Dream Finder Page 18

  Not a shadow of my mind in my face, Arwain thought. In fact, not a shadow of it in my entire posture. But I see your mind in your face, envoy, as clear as if it were written there. You saw me, soiled and simply clad, standing at the Duke’s back, and for the moment you thought I was one of your own. Then you knew me. And now you think, they are like us, these degenerates, and it unsettles you.

  ‘Are you sure you’ll not eat?’ Ibris was saying, pleasantly throwing another small handful of rounded stones under the hooves of his opponent’s horse.

  The envoy’s face twitched and he clenched his hands tightly several times, then, as if a spasm had slipped from his control, his right arm swung out violently and sent the contents of the table crashing on to the marble floor.

  There was a gasp from the crowd, but Ibris ignored the outburst apart from signalling some nearby servants to pick up the mess.

  ‘Leave it,’ said the envoy fiercely as the servants began fussing about him. They froze, looking first at the envoy and then at the Duke. Ibris motioned them to abandon the task, then leaning to one side of his chair, casually rested his head on his hand and waited for the envoy to speak.

  He had set the scene well. Grygyr Ast-Darvad looked faintly ridiculous. Ensconced in the large and luxurious chair in front of a table that was a little too high, his stern presence was lessened considerably, and in his soiled tunic he almost had the look of a dirty child; an image that was aided greatly by the food and dishes scattered about the floor around him.

  Suddenly seeming to realize his position, he stood up, brushing the chair back noisily. For a moment it looked as if he were going to sweep the table to one side as a splendid gesture, but presumably noticing that it was of an extremely heavy construction, he resisted the temptation and stepped around it instead.

  Ibris still made no movement but Ciarll Feranc took half a step forward and spoke softly. The envoy stopped and turned to look at him. Arwain did not hear what had been said, but, partly sheltered by his father’s chair, he discreetly drew his knife. Somewhere behind him he heard the soft creak of a bow being bent. That archer would have to be spoken to, he noted.

  For a long moment, the envoy looked at Feranc, who returned the gaze unblinkingly. But though Feranc’s stare was without overt menace, it had an eerie certainty that had chilled braver men than Grygyr Ast-Darvad in the past and Arwain noticed the envoy breathing more deeply. He forced himself to do the same as he felt the tension in the silent room creeping into his own limbs.

  ‘Your message, envoy,’ Ibris said quietly, still as if nothing untoward had happened. His voice afforded the envoy the opportunity of escaping from Feranc without seeming to have lost the battle of wills.

  ‘My message concerns the city of Whendrak,’ the envoy said, turning sharply to the Duke. ‘Our citizens there have petitioned the Hanestra complaining of abuse at the hands of the authorities. As those authorities are dominated by Serens, we consider that their treatment of our citizens is at your express wish and we demand that you order an end to this persecution immediately and take steps to ensure that the rights of our citizens are fully restored and where necessary due compensation paid.’

  There was a strong ‘Or else’ implicit in his tone.

  Ibris, however, affected a relieved indifference. ‘Ah, the Whendreachi again,’ he said knowingly. ‘I’d not heard of any trouble there recently, but it doesn’t surprise me. But I am surprised that you’ve come to me about it, Grygyr. Whendrak’s a neutral city as you know. And not without good reason.’

  He shook his head and looked up at the ceiling as if contending with a flood of old memories. ‘It’s been fought over so often that half the citizens are of Bethlarii stock and half of Serens, and neither knows which. And there’s more than a few foreign mercenaries stamped their features on them as well. The Hanestra knows well enough that they can be a quarrelsome people who pick whatever ancestors best suit their immediate squabble. And when Bethlar and Serenstad have fought themselves to a standstill over them, as, god knows, they’ve done often enough in the past, what happens? They go their own way as they always have. Curse us both and solemnly vow to be neutral – again.’

  There were murmurs of agreement from the crowd but Grygyr seemed unmoved. ‘I’m not here to debate this matter,’ he said, still assiduously avoiding using Ibris’s title. ‘The treaty binds us to protecting our citizens wherever they might be. I have come here openly and honourably to ask you to fulfil your obligations by restraining your people in Whendrak. If you do not do this then we will have no alternative but to do it ourselves.’

  Ibris frowned paternally and waved his hand gently as if to quieten a petulant child about to commit some folly. ‘Grygyr, the Whendreachi are the Whendreachi. As I’ve said, they’re neither Bethlarii nor Serens and, apart from its strategic position, that’s why their city was declared neutral when the treaty was negotiated. Declared neutral I might add with their full compliance. If either of us takes troops there, for whatever reason, and it’ll need troops if they’re fighting among themselves again – then it’s a major breach of the treaty and will be considered an overt act of war.’

  Grygyr pursed his lips impatiently. ‘That is not our reading of the treaty,’ he replied tersely. ‘We . . .’

  ‘Whose reading?’ Ibris interrupted sharply.

  Grygyr faltered. ‘Our lawyers and scribes,’ he said irritably, after a momentary hesitation.

  Ibris nodded as if something had just been made clear to him. ‘The same lawyers and scribes who were responsible for that?’ He pointed to the letter lying on the floor amid the spilt food and broken dishes. ‘Lawyers and scribes who know so little about the treaty that they didn’t have your message signed by the senior Handiran? Indeed, didn’t even have your letters credential signed correctly and could have had you executed as a spy as a result? So ignorant of the treaty that they breached almost every major clause, sending you here both secretly and armed, without even a token of concession towards the agreed procedures; the issuing of notices, the exchanging of heralds? You’d trust their reading of the treaty in this matter before mine, who helped draft it? Before your own?’

  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 at 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.’

&n
bsp; 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.