Dream Finder Page 44

  As they neared the gate, it became clear that, though rapid, their pace had not been rapid enough; a crowd was already gathering. And people were arriving from every direction. Again they were mainly youths, though Ryllans saw several older men among them, and many were wearing the grey uniform that Garren and his supporters had worn. A small force of guards was struggling to keep the gate open.

  The officer swore softly to himself. ‘We’ll do our best,’ he said to Ryllans. ‘But I can’t guarantee your safety.’ There was anger in his eyes as he looked at Ryllans. ‘You’ll understand what it costs me to say this, soldier. These are my people and my problem, and we neither want nor need you here. But do what you have to do to survive if we can’t hold them for you. Try not to kill anyone if you can avoid it.’

  Ryllans nodded. ‘Triple file, and trot,’ he shouted to the platoon. ‘Follow the guards and defend yourselves as needed. Minimum effective force.’

  As they moved forward, Ryllans jumped from his horse on to Arwain’s and, pushing him forward, covered him with his own body.

  The crowd began shouting and throwing stones as they drew near and the group trying to shut the gate increased its efforts.

  Unexpectedly, the Whendreachi officer signalled a halt and then walked his horse forward a little way.

  Ryllans, fearing treachery, discreetly positioned himself to draw his sword quickly and to lead his men through at the charge.

  The officer conspicuously returned his staff to its loop on his saddle, then he held up his hand for silence. The stone-throwing stopped and the shouting began to die down.

  ‘These people are official representatives of Duke Ibris of Serenstad,’ he said, authoritatively. ‘They’re here unarmed, bar two of them, in strict accordance with both the letter and the spirit of the treaty. They’re entitled under our law to courtesy and safe passage.’ The crowd grew quieter, as the majority tried to hear what he was saying. Their general demeanour, however, was still hostile and abusive.

  Someone gave a cry of command and the group by the gate began trying to close it again.

  The officer stood in his stirrups and pointed to the group. Then, in a voice that had obviously rung out across many training yards, and through which a marked Whendreachi accent was breaking, he bellowed, ‘Shut that if you want, but be advised. If you do, we’ll have no alternative but to hand our weapons to the Serens so that they can fight their way out. And whatever they do to you will then have the sanction of our law and the treaty. It’s your choice.’

  The group around the gate faltered. Some stood back, though others began redoubling their efforts to close it, jeering and catcalling raucously as they did. The officer gave a resigned shrug and casually drew his sword. He nodded towards Arwain. ‘You surprise me,’ he said. ‘This man here wasn’t struck down by some hero. He was hit by a stone, as were several passers-by.’ Carefully he took hold of the blade of his sword with his left hand and, holding the hilt forward, glanced around at Ryllans’ men as if looking for someone to whom he could hand it. ‘I think you should know, however, that stone throwing will be no defence against these men. They’re less than pleased at being attacked for no reason, and many of them are Mantynnai; you know . . . Viernce.’ He paused briefly to allow the significance of the words to sink in. ‘So if you wish to lock yourselves in with them, armed and angry and with free rein to do whatever they have to to defend themselves, then feel free. It’ll save me and my men a great deal of trouble.’

  The crowd fell completely silent, and the group by the gate thinned still further, some of them now actively dragging others away.

  Seeing the opportunity in the lull, the gate guards moved quietly forward, and opened a passage through the crowd. There was no resistance.

  The officer sheathed his sword and motioned the platoon forward. Cautiously, Ryllans moved back on to his own horse. But the balance of mood within the crowd was almost palpable. A careless gesture now could tip them over into riot regardless of what individuals among them might think about tackling the Mantynnai.

  ‘Eyes front,’ he ordered calmly and formally. ‘Walk.’

  As he passed the officer standing in the gateway, he saluted him but did not speak. The officer returned the salute. The only sound to be heard was the leisurely clatter of the horses’ hooves on the stone roadway.

  Then they were all through the gate. The palace guards closed in quietly behind them, blocking the gateway with their horses while the members of the platoon began quickly recovering their weapons from the gatehouse.

  For the first time Ryllans was able to examine Arwain’s injury. There was quite a lot of blood, but the wound appeared to be only superficial.

  He dismounted. ‘A little water to bathe this?’ he asked the officer.

  The man glanced back through the crowded gate and regretfully shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. You see the way it is,’ he replied. ‘You mustn’t stay here. We’ve been lucky. The crowd’s getting bigger and I haven’t the men to defend you.’ He looked straight at Ryllans. ‘I don’t want you taking swords to them despite what I said, and that’s what you’ll have to do. Whendreachi slaughtered by Serens, however justifiably, will tear the city apart, and bring the Bethlarii down on us like wolves. Please go now, there are good streams not far along the road.’

  ‘I understand,’ Ryllans replied. And to give truth to the officer’s words, the noise of the crowd began to grow again. Suddenly a single figure wriggled between the horses and, evading the lunging guards, charged, screaming, towards Ryllans. He was wildly waving an axe.

  Ryllans stepped away from the officer with a quick shake of his head to indicate that he should not interfere. Then, as the demented figure reached him, the axe raised for a skull-splitting blow, he stepped casually aside as if nothing untoward were happening, and swung up into his saddle.

  His attacker, unable to stop because of the timing of Ryllans’ movement, ran through the place where he had been standing and straight into the gatehouse wall. His hysterical screaming ended with an abrupt and incongruous ‘Erk!’ as he struck the wall. Staggering back, stunned, he dropped the axe on to his foot and flopped down on to the ground with a winding thud.

  Ryllans ignored him and, with a final salute to the officer, signalled the platoon forward. The officer was grinning broadly at the Mantynnai’s treatment of his attacker, and quite a few of the crowd were also laughing. It was as good a gift as he could give them under the circumstances.

  The platoon moved to the canter almost immediately. Glancing back, Ryllans saw that the gate was being closed.

  They maintained the pace until they came to the first stream, where they stopped and Ryllans began treating Arwain’s injury.

  He could not keep the concern from his manner. Cleared of blood, the gash, as he had thought at the gatehouse, did not seem to be deep. But Arwain was showing no signs of recovering consciousness.

  He shook his head. Arwain needed attention more skilled than he could give, but the nearest city where such help could be found was now Serenstad itself. ‘We can be there before midnight if we ride hard,’ someone said.

  Ryllans shook his head. ‘A journey like that might kill him for sure,’ he said.

  ‘So might the delay,’ was the reply.

  ‘I can’t risk it,’ Ryllans said. ‘We’ll have to travel slowly. But if we can’t get to the city quickly, we’ll have to bring the city to us.’ Without further delay he selected three men to travel to Serenstad as fast as possible, with instructions to return with the Duke’s physician, Drayner, and a suitable vehicle for transporting Arwain.

  As the men galloped into the distance, Arwain was carefully lifted back into the saddle and the platoon moved off again, leaving a further three men to act as rearguard in the event of pursuit from Whendrak.

  Ryllans grimaced as he mounted up behind Arwain to give him as much support as possible. Nothing he had done could have avoided the injury, but . . .

  He let the self-reproach go, it served n
o useful purpose. Nevertheless, walking when his Lord and friend needed urgent help would be agonizing, and there was little or no consolation in the fact that he knew that this decision also was correct.

  Help, however, was nearer to hand than Ryllans had thought, as late in the afternoon the three messengers encountered Menedrion and his company escorting the Bethlarii envoy back to the border.

  Where Arwain’s platoon had been dressed in simple field uniforms and had moved quickly but with alert discretion, Menedrion’s company was moving at a leisurely pace and was dressed with formal pomp. It was a blaze of colour even in the dying daylight.

  Alert for any excuse to leave the sour presence of the envoy, it was Menedrion himself who made his way through the vanguard that had halted the three riders. He was wearing a black fine-linked chain mail and a red surcoat emblazoned with his own eagle crest, and he looked like some hero from Serenstad’s ancient literature. He was, however, a soldier of the present, and after a quick glance at the breathless riders and the foam-covered horses, it took him but a few questions to find out what had happened and to determine his course of action.

  Within minutes, three of his own men, fresh mounted, were galloping back towards Serenstad, while his company physician and an escort were galloping towards Whendrak, followed by the hospital cart, moving as fast as it safely could.

  Menedrion returned to the envoy’s side, but did not speak.

  You can ask if you want to know, you bastard, he thought.

  To his annoyance, however, Grygyr was as impassive as ever, seemingly quite indifferent to the commotion that the arrival of the three riders had caused.

  Not that the lack of conversation distressed Menedrion immediately. His mind was now full of questions following the brief account given to him by the messengers. Arwain hurt in Whendrak by rioters? Serious disturbances in the streets? He had not asked why. Had there been some pursuing danger, the messengers would have volunteered the information.

  His father’s words came back to him ominously. ‘. . . if something’s seriously amiss then it’ll only be my bastard son they’ve got, not my heir . . .’ Ibris had been thinking in terms of hostages, Menedrion knew, not injury.

  Once upon a time, and largely due to the influence of his mother, Menedrion would have been quite happy to see Arwain come to grief, but since he had been named his father’s heir and he, Arwain and Goran had sworn oaths of loyalty to one another he had mellowed a little towards him.

  It helped too that Arwain showed not merely no outward inclination to rival him for the Dukedom, but a positive disinclination, though Menedrion did not have his father’s sight in this. Ibris knew that if Arwain wished to oust Menedrion then he was quite capable of doing it both effectively and quietly.

  However, Menedrion’s concern as he tried to settle back into this leisurely diplomatic escort, was, somewhat to his own surprise, quite genuine, and the stony indifference of the envoy seemed to increase his need to speak in order to put a stop to the whirling, repetitive thoughts that were besetting him.

  With an effort, he forced himself to speak of other matters.

  ‘It’ll be an hour or so before we can pitch camp,’ he said. ‘I confess I’ll he glad to stretch out tonight. I find this kind of slow progress more wearying than a forced march.’ He turned towards Grygyr. ‘I suppose you’ll be glad to get back to your own field quarters again after sleeping in our effete feather beds.’

  Menedrion made the remark in all innocence, adopting a ‘companions in adversity’ manner. He was startled therefore at the envoy’s expression as he turned sharply to face him. Throughout his brief stay, Grygyr’s face had borne no other expression than contempt and indifference. Now fury and alarm mingled unashamedly.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, hoarsely.

  I don’t know, Menedrion thought. But if it’s stinging your backside I’m going to find out, and mean it again.

  ‘Nothing special,’ he said blandly, as if the small outburst had not happened. ‘I couldn’t help noticing that you seemed tired this morning. I presumed you hadn’t slept well.’

  Grygyr’s control reasserted itself. ‘I slept well,’ he said, tersely.

  Menedrion persisted, the soldier in him felt a weakness in his enemy that needed to be probed. ‘I’m glad,’ he said. ‘Sleep is important. Lack of it is apt to mar the judgement and can lead to serious mistakes.’ He paused. ‘Mistakes that envoys and soldiers can’t afford, eh?’

  ‘I slept well,’ Grygyr said again, looking stonily forward.

  ‘As I’m sure you will tonight,’ Menedrion said, nodding.

  Later, as the company began to make camp, he sought out Pandra. Mindful of Ibris’s instructions about the old man, Menedrion had established him in a covered living wagon with a soft bed and many cushions. When he found him, however, Pandra was alternately rubbing his back and banging the bed.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Menedrion asked in some concern. ‘Is the bed too hard?’

  Pandra shook his head. ‘No, sir,’ he replied. ‘I’m afraid it’s too soft. I need a hard bed. I’ll lie on the floor tonight. I’ll be fine.’

  The incongruity of the frail old man’s reply released some of the tension from Menedrion, and he laughed loudly. ‘I’ll have one of the pioneers find a couple of planks for your bed,’ he said. ‘I can’t have my father finding out that I made you sleep on the floor.’

  He laughed again as he leaned out of the door of the wagon and shouted orders to someone.

  ‘Did you want something from me, sir?’ Pandra asked when Menedrion came back inside. He was puzzled by the mirth he had unwittingly caused.

  Menedrion became more serious and motioned him to sit down. ‘Yes, I do,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘Something’s disturbing the envoy. Something about sleep, I think. Do you think you could . . .’ He gesticulated vaguely. ‘. . . get into his head tonight and see what’s happening?’

  Pandra looked at him. ‘No, sir,’ he said carefully, shaking his head. ‘It . . .’

  Menedrion scowled. ‘I thought you could enter dreams without the knowledge of the dreamer,’ he interrupted.

  Pandra raised a hesitant hand. ‘That’s true, sir,’ he said. ‘But I can tell you already that you’re right about the envoy. Antyr kept watch on him last night and he spoke to your father about what he encountered there. He didn’t tell me anything except that it was useful and that I should keep clear of the envoy’s dreams myself.’ Briefly he held Menedrion ‘s gaze. ‘He was quite emphatic about it, sir. My task is to protect you, not to venture into regions where I might well be lost, and you with me.’

  Menedrion’s jaw tightened. Nothing untoward had happened while he had slept the previous night, and the subtle presence of Pandra and Kany had been oddly reassuring, but though he was still uneasy about going to sleep, it unsettled him in some way to have this odd pair in his entourage as ‘protectors’.

  Pandra noted his returning tension. He became confidential. ‘But he also said that, though we should not lower our guard, he felt the danger to you and your father had actually become less because of his own encounter in the Threshold.’

  Menedrion shook his head. ‘I don’t understand any of this,’ he said finally. ‘My bodyguards carry swords and shields. And I need enemies that I can take a sword to, not all these shadows . . . vague images.’

  He fell silent, his face perplexed.

  ‘This whole business is unmanning me,’ he said eventually, lowering his head. ‘And I’ve actually got a stiff jaw being . . . diplomatic . . . to that stone-faced Bethlarii, knowing that he’s as anxious as I am to try knocks with me.’ He looked up, his face frustrated. ‘Now I have to have my sleeping hours patrolled by an old man and a rabbit.’

  Under other circumstances, Pandra might have chuckled at such an observation, but it needed no great sensitivity to see that Menedrion was in a dark mood, and would have to be handled carefully. Before he could speak, however, a face appeared briefly round the do
or of the wagon.

  ‘Who wanted their bed making harder?’ it said irritably, then, without waiting for an answer, it disappeared and several wooden boards were precipitated noisily through the door followed by a large canvas tool bag. The wagon shook under the impact as it landed. ‘You civilians don’t know you’re born,’ continued the face, as its owner followed and plunged straightway into the bag. He raised his voice to make himself heard over the noise of his rattling tools. ‘Everyone else is moaning because the ground’s too hard, as if it was my fault, for crying out loud. And it’s fetch this, fetch that, as if I didn’t have my own duties. And now your bed’s too soft. I’ve more important things than this, you know . . .’

  He stopped suddenly as he looked up from his bag in search of the culprit and found himself staring into Menedrion’s face. There was a brief, confusing flurry as he stood up hurriedly and saluted; not easy in a low, crowded wagon and with a large saw in one hand. Both Pandra and Menedrion were obliged to take evasive action.

  ‘At ease,’ Menedrion said grimly, when the wide-eyed man came to a shaking stillness at last, but before he could find the words to fill his desperately working mouth.

  The man’s stamping foot shook the wagon again.

  Menedrion seemed to be holding a brief debate with himself, then he stood up. ‘Tell him what you want and then join me outside,’ he said tersely to Pandra.

  A few moments later, Pandra climbed carefully down the steps of the wagon; behind him a desperate hammering began. Despite himself, Pandra could not forbear a subdued laugh.

  Menedrion, however, seemed still to be preoccupied by his own thoughts and Pandra laid his amusement at the pioneer’s antics on one side. He seemed to have established some rapport with this wild, dangerous son of Ibris, but he had no illusion about understanding him, and knew only too well that an injudicious familiarity might bring down a dire punishment, if not on his own head, by virtue of the protection his age and Ibris’s will offered him, then on some other innocent’s such as the churlish pioneer.