Dream Finder cohs-1

by Roger Taylor

  'Come on,’ he said, impatiently. ‘I'm hungry.'

  After a spluttering of mutual apologies with the messenger, Antyr found himself backing into the ‘Chanc Gen’ office.

  'Oh dear,’ he heard Tarrian say again.

  Turning, he found himself standing in a large hall filled with rank upon rank of desks, each occupied by the hunched form of a black-gowned clerk. Along one of the side walls were shelves laden with heaps of scrolls and papers and dangling seals. They reached from the floor to the high ceiling, growing dustier with height, and they were complemented on the opposite wall by stacks of large drawers which also shouldered up against the ceiling as if supporting it.

  As he took in the scene, Antyr became aware of a small but steady movement of clerks migrating from desk to desk, desk to shelf, desk to drawer, with the slow purposeful randomness of a mysterious but thoughtful board game. And the air was filled with the insect twitterings of innumerable scratching pens, underscored by the shuffling feet of the migrating clerks and a low hubbub of voices, though he could see no one speaking. Occasionally there was the explosive discharge of a cough.

  And there was a smell …

  Tarrian sneezed damply.

  'Dust,’ he growled. ‘Dusty ink, dusty paper, dusty clothes and dusty people.’ He sneezed again. ‘Don't just stand there, man. Speak to someone.'

  Facing the massed ranks of Aaken Uhr Candessa's troops and their lowering flank guards of shelves and drawers, Antyr quailed.

  'Perhaps we should come back later,’ he said.

  'Speak to someone,’ Tarrian ordered him, pitilessly.

  Goaded by his commander's blade, Antyr moved towards the nearest clerk.

  'Excuse me,’ he said hesitantly. ‘Who do I see about getting paid for…'

  'Payments over there,’ the clerk said without looking up, but marking the direction with a rapid flick of his pen.

  Antyr turned and examined the sector indicated by his guide. It looked the same as everywhere else. He hesitated, but, sensing Tarrian's mounting disapproval, he forced his feet forward.

  As he threaded his way along the criss-crossing aisles, his footsteps rose up to beat an unwelcome tattoo across the hissing murmur of the hall and he found himself slowing down and clearing his throat self-consciously. Tarrian had no such concerns, however, and he pattered ahead, sniffing at desks and occupants indiscriminately and proprietorially.

  A small ripple of consternation followed their progress, until, to his relief, Antyr stumbled upon a small enclave of desks set apart from the main body. He selected an old, quite distinguished-looking clerk.

  'Excuse me…’ he began.

  A familiar flick of the pen redirected him to the next desk.

  Tarrian placed his forepaws on the desk indicated and stared intently at its occupant, a middle-aged man dressed identically to the others. He looked up and, unexpectedly, smiled broadly. First at Tarrian and then at Antyr.

  'Lovely dog,’ he said, reaching out and stroking Tarrian before Antyr could intervene.

  Tarrian, however, took no exception, but half closed his eyes and moved his head from side to side under the man's hand.

  'Yes, he is,’ Antyr replied, in the interests of simplicity and seizing this moment of humanity amid the quietly relentless grind of the administrative apparatus of Ibris's dominion.

  'What can I do for you?’ the man asked, still smiling.

  'I'm trying to find someone who can pay me for some work I did last night for the … the Chancellor,’ Antyr said.

  The man raised his eyebrows, but made no comment, although his eyes moved quickly over Antyr as if balancing the likely truth of this assertion against his appearance.

  'For the Chancellor?’ he echoed. ‘Himself? Personally?'

  Antyr nodded.

  The man's smile became uncertain, and Antyr became aware of other heads surreptitiously turning in his direction. Then the man pursed his lips and became businesslike. ‘Have you got a docket?’ he asked.

  'A docket?’ Antyr repeated vaguely.

  'A note authorizing payment,’ the man explained. ‘From the … Chancellor. He should have given you one.'

  Antyr shrugged. ‘No,’ he said. ‘He didn't give me anything.’ Then, into the ensuing silence he began to gabble. ‘The Duke told him to pay me, then Commander Feranc was going to escort me home, but Chancellor Aaken said he thought I ought to stay in the palace because of the fog, and because I was tired … then I think perhaps he forgot about my fee. It was all very late last night.'

  'The Duke? Commander Feranc? Last night?’ The man's eyebrows rose even further.

  'He's thinking about calling the guard,’ Tarrian said. ‘You're not handling this very well, are you?'

  'I'm sorry,’ Antyr said, gently pushing Tarrian down from the desk. ‘It is a bit complicated, I know. And I'm more used to dealing with private clients, I'm afraid I don't know how you…'

  His explanation, however, was ended by the sounding of a small bell.

  Abruptly the sound in the hall changed and a relieved chaos descended as pens were laid aside, books closed, chairs pushed back and casual conversations begun and ended. Antyr looked around in bewilderment. The hall was suddenly a sea of black, flapping waves as gowns of office were discarded to reveal a crowd of ordinary people in their workaday variety.

  When he turned back to his own interrogator Antyr found that he too had shed his official skin and metamorphosed into a person. His smile too had returned, though it seemed a little strained. ‘I'm sorry,’ he said, stepping round his desk. ‘You'll have to come back tomorrow. Today's not a payment day anyway, but I might have been able to sort out some of the paperwork for you if we'd had time.’ He took Antyr's elbow and guided him anxiously into the flow now heading for the exit. ‘You'll have to find the … Chancellor … and get a docket from him before you come back though, otherwise no one can pay you anything,’ he went on. ‘You know how it is. The Chancellor himself is a stickler in these matters. I'm very surprised he didn't give you one.'

  Then they were at the door and, with a hasty farewell, he was gone.

  'Masterly,’ Tarrian said as they eventually disentangled themselves from the homegoing crowd. ‘I couldn't have handled it worse myself without a lifetime's practice. He thought you were a lunatic, and I'm not surprised.'

  'Be quiet,’ Antyr replied crossly. ‘It's not my fault Aaken doesn't know his own system. I just … trusted him … I suppose.'

  Tarrian made a disparaging noise. ‘Well, now you'll be dunning him instead,’ he said. ‘And I'm damned if I'm going to do that on an empty stomach. Let's see if we can at least find some food.'

  Thanks to Tarrian's nose, it took them considerably less time to find the refectory than it had to find the chancellor's office, but again Antyr found himself in a position of some embarrassment as, after rooting through his pockets, he found he had insufficient funds for the meal being provided.

  Here, however, chance stepped in to save him in the form of a chance meeting with the old ‘layer of tables’ who had escorted him to his room.

  'Lord Menedrion's guests. Both of them,’ he said tersely to the gravy-streaked bondsman who was serving the meals. This, however, was the end of his familiarity as he wandered off immediately with his own meal to the far end of one of the long tables.

  Tarrian chuckled. ‘That's your place in the pack well marked out,’ he said. ‘Better than a kitchen hand but less than a layer of tables.'

  Antyr, however, was occupied in rubbing a wet finger across the sign of the kitchen servitor's calling that the bondsman, with a surly but deft swing of his ladle, had just anointed his tunic with while ostensibly serving his meal.

  'This is wonderful. Dream Finder to the Duke of Serenstad and his family,’ Tarrian said acidly as Antyr sat down. ‘Nearly thrown into the Watch Pen by a clerk, confined to the palace by our client, and, but for the intervention of a table layer, starving amid plenty.'

  'Eat your food and shut up,’
Antyr said, frowning. ‘I'm in no mood for your sarcasm.'

  'Sorry,’ Tarrian said, genuinely repentant. ‘I was only trying to cheer you … oh-oh…'

  Antyr looked up to see what had halted Tarrian's reply. It needed little finding. The head of a large hunting dog could clearly be seen above the table as it moved towards them along the aisle opposite. As it drew nearer, it caught sight of Tarrian and stopped. Then it began to move forward again, slowly and purposefully, its head lowered.

  Antyr glanced round in search of its owner, but found only a group of four young men gleefully watching the dog's progress.

  'Don't start a fight,’ Antyr said. But there was no reply except, ‘Close your ears,’ followed by some garbled comment about territory and food.

  Antyr knew better than to interfere, but found himself cringing nervously.

  Coming within a few paces of Tarrian, the big dog stopped and glared at him malevolently. Tarrian, who was lying down and who had been eating, seemingly obliviously, stopped and, slowly looking up, returned the stare. Antyr saw his lip curl very slightly and heard a faint, low growl. Then part of Tarrian's debate with the dog leaked into his mind and he recoiled inwardly at both the menacing images of mayhem and gore, and the implacable will behind them.

  The big dog however, presumably received the full benefit of Tarrian's wisdom as its manner changed abruptly. Its ears drooped, its tail went between its legs, and after a few hesitant backward steps it turned, trotted back to the four men and lay at their feet, to their obvious dismay. Tarrian returned to his eating.

  'You certainly seem to have a way with words,’ Antyr said.

  'Well, I'm certainly having more success with the residents than you are,’ Tarrian replied. ‘You should learn how to explain yourself properly like I do.'

  Antyr smiled. ‘I think you're probably right,’ he said. ‘But I doubt either the Duke or Menedrion would appreciate that kind of language. Not to mention Ciarll Feranc or even Aaken Uhr Candessa.'

  'Talking of whom,’ Tarrian said, standing up. ‘We'd better find him and get all this sorted out. I wasn't being sarcastic when I said we might starve to death wandering about here.'

  Antyr pushed his plate to one side and wiped his mouth. The food had made him feel more settled. He nodded in agreement with Tarrian's comment. They could blunder about the palace indefinitely, relying on chance and their wits to feed and house them unless they came to some clear arrangement with someone … somewhere …

  A small spark of indignation flickered unexpectedly into life inside him. After all, they hadn't asked to come here. They had been sought out by the Duke himself-and his son-and escorted through the streets by no less a personage than Ciarll Feranc himself. They shouldn't have to be buffeted about by minor clerks and splashed by kitchen servants.

  He stood up with great dignity and began walking towards the door. ‘You've got gravy on your chin,’ Tarrian said padding after him. Antyr glared down at him, and surreptitiously wiped his face.

  Outside the refectory, however, Antyr's new-found purpose faltered. On arrival, he had been following Tarrian's accelerating hunt for food and he had scarcely noticed where he was. Now he found himself in a wide brightly lit corridor, lined, as seemed to be the case throughout the palace, with magnificent works of art: pictures, carvings, tapestries. Even the cornices around the ceiling were an example of the finest plasterers’ art with their elaborate interwoven patterns of branches and leaves housing strange birds and insects and occasional haunting faces.

  And the lamps here don't smoke, he thought. Unexpectedly, he felt a twinge of homesickness for his own bare room with its cracked and stained walls.

  Tarrian stood silent by his side until the moment passed.

  'Where do we start?’ Antyr said, recovering.

  At each end of the corridor there were large open spaces and it was intersected by at least three other corridors and a staircase. ‘I don't know,’ Tarrian said, in a mildly injured tone. ‘I can get us back to our rooms but even if I could remember Aaken's scent I couldn't find him in this lot.'

  Antyr nodded. Obviously he should ask someone, but who? There were a great many people walking about, some in formal livery, some wearing what were obviously robes of office. He recognized palace messengers and Sened couriers, and there were a few black-gowned clerks, though they were more expensively dressed than those he had already encountered. Then there were various guards and servants, and a random assortment of what he would have classed as ordinary folk had it not been for their wealth being manifest in their clothing and their authority being manifest in their bearing.

  Some were moving slowly in pairs and small groups, engaged in earnest conversations, some were striding out alone, others were fussing along busily bearing documents. But all were moving with confident and intimidating purposefulness.

  Antyr stood motionless for a moment but no opportunity for a timely interruption seemed to present itself and the small flame of indignation guttered uncertainly as he began to feel profoundly conspicuous again.

  'Ask one of the guards,’ both he and Tarrian said simultaneously.

  Before they could begin to implement this decision, however, a commotion at one end of the corridor brought all activity to a halt and drew all eyes.

  The cause soon became apparent as Menedrion strode round the corner flanked by a bustling assembly of guards, officials, scribes and young courtiers. He was talking loudly and, each time he paused, one of the satellites would detach itself from the mass and run off to execute some command.

  'Go on,’ Tarrian urged, but Antyr hesitated as the group moved relentlessly towards them.

  Tarrian sighed.

  'Lord,’ he said distinctly into both Menedrion's and Antyr's minds as the Duke's son strode past.

  Menedrion stopped abruptly and turned to Antyr.

  'There, that wasn't difficult, was it?’ Tarrian said to Antyr. ‘Go on, ask him. And stand up straight, for pity's sake!'

  Antyr, however, merely gaped as he found himself not only the focus of Menedrion s attention, but everyone else's as well.

  'Your pardon, Lord. But your servant neglected to tell me…’ Tarrian prompted.

  'Your pardon, Lord…’ Antyr said hesitantly. ‘But your servant neglected to tell me…'

  'When I should attend on you…'

  'When I should attend on you tonight … and where,’ he added finally in response to another nudge from Tarrian.

  Menedrion gazed at him blankly for a moment, then, as he noted Tarrian, recognition dawned. For the briefest instant, panic flitted through his eyes, then anger and confusion.

  'Stand up straight,’ Tarrian repeated. ‘And meet his gaze, politely.'

  Antyr obeyed.

  Menedrion's brief confusion ended in relief. ‘You won't be needed tonight,’ he said curtly.

  Antyr looked concerned, but this was no place to remonstrate.

  'Sir,’ someone said urgently, nodding significantly along the corridor. Menedrion raised an impatient hand and frowned.

  'Report to my … private office tomorrow … afternoon,’ he said to Antyr. ‘I'll have decided what to do with you then.'

  Antyr bowed then he gave Menedrion a significant look, as discreetly as he could. ‘May I leave the palace in the morning, sir?’ he asked. ‘I have matters to … research.'

  Menedrion stopped and returned his gaze. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘Yes, you may.’ Then he was off again, towing his entourage after him. ‘But make sure you get everything you require. You'll need to be available to leave with my company the day after tomorrow.'

  'Leave, sir?’ Antyr managed as the tide swept by him. ‘Company? Leave for where …?'

  The question faded as Menedrion retreated but a passing figure said, ‘To the border. Escorting the envoy.'

  Envoy? Antyr mouthed as the corridor began to revert back to its previous rhythm. ‘What's happening, Tarrian?'

  Tarrian shook his head. ‘I don't eavesdrop, you know?’ he sa
id, his tone mildly injured. ‘Except on business.'

  'I know,’ Antyr said. ‘But I also know that some people shout a lot. What did you just pick up from that lot?'

  'It's all jumble,’ Tarrian replied. ‘I've been getting whiffs of something all day, there's a lot of excitement washing about.’ He hesitated and his concern seeped through to Antyr.

  'What is it?’ Antyr said.

  'It's the Bethlarii, I'm afraid,’ Tarrian replied reluctantly. ‘Something about a Bethlarii envoy.’ He hesitated again. ‘And Menedrion's mind was full of images of war.'

  Antyr went suddenly cold, and the splendour around him seemed to become just so much dross.

  'You're not on the reserves now, are you?’ Tarrian asked gently.

  'I'm well down the list,’ Antyr replied. ‘They'd be at the gates before my turn came, I think, but…'

  'I understand,’ Tarrian said. ‘There are no words to measure the folly of it.’ He tried to offer a little solace. ‘Still I might be wrong,’ he said. ‘Menedrion's a wild man, and he's looking for something to take his mind off his real problem. And I wasn't really listening.'

  Antyr reached down and stroked him. ‘Don't worry,’ he said needlessly. ‘I've no doubt we'll find out what we need to know in due course. In the meantime Menedrion's real problems are also our real problems and we'd better bend our mind to them. We'll have to find this Nyriall tomorrow and hope he can help us.'

  'There's another problem now,’ Tarrian said.

  Antyr looked at him inquiringly.

  'We can't go anywhere with Menedrion,’ Tarrian answered. ‘The Duke told us not to leave the city.'

  Antyr caught a glimpse of a worried-looking middle-aged man across the corridor. He was stooping slightly. With a jolt he realized it was himself reflected with fearful accuracy by an elegant silver-framed mirror.

  'Not pretty, is it?’ Tarrian said. Antyr ignored the comment but straightened up, adjusted his robe, and smoothed down his hair.

  'Well, we'd better go and speak to the Duke then, hadn't we?’ he said.

  Chapter 17