Arwain was still soiled and sweating as he dismissed the messenger and walked towards the large stateroom that he had indicated.
Already puzzled by the sudden summons from his father, Arwain's curiosity was further heightened by being directed towards this particular room. It was not the one which the Duke normally used for day-to-day business matters, but one of several small halls which were generally used for private entertaining and minor state occasions, such as the presenting of an honour or the receiving of some petition or a work of art. Yet no such occasion had been planned for today as far as he knew.
Two servants opened the double doors to admit him, at the same time releasing the considerable hubbub that was filling the room. Taken aback by the unexpected noise, Arwain hesitated, then stepped inside quickly.
The room was very full. Looking around, he saw his father was at the far end, sitting in a large wooden chair richly inlaid with gold and decorated with engraved marble panels. From the top of it stared the glittering, watchful eyes of a great eagle.
Indeed, so skilfully had the bird been carved and painted, that no matter where an observer stood in the room, its eyes would always seem to be staring at him. Significantly, its wings were raised slightly so that it might be either landing or just about to take flight after some prey. The detail that Arwain always appreciated, however, was in the carving of the talons, which had been done in such a way that they appeared to be crushing the wide, carved, top rail of the chair.
Seated either side of the Duke were Ciarll Feranc and Aaken Uhr Candessa, the one very still, the other fidgeting restlessly. In front of them was a semicircle of empty floor while behind them stood various other of the Duke's close advisers. Behind the whole arced a semicircle of the Duke's bodyguard.
The rest of the hall was filled with a random assortment of senior court officials, both civilian and military; high-ranking Senedwr and Gythrinwr, standing conspicuously apart; various lords and their advisers; some senior Guild officials; several of the city's major merchants, and a leavening of scholars and artists. As usual too there were petitioners from Serenstad's allied towns and cities, distinctive in their local dress and noticeably brighter eyed than the normal courtiers.
Arwain raised his eyebrows in surprise. This was a far larger gathering than normally surrounded his father. Had he indeed forgotten some formal event that required his presence? He could remember nothing and, moreover, there was a feeling of tension in the air which had an uncharacteristically sharp edge to it.
As he made his way towards his father, Arwain also saw that several of the Duke's bodyguard were wearing their normal court clothes and mingling casually with the crowd.
With a little gentle pushing and apologizing he managed eventually to reach the empty space in front of his father.
'Father,’ he said, stepping forward a few paces.
The Duke, who had been talking quietly to Aaken, turned to him and beckoned him forward.
'Ye gods, Arwain, you look like an ostler's rag,’ he said, then, wrinkling his nose, ‘and you smell like one, too. What have you been doing?'
'Just training with Ryllans and the others,’ Arwain replied. Ibris gave a shrug eloquent with both approval and regret. ‘Ah well, I did tell you to come immediately so I suppose it's my own fault.’ He took Arwain's arm and pulled him forward so that he could talk more quietly. ‘Anyway, you're here,’ he said. ‘Menedrion's nowhere to be found, as usual, and Goran's down at Farlan looking at some new marble that one of our merchants has managed to import from somewhere…’ He furrowed his brow and waved his hand to bring his conversation from the desirable to the necessary. ‘It's perhaps as well you look so rough. We've a Bethlarii envoy coming. Ciarll's men are bringing him and his escort from the Norstseren Gate right now.'
Arwain's face darkened. ‘An envoy?’ he said. ‘And escort? Here? Now?’ He put his hand to his head and shook it as if to waken himself. ‘Without a formal request? Notice to the Sened and the Gythrin-Dy? Toing and froing of heralds etc? Endless debates about location and precedence? Have they forgotten we've a treaty with them which deals with these procedures? What are they up to?'
Ibris acknowledged Arwain's bluster with an offhand shrug, and, taking a letter from Aaken, held it out to his son. Arwain wiped his hands on his tunic, took the letter, and unfolded it carefully. It was written in the harsh, angular script typical of the Bethlarii scribes.
'To our vassal, Ibris of Serenstad. You will receive our envoy and discuss with him a matter of great mutual concern. His person and escort of three are inviolate. Harm to them will constitute an act of war.'
Underneath this brief missive was an illegible signature and the seal of the Handira, the council of five that governed Bethlar.
Arwain looked up from the sheet and stared at his father open-mouthed. ‘This is unbelievable,’ he said. ‘Coming unannounced is a breach of the treaty, as is bringing their own escort, but…’ He gaped as he struggled for words, waving the paper about vaguely. Ibris took it from him gently and returned it to Aaken. ‘The tone. It's arrogant by even their standards. Their vassal! It's a … wilful provocation … How did it get here?'
'It arrived barely an hour ago,’ Ibris said, watching his son carefully. ‘Brought by a Bethlarii Ghaler disguised as a messenger from Hyndrak, and…'
Arwain interrupted before Ibris could continue. ‘In disguise? A Ghaler?’ he exclaimed. ‘A Bethlarii foot soldier?’ He shook his head. ‘Never. Their colours are sacred. A Ghaler wouldn't go into enemy territory with them covered under any circumstances. It would be sacrilege. Whatever the man is, he's no Ghaler. He's probably one of their officer corps. And probably an assassin. Has he been questioned? Searched? Don't let him near you…'
Arwain stopped as he caught a small admonitory gesture from Ciarll Feranc and looked up to see the irritation on his father's face.
'Arwain, I need thoughtful counsel, not lectures on Bethlarii religion and elementary personal security,’ Ibris said coldly. ‘Besides you should know by now that priests of any colour don't hesitate to excuse the gullible the trappings of their creeds when political necessity demands. The man could be a Ghaler or anything, though I incline to your view that he's likely to be an officer. Probably tasked with noting our initial response to that letter. Anyway, what he is is irrelevant. To question him would have been in breach of the treaty, and at the moment all the breaches lie with them. He's been offered food, drink and rest-all of which he's declined, I understand-and he's being quietly but very well guarded by Ciarll's men.'
Arwain lowered his eyes. ‘I'm sorry, father,’ he said. ‘You're right, I should think before I speak. I'm still heated with the training and rushing over here.’ He risked a smile. ‘Perhaps I should take a leaf from the Bethlarii way and wait for your permission before I speak.'
Ibris leaned back in his chair and some of the coldness left his voice. ‘Perhaps you should,’ he said. ‘The Bethlarii are not without some worthwhile ideas.'
Then he tapped his temple with his forefinger, looking significantly at Arwain. There was a father's need in his eyes. ‘Diplomacy or battle, Arwain, always the head first,’ he said. ‘Always. It'll tell you when to use your instincts. I'm sure that Ryllans has told you that, I know I have often enough.'
Arwain nodded and looked down again. It was true that he had come from the training yard too heated and flustered, but it was also irrelevant. There was never an excuse for not thinking. He must calm himself before he spoke again. His father would be more troubled by this unexpected and bizarre visit from Bethlar than he would allow anyone to see and he should not have to take pause to instruct his children. He should be able to look to them for support.
Arwain looked across the crowded stateroom with its broad cross-section of Serenstad's ruling and commercial classes and the sprinkling of travellers from its dominion cities and towns. It was, he realized, a testimony to Ibris's own advice. His father's initial response to the letter must have been something to behold, yet the messenger was not hanging from the battlements. Arwain knew that it would have taken but seconds for his father to channel his doubtless monumental rage into cold calculation.
He risked a cautious irony. ‘I sit at your feet, father,’ he said. ‘Allow me to redeem myself.'
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.