Antyr walked behind the servant in a trance. Without further comment, Menedrion had led him briskly away from his private quarters, and, with a curt dismissal and an order to remain in the palace, had abandoned him to his present guide; a round-faced old man with hunched shoulders and a worried frown that seemed to be permanent.
He also seemed to be none too pleased with his new duty and kept muttering, half to himself, half to Antyr.
'This isn't my job, you know … I've enough to do as it is without running around trying to find rooms for his lordship's…’ He looked Antyr up and down critically. ‘…visitors … And telling the duty guards and the cooks. I'm in charge of the laying of tables for the whole of this wing, I shouldn't be having to do this … It's not right … He should've found one of the room servants … It's just typical…'
He rang several irritable changes around this theme as he wound an elaborate pathway through the palace, but Antyr heard hardy any of them. Nor did he notice any of the statues, pictures, furniture, tapestries and other artifacts that lined his progress and that had so impressed him the night before.
Uncharacteristically, Tarrian remained silent.
Eventually they reached their destination and Antyr was shown into a small suite of rooms. He heard himself thanking the servant absently and was vaguely aware of the old man lighting several lamps and then departing, still muttering.
As the door clicked shut behind him, Antyr leaned back on it. He felt numb all over. His body seemed scarcely his own, and his mind refused to think. Some reflex carried him towards a large couch and made him lie down on it. He was vaguely aware of Tarrian padding off somewhere.
As he lay back, his eyes focused on the ceiling, but they saw nothing, and the only movement in his mind was that of Tarrian's ancient curiosity and caution as he quickly toured the bounds of this new territory.
'We're coming up in the world,’ Tarrian said when he had finished, but the remark was empty of real meaning and the words hung lifeless and regretted in Antyr's head.
Then, from nowhere, a black wave overwhelmed him. His confrontation with Menedrion had been unnerving, but somehow it had kept him upright and sane. Now, alone, he felt the full shock of the events of the past day. The very articles of faith that suffused and supported his craft had been tossed aside, as if they had never existed, and he was adrift in an ocean of madness without star or landmark to steer by. All that was familiar and solid had become alien and menacing, like a solid shore turned suddenly quicksand.
He covered his hands with his face and squeezed as if trying to reduce himself to infinite smallness and insignificance, but the blackness sought him out and rolled over and through him irresistibly, shaking and tossing him like the least pebble on that shore.
Somewhere in the middle of it, after a timeless, buffeting agony, he heard a sound; a distant moaning, sobbing. It went on for a long time, gradually coming closer. Then slowly, he realized it was himself, pouring out a great grief for some terrible, unknown, unknowable, loss.
Yet with this realization came also a faint hint of relief, and he felt the tide of blackness falter. Slowly his convulsing sobs eased and he swung himself up into a sitting position, though still his hands were over his wet face as if the sight of the reality of the world around him would shatter what sanity he still had left.
He felt Tarrian nearby, waiting, watching, with that almost frightening animal fatalism that seemed to leave him largely immune to the emotional effects of matters which he could not control.
'I'm sorry,’ Antyr managed eventually.
Tarrian did not reply, but moved over to him and leaned heavily against his leg. A pack thing. One of Antyr's hands relinquished his face and reached down to stroke the soft fur. More sobs shook him.
'I'm sorry,’ he repeated.
Again Tarrian did not reply. He did not understand, at least not fully, so he could offer nothing. Yet in knowing that he did not understand, he offered everything he had. Antyr patted him, finding some solace in the purposeful presence of the wolf's powerful frame.
'I don't know what brought that on,’ he said, his voice unsteady.
'You don't need to,’ Tarrian said. ‘It was necessary and you allowed it. It was a wise act.'
This time it was Antyr who did not reply.
The two sat in silence for a long time, then, eventually, Antyr started hunting through his pockets for a kerchief.
'There are towels and water next door,’ Tarrian said.
Antyr heard himself chuckle weakly as he stood up and followed Tarrian's direction. ‘Thank you, Earth Holder,’ he said. ‘It's as well one of us keeps his feet on the ground.'
But the darkness had not left him completely and it welled up again as he worked the small, silvered pump handle and watched a stream of water splutter into a plain white bowl. The water glittered with the lamplight as it swirled and danced around the bowl, obeying hidden laws that were as immutable as those binding Antyr's craft were now capricious. The sight seemed to mock him and he felt his body begin to shake uncontrollably.
He reached out and steadied himself by leaning against the wall as he dipped his other hand into the water and splashed his face carelessly with it.
The effort seemed to take all his strength and slowly he slithered to the floor.
Again Tarrian came and sat by him, silent, but solid.
'I'm so frightened,’ Antyr said, after a long silence.
'Yes,’ Tarrian said. ‘You reek of it.'
Antyr gave a soft rueful laugh at his Companion's simple bluntness, but still his body was reluctant to move. Tarrian lay down patiently.
'What's the matter with me?’ Antyr asked after a further long silence.
Tarrian looked at him, but did not speak.
'Too much change, too fast?’ Antyr said, turning and resting his forehead against the cold, tiled wall. ‘Too much foolishness. Too much weakness.'
'You're too harsh on yourself,’ Tarrian said, standing up and walking out of the small washroom as if he were no longer needed. ‘What's happening to you is perhaps a little of all those things, but mainly it's an attack. An assault at your very soul.'
Antyr rolled his head from side to side against the tiles.
'That's what I've come to say to myself. That's what I told Menedrion. But what does it mean?'
He struggled to his feet awkwardly and followed Tarrian.
'What does it mean?’ he repeated.
'It means you're being attacked,’ Tarrian replied.
'Damn it, Tarrian,’ Antyr shouted. ‘Talk sense. My head … everything's … whirling.’ He clenched his fists savagely and then let his hands fall limply to his sides. ‘I need some clarity, not more riddles. I feel so lost. So helpless. I'm not even sure about my own sanity any more.’ Then, angrily. ‘And if I'm being attacked, then presumably so are you. Why aren't you frightened?'
It was a pointless question, he knew. Tarrian was an animal. He carried some human traits, just as Antyr carried some wolfish traits, but it was not in his true nature to be afraid of what he could not immediately sense. Tarrian responded to circumstances as a mirror reflects an image, even though his slight humanity made the mirror blur and shake a little at times.
'I am,’ Tarrian replied. ‘Your fear wakens fear in me like an echo. But that's all it is: an echo. Your fear is fear of many things. Fear of yourself, your weakness, the unknown depths inside you. Then there's fear of Menedrion, of the Duke, of your dead father's reproach, of my contempt…'
Antyr raised a hand to stop him. ‘And of the hooded figure with the lamp,’ he said.
'Yes,’ Tarrian replied. ‘Him certainly.'
'And what do I do with this grand chorus of fears?’ Antyr went on, his voice hardening.
Tarrian stared at him. A cold, grey, wolf's stare. ‘Live or die,’ he said simply.
'What the hell's that supposed to mean?’ Antyr's voice cracked into a squeak as his anger forced the question out.
'It means live or die,’ Tarrian repeated.
'You're not helping,’ Antyr said, dropping his head into his hands again.
Tarrian padded over to the window and jumped up to place his forepaws on the sill. ‘I can't,’ he said, peering curiously from side to side through the window. ‘Not yet. All this is from inside you. From somewhere deep in your human nature. I can feel your pain, but its cause is beyond anywhere I can reach. You'll have to deal with it yourself. All I can do is watch and be here. But what I said is true. You have to decide whether you want life or death. If death, then jump out of this window now, and I'll mourn you. If life, then don't, in which case your next decision is fight or surrender.'
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 inquired 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 tables.
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.
'You certainly seem to have a way with words,’ Antyr said.
'Well, I'm certainly having more success with the residents than you are,’ Tarrian replied. ‘You should learn how to explain yourself properly like I do.'
Antyr smiled. ‘I think you're probably right,’ he said. ‘But I doubt either the Duke or Menedrion would appreciate that kind of language. Not to mention Ciarll Feranc or even Aaken Uhr Candessa.'
'Talking of whom,’ Tarrian said, standing up. ‘We'd better find him and get all this sorted out. I wasn't being sarcastic when I said we might starve to death wandering about here.'
Antyr pushed his plate to one side and wiped his mouth. The food had made him feel more settled. He nodded in agreement with Tarrian's comment. They could blunder about the palace indefinitely, relying on chance and their wits to feed and house them unless they came to some clear arrangement with someone … somewhere …
A small spark of indignation flickered unexpectedly into life inside him. After all, they hadn't asked to come here. They had been sought out by the Duke himself-and his son-and escorted through the streets by no less a personage than Ciarll Feranc himself. They shouldn't have to be buffeted about by minor clerks and splashed by kitchen servants.
He stood up with great dignity and began walking towards the door. ‘You've got gravy on your chin,’ Tarrian said padding after him. Antyr glared down at him, and surreptitiously wiped his face.
Outside the refectory, however, Antyr's new-found purpose faltered. On arrival, he had been following Tarrian's accelerating hunt for food and he had scarcely noticed where he was. Now he found himself in a wide brightly lit corridor, lined, as seemed to be the case throughout the palace, with magnificent works of art: pictures, carvings, tapestries. Even the cornices around the ceiling were an example of the finest plasterers’ art with their elaborate interwoven patterns of branches and leaves housing strange birds and insects and occasional haunting faces.
And the lamps here don't smoke, he thought. Unexpectedly, he felt a twinge of homesickness for his own bare room with its cracked and stained walls.
Tarrian stood silent by his side until the moment passed.
'Where do we start?’ Antyr said, recovering.
At each end of the corridor there were large open spaces and it was intersected by at least three other corridors and a staircase. ‘I don't know,’ Tarrian said, in a mildly injured tone. ‘I can get us back to our rooms but even if I could remember Aaken's scent I couldn't find him in this lot.'
Antyr nodded. Obviously he should ask someone, but who? There were a great many people walking about, some in formal livery, some wearing what were obviously robes of office. He recognized palace messengers and Sened couriers, and there were a few black-gowned clerks, though they were more expensively dressed than those he had already encountered. Then there were various guards and servants, and a random assortment of what he would have classed as ordinary folk had it not been for their wealth being manifest in their clothing and their authority being manifest in their bearing.
Some were moving slowly in pairs and small groups, engaged in earnest conversations, some were striding out alone, others were fussing along busily bearing documents. But all were moving with confident and intimidating purposefulness.
Antyr stood motionless for a moment but no opportunity for a timely interruption seemed to present itself and the small flame of indignation guttered uncertainly as he began to feel profoundly conspicuous again.
'Ask one of the guards,’ both he and Tarrian said simultaneously.
Before they could begin to implement this decision, however, a commotion at one end of the corridor brought all activity to a halt and drew all eyes.
The cause soon became apparent as Menedrion strode round the corner flanked by a bustling assembly of guards, officials, scribes and young courtiers. He was talking loudly and, each time he paused, one of the satellites would detach itself from the mass and run off to execute some command.
'Go on,’ Tarrian urged, but Antyr hesitated as the group moved relentlessly towards them.
Tarrian sighed.
'Lord,’ he said distinctly into both Menedrion's and Antyr's minds as the Duke's son strode past.
Menedrion stopped abruptly and turned to Antyr.
'There, that wasn't difficult, was it?’ Tarrian said to Antyr. ‘Go on, ask him. And stand up straight, for pity's sake!'
Antyr, however, merely gaped as he found himself not only the focus of Menedrion s attention, but everyone else's as well.
'Your pardon, Lord. But your servant neglected to tell me…’ Tarrian prompted.
'Your pardon, Lord…’ Antyr said hesitantly. ‘But your servant neglected to tell me…'
'When I should attend on you…'
'When I should attend on you tonight … and where,’ he added finally in response to another nudge from Tarrian.
Menedrion gazed at him blankly for a moment, then, as he noted Tarrian, recognition dawned. For the briefest instant, panic flitted through his eyes, then anger and confusion.
'Stand up straight,’ Tarrian repeated. ‘And meet his gaze, politely.'
Antyr obeyed.
Menedrion's brief confusion ended in relief. ‘You won't be needed tonight,’ he said curtly.
Antyr looked concerned, but this was no place to remonstrate.
'Sir,’ someone said urgently, nodding significantly along the corridor. Menedrion raised an impatient hand and frowned.
'Report to my … private office tomorrow … afternoon,’ he said to Antyr. ‘I'll have decided what to do with you then.'
Antyr bowed then he gave Menedrion a significant look, as discreetly as he could. ‘May I leave the palace in the morning, sir?’ he asked. ‘I have matters to … research.'
Menedrion stopped and returned his gaze. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘Yes, you may.’ Then he was off again, towing his entourage after him. ‘But make sure you get everything you require. You'll need to be available to leave with my company the day after tomorrow.'
'Leave, sir?’ Antyr managed as the tide swept by him. ‘Company? Leave for where …?'
The question faded as Menedrion retreated but a passing figure said, ‘To the border. Escorting the envoy.'
Envoy? Antyr mouthed as the corridor began to revert back to its previous rhythm. ‘What's happening, Tarrian?'
Tarrian shook his head. ‘I don't eavesdrop, you know?’ he said, his tone mildly injured. ‘Except on business.'
'I know,’ Antyr said. ‘But I also know that some people shout a lot. What did you just pick up from that lot?'
'It's all jumble,’ Tarrian replied. ‘I've been getting whiffs of something all day, there's a lot of excitement washing about.’ He hesitated and his concern seeped through to Antyr.
'What is it?’ Antyr said.
'It's the Bethlarii, I'm afraid,’ Tarrian replied reluctantly. ‘Something about a Bethlarii envoy.’ He hesitated again. ‘And Menedrion's mind was full of images of war.'
Antyr went suddenly cold, and the splendour around him seemed to become just so much dross.
'You're not on the reserves now, are you?’ Tarrian asked gently.
'I'm well down the list,’ Antyr replied. ‘They'd be at the gates before my turn came, I think, but…'
'I understand,’ Tarrian said. ‘There are no words to measure the folly of it.’ He tried to offer a little solace. ‘Still I might be wrong,’ he said. ‘Menedrion's a wild man, and he's looking for something to take his mind off his real problem. And I wasn't really listening.'
Antyr reached down and stroked him. ‘Don't worry,’ he said needlessly. ‘I've no doubt we'll find out what we need to know in due course. In the meantime Menedrion's real problems are also our real problems and we'd better bend our mind to them. We'll have to find this Nyriall tomorrow and hope he can help us.'
'There's another problem now,’ Tarrian said.
Antyr looked at him inquiringly.
'We can't go anywhere with Menedrion,’ Tarrian answered. ‘The Duke told us not to leave the city.'
Antyr caught a glimpse of a worried-looking middle-aged man across the corridor. He was stooping slightly. With a jolt he realized it was himself reflected with fearful accuracy by an elegant silver-framed mirror.
'Not pretty, is it?’ Tarrian said. Antyr ignored the comment but straightened up, adjusted his robe, and smoothed down his hair.
'Well, we'd better go and speak to the Duke then, hadn't we?’ he said.