Arwain looked up into the grey sky, then down at the damp grey stones of the palace courtyard, then he yawned monstrously and with complete disregard for any propriety.
In answer to his father's question, could he get a platoon of his guards ready to ride to Whendrak first thing the following day, he had answered, ‘Probably.'
It had proved optimistic.
'Is it an emergency, sir?’ Ryllans had asked, when Arwain had entered his private quarters a little more unceremoniously than he had intended, and blurted out his instructions, rather than calmly issued his orders.
'No,’ Arwain conceded. ‘But it's urgent, and it is my father's express command.'
Ryllans nodded sagely, his expression gently nudging Arwain into a fuller explanation of the Duke's decision.
'First thing?’ he asked, when Arwain had finished.
'First thing,’ Arwain confirmed.
Ryllans blew out his cheeks.
'What's the problem?’ Arwain asked, his brow furrowing at this familiar display.
Ryllans stood up and looked around. ‘Where are my boots?’ he asked. He spoke the question largely to himself, but involuntarily Arwain found himself gazing round the room in search of them.
'There,’ he said irritably, pointing to the offending items, lying askew by the door, where they had obviously been kicked off. Ryllans’ gracious gesture of thanks reproached him for his impatience more than any words could have.
'Nothing insurmountable, sir,’ Ryllans said, answering the question as he picked up one of the boots and began pulling it on. ‘But we'll want our best men for that kind of a journey and they're all on different duties at the moment. Some just starting, some just finishing.’ He paused and looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘And I think some are taking rest days.'
Arwain nodded as he listened to this information, but his attention was taken totally by the way Ryllans, instead of sitting, was casually standing on one leg as he pulled on his boot. He did it calmly and quietly and without any staggering or wobbling.
Ryllans caught the look. ‘Balancing exercise,’ he said, answering the unspoken question. ‘Stability is everything.’ He placed his now booted foot very gently on to the floor and equally gently transferred his weight to it. ‘And sensitivity.’ Up came the other leg. ‘Training isn't just for the yard, and what we learn there isn't just for fighting.'
Arwain frowned a little. ‘I don't understand,’ he said.
Ryllans inclined his head. ‘It doesn't matter. You train diligently and you gain the attributes you need even though you're not aware of them.’ He smiled broadly and briefly took on his authority as Arwain's instructor. ‘But don't let me see you sitting down to put on your boots again-sir.'
Arwain looked at him narrowly. ‘And don't you distract me with your Mantynnai games, Ryllans,’ he said knowingly. ‘I didn't come here for training, and besides, I've no desire to become a stork. Come back to the point. What's the difficulty about getting the right men together for a patrol up to Whendrak tomorrow?'
'None, really, sir,’ Ryllans answered, lowering his other foot. ‘Though we'll have some sour faces to deal with. And purses to fill for the extra duty, and you know what Chancellor Aaken's like.’ He took down his jacket from a hook. ‘Also it'll be fairly hard riding to get there before nightfall and, with respect, I don't think it would be too wise to go thundering into Whendrak exhausted and covered in lather and sweat if there's likely to be any … problems … to be dealt with. If I have the duty guards relieved early, and we arrange to leave a little later, then they can get some rest and if we make a short camp tomorrow night we can ride in, slow and fresh, on the following morning. Perhaps pick up a little intelligence on the way.'
As usual, Ryllans’ advice was sound, and Arwain bowed to his judgement, though not without some scowling.
It was not, however, the minor logistical problems of gathering men and materials together that had protracted Arwain's preparations, though it had taken longer than he envisaged. It was Aaken's briefing on the diplomatic formalities of approaching this neutral city and its spiky, wilful people.
Now he was by Arwain's stirrup. ‘You're certain you have the procedures clear, Lord Arwain?’ he said. Arwain stifled another yawn and managed a polite answer to this further repetition of the question.
'Yes, Aaken,’ he replied. ‘And where some detail eludes me, I'll smile and crave their indulgence.’ He demonstrated by smiling down at the narrow, worried face of the Chancellor.
'Safe journey, Ibrisson,’ Aaken grunted by way of response. ‘Stay alert.'
Then Arwain signalled to Ryllans. The Mantynnai gave a soft-spoken order, and the platoon clattered forward across the courtyard and out through the wide gates. Aaken's worried look returned as the riders disappeared from view. He had never found it easy to let others do what he considered to be his work, especially young people.
'A failing,’ the Duke would reproach him. ‘The young take power if you don't give it to them. You should know that.’ And he would laugh. ‘We did.'
Aaken took such comments with an ill grace. ‘My head knows it, sire,’ then he would pat his stomach. ‘But my belly …?'
Still, he mused, turning away and walking up the broad steps that led back into the palace, the head was right and the belly did not object too strongly to remaining in the warm palace while others bounced in their saddles through the wintry chill.
Almost the exact thought was passing through Arwain's mind as he passed the Ibrian monument and set off down the long avenue that led from the palace square. The weather was cold and raw. Autumn becoming winter was not his favourite time of year; neither scented mists and dusty sunsets, nor sharp, ice-sparkling cold with the prospect of smothering snow and the glittering anticipation of the Winterfest at its heart.
A breeze started to blow, taunting him as it lowered the temperature even further. With a grimace he drew his cloak tighter about him then glanced at Ryllans. The Mantynnai too was adjusting his cloak, but he seemed to be largely impervious to the weather, riding now just as he would on a warm summer's day-relaxed and easy.
Arwain resolved to do the same. He did not pretend to understand all that the Mantynnai tried to teach him, but he had already learned that just copying them was often worthwhile.
Despite the fact that the places of power and gossip in the city were alive with talk about the Bethlarii envoy and his outrageous conduct, the appearance of a platoon of palace guards passing through the streets in casual, not to say ragged, formation, caused no great stir among those who saw it. Such comings and goings were unexceptional; there were always new recruits being taken out on training patrols, or groups going to relieve soldiers garrisoned out in Serenstad's dominion cities.
Their route out of the city took them down towards the river and through the busiest part of the Moras district. The press of people, riders, pack horses, and every conceivable type of cart and wagon, travelling in every direction, coupled with the efforts of the Way Liktors to control this disorderly throng at the many busy junctions along the way, reduced their progress to less than walking speed.
Ryllans turned to Arwain with a grin, after a while, and shrugged his shoulders. Then he let his reins fall and, sitting back, gently urged his horse on with his legs as opportunity permitted. Arwain looked skyward in reply. He really should speak to his father about these Way Liktors. Whenever they appeared to take up their duties at the busiest time of the day, they always seemed to bring the admittedly slow-moving traffic to a complete halt in every direction.
Still, he consoled himself, it would only be a few minutes’ delay, for all it felt like much more, and it would make no difference to the time when they would reach Whendrak. It was not as if he were expected.
'Ho, Ryllans.’ A voice reached him above the noise of the crowd as they waited. Arwain looked around but could not at first identify the caller. Then he caught sight of a man nearby, waving urgently. He was being escorted by two large Liktors. So apparently was his companion, a scruffy-looking individual with two large dogs.
One of the Liktors remonstrated with the man, who, after a brief debate, waved again to Ryllans, beckoning him forward.
Ryllans turned to Arwain. ‘It's Estaan,’ he said. ‘He seems to be having some problem with the Liktors, may I …?'
Arwain signalled his agreement before the request was made. Briefly, Ryllans tried to turn his horse towards the beleaguered Estaan, then he gave up and dismounted.
Arwain watched Ryllans’ rolling gait and gently sweeping arms carry him as smoothly through the press as if he were swimming in a calm lake. Making landfall, as it were, at his destination, there was some explanation from Estaan followed by a debate with the Liktors, during which Ryllans appeared to be vouching for Estaan, opening his cloak to reveal his field uniform and insignia, and discreetly pointing back to Arwain once or twice.
There was some earnest pouting and brow-furrowing by the Liktors, but seemingly Ryllans succeeded in his plea as the two eventually nodded to him and, after turning and saluting to Arwain, allowed themselves to be drawn into the crowd again.
Arwain smiled slightly. Though not a talkative person, Ryllans could be most persuasive when the need arose. He did not, however, immediately start the journey back to his horse again, for Estaan took hold of him vigorously by the arms and began speaking to him with some passion.
Despite himself Arwain leaned forward as if he might hear the conversation over the din of the traffic. It was, of course, impossible, but he found it difficult to draw his attention away. He knew Estaan by sight, but had never spoken to him and had no idea how the man normally behaved. Perhaps he always gesticulated and spoke with such fervour. Perhaps not all the Mantynnai were quiet and restrained. But he knew Ryllans, and it was his response that reached to him over the heads of the crowd more eloquently than any speech. He started back from Estaan, and even at this distance, Arwain could see that his face was shocked.
He wiped his hand first across his forehead and then across his mouth. Fear! Arwain read. Fear! What words could have frightened Ryllans into such a public display, such a lapse of control?
Arwain looked at Estaan's companion, the man with the two dogs. He was standing motionless, looking puzzled. And there was something strange about his eyes.
Then Ryllans was returning and Estaan and his companion were making their way through the crowd again. Arwain watched Ryllans as he drew nearer. His eyes were wide and preoccupied giving him an expression that Arwain had never seen before, nor thought to see ever, and his progress through the crowd was rough and awkward. Something had unsettled him profoundly.
'What's the matter?’ he asked urgently as Ryllans reached him.
The Mantynnai looked at Arwain blankly for a moment before recognition came into his eyes. ‘I'm sorry, sir,’ he began, flustered, almost. ‘May I …?’ He drifted off again briefly. ‘May I speak to … my men.'
'Yes, of course,’ Arwain replied, resisting the strong temptation to repeat his question.
Then, still on foot, Ryllans was talking to his men-not the entire platoon, but his men: the Mantynnai.
Reading Ryllans response as Arwain had, the Mantynnai had surreptitiously gathered together and they bent low in their saddles to hear his message.
Arwain listened shamelessly, but it was to no avail. Ryllans was talking in what was presumably the Mantynnai's native language. It dawned on Arwain that he had never heard it before; not even when he had come upon groups of them unawares when they might reasonably have been expected to be speaking in their own language.
And it was beautiful and resonant, like something that might have come out of an ancient saga. But even to Arwain's ears there was an occasional harshness rasping through it, and its effect on Ryllans’ listeners was dramatic. Without exception, the men stared at him with expressions of disbelief and denial; all composure gone, making them very ordinary men. One or two of them made a brief circling hand movement over their hearts which was obviously reflexive, while others went pale and muttered to themselves.
There was a brief attempt at debate by some of them, but Ryllans cut it dead with a few terse phrases and, as he returned to his horse, the quiet stillness of the men descended over them, though to Arwain it was now not an outward manifestation of some inner resource, but a shield behind which they were withdrawing in the face of some fearful attack.
'What's happened?’ Arwain demanded, Ibris's son now, and shaken by the response of the Mantynnai.
Before Ryllans could reply however, the traffic started to move forward again and there were some cries of abuse from the riders and carts behind them.
Uncharacteristically, Ryllans turned round and abused the abusers before clicking his horse forward. It was an action that gave Arwain a further measure of the man's turmoil.
'What's happened?’ he asked again as the platoon began to move off, though this time his voice was concerned rather than commanding.
Ryllans’ face was grim and he stared resolutely forward in silence for some time. Arwain sensed that he was debating what to say, perhaps even whether to lie or not, and he knew that, whatever he was told, he had no way of judging its truth. He reached out and laid a hand on Ryllans’ arm, the hand of a friend.
'The truth will probably be the wisest and safest,’ he said. ‘If it's frightened you then it's dangerous. But if it offers no threat to this city or this land then keep your peace and I'll not press you, though I'll listen if talking about it will ease your burden. But if it does offer a threat, then the more we know about it the better we'll be protected.'
Ryllans glanced at him, his face riven with regret. ‘I doubt there's any true protection against this,’ he said. ‘We'd thought it … long dead.'
Despite himself, Arwain turned away from the pain in his face. He looked up at the untidy, hectic buildings of the Moras that lined their route. A patchwork of windows, gantry hatches, chains and ropes, large signs, small signs, painted signs, carved signs, all manner of commercial paraphernalia carried his eyes up to the jumbled clutter of uneven gables and eaves that fringed the skyline. Pock marks of decay and neglect, patched repairs and bright paintwork jostled for his attention.
Here and there, carved gargoyles gazed down unblinkingly with squint-eyed indifference on the shuffling stream of human endeavour below.
Nothing offered him release from Ryllans’ pain however, and he turned back to him again.
Ryllans was looking round at his companions. Abruptly he seemed to come to a decision.
'Estaan's been escorting your father's Dream Finder on some errand,’ he began, without preamble
'Dream Finder!’ Arwain exclaimed. ‘My father?'
Ryllans waved a disclaimer. ‘I know no more than that,’ he said hastily. ‘Your father's Dream Finder.'
Arwain gave a slight, resigned shrug.
'They went to see a … colleague … of the Dream Finder for some reason,’ Ryllans went on. ‘But apparently the old man was dead when they arrived and in trying to help him, this Dream Finder … released … found … something…’ He stopped, seemingly unable to continue.
'Something you'd thought long dead,’ Arwain offered, using Ryllans’ own words.
Ryllans nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘Long dead. Well dead.’ He put his hands to his eyes and blew out a long, trembling breath.
'What in pity's name was it?’ Arwain said urgently but softly.
Ryllans, however, shook his head. ‘The tale's not mine to tell,’ he said.
'But…'
Ryllans continued shaking his head. ‘I'm sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘I shouldn't have mentioned it.’ He affected a casualness that was patently false. ‘Possibly Estaan was distraught. Misunderstood something. Dream Finding's an odd business by all accounts, and not one most of us are familiar with.'
Arwain's eyes narrowed. ‘Don't trifle with me, Ryllans,’ he said angrily. ‘Either as your pupil or your Lord. You insult me and demean yourself. Mantynnai don't go faint at the sight of a dead man. Tell me the truth. If there's a danger here, we need to know. Perhaps the army may need to be mobilized and prepared. Weapons forged, horses and wagons…'
He stopped as Ryllans turned towards him, his presence stern and hard. ‘An army will be of no avail,’ he said categorically. ‘Vaster and finer armies than any this land could muster have trembled before the presence of this … power.’ Seeing the effect of his words however, he held up a reassuring hand. ‘Have no fear though,’ he said. ‘We've learned. We'll know if it's truly here. It uses men. We'll feel it this time before it grows and takes root, and if we can't tear it out, then…’ He hesitated and took a deep breath. ‘We'll find those who can.'
Arwain frowned and made as if to speak.
'Truly, I can tell you no more,’ Ryllans said quickly but politely, and with almost a plea in his voice. ‘And if we fret about this strange … perception … of Estaan's when we should be thinking about the Whendreachi and the Bethlarii, then we might find ourselves walking into more real trouble than we can handle before this journey's out.'
Arwain looked at him earnestly for a moment, then nodded. ‘You're right,’ he said acknowledging both the plea and Ryllans’ unassailable defences. ‘But school yourself to the idea of discussing this further when we get back from Whendrak.'
Ryllans looked at him enigmatically.
'I'd be a poor pupil if I asked less of you, wouldn't I?’ Arwain said.
Ryllans bowed.
And I'll find out about my father using a Dream Finder, too, Arwain resolved.
They rode on in silence through the rest of the Moras district until they passed through the main western gate to the city and found themselves on the crowded and bustling waterfront of Serenstad's harbour: a man-made extension to a natural lake, with rows of green-stained groynes and causeways jutting out into it to provide the moorage that the city's trade needed.
Ships and barges were being loaded and unloaded. Wagons, pack horses, people, were arriving, leaving, queuing, wandering lost, and the air was full of voices: crying orders, shouting abuse, making bargains, singing even, the whole shot through with the clatter of horses’ hooves and iron wheels on stones, rattling chains, creaking beams and pulleys, and occasional anonymous thuds and crashes.
It was colder here than in the crowded streets, and Arwain felt the open aspect and the energy of the place washing away the lingering concern he had about Ryllans’ unusual behaviour.
Vaster and finer armies, he thought with some amusement. What peoples, what power, could bring to the field anything finer than the army of Serenstad? Or for that matter, Bethlar? The discipline and skill of such forces could overcome any foe should need arise.
The last darkness fell from him and he breathed in the cold river air and patted his horse encouragingly. Ryllans caught his eye and smiled slightly.
At the north end of the harbour was the largest of the bridges that served the city. A dozen or so arching, elaborately carved, masonry spans came from each shore and culminated in a soaring latticework of iron and timber, to carry a wide road high over the river. It was a matter of considerable pride to Ibris that this bridge had been built in his time and at his behest to replace its crumbling and dangerous predecessor. It was a matter of considerable pride to Menedrion that his forges and workshops had formed much of the iron.
With its building, yet more trade had come to the city and, like the harbour and the Moras, it was invariably crowded with all manner of traffic.
Thus when the riders turned on to it they were still obliged to move at the same leisurely pace they had been maintaining through the latter part of their journey.
When they were about halfway across, Arwain paused for a moment to look out over the busy harbour with its boats and ships plying to and fro through the cold grey water. From there, his eyes rose inevitably to the city, its rooftops and towers and spires rising above the wall and the ragged confusion of the Moras, and then disappearing up into the soft mist that clung to the sides of the valley.
Thousands of people beyond his sight would be pursuing their untidy, everyday lives there, carrying their myriad, personal, grumbling burdens, be they real or imaginary. And while many would deny that they achieved a great deal with their day's toil, the city slowly became more beautiful, lives slowly became more easy. Greater happiness and contentment were approached.
And, Arwain mused, his actions now, his awareness, his touch on affairs, might help draw these souls out into bloody and fearful conflict. There would be progress there too. Into his mind came the picture of his wife, smiling to hide her concern as she kissed him at their parting scarcely an hour before. The memory hurt him.
'It's only for a couple of days…'
'Take care, my love…'
But the progress that grew from conflict was the progress of grim necessity, of men struggling to climb out of the mire that their darker nature and foolishness had led them into. There were better ways by far.
Arwain realized that he was resting his hand on his sword hilt. A grim paradox. Without the sword, Serenstad, its peoples, its buildings, its questing knowledge, would fall, beyond a doubt, just as would any man unarmed among villains. Yet, having it, did it not draw forth the swords of others?
He made no attempt to answer the question. He had tried before, walking over victorious battle fields, amid the bodies of friends and enemies alike. Seeing ghastly wounds, trampled faces, strewn entrails being squabbled over by carrion. Listening to terrible sounds; some, high, shrieking; others, soft, nauseating. And then there was the awful dispatching of the too grievously hurt …
And in his exhilaration, he had wrought such horror himself with triumphant relish.
There were better ways by far, indeed. And whatever the answer to the question, if answer there was, it was part of his lot to have both the knowledge of his sword and the knowledge of those ways. One could not be found without the other, nor could anything survive without both. That much he had learned.
Gently he pulled his horse's head about and clicked it forward. He was aware of the platoon moving after him, but as he looked into the throng ahead, two approaching figures caught his attention.
Why they should have, he could not say. They were just two riders among many and they were making no special stir in their progress.
As they drew nearer he watched them carefully, puzzled at what impulse might have drawn his eye to them. Certainly there was nothing immediately apparent. They were bare-headed and wearing simple, unostentatious riding cloaks, though, he noted, these seemed to be of a high quality and a slightly unusual cut. And they rode well; very relaxed and easy in their manner; even more so than the Mantynnai perhaps.
And their horses were magnificent, he noted, as the animals too came more clearly into view. Then he became aware that the two men had also attracted the attention of Ryllans.
'Fine horses,’ he said.
Ryllans started, almost violently. ‘Y-yes,’ he stammered. Arwain stared at him. His face was even more alarmed than when he had spoken to Estaan.
'What's the matter?’ Arwain asked urgently.
'Nothing,’ Ryllans said quickly. ‘I thought it was someone I once knew, but … it wasn't.'
He was lying, Arwain knew, but he knew also that having taken the trouble to lie so readily, Ryllans would not part with the truth until he was ready, no matter what demands were made of him.
The two men were alongside. Still for no reason that he could see, their fine horses notwithstanding, they made an impression on Arwain. One of them turned towards him and, catching his eye, gave a slight nod of acknowledgement at this seemingly inadvertent happening. Then his gaze turned to Ryllans, who was looking wilfully forward. There was inquiry in the stranger's eyes, and a brief touch on his partner's arm.
Discreetly, Arwain watched the two men as they passed by the platoon. They seemed to be looking at the guards with open but casual interest.
Foreigners, he surmised. Curious to look at our famous soldiers. But the conclusion was unsatisfactory. He turned in his saddle and peered after them. They were talking to one another and pointing towards the city. Foreigners, definitely, Arwain decided. But as he turned back, he caught a ripple of unease among the guards. No; among the Mantynnai. It was gone before he could truly register it.
Something stirred within him. He had the feeling of events moving that he could not identify. Ryllans visibly shaken by a few brief words from one of his own, then deliberately lying about the two strangers; two strangers who also provoked some response from the other Mantynnai.
It could only be something from the past of these men, these still, watching, men.
With an effort he set the ill-formed questions aside. Ryllans’ earlier remarks were still pertinent. They were on a delicate, perhaps dangerous mission to Whendrak. Whatever lay in the past lay in the past. The present was all that mattered now. And if that were fouled, then the future might be truly grim.
Still …?
He cast another quick glance backwards, but the two men were out of sight amid the swaying wagons and the bobbing heads of other travellers on the bridge.
'Trot!'
They had reached the end of the bridge and the congestion was easing as the traffic spread out like a river delta, each strand going its separate way out into the widespread dominions of Serenstad.
Ryllans’ command brought Arwain to the present again and in line of column, the platoon set off along the road to Whendrak.