Dream Finder Page 24

  Antyr shuddered as the wolf’s cold logic broke over him. He looked up at him, silhouetted against the deepening dusk outside.

  Then, slowly, he stood up and walked to the window to join him. Tarrian dropped down and backed away a little as he approached. After some awkward fiddling with the catch Antyr threw the window open and leaned forward on to the sill. Tarrian watched him, motionless.

  The chilly late afternoon air struck cold on Antyr’s still-damp face and he blew out a long breath that misted, paused, and then silently faded. Unlike his room of the previous night, this one did overlook the city, though little was to be seen of it in the encroaching darkness.

  Nonetheless, it was not without splendour. Such of the spires, domes, towers and sweeping avenues of Ibris’s ‘dazzling city’ as could be seen from this vantage were marked out, illuminated and shadowed by a myriad of mist-haloed torches and lamps, giving them an unexpectedly delicate, restful quality. As he watched, Antyr saw other, more distant lights springing to life. The Guild of Lamplighters conscientiously pursuing their allotted task, setting at bay each night’s darkness with their lights. It gave him a sudden feeling of security.

  Almost abruptly he realized that though he felt blasted and empty, he also felt alive, and free, and glad to be so. Tarrian had had to state the options but they had never really existed, as both of them knew.

  He closed the window.

  ‘So much for deciding the strategy,’ he said with a nervous smile. ‘Tactics, I fear, may present more of a problem.’

  He returned to the couch and lay down again, though this time with some relish. It was the soldier’s euphoria brought on by knowing that the battle would not now be fought until the morrow; that for the next hour or so he was immortal and immune to all his ills. He had known it before.

  ‘Before the fear and the confusion return, let’s talk,’ he said. ‘About who and how and why and about what we can do.’

  Tarrian flopped down on the floor beside the couch and rested his head on his paws. ‘Who, how and why, we don’t know,’ he said. ‘As to what we can do, we can look at what’s happened and think about it and that will arm us for what happens next.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Antyr said.

  ‘No,’ Tarrian said decisively. ‘It’ll arm us definitely. Don’t forget that whatever’s happening, we’ve survived so far, despite being caught totally unprepared. And too, Ibris survived, by dint of his will, and Menedrion survived his first dream by dint of . . .’ He paused.

  ‘By dint of what?’ Antyr said knowingly. ‘By dint of some strange intervention by some other . . . person . . . or power. It was a fair reproach he made. What do we make of that as masters of our trade, dog? As farriers and fletchers?’

  Tarrian was pensive. ‘Nothing,’ he said after a moment. ‘We just note it and remember it, like everything else.’

  Antyr nodded reflectively. ‘And what about me?’ he asked tentatively. ‘What’s happened to me?’

  He felt a sensation from Tarrian that he could only describe as a glow. Turning, he looked down at him, but the wolf was still lying stretched out with his head on his paws and his eyes half shut.

  ‘What was that?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘What?’ Tarrian replied.

  ‘That,’ Antyr answered in mild exasperation, then, hesitantly, ‘that . . . glow.’

  ‘Glow?’ said Tarrian with amused tolerance. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You know full well what I’m talking about,’ Antyr said, leaning up on one elbow. Then Tarrian’s true feelings leaked through. ‘Ye gods, you’re excited,’ Antyr exclaimed. ‘I’m being pursued by . . . demons . . . from god knows where, and you are excited . . .’

  Tarrian chuckled. ‘Yes. Sorry,’ he said, insincerely. Antyr searched about for a suitably angry rebuke but the wolf’s feelings welled up and dominated him.

  Tarrian stood up and looked at him, his tail wagging. ‘Didn’t you feel the way we went into Menedrion’s Nexus, and the way we hunted, searched it?’ Briefly, Antyr was there again, amid the whirling splendour. ‘The clarity, the speed, the effortlessness,’ Tarrian declaimed. ‘How could I not be excited. How could you not be excited?’

  ‘Very easily,’ Antyr said. ‘Have you forgotten where it landed us? Or more correctly, me? In some strange place beyond . . . outside . . . the dream. Alone, separated from the dreamer and apart from you? It scared me witless, that’s how I can’t be excited.’

  ‘But you survived,’ Tarrian said breathlessly. ‘You drew me to you, just as you did last night. You protected the dreamer and you routed your attackers.’

  ‘But I don’t know how!’ Antyr said in some anguish.

  ‘It doesn’t matter!’ Tarrian almost shouted. ‘It doesn’t matter. You won. Both times. You won!’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘No buts,’ Tarrian said. ‘You won. And, admittedly at no thanks to yourself, and god knows how, you’re ten times the Dream Finder you were a mere day ago. It’s as if these . . . attacks . . . have woken something in you. Prodded something into life that was drowning in doubt and ale.’

  Antyr frowned. ‘But, but, but, but,’ he said starkly, refusing Tarrian’s optimism.

  Tarrian quietened a little. ‘Yes, all right,’ he conceded. ‘There’s still more questions than answers, but we’re not defenceless, Antyr. Even if we don’t yet know where our . . . your . . . strength lies, it’s still there when it’s needed.’

  Questions indeed, Antyr thought, as they surged around his mind. But they were all unanswerable and had become a meaningless circle. Somehow he brushed them aside and sat up. The euphoria was still there. He was still immortal for an hour or so.

  ‘Well, we can’t do anything now, anyway,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to see what the night brings, and then, if we’re spared, we’ll go and see this . . . Nyriall . . . in the morning. One way or another we’ll be wiser then, and another opinion won’t go amiss. And you’ll enjoy meeting another wolf, won’t you?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Tarrian said coldly.

  Antyr did not pursue the matter.

  ‘In the meantime what shall we do?’ he went on. ‘I don’t know what time Menedrion will be retiring, but from what I’ve heard it’ll be late. Or at least late before he goes to sleep.’

  Tarrian stretched himself luxuriously. ‘I think food then our fee,’ he said. ‘That old moaner who let us in said to ring that bell if we wanted anything.’

  A few minutes later, after receiving elaborate directions from the bewildered servant who had eventually answered their summons and who seemed to know nothing about their presence there, they were walking through the labyrinthine corridors of the palace again, in an attempt to find the Chancellor’s office.

  ‘I’d have preferred to have eaten first,’ Tarrian said.

  ‘You heard the man,’ Antyr replied. ‘The Chancellor’s office will be shut shortly. Make your choice, we either go to the refectory for a meal, and then wait another day for our fee. Another day for memories to fade,’ he added significantly. ‘Or wait a little for your food and get the money now.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ Tarrian replied. ‘It’s just that I haven’t eaten for . . .’

  ‘Ten minutes,’ Antyr said caustically.

  Tarrian maintained a dignified silence for a moment, then he turned off down a flight of stairs. ‘Down here,’ he said. ‘I hope you’re paying attention to the way we’re going.’

  ‘Right at the bottom, along the corridor, across the hall, bear right after the decorated archway . . .’ Antyr began reciting.

  ‘All right,’ Tarrian interrupted unkindly, adding, ‘Let’s see how you manage coming back.’

  ‘I’m not envisaging any difficulty,’ Antyr replied haughtily.

  Tarrian gave an anticipatory ‘We’ll see’ grunt.

  ‘Right, here.’

  ‘Left!’

  A little while later, and after explaining themselves to three separate servants from whom they inquir
ed about the route, they arrived at a door bearing the worn and cryptic legend ‘Chanc Gen’ in ancient capital letters.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Tarrian said ominously. ‘He’s too mean to have the sign on his door repainted. I don’t think this is going to be easy.’

  As Antyr reached out to push it, the door opened to reveal a palace messenger. There was a brief dance as the two men both hesitated in the doorway and then stepped sideways and forward simultaneously. Tarrian ploughed through the resultant collision regardless, ensuring complete confusion.

  ‘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 tab
les.

  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.