Dream Finder Page 17

  Ibris looked at him and slowly raised one eyebrow.

  Arwain, in reply, raised a confidential finger. ‘Since Viernce, the Bethlarii have been much less inclined to do any extensive political or military adventuring.’ He cast a glance at Feranc. ‘I’m assuming that there’s been no unusual military activity very recently. Just the usual, eternal war games and minor raiding between border villages.’ Feranc nodded a confirmation.

  ‘I need no history lesson either, Arwain,’ Ibris said, glancing over the room impatiently.

  Arwain continued. ‘They’ve been too long without war. The futility of their endless training saps their spirit. Indeed, peace gnaws at the very roots of the reason for the existence of their whole society. And it grieves them bitterly too that we thrive and prosper in peacetime.’ He paused briefly, gathering his thoughts. ‘They could, of course, send their army against us without pretext, but that would almost certainly turn their less enthusiastic allies on the borders against them. I don’t think it’s beyond imagining that some clique in the Hanestra has sent this envoy, with his . . . appalling . . . letter, to be sacrificed to your anger so that his death can be used as a justification for abandoning the treaty and beginning the old round of armed campaigning again.’

  ‘No man goes lightly to his death, Arwain,’ Ibris said. ‘Not even a Bethlarii. Don’t you confuse reality with myth. They like fighting and killing, not dying.’

  Arwain pointed to the letter in Aaken’s hand. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But I can’t imagine that and their secret journey here being just diplomatic carelessness – an inadvertent forgetting of the details of the treaty. They’re too fussy about the niceties of form when it suits them. Given that, what are we left with? I think this . . . envoy . . . and his escort, have been sent to die.’ A new thought occurred to him abruptly. ‘I’ll wager that there’s some fanatical new sect of their grotesque religion beginning to seize power.’

  Ibris’s face became impassive. ‘And my response?’ he asked.

  Arwain waved his hand across the crowd. ‘Exactly what you’re doing,’ he said. ‘You’ve scraped this civic greeting together and you’re going to welcome their envoy formally and courteously, in public audience as befits a representative of a . . . friendly . . . neighbouring state.’ He looked at his father intently. ‘Your reasoning’s like mine,’ he went on. ‘You’ve even placed a large number of your bodyguard inconspicuously throughout the crowd not only to protect yourself should this be an assassination attempt but also to protect them should they wilfully provoke this crowd to anger.’ He looked at his father expectantly, but Ibris still did not respond.

  ‘The simple straight thrust is invariably the best and the least expected.’ Ryllans’ often given advice came back to him, and he smiled.

  ‘Of course, with the Handira being appointed every year they may indeed simply be inept in procedural matters and you’re accepting their envoy like this just to listen to what he says. However . . .’ He allowed himself a theatrical pause. ‘I think you hope that the absence of a violent reproach on your part will so unsettle him that, one way or another, he’ll inadvertently disclose the true purpose hidden under his apparent one, or at least give an insight into their thinking.’ Ibris smiled a little and nodded approvingly. ‘Convoluted and rather long-winded, Arwain,’ he said, ‘but interesting. I am indeed going to listen to this envoy and I’m certainly going to ensure that he isn’t harmed in any way, if that’s possible.’ He beckoned Arwain to bend forward to that he could speak more softly. ‘But heed this. Though no arrows and spears are flying here, don’t be deluded. This will be as dangerous as any battle and we’ll have to ride the avalanche. When we meet this man we’re going to jump from rock to rock and our sole concern is not to fall. That’s all. You’re learning. But don’t seek too diligently to guess the motives of others, you’ll miss the obvious looking for the hidden. And what you need to know, you’ll learn if you just listen with your whole spirit.’

  ‘The simple straight thrust,’ Arwain said, echoing his earlier thought.

  Ibris nodded, then he looked a little pensive. ‘Besides,’ he said, almost wryly, ‘you’ll find in time that you don’t even know your own reasons for much of what you’re doing, let alone anyone else’s.’

  Arwain looked at him quizzically but Ibris offered no amplification of this cryptic comment. Abruptly he was businesslike. ‘Stand at the back of my chair . . . here . . . between me and Aaken.’ As Arwain moved between the chairs, Ibris pulled him forward again and spoke in a whisper. ‘Loosen your knife and be ready but leave a clear sightline for the archers in the balcony alcoves behind us.’ Then with both ducal and paternal urgency he repeated his advice. ‘Don’t speak; just listen and watch. And don’t let the faintest shadow of your mind appear on your face.’

  Arwain acknowledged the comment by a pressure on his father’s arm and moved to the position he had indicated. He was about to ask how long it would be before the envoy arrived, when the doors at the far end of the room opened suddenly and a group of the Duke’s bodyguard marched in, pikes raised.

  Chapter 12

  There was a flurry of activity through the crowd, then an aisle opened up before the advancing guards, and the hubbub faded abruptly.

  Arwain looked at the approaching group intently. There were three Bethlarii, one walking in front of the other two. Envoy and escort, Arwain presumed, judging by the insignia that the leader wore and his easier though equally contemptuous manner as he gazed freely over the watching crowd. The other two stared fixedly forward.

  They were completely surrounded by Ciarll Feranc’s men, but Arwain noticed that while they maintained the pace of their escort comfortably enough, they marched in step with one another and not in step with the guards. It was a simple act but it betokened a chilling discipline.

  As with most Bethlarii, it was difficult to estimate their ages as they were all bronzed and weather-beaten from their wilfully harsh life. That said, and despite their manner, they were fine-looking men, straight and limber and dressed in simple, virtually undecorated tunics. They contrasted greatly with the motley assortment of fashions, complexions and bodily shapes currently gazing at them in a mixture of amusement, distaste, plain curiosity and, in some cases, downright lust.

  Arwain had to admit that even though the Bethlarii were travel-stained and patently weary, the Serens suffered by the comparison. He consoled himself, however, with the fact that the rich variety to be found in Serenstad’s society had achieved far more in almost every sphere of endeavour than the stark ranks of uniform and regimented humanity that were the Bethlarii. They had also held their own against the Bethlarii army when need arose.

  The Duke levered himself into a more comfortable position as the guards halted some way in front of him and the front rank opened to let the envoy move forward. Arwain willed himself to relax and watch the man calmly, though it was not easy. All three men carried themselves with such arrogance and disdain that it seemed that any form of polite discourse was out of the question.

  As the first Bethlarii stepped forward, Arwain noticed that he wore a short sword and a dagger in his belt. A quick glance revealed that the other two were similarly armed. More breaches of the treaty. Arwain felt surprise and alarm taking hold of his features then he remembered his father’s injunction. ‘Don’t let the faintest shadow of your mind appear on your face,’ and, with an effort, he forced his expression into one of polite indifference.

  For a moment he was tempted to work out how he might best defend his father should a sudden attack be made on him, but he rejected it. He had learned enough both from Ryllans and in the field to know that in close quarter fighting there was no time to marshal and choose detailed plans. Awareness and single-minded ruthlessness were the watchwords. And he knew too that any rash move on his part might only impede the responses of Feranc’s guards, not least the hidden archers behind him, and while a knife blow might perhaps be redirected at the last moment to avoid a friend, an arrow
could not be recalled.

  Watch and listen. That was what his father wanted him to do and that also would be his best defence against any attack. It was unlikely anyway that the envoy would be allowed within four paces of the Duke and he would be dead within two paces from half a dozen blades and points if he made any threatening move.

  Ciarll Feranc stood up and walked forward, discreetly interposing himself between the man and the Duke. As he did so, Ibris also stood up and signalled to someone in the crowd. Arwain did not see the recipient of the signal, but, almost immediately a group of court musicians struck up. For a moment, the piece they were playing, though familiar, eluded Arwain, then he identified it as the Bethlarii AnFest, a hymn from their ancient past ostensibly written to celebrate the passing of a devastating outbreak of the plague. It was a tune which held a high place in their otherwise relatively unmusical culture.

  Arwain was momentarily puzzled by his failure to identify the piece immediately. He had heard it more than once before: strident and raucous during battle; mournful and solemn afterwards as the dead were carried away under flags of truce; occasionally almost jolly, emanating from their waiting, watching camps in the evening before battle. Then he realized that it was because it was being played on instruments. He had only ever heard it being sung previously. He watched the three Bethlarii closely to see how they would respond.

  The eyes of the two escorts flickered briefly and they seemed to become even straighter than before. The envoy himself stopped and stood motionless while the music was played, but gave no other sign that he had heard it.

  As the final chords died away, the Duke sat down again. ‘Welcome to our city and our palace, envoy,’ he said genially. ‘Our greeting would have been a little more lavish had we had due notice of your coming. However, I understand from your message that a matter of some urgency has arisen that requires our immediate attention so we must accept a degree of informality.’ He leaned forward. ‘I presume, however, that the urgency has not precluded your bringing letters credential from the Handira.’ He extended his hand towards Feranc.

  The envoy looked from the Duke to Feranc, then turned his head slightly and made a small, curt gesture. One of his escort stepped forward smartly and handed a document to Feranc who opened it slowly and read it carefully before turning to the Duke.

  ‘My Lord Duke, may I introduce Grygyr Ast-Darvad, head of the house of Darvad, deputed by the Handira at the behest of the Hanestra to act as envoy for the city and dominions of Bethlar.’ He examined the seal. ‘This letter bears the seal of the Handira, which I recognize and validate, and the same signature as the previous message.’

  Ibris inclined his head in acknowledgement of this introduction then made another signal to someone in the crowd. On the instant, a small group of servants bustled forward, carrying chairs and a heavy, food-laden table which they set out in front of the Bethlarii.

  ‘Please be seated, gentlemen,’ Ibris said. ‘And please eat. It’s a chilly day and I’ve no doubt you’ve been travelling for some time.’ He became knowingly avuncular. ‘I know well enough that camp fare usually leaves something to be desired.’

  For the first time since their arrival, the Bethlarii seemed to be unsettled. To have remained standing would have obliged them to conduct their debate over the table, looking like servants pleading before their master, while to sit would have lessened their stern presence. Arwain found it difficult to keep a smile from his face as he watched the envoy’s brief unspoken debate. It concluded with his sitting while his escort stood stiffly on either side of him, but a pace back.

  Added to the envoy’s dissatisfaction was the fact that the chair was large and lavishly cushioned, in stark contrast to traditional Bethlarii furniture. But having chosen to sit, it was not possible for him to stand again without looking foolish. He succeeded in recovering a little of his poise, however, by slowly and deliberately brushing the plates in front of him to one side and leaning forward into the empty space.

  ‘My preference is for camp fare,’ he said, speaking with a heavy Bethlarii accent and with a voice that was guttural and strained as if he had spent his lifetime shouting orders on a parade ground. ‘And I am indifferent to the vagaries of the weather.’ As he spoke, his eyes seemed to come unnervingly alive.

  Ibris nodded slightly in acceptance of this declaration, but showed no reaction to the calculated omission of his title. The watching crowd grew more silent, and Arwain could feel a tension beginning to grow. If this day didn’t end in steel and blood it would be a miracle, he thought.

  Ibris made to speak.

  ‘Where is my messenger?’ asked the envoy, bluntly cutting across his intention.

  The Duke affected a brief uncertainty, tapping his mouth with the edge of his forefinger and frowning slightly. ‘The servants will be attending to him, I imagine,’ he said. ‘I really don’t know. He’s probably dining. Or resting. I’ll send someone to find out and have him brought here for you.’

  Turning, he spoke softly to one of the guards behind him. The man nodded and then quietly left the room. Ibris sat back and waited, not attempting to speak again as if to do so in the absence of the fourth Bethlarii would be a discourtesy. The envoy wriggled surreptitiously on the too comfortable chair. Carefully, Arwain felt for the man underneath the stark image.

  Eventually the guard returned, accompanied by the messenger who went immediately to the envoy, saluted ferociously and joined his two colleagues in their stiff array.

  Now, Arwain thought. That’s the end of the skirmishing, let’s see what the attack will be like.

  Apparently reaching the same conclusion, the envoy laid his hands flat on the table and prepared to speak. Ibris, however, used his own device against him, and spoke first.

  ‘If I may, Grygyr, before you begin,’ he said. ‘There’s a slight problem that I’d like you to clarify before we get down to your urgent message.’ He did not wait for an answer, but took the original letter from Aaken and handed it to Feranc who placed it in front of the envoy.

  The envoy stiffened slightly as if preparing for some kind of assault.

  ‘I see the seal of the Handira,’ Ibris went on. ‘But I cannot make out the signature. I’m not concerned myself, you understand. Man to man, I’ve no reservations about you, but there are legal forms to be observed under our treaty, as I’m sure you appreciate, and it is our duty . . .’ He waved a hand between himself and the envoy. ‘. . . to ensure that they are observed correctly. As on the battlefield, so here, in friendly discourse, if the forms are not observed then dishonour and treachery lie ever in wait.’

  The envoy’s eyes narrowed perceptibly, and he glanced briefly down at the letter. ‘It’s the signature of some scribe,’ he said dismissively. ‘His name is of no importance. The seal of the Handira needs no endorsement.’

  Ibris puffed out his cheeks in reluctant disagreement. ‘The treaty, as I recollect it, says otherwise. Something to the effect that your official documents shall bear the seal of the Handira, and the signature of the then most senior. I’m no lawyer, the exact phraseology escapes me, but that’s the gist of it, I believe.’

  The envoy scowled openly.

  The Duke went on. ‘The difficulty is, Grygyr, that this same signature graces your letters credential and if it is indeed the hand of some lowly scribe instead of the senior Handiran, then, strictly speaking, whatever we discuss is so much air, it has no binding force.’ He drew in a thoughtful breath. ‘Indeed, if we’re being meticulous about this it also means that your very presence here is a breach of the treaty, even an act of war.’

  There was a stirring among the crowd and the envoy looked set to speak again, but Ibris ploughed on. ‘However,’ he said affably. ‘We’re not lawyers, are we? It’s their fault if such details haven’t been attended to correctly. You’ve come a long way. Indeed, without our protection, it must be admitted, you’ve come a dangerous way. I commend you on whatever disguise you adopted, incidentally; not all our people take
the broad view of our past differences that we perforce must for the general good. That being the case I see no reason why we should allow this relatively minor omission by some scribe to set your journeyings at naught.’ As if seeking their support he looked round at his advisers and was greeted by much sage nodding of heads. Satisfied, he turned back to the envoy, chuckling as he did so. ‘After all, it’s hardly likely that the seal of the Handira could be forged, is it?’ He settled himself back in his chair again. ‘Now, Grygyr, if you still have no desire to eat or rest at the moment, then let’s hear your message.’

  Arwain stood very still behind his father’s left shoulder and listened and watched. ‘We’ll be riding the avalanche,’ Ibris had said, and, listening to him, Arwain felt the shifting ground under his feet and began to absorb the nuances of his father’s performance.

  Apart from what he was saying, there was the manner in which he was saying it and the small gestures and expressions that, combined, would subtly play on the Bethlarii’s arrogance and must surely lead him into some indiscretion eventually. And the food and the luxurious chair were master strokes in their simplicity.

  Perhaps, Arwain thought, it was because he was still peculiarly alert from his training that he was suddenly aware of these things that he must surely have seen on many occasions before. He had, after all, attended several battlefield truce meetings in the past, but by comparison with even the few exchanges that had been offered here so far, these now seemed to have been little more than a mixture of posturing displays and market-place bartering.

  Perhaps, too, it was that there had never been such a strange meeting before. Whatever the reason, however, he knew that his father was teaching him something that could not readily, if at all, be taught in words, and he must have the wit to learn it.

  The envoy cast as disdainful an eye around such of the crowd as he could see without wriggling incongruously in the soft chair. As his eyes met Arwain’s there was a brief spark of hopeful recognition which was followed almost immediately by disappointment.