Aaken Uhr Candessa, once humble Aaken Candes, sheep-herder, mercenary, shield-bearer and successful conspirator, now chancellor to the Duke Ibris, stood fretfully by as his erstwhile co-conspirator and now master paced to and fro.
The room was lit by only three lamps, and though they were bright they reflected the Duke's mood and cast more darkness than they did light: the lavish paintings around the walls had become like black night-watching windows, and the faces of the many carved figures that graced the room were prematurely aged in their motionless vigils by shadow-etched lines.
Only the armour and the weapons responded to the lamps, glittering watchfully as if lit by the light of some blazing enemy camp.
'Sire…’ Aaken ventured.
The Duke waved him silent and continued his pacing. Aaken surreptitiously shifted his weight from one foot to another and resigned himself to not returning to his bed for some considerable time that night-if at all.
The Duke might be four years his senior but in his many appetites and strengths he could have been ten years his junior, and he was more than capable of pacing the floor all night in pursuit of some unspoken problem without saying a word until the palace began to rouse itself the next day.
Aaken began to fidget with his sparse grey beard.
Abruptly the Duke stopped in front of a small statuette. It was a warrior crouching forward behind his shield and preparing to thrust with his spear. As was the current fashion, his eyes had neither iris nor pupil, giving him a cold and deathly gaze, yet the work was alive with the desperate and immediate passions of the fighting man.
Duke Ibris was a ruthless and cruel man when the needs of his office required, but he was also a man of fine discernment who cherished all manner of beautiful and well crafted things. Thus, despite his fearsome reputation among his enemies, many artists and craftsmen flourished under his patronage and, in turn, both his palace and his city flourished under their many talents.
'I will make Serenstad a city so dazzling that the whole universe will be drawn to it,’ he had once said, at the same time resting his hand on his sword hilt.
He reached up and touched the statuette. ‘Buonardi's work is magnificent,’ he said, without turning. ‘So vivid. He trained with the Mantynnai, didn't he?'
Aaken nodded. ‘Yes, sire. He left them just before the siege of Viernce, I believe. It seems he's as fine a judge of events as he is a sculptor.'
The Duke turned to look at him. ‘Or lucky,’ he retorted, recommencing his pacing.
Aaken shrugged a little and risked a smile. ‘An essential attribute in a soldier,’ he said.
The remark, however, did not seem to impinge on the Duke who was once more engrossed in the concern that had brought him from his bed.
'How long is it since Feranc left?’ he said, stopping and looking at his chancellor again.
Aaken retrieved an ungainly timepiece from his robe and manoeuvred it until some of the room's light fell on it.
'Almost an hour, sire,’ he said. ‘But the city's choked with fog and we've no guarantee that this … Antyr … will be at his home, or even indeed if he still lives in that district.'
The Duke scowled.
'Feranc will find him if he's in the city,’ Aaken added reassuringly. ‘You know that. But it may take some time. Is this matter truly urgent?'
The Duke did not answer immediately but scratched his stubbled chin pensively. ‘I don't know,’ he said hesitantly after a moment. ‘But I fear so.'
Involuntarily, Aaken's eyes flicked quickly from side to side, to see if any servants might have witnessed this uncharacteristic uncertainty in their lord. All this nocturnal activity was enough in itself to fuel a dozen rumours which could swirl into as many plots and conspiracies, or cause alarm, even panic, among the city's merchants. If such rumours were to be laced with some sign of weakness on the Duke's part then who knew what consequences might come to pass?
But even as he peered into the shadows, Aaken knew that his action was merely one of habit. He knew that the room was empty save for himself and Ibris. The Duke above all was aware of the need to guard against ill-considered utterances.
'You fear so?’ Aaken echoed. He risked a battlefield familiarity on the strength of the confidence that this remark implied. ‘Ibris, what's happened?’ he said. ‘There've been no messengers tonight have there? I've not seen you so agitated for years. Even in wartime…’ He paused, becoming agitated himself at the direction of his own remarks. ‘You haven't caught wind of a Bethlarii attack have you? Or one of our border cities seceding?'
The Duke shook his head absently. No, Aaken thought, Serenstad had never been stronger, both militarily and economically. In any event, had news come of an unexpected defection of one of their subject cities then it would have been a foolish servant who disturbed the Duke's sleep to tell him. And as for a Bethlarii attack after all this time, the Duke would have been mobilizing the army, not pacing anxiously to and fro.
Receiving no rebuff, Aaken pressed on to the point that most concerned him. ‘And why a Dream Finder, sire?’ he asked, lowering his voice. ‘They were much respected when we were young, but this is a different age. Superstitions wane in the light of reason and civilization…'
The Duke held up his hand to end the questions. ‘Sit down, Aaken, you look tired,’ he said as if only now aware of his chancellor's presence.
Aaken bowed and lowered himself stiffly into a nearby chair. The Duke watched him and smiled slightly. ‘You look older than me, old friend,’ he said. ‘I always said you were too anxious to get out of the saddle and into a chair. Now see what it's done for you. You creak like a galleon in a wind.'
Then his smile faded, unable to sustain itself against his darker thoughts. ‘And you were ever without faith,’ he concluded softly, his manner preoccupied again.
Aaken almost started at the word, faith. Ye gods, it's something religious, he thought. His mind raced and he bowed his head. He must keep his feelings hidden and be more circumspect than ever in his questioning if that were the case.
Ibris's remark was quite true. Aaken had no faith, least of all in the preposterous and vast pantheon of gods that were called upon from time to time by the peoples of the cities. Like most practical, rational men of this age, he believed that chance and the wit to respond to its vagaries shaped his destiny, and certainly he feared his fellows far more than he feared any deity. But religion was a potent and dangerous force; one which had brought chaos to the streets, and dreadful, savage armies to the field within his own memory. And one which the Duke never ignored or treated lightly, although he never hesitated to use it for his own highly secular ends.
Yet, despite his own seeming cynicism, Ibris would brook neither mockery nor intolerance of religion, and indeed he carried within him some belief of his own, some strange, deep silence which over the years Aaken had learned to avoid as he might avoid the lair of a dangerous animal.
He had seen many leaders of men in his time and had truly understood none of them. Suffice it that he knew that the Duke was the man to rule Serenstad. What inner forces made him so were of no concern … at least while they remained hidden and thus unassailable, he had concluded.
As Aaken gradually recovered from the initial alarm that the Duke's remark had caused, his curiosity and concern rose to dominate again. There had been no recent unrest, religious or otherwise, in the city, not even in the Moras district. Nor had there been news or even rumours of some new ‘Messenger of God’ causing problems elsewhere in the land. He risked his question again.
'Sire, what's happened?’ he asked. ‘And what's my faith, or lack of it, got to do with it? Dukes pace the floor at night and call their creaking chancellors from their beds to solve urgent political problems, not to debate philosophy. And Dream Finders…’ He allowed himself a modest sneer. ‘Are for quietening the overheated imaginations of rich and idle women.'
Ibris raised his eyebrows and a faint smile appeared again, albeit briefly. ‘I'd forgotten how petulant you could be when your sleep was disturbed, Aaken,’ he said. ‘But bear with me in this and stay silent for the moment. Help me wait. Soon you'll know all that I know.'
Help me wait! A warrior's plea, it could not be denied. Aaken blew out a short breath of surrender and acquiescence and sank back into his chair. The Duke seemed to consider his own request for a moment, and then he too sat down. Choosing a long, winged couch, he threw one leg along it casually, draped his arms along the back and one side and leaned his head back so that he was staring up at the dimly lit ceiling high above.
The two men became as motionless as the watching statues, and the night's silence slowly returned to the room. The soft hiss of the lamps served only to deepen it.
Antyr drew his cloak about him and pulled his hood forward. From its confines he cast a surreptitious glance at the leader of his escort. On two occasions, as was the duty of all the male citizens of Serenstad, Antyr had served with the army in defending the city's increasingly widespread domain, and although he was no expert in military hierarchies, he had the foot-soldier's pride that he could smell a senior officer at fifty paces: and this was indisputably one. His latest examination, however, yielded no more than his previous attempts. The man was half a head taller than he was, though he seemed more, holding himself very straight as he walked, yet without the rigidity that Antyr associated with the officers of the palace guard.
'You're slouching, as well.’ Tarrian's acid comment entered his head, and he straightened up in an involuntary response.
An indignant reply began to form in his mind, but he dismissed it. Tarrian was preparing himself and Antyr knew better than to try verbal knocks with his Companion as the wolf's ancient hunting instinct rose up to join his incisive intellect in readiness for the search.
Then Tarrian was ready and, for a moment, Antyr found himself looking through the wolf's eyes and rebelling at the assault of the smoke-laden fog on the wolf's keen sense of smell. More pleasantly he felt also the strange, deeply balanced movement of his four-legged gait. Despite the disturbing implications of the fact that he was being escorted through the city in the middle of the night by palace guards and someone from the Duke's own bodyguard, he was amused by Tarrian's underlying vexation at the slowness of the pace of these ungainly long-legged creatures towering around him.
Antyr stumbled slightly as Tarrian returned his mind to its own body, and a powerful hand caught his arm. ‘Sorry,’ came the thought from Tarrian. ‘Never could manage the way you walk.'
'Are you all right?’ The officer's voice seemed loud and raucous in Antyr's ear after the subtle nuances of his thought conversation with Tarrian. But though it was authoritative, it was leavened with some genuine concern. It was the first time the man had spoken since they had left the Dream Finder's house apart from answering Antyr's initial surge of questions with a polite, ‘In due course.'
Antyr nodded. ‘Just cold and a little tired, thank you … sir,’ Antyr replied. The man nodded and released his arm, but did not speak again. The pressure of the man's grip seemed to linger for a little while and Antyr felt a small but uneasy swirl of emotions eddy through him. The hand had sustained and, for whatever reason, cared for him. It was a long time since anyone had touched him thus. Yet that same hand, with that same purposefulness, would surely have killed men in the past as its owner had made his way through the wars and through the sometimes bloody labyrinth of city and palace politics to serve with the Duke's bodyguard.
Antyr felt an unexpected surge of approval from Tarrian at this insight.
Tentatively, Antyr tried again to reach this hooded guardian. ‘I hadn't expected to be out in this filth again tonight,’ he began. ‘I haven't seen it so bad since…’ But the attempt faded into nothingness as he felt it rebound off the man's indifference.
This time it was dark amusement from Tarrian. ‘I told you before, you weasel,’ he said. ‘He's a pack leader. He won't deal with the runts of the litter except to tell them what to do.'
From the shade of his hood Antyr gave his Companion a malevolent look.
'Forgive me if I don't share your levity about this, Tarrian,’ he said. ‘But these are palace guards escorting us, and this “pack leader” is one of Ibris's personal bodyguard.’ Fear churned inside him again. ‘We could be heading for one of the palace dungeons for all we know.'
Tarrian replied as if to an exasperating child. ‘What for?’ he said wearily. ‘Personally I'd lock you up for the crimes you've committed against yourself, but you've certainly not committed any against city law. And since when do Ibris's personal officers do the Watch's work? This is business, that's all, I can feel it in my fur. It'll be some important courtier's wife…’ His tone became ironic. ‘Seeing “great horrors ahead” for the … city … the land … the whole world. A routine nightmare, nothing more.’ He paused. ‘But there should be a good fee in it-and good contacts if you shape yourself.'
Antyr frowned. ‘Minutes ago you were reproaching me for thinking like that,’ he said.
There was no immediate rejoinder. Instead there was an untypical and awkward silence, then, ‘We've still got to eat, Antyr.'
But behind the words was something else. A fear-a great fear.
'You're hiding something.’ So vivid was the alarm that had suddenly slipped from the wolf's control and bubbled up into his mind, that Antyr almost spoke the words aloud, and again his step faltered. He felt the officer's gaze turning towards him. ‘We're just preparing ourselves,’ he said with an authoritative gesture. Both voice and gesture were harsher than he had intended and he winced inwardly at his folly in behaving thus to such a man, but the officer simply turned away without seeming to take offence.
Silence hung in the minds of the Dream Finder and his Companion, while around them the rhythmic tread of the marching guards and the fluttering hiss of their torches echoed flatly through the fog.
Antyr felt Tarrian wilfully recover himself and the fear was taken from him. ‘What was that?’ he demanded urgently.
Silence.
'Tarrian!’ He shouted into the wolf's mind.
'Nothing!’ Tarrian snapped back angrily. ‘At least nothing that concerns us here.'
'That's not good enough, for pity's sake,’ Antyr said. ‘You said yourself we're probably going on a search…'
'I know where we're going, and there's nothing that concerns us here. Trust me.’ Despite the last words however, Tarrian's interruption was almost ferocious and, echoing his inner speech, his lip curled back and a deep menacing growl came from his throat.
The officer looked down at him sharply and then at Antyr, his hand moving discreetly but ominously into his cloak. Antyr returned the unseen gaze and tried to repair any damage his earlier hastiness might have done. ‘It's all right, sir,’ he said, raising his hand reassuringly this time. ‘He means no harm. He just doesn't like the fog. The scents upset him.'
At the same time he replied to Tarrian, ‘All right, all right. Calm down. You forget how nervous you can make people. I'll trust you-not that I've any alternative at the moment. But I didn't like the feel of that and I want to know what it is you're keeping to yourself. I don't…'
Tarrian interrupted him again, though now his voice was calm and controlled. ‘I'm sorry, Antyr,’ he said. ‘It was a slip on my part. We'll talk later … I promise.'
'But…’ Antyr began.
An order from one of the guards cut across his doubts and made him look up. Preoccupied with his inner debate with Tarrian, and content to be swept along by his escort, he had not paid any attention to where they were walking. Gazing around, he saw that there were now many more street torches. Some were isolated and brilliant, others formed ordered lines that curved away from him in all directions. There was something familiar in the pattern, but seeing the lights hovering seemingly unsupported in the fog disorientated him for a moment.
'It's the palace square,’ Tarrian said.
'I know, I know,’ Antyr lied irritably. ‘I'm not that addled.'
A scornful silence rose up from the wolf.
As the group strode purposefully across the square, the torches that decorated the surrounding buildings with their balconies and high, winding walkways faded into sullen dots, while overhead, several lines of torches began to converge.
They would meet, Antyr knew, at the top of the spectacular Ibrian Monument, a legacy from an earlier Duke Ibris who had had it built following a great victory by a then much frailer Serenstad over a numerically far superior alliance of other cities, if cities they could have been called in those distant days. Now, however, the horrors surrounding its origins had long been softened by time, and the monument was regarded with amused affection by those citizens of Serenstad who ever gave it a moment's thought. Current critical opinion-though not that of artists and craftsmen-patronized it witheringly.
Sure enough, as the converging lines of torches faded into the gloom overhead, there appeared ahead of the advancing group those torches that decorated the monument itself. By their light, Antyr could just make out the lower tiers of the monument; close-packed ranks of ferocious infantrymen brandishing their heavy-bladed pikes. It should have been a familiar sight, but looming out of the swirling, ill-lit fog, the motionless stone figures looked like some grim ambush and Antyr felt a brief shiver of alarm. Worse, he realized abruptly the alarm was not his, but Tarrian's. He glanced down at the wolf, but the moment was gone and Tarrian's resolute control forbade any questioning.
Then they were at the palace, its great double-leaved gate emerging from the fog to greet them. The massive close-timbered body of the gate was secure behind an ornate iron facing, brutally decorated with great spikes and bolt heads. At the centre of each leaf, lit by large, flickering torches, was a carved relief of the Duke's insignia, the lamb in the talons of an eagle. The carving was traditional and cruelly realistic, but no one commented on the merits of this particular piece of work.
In the unsteady torchlight, the insignia seemed more alive than ever, and Antyr looked at the terrified lamb nervously. Abruptly, however, his concern vanished and, for an instant, he found himself looking up at the lamb though Tarrian's eyes and savouring the warm taste of freshly hunted quarry.
'Sorry,’ came Tarrian's hasty and sincere apology before Antyr could rebel against this unexpected and unwelcome intrusion.
Returned to his own mind again, Antyr looked up at the gates expecting them to swing open. Instead a small wicket door opened anti-climactically and the officer, with Antyr and Tarrian following, strode through without even pausing. Behind them, the escort broke formation and lowered their pikes to follow in their turn. Glancing over his shoulder to watch them as they came into the brightly lit courtyard, it seemed to Antyr for a moment that the ancient stone figures from the monument were pursuing him.
The officer paused while the escort reformed itself into two straight lines and came to attention. Antyr gazed about him, momentarily a forgotten spectator. Never in his life had he been on this side of those great gates, though from the square outside he had many times glimpsed the courtyard. Now, however, even this was as he had never seen it, for it was so ablaze with torches that their very heat seemed to be dispersing the fog.
'Come with me.'
Antyr started out of his reverie. It was the officer again; his voice still quiet but, like his entire demeanour, radiating unopposable authority. Antyr turned away from the silent ranks of the escort and followed the cloaked figure as it strode up a wide flight of stairs.
As they neared the top, a door opened and, as at the wicket gate, the man passed through without even having to break his step. Antyr noted a servant behind the door as he followed the man, but this did nothing to assuage the feeling he had that the door would have opened at the inexorable approach of this figure without any human aid.
After the brightness of the courtyard, the interior of the palace seemed quite dark and Antyr hesitated until his eyes adjusted. The warmth of the place, however, washed over him luxuriously and, with some relief, he threw back his hood. The officer did the same, then he swung off his cloak and threw it over his arm. The quality of his livery alone confirmed Antyr's guess about the man's status as an officer in the Duke's bodyguard, though he had no idea what the various symbols of rank meant. As he took in the man's appearance, Antyr's eyes were drawn to his sword and dagger. The hilts of both were finely decorated, but worn with use.
Then the man looked at him. Antyr judged him to be a few years his junior, though his striking angular face was pale and drawn from the cold. Beads of moisture in his short black hair sparkled in the lamplight like inappropriate ornaments.
Brown eyes that in a woman Antyr would have been glad to gaze into, scanned him coldly, critically, and without faltering. That too told him much about the man, for few could look easily into the eyes of a Dream Finder who was one with his Companion. Antyr felt his stomach go cold and he remembered his earlier thought about this man's probable history. ‘Be afraid,’ said the man's gaze.
'Don't be afraid,’ said his voice in contradiction. ‘The Duke asked me to bring you to him…'
The Duke? The word thundered in Antyr's ears and he did not hear the end of the sentence. His eyes widened and, despite himself, he drew in a sharp breath and held it. His mouth began to go dry.
'Duke Ibris?’ he managed shakily after a moment.
A faint hint of amusement lit the searching brown eyes and the set mouth pursed a little. ‘How many dukes do we have in Serenstad, Dream Finder?’ he asked rhetorically, running a hand over his damp hair.
Antyr replied with some vague, silent mouthings. ‘The Duke!’ he gasped inwardly to Tarrian. The wolf made no reply, but Antyr felt him alert and watching.
'I'm going to take you to him now,’ the officer continued, his voice commanding attention through Antyr's confusion. ‘Just bow when you meet him, then stand up straight, speak when you're spoken to and answer quickly, honestly and straightforwardly. The Duke's hard on fools and ditherers.'
'But …?’ Antyr began.
The officer waved him to silence and motioned him to follow.
'I really should … clean myself up,’ Antyr stammered as he trotted after the retreating figure.
There was no reply however, and it came to Antyr, as vividly as if it had been bellowed out loud, that had his appearance been important it would have been corrected by now. As it hadn't then it was not important and no answer was warranted. The man's manner told him this, without a word being spoken.
From his past came long-forgotten memories of men he had met on occasions during his army service. Men who seemed to see through to a truer, more basic reality in whatever they looked at. Men who acted without hesitation but with a strange economy of effort and totality of purpose. Men who were perhaps not always comfortable to be with, but with whom he was profoundly relieved to lock shields when the arrows and spears were flying. This man was one such, beyond a doubt.
And the wolf had called him a pack leader, he remembered. Then he noticed that Tarrian was trotting by the side of the officer and a small spur of pride goaded him forward to join them.
As he followed the man's easy stride, he tried to make a note of the route they were travelling, but after some three changes of direction, he gave up. In any event his impending meeting with the Duke, and whatever that might imply, was looming across his future like a dark and unclimbable rock-face and he could no more think beyond it than fly.
Despite this however, and despite the low night-time lamplight illuminating the tall vaulted corridors through which they were passing, Antyr found himself gazing around in some awe. Apart from the architecture itself, the walls were lined with pictures and carvings of extraordinary quality. He knew that the Duke was a patron of many artists and craftsmen, but had never before thought about the extent of this patronage.
'This is overwhelming,’ he said softly, largely to himself. Again the man did not reply, but he inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement of the remark.
The corridors were largely deserted, but the occasional servant they passed would stop and bow to the officer, and sentries stiffened at their posts.
Eventually the pace slowed a little and the elaborate tiled floor gave way to a soft, patterned carpeting. Apart from other, more subtle changes in the decoration, the muffling of their marching footsteps in itself made the atmosphere more intimate, and Antyr's stomach began to churn painfully as he realized he must be in or near the Duke's private quarters. He licked his lips uneasily, but his mouth was dry.
No more ale in future, he thought piteously, wincing a little as the word ‘future’ seemed to mock him.
'Be calm,’ Tarrian offered gently, but to little avail.
Then they stopped. Outside an imposing double door set inside a deep archway, Antyr noted that the sentries who stood either side of it wore a livery similar to that of his guide.
'Excuse me,’ the man said to him, unexpectedly polite. ‘Stand still.'
Before Antyr could protest, the man was running his hands over him; expert searching hands. Around his neck, down his arms, his back, front, sides …
There was a pause.
'Empty your pockets,’ came the soft command.
Antyr obeyed without thinking, emptying his keys, coins, scraps of paper, a small knife, bottle opener, and various other oddments on to a small, immaculately polished table nearby. A small flicker of irritation-or was it distaste? — passed over the man's face as the untidy little heap grew.
'I've no weapons on me,’ Antyr said reassuringly but with an in-drawn breath as the man completed his search with an examination of his legs that left the Dream Finder balancing gingerly on his toes.
The man nodded curtly.
'Do you want to search my Companion?’ said Antyr, scarcely believing the note of injured dignity that had crept into his voice.
This time, however, he saw the man wilfully suppress a smile.
'No, no,’ he said. ‘The wolf might be fiercer than you but treachery's the danger here, not ferocity, eh wolf?’ And he reached down as if to stroke Tarrian's head. Without thinking, Antyr reached out quickly and stopped him. As the Dream Finder's hand closed about his arm, the man looked up sharply and Antyr felt his balance subtly wavering. This time, however, although he held Antyr's gaze, his guide flinched a little.
'My mistake,’ he said softly as Antyr shook his head in mute appeal.
Then one of the sentries opened the door and the officer walked through, signalling Antyr to follow.
'Feranc,’ came a voice as the man stepped inside. ‘At last. Have you found him?'
Feranc! Antyr thought. Ye gods! Ciarll Feranc; variously Feranc the shield and Feranc the slayer, and bearer of many other, harsher names in the mouths of those who had opposed the Duke with force. Not one of the Duke's bodyguard, but their commander. A man whose name alone had sent shivers through the armies of the city's enemies and stiffened the resolve of its allies more than the arrival of an entire division on the battlefield.
And I tried to talk to him about the weather … twitted him about searching Tarrian. And grabbed his arm! The last residue of moisture in Antyr's mouth dried up.
'I have, sire,’ Antyr just heard Feranc reply through the noise of his pounding heart. ‘This is he.'
Then the shield had stepped to one side and Antyr found himself staring open-mouthed at a figure stretched out casually on a long couch, his face largely hidden in the shadows thrown by the three lamps that strove to illuminate the room.
'You're gawping!’ came Tarrian's furious thought abruptly. ‘Bow smartly and then stand up properly!'
Somehow, Antyr managed to obey his Companion's instruction. Then the lounging figure reached out and beckoned the Dream Finder and his Companion forward.