he saw it, then its firefly dance became just one of the Guild of Lamplighters’ apprentices taking the lid off a fire bucket prior to his master and the senior apprentices lighting the torches around the monument. By tradition, the public torches of the city were lit outwards from the palace square.
'Yes,’ Tarrian said, agreeing with his earlier remark. ‘We're well out of the Moras for today. It'll be foggy down there by now, for sure.'
Antyr could not dispute this conclusion though he still wished he was somewhere else.
As they neared the square, the busy crowds thinned a little as the street widened and the houses and buildings became larger and more spacious.
Antyr started to stride out, but one of the guards took his elbow. ‘This way,’ he said, pointing to a side street on the right. Antyr looked inquiringly towards the square.
'The main gate's that way,’ he said, his uncertainty growing again as he followed the guard's lead.
'We're not going to the main gate,’ the man replied, mildly surprised. ‘Lord Menedrion's … guests … rarely use the main gate.’ He nudged Antyr and winked, then both guards laughed knowingly.
'It's his women they're talking about,’ Tarrian said. ‘They're trying to impress you.'
'I know,’ Antyr replied testily. ‘I can read my own species, you know.'
'Sorry,’ Tarrian said huffily. ‘Only trying to reassure you.'
There were only a few people in the street, which was lined with terraces of neat, well-kept and individually distinct houses, some four and five storeys high. Expensive, Antyr mused, as the quartet followed the street round in a long, slow arc until the houses closed about in a semicircle and sealed it except for a wide, colonnaded passageway. Clattering through this they emerged into another equally quiet street which, Antyr realized, was bounded on the far side by the palace wall.
'See,’ said one of the guards expansively. ‘It's a lot quicker this way. Not far now.'
The street rose up quite steeply and their pace slowed somewhat until, passing under an enclosed overhead walkway, the guards stopped and one of them banged on a door set well into a deep recess in the palace wall. Antyr had not noticed the door and judged that even in broad daylight it would have been almost invisible in the shade of the walkway.
There was an almost immediate response as a small shutter behind a stout grill opened briefly then closed again. After a few dull thuds, the door opened quietly and the guard stood to one side.
Well-oiled bolts and hinges, Antyr noted, thinking immediately of his own screeching door.
'It's the Dream Finder, Antyr,’ said the guard into the darkness. ‘We were lucky. He was at the Guild House.'
'Excellent,’ came a soft cultured voice in reply. ‘His lordship will be pleased.’ Then, apparently to Antyr, ‘Just a moment … er … sir, there are two steps up. Take care, they're a little tricky. There's a handrail on the right.'
The voice was polite and thoughtful, but apart from the brief hesitation, it had the long-rehearsed quality of one that had spoken the same words many times to unfamiliar and uncertain ears. Similarly it was a confident and practiced hand that reached out in the dim half-light to offer support.
Antyr looked at the guard who, with a flick of his head and another wink, relinquished him to the hand.
'Thank you,’ Antyr said, both to the guards and to the unseen figure. Then, taking the hand, he stepped gingerly forward into the darkness. Tarrian scrabbled up the steps beside him and there was a faint exclamation from the speaker.
'I'm sorry if he startled you,’ Antyr said. ‘Don't be afraid.'
'It's all right,’ said the voice. ‘I just wasn't expecting a dog.’ As the door closed behind them, they were plunged into complete darkness, but Antyr
still raised his eyebrows in surprise at the absence of any caustic response from Tarrian at this comment. Then he realized.
'Oh, it's a woman, is it?’ he said, mockingly. ‘I thought the voice was unusual.'
'It's a lady actually,’ Tarrian replied with dignity. ‘She feels very nice. And … Oh…'
'What's the matter?’ Antyr asked, suddenly anxious again in the darkness.
'There's a great sadness around her,’ Tarrian replied, his voice concerned and serious. ‘And she's shutting it in. Like a fortress.’ Fleetingly Antyr felt the pain as his Companion reflected it. But, brief though the touch was, its vivid intensity was unmistakable. It was love. Unrequited … but very female … patient … waiting … despite the pain…'
'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry,’ Tarrian went on guiltily. ‘It just reached out and…'
Before Antyr could reassure him however, the darkness was cracked open by a shaft of light which blossomed out rapidly to illuminate a narrow stone passageway. Beside him stood a woman with a hooded lantern in her hand.
As she eased past him, Antyr took in two searching sloe eyes set in a finely sculpted face, framed by a circle of lightly curled hair. She was handsome rather than pretty, and she was certainly no servant. He could make no guess at her age, but, somewhat to his surprise, the thought that came into his mind was: even the hood on the lantern is oiled for silence.
'Come this way, sir,’ the woman said. Again, though pleasant, the words came with the bored ease of long familiarity.
Tarrian set off after her immediately. ‘Oh, that's better,’ he said in ecstasy. Antyr stared after him in alarm until he realized that he was talking about his feet again.
Looking down, Antyr saw that while the walls of the passageway were rough undecorated stone, the floor was completely covered by a soft and luxurious carpet which deadened their footsteps completely.
All is silence along this path, he thought.