Apart from continuing to familiarize himself with the palace and receive instruction from Estaan and some of the other Mantynnai, little of any great import happened to Antyr over the next few days.
They were far from quiet days, however. The palace was alive with activity, both frantic and ordered, while the Sened and the Gythrin-Dy were alive with rhetoric, both self-seeking and sincere.
And looking to the spiritual needs of their flocks, Serenstad's many priests offered a similar variety of choices. Some sat in silent, mysterious meditation, some spoke with quiet, caring reasonableness, while yet others railed, with various degrees of coherence both for and against war against the Bethlarii. The citizens of Serenstad did not lack for opinions to discuss.
And of course, there was the inevitable clamour of Guild officials besieging the mobilization offices pleading for this, that and the other special case. To no avail, however; the law permitted no exceptions for the able-bodied. Early in his reign, Ibris had abolished almost all forms of exemption from military service, not least the long-established practice of allowing individuals to purchase it. The proposal had met with a great deal of opposition from some of the powerful trading houses, but it had found much support from both the people and the ruling families and he had won the day. Such pleas by the Guilds were thus, in many ways, as ritualistic as any of the priests’ activities, but, their prayers passionately rendered and duly rejected, the Guild officials were able to depart with their civic consciences clear.
'One of my better decisions,’ Ibris would remark from time to time. ‘Whatever a man is born to in this city he can strive to change it and have my blessing, but arrow storms and cavalry charges are no respecters of either birth or worth and I'll have no one sheltering behind money bags while he expects others to shelter behind shields.'
Following the orders for mobilization, there was a short but spectacular increase in the unlicensed markets that were a feature of Serenstad sweet life, as the shrewder traders began to sell old swords, pikes, bows and other military paraphernalia, to those who through the years of comparative peace had … forgotten … that they were required by law to possess and maintain such equipment. These suddenly blooming commercial toadstools were known as wagon marts, as the participants invariably chose not to set up the traditional decorated street stalls, but to trade directly from their wagons to which their horses also remained harnessed.
In the spirit of the military thinking that begat this activity, the traders would post lookouts so that due warning of the approach of Liktors-or worse, the market Exactors-could be reported in sufficient time for them to institute an orderly retreat with a view to regrouping elsewhere. The particularly shrewd, however, held their ground and produced grinding and whetting stones so that they would be found, ‘Performing a public service, sir,’ when discovered. ‘No tax liable under mobilization.'
Almost inconspicuously among this mounting hubbub, Menedrion returned. He was well pleased with himself for his treatment of the envoy, but angry and concerned about Whendrak and anxious to be ‘doing something'. With him returned Pandra and Kany to confirm to Antyr the details of Arwain and Menedrion's strange and shared dream, and the finding of the Gateway into the Threshold.
Despite the fatigue of the journey, Pandra was in a state of some elation.
'To come across such a thing,’ he waxed. ‘It's thrown a light across my entire life as a Dream Finder. I feel as if I were just starting again, like some excited apprentice. To know for certain that all those worlds truly exist.’ He waved his hands to prevent Antyr interrupting. ‘I know you told me about them … but to actually see one … to be on the edge of it.'
Antyr, however, could not forbear sounding a warning note above this eulogy. ‘Take care, Pandra,’ he said. ‘We're stumbling about blindly, or worse, perhaps being moved at the whim of some power we can't perceive. What we both learn, we must teach each other, but we must take no risks. Both Arwain and Menedrion must be told of the danger the Threshold presents to them. They have a strong natural resistance, and knowledge will make it stronger. But you and Kany must guard both of them now. And if either comes near a Gateway again, wake them on the instant.'
'I will!’ Kany averred, before Pandra could reply, in a manner which clearly indicated that any response from Pandra, however worthy, was to be viewed with the utmost suspicion.
A couple of days after the return of Menedrion, the remainder of Arwain's escort returned. They brought with them the dark news that Whendrak was still sealed and apparently torn by civil strife and that the Bethlarii were indeed gathering an army somewhere to the west of Whendrak.
'We couldn't venture in as far as we'd have liked,’ they reported. ‘It was too dangerous. There were patrols everywhere.’ They had, however, seen sufficient supply convoys, camps, infantry and cavalry activity, to know that the army being gathered was far in excess of anything needed to take Whendrak.
It was enough. Ibris summoned his senior commanders and gave them the news.
'This, and other intelligence that I've received, convinces me that the Bethlarii are intending a major military adventure against us,’ he announced. ‘Regretfully, I see no alternative but to move an army up to Whendrak immediately. We may be too late to prevent them from taking the city, but we must stop them taking the valley at any cost. The sealing of the city prevents us from serving the appropriate notices within the terms of the treaty and thus we've been manoeuvred into the position of using the same pretext as the Bethlarii themselves. Doubtless they'll quote that fact freely if they try to sway some of our less enthusiastic allies.'
He paused and looked out of the window. Beyond the walls of the palace he could see the busy streets of his city. When he turned back to his audience, his face was uncharacteristically angry.
'However, I don't intend to give them even that advantage, gentlemen. As you know, the major treaty cities allied to us are already mobilizing, but I've also sent messengers to every town, village, and hamlet, explaining everything that's happened so far and requesting full voluntary mobilization…'
An almost universal gasp of surprise interrupted him, but he continued. ‘Within the next day or so I intend to send more senior officials to add strong persuasion to that request.'
Then he yielded to his listeners. With varying degrees of deference and bluntness, they reminded him that full voluntary mobilization was a historic relic carried down from the times when there had been only a handful of towns in the land, when armies were smaller and less disciplined, and when loyalties and boundaries were far more fluid than today. It had been retained as an idea almost for sentimental reasons and, paradoxically, it was both too heavy a response to the present crisis and also quite an impractical option for meeting a real conflict.
Except for politely curtailing those who drifted into details of what should be done, Ibris listened in silence until everyone who wished to speak had spoken.
'You're correct, of course, gentlemen,’ he agreed. ‘And incorrect also. Correct in your history of the idea, and, conceivably in saying that it's not a particularly practical option. However, you are incorrect in thinking that it's an excessive response to what's happening.'
His raised hand forestalled opposition.
'Why are the Bethlarii doing this?’ he asked bluntly. ‘Why, after all this time, are they preparing to launch a major war against us?'
'They hate our guts,’ someone said, to some laughter.
'True,’ Ibris acknowledged, smiling. ‘That's probably always been the real reason. But they've always had enough political sense not to admit that openly. They've always sought an excuse that will at least give them a veneer of more civilized justification for unleashing mayhem.'
He looked across the watching faces and shrugged. ‘Where are their long-winded diplomatic notes setting out reasons why this or that territory is by rights theirs? Where are their complaints about “bandits and outlaws” raiding their farms and hiding on our side of the border? Where are their complaints about our traders competing unfairly with them? Our fishermen entering their waters? And so on.'
There was an uncertain silence, then someone offered, ‘They sent an envoy to complain about what was happening in Whendrak.'
Ibris conceded the point. ‘And a grotesque venture that was,’ he replied. ‘Almost every aspect of it was contrary to the treaty. The man wilfully behaved in a manner that could have got him killed. And his visit only became public knowledge because we made it so. Their complaints in the past, I need hardly remind you, have usually been loud and public. From my discussions with him, and from other information I've received, and not least, bearing in mind that not even the staunchest of Bethlar's allies would give any credence to the idea that they were entitled to protect “their citizens” in Whendrak, I can only presume that his death at our hands was intended as the pretext for the war. He was to be a sacrifice to Ar-Hyrdyn.'
Everyone looked uncomfortable, but no one disagreed. The envoy's conduct had been the topic of considerable debate and gossip, and the Duke's conclusion was as good as anyone else's.
'The fact is, gentlemen,’ he went on, ‘that their actions are wholly out of character with anything they've ever done before. My belief is that their society has been corrupted by a fanatical form of their state religion and that the war they're intending to unleash is, to them, a crusade: a holy war to be waged in his name.'
This conclusion, however, did provoke a response, albeit mixed. Some, who knew their history, grimaced at the prospect. There had been religious wars in the past and they had been distinguished from all other wars by their unremitting savagery and brutality. It seemed that fighting under the aegis of divine inspiration served only to rob men of any semblance of restraint and humanity. Others in the room shook their heads as if to deny the possibility.
Ibris did not argue. ‘I'm open to alternative suggestions, gentlemen,’ he said, looking round.
'It could be no more than an elaborate ploy to distract us while their real move is made elsewhere,’ someone said.
'My own feelings at one stage,’ Ibris replied. ‘But the Mantynnai say that the forces massing near Whendrak are very substantial, and there's a…’ He gesticulated, searching for a word. ‘A feeling almost of nightmare … insanity … about all that's happening. No logic. However…’ He raised a reassuring hand to the speaker, ‘the cities along the southern Bethlarii border have been alerted to such a possibility, Meck especially.'
A silence descended on the room. Ibris looked around at his men.
'This is why I've called for full voluntary mobilization from every community in the land,’ he said bleakly. ‘If the Bethlarii are about to launch a holy war…’ He stopped abruptly and lowered his head thoughtfully for a moment. When he looked up, his face was set. ‘There is no “if” about it, gentlemen,’ he said, unequivocally. ‘The Bethlarii are going to launch a holy war and the whole land must be made ready to face it. From Rendd right down to Lorris I want no one unaware of what's about to happen and I want no one thinking that they can avoid playing some part in opposing it. I want all petty feuds and squabbles laid to rest.’ His manner became grim. ‘And god help anyone who tries to use this business for some power game of his own! The hearts and minds of the whole land must be with us.’ The room became very still. ‘And, too, the Bethlarii must learn that they'll be facing not just armies, but an entire people.'
'And if you're wrong, sire?’ a lone voice asked.
'I'm not, commander,’ Ibris replied. ‘Believe me, I'm not.’ He looked at Menedrion, and then at Arwain before turning back to the questioner. ‘But, in answer to your real question, I'd rather end my rule of this city and its dominions in ridicule and bankruptcy than risk seeing them suffocated in the obscene bigotry of Ar-Hyrdyn's priests.'
It was a phrase that brought behind him such waverers as there were in the room, and the discussion turned rapidly towards the details of the operations that were to be mounted.
After the meeting, Ibris drew Ryllans and Feranc on one side.
'Now is the time,’ he said quietly. ‘Walk with me.'
The two men walked beside their Duke in silence as he wandered through the halls and corridors of his palace. From time to time he stopped and looked at a painting, a statue, a rich ornate mosaic, until eventually he led them out on to the flat stone roof of a high crenellated tower.
The air was cold and damp, but fresh, and free from any taint of the yellow, acrid fog that had choked the city streets so recently. High, grey clouds reduced the sun to a bland, white disc.
Below them they could see the walls and courtyards of the palace, and beyond them, the rooftops, spires and domes of the city rising up to the cliffs of the Aphron Dennai and sloping down to the rambling disorder of the Moras district by the river. Grey mists merged land and sky in the distance.
Ibris leaned on the parapet and gazed over his city in silence for some time. ‘What do you think of my interpretation of events, Ryllans?’ he said, without turning round.
'Accurate,’ the Mantynnai replied, without hesitation. ‘And your response is appropriate.'
Ibris turned round. ‘What do I need to know about these events that I don't already know?’ he asked.
Ryllans looked at him. ‘I've no great revelations for you, sire,’ he said.
'Tell me what you can, nevertheless.'
Ryllans nodded and began without any preamble. ‘The presence that Estaan felt when the Dream Finder … entered … the mind of the dead Nyriall, was one that he'd felt before. One we'd all felt, long ago.’ An involuntary spasm of pain distorted his face momentarily. It was reflected almost immediately in Ibris's; the Duke had never seen the Mantynnai so openly distressed. But Ryllans continued without pause. ‘It was the presence of … someone … that we'd all once served. I'd like to say, someone who misled us, but we were then, as now, free men…'
He fell silent and for a moment stood looking out over the city.
Then he shrugged, as at some inevitability. ‘An evil came to our land. An ancient evil as it transpired, although to us it was merely a man; a good friend and helper to our ailing king, as we thought.
'Over many years, he was the king's faithful adviser and physician, and as the king became progressively weaker he took upon himself more and more of the burdens of state; and with them, inevitably, the reins of power. And, too, he did countless small, seemingly worthwhile things that in reality began subtly to undermine the qualities that made our people strong and free.
'Eventually, as his truer nature came nearer the surface, and voices began to be raised against his conduct, some of the most loyal lords complained directly to the king. But he was almost insane with his illness, and, in a rage, he had them imprisoned.'
He shook his head at some memory. ‘Then a man came from another land close by and exposed the evil for what it was.'
He closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath. His voice was calm but noticeably controlled when he continued. ‘Great harm was done to our city that day. Buildings broken and crushed like so many children's toys. Hundreds died.'
'This man came with an army? Laid siege to you?’ Ibris inquired, confused by the remark and also anxious to say something that might relieve Ryllans of some of his burden.
Ryllans turned and looked straight at him. ‘No,’ he said simply. ‘He came with only one companion, and faced the king's … physician … on the palace steps. The damage to the city was wrought by no more than a wave of the hand.'
Ibris's brow furrowed and, despite himself, he glanced at Feranc. His bodyguard, however, made no response, and his face was unreadable.
'A wave of the hand, Ibris,’ Ryllans repeated, stepping outside the protocol of their relationship to emphasize the truth of what he was saying. At the same time, he pointed to his eyes. ‘I was there, wearing the livery of the man as he did the deed and showed himself for the demon he truly was. And showed us the power that he commanded and that could be ours also.'
Ibris could not contain himself. ‘I know neither gods nor devils, Ryllans. Only men with godlike and diabolical ways…'
Feranc laid a hand gently on his arm and motioned him to silence.
Ryllans looked at him again. ‘The word was ill chosen,’ he said. ‘It came from my stomach, not my head. Such as I've learned about him since is that he was indeed a man but that his … soul … was wholly corrupted by his possession of a great and ancient power.'
He paused briefly.
'After this terrible meeting, he slew the king and took possession of the land, with such as ourselves at his side. Then came civil strife and all the horrors that that implies; kin against kin; treachery, mistrust; darkness. And in the end the loyal lords raised an army and marched to meet us.’ He shook his head reflectively. ‘Some said that his crushing power was bound in some way, but, whatever the cause, he withheld it and we were defeated. The lords broke our army and he fled. Fled into the cold mist-land to the north with us at his heels.'
He fell silent again for some time, and his voice was very soft when he spoke again, as if afraid it might be overheard. His slight accent became more pronounced.
'There we learned that the one we followed was but the servant of another. A great source of evil that felt as if it had come from the beginning of all time.'
'A man?’ Ibris asked, his eyes wide at the continuing pain in Ryllans’ voice.
The Mantynnai made a dismissive gesture. ‘No one ever saw him, or even his citadel, but his will was everywhere…’ He looked at the Duke. ‘Both feeding on and nurturing the devils in men. It was said that his malevolence had spanned the ages and had once spanned the world, and that, reawakened, he was preparing to do so again.'
He shuddered suddenly and swayed violently. Instinctively, both Ibris and Feranc reached out to catch him, but he set them aside gently at the same time as he accepted their support.
'But the lords and their allies followed us with a great army. Larger than anything this land has ever known.’ An expression almost of pride came on to his face. ‘As it stood against us, it stretched far beyond the sight into the dank mists and teeming rain. Rank upon rank. They, like us, were drenched and chilled and their colourful pennants and flags hung limp and lifeless, but we could feel their will assailing us across the plain even as we waited. Waited with many times their number in savage readiness, and with his will charging our spirits. Soon the enemy would be utterly defeated and we would sweep out into the world and to power and wealth.
'But it was we who were defeated, despite our numbers and our cruel troops. And somewhere, beyond our seeing, our master and his master were … taken from the battle … I don't how … suddenly, they were gone, and we were lost.
'Then, we scattered and fled, over mountains and plains, through deserts and wildernesses. Through the years. And as we fled, we gained a little wisdom. And finally we came here and saw a faint echo of our homeland and its king. Here we resolved that we must stand and seek to serve where previously we had sought to rule. Here we must atone.'
Ryllans fell silent, his eerie tale finished. Ibris wrapped his arms about himself as if infected by the chill mists and rain that had fallen on that last battle. There had been such power in Ryllans’ telling that for a moment he felt himself small and utterly defenceless; a pawn in some greater game; his life's achievements mean, tawdry and pathetic.
He held out his hand and looked at it, then at his city. That men, even good men, could follow evil leaders, he knew all too well. But could a man possess a power that could crush a city with the merest wave? It wasn't possible …
But he could not dismiss such a witness as Ryllans. And the Mantynnai had not spoken in allegory and metaphor. He had seen what he had seen and he had told of it truthfully.
Ibris's thoughts whirled. Feranc offered no support. Indeed, his whole manner seemed to have become more distant and enigmatic than ever as he had listened to Ryllans’ tale.
Not possible! The words echoed around his head, clung to his thoughts like a crawling, suffocating creeper clings to a tree.
His knowledge of Ryllans hacked at them. Just as his city seen from this tower was not the city that would be seen from the streets below, so he knew that he had to stand where Ryllans stood to see what he saw.
Had not he himself believed Antyr with his tale of worlds beyond this one, where a dead man lived again, and strange men possessing a power to change by means not understandable to ordinary men, moved freely and manipulated his enemies? Had he not believed him strongly enough to mobilize his entire country for war as never before, and to jeopardize his own position as ruler?
'Your story verges on the unbelievable, Ryllans,’ he admitted simply, at last. ‘But I've known you too long to do other than believe you totally. Time will perhaps reconcile me to the strangeness of it.'
To break the unreal atmosphere pervading their high eyrie, he became practical.
'You fear that this … man … and his master are perhaps come here after fleeing the field?’ he asked.
Ryllans frowned thoughtfully. ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head definitely. ‘They were gone utterly. Not just fled. Gone from inside us, never to return. There were other powers fighting that day. We were but part of a greater battle. My master and the one he served both fell to some other hand, I'm sure, but I could not say they were … dead … slain. Could you slay the sky, the wind? But they were gone.'
'Then what's so distressed you all?’ Ibris asked.
'The power is there for all to use, who can master it,’ Ryllans replied. ‘And there were darker followers than we in those days. Disciples.'
'And one such might be here?'
'Someone with his … skills … is here,’ Ryllans answered.
His unequivocal tone seemed to strike Ibris clear through and he felt a whirl of fear twist in his stomach. In spite of himself he exorcised it with a reproach. ‘How could you and the others have followed this … man … when you learned the truth?’ he asked.
Ryllans bowed his head slightly, then looked at him squarely. ‘We erred,’ he said, though with neither excuse nor plea in his voice. ‘Now we atone as best we can.'
As he knew it would when the question left his lips, Ibris's reproach rebounded on him. ‘You are punished by your sins not for them,’ he had once heard a philosopher say scornfully to a priest extolling the punitive wrath of his deity.
Thus is Ryllans punished, and so am I now, he thought.
He reached out and took Ryllans’ arm. ‘Forgive me,’ he said.
Ryllans laid his hand over the Duke's in acknowledgement. ‘There is more,’ he said.
'Tell it,’ Ibris said quietly. ‘Then we will gather it all and consider.'
He was aware of both Ryllans and Feranc looking at him sharply, but the moment was gone before he could question them, and Ryllans was speaking again.
'When our army broke and scattered, no pursuers were sent after us to cut us down in vengeance and hatred. Our opponents … our own people and their allies … were savage and fearsome in combat, but they stayed their hand in victory.’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps it was there we began to learn,’ he said softly.
'But it is the way, the law, of our people to demand an accounting from wrongdoers, and they will allow neither time nor distance to remit that.'
Ibris frowned. Arwain's remark about the two men returned to him. It had slipped from him in the turmoil of the past few days.
'The men that Arwain spoke of,’ he said. ‘The ones on the bridge. They're your countrymen?'
Ryllans nodded. ‘From their bearing, their clothes, their horses, they were king's men, beyond a doubt.'
Feranc turned away suddenly but Ibris did not notice the movement.
He opened his arms in a gesture of dismissive indifference. ‘This is my domain, Ryllans,’ he said, almost angrily. ‘You, all of you, probably above all my subjects, are under my protection. I cede my jurisdiction to no foreign monarch.'
He turned to Feranc before Ryllans could reply. ‘Have these … king's men … made any representations at the palace for audience?’ he asked.
Feranc shook his head, but did not speak. Ibris turned back to Ryllans. ‘Could you have been mistaken?’ he asked, his voice softening. ‘Many people come to the city. Perhaps they were simply foreign merchants. You'd not long received Estaan's news. You were upset…'
'There was no mistake,’ Ryllans replied. ‘They were king's men, and they must surely be here searching for us.'
Ibris spun on his heel and slapped his hands down violently on the stone parapet. A large part of him wanted to curse these intruders into oblivion. Two men, in the name of sanity! Come to his city to drag his Mantynnai back in chains! They'd need their mighty army!
But the wiser part of his nature recognized his anger as fear.
Fear at whatever it was about these king's men that could so disconcert-not frighten, he noted-his Mantynnai: the men who had fought and died for him. The men whose gradual influence had improved beyond recognition the fighting qualities of his army. The men whose loyalty had given him the sureness and stability to lead his people forward, away from the endless debilitating cycle of internecine warfare and futile, waiting peace.
His anger left him suddenly, and when he spoke, his voice was calm and even.
'Ciarll, find these men urgently. It shouldn't be difficult, by all accounts. Bring them … ask them … if they would be kind enough to attend on me as soon as possible.'
He turned back to Ryllans. ‘I note the pain that this tale has cost you, my friend, and, as ever, I stand in debt to your courage and honesty,’ he said. ‘But we're on the verge of war. Organizing the greatest mobilization ever, to face who knows what strange dangers. I can allow nothing … nothing … to interfere with our preparations. Thousands of lives depend on us. Whatever your countrymen want, I shall listen to … we shall listen to. And we shall decide what action must be taken.’ He levelled a forefinger at the Mantynnai. ‘But these are ancient sins and your … accounting … having kept this long will keep a while longer. Whatever they wish, whatever you wish, nothing will be done until this war is over and the peace well begun.'
Ryllans bowed and Ibris turned towards the tower doorway, beckoning the two men to follow him.
As they walked down the tower's stone steps, Ibris welcomed the clatter of their feet as it further dispelled the disturbing atmosphere of Ryllans’ tale and, he realized abruptly, Feranc's deep withdrawal.
'Do you wish me to begin looking for these men immediately?’ Feranc said, his voice matter of fact, and giving the lie to Ibris's thoughts even as they occurred.
'Yes,’ he said, with a slight start, then, ‘No. No. Not yet. I think we should talk to Antyr first. This old enemy of Ryllans is assailing us, and the Bethlarii, through our dreams, for some end of its own, and while Antyr's quite frank about not understanding what's happening, he's nevertheless the one who knows the most about it, whether he realizes it or not. I think we-you-Ryllans, should tell him all that you can.'
'Yes,’ Ryllans replied.
They left the tower through a heavy wooden door carved with a great battle scene; two huge armies locked in conflict and the air above them full of fighting birds. The carving was extraordinarily vivid and lifelike and spread out from the door across the stone jambs that framed it.
Ryllans pulled the door shut with an echoing boom which resonated around the hall they had entered. He looked down at the door's great iron ring, then briefly squeezed it, as if for comfort, before letting it fall. As it struck the door, it made an unusually melodic note which lingered in the air and seemed to follow the trio as they strode away.
Gradually, the corridors became busier and Ibris felt the new, hectic routine of the palace beginning to close around him-a familiar armour.
He did not allow it to seal him off from his new revelation, however. Indeed he allowed his thoughts about Ryllans’ tale to eddy to and fro freely, knowing that this alone would enable them to find some equilibrium in time. For the moment he resolved to consider only the simple practical matter of the two foreigners searching out his Mantynnai.
The whole affair seemed to him to be at once both trivial and profound. The wish of some distant and unknown monarch for retribution for offences committed so long ago was not worthy of the slightest consideration when set against the present dangers now threatening the land. Even the Mantynnai's offence, presumably treason, was of no great import in the context of a civil war. All countries had such conflicts at one time or another, and generally only the principals suffered punishment when they were resolved.
And what could two men achieve?
Yet these two who had come quite openly and yet so quietly to his city, had disturbed the Mantynnai more than he had ever known.
They reached the small hall where Estaan had been training his charge, and Ibris set his concerns aside for the moment.
As they entered, Antyr, red-faced and panting, was laying about him with a wooden training sword and Estaan was parrying and avoiding the blows. Antyr had eventually overcome his reservations about attacking correctly, and, for the most part, his blows were accurately placed and purposeful. Estaan moved around and through them with an ease and quietness which, while frustrating, not to say, infuriating, for Antyr, was wholly deceptive.
Ibris placed his finger to his lips for silence as they entered and, for a little while, the three of them watched the two protagonists. As they did so, Tarrian and Grayle sidled stealthily over to them and began fawning about the Duke.
Feranc smiled slightly.
'That's enough, you rascals,’ Ibris said, bending down to stroke them. ‘Don't think that I don't know how to deal with flattering courtiers…'
At the sound of his voice, Estaan turned slightly and Antyr slipped past his blade and charged him heavily. The Mantynnai went sprawling across the floor. Both Ryllans and Feranc laughed and clapped spontaneously, but Antyr, startled either by his temerity or his success, stopped suddenly and put his hand to his mouth like an errant child.
Immediately, Ryllans cried out, almost as if in pain. ‘Don't stop! Finish him! Finish him!’ he shouted, striding forward urgently. But it was too late. Estaan had rapidly regained his feet, and before Antyr could respond his sword had been brushed aside and the Mantynnai's sword run across his midriff.
He looked set to compound his mistake by apologizing, but Ryllans had wrapped a strong arm about his shoulders and was instructing him before he could speak.
'That was a good move…'
Estaan, rubbing his ribs, nodded in agreement.
’ … but you forgot what you were doing. You weren't fighting him for fun, for exercise. You were fighting him to stop him from killing you. The instant that threat was dealt with you should have looked to ensure he did not repeat it. In this case you should have had your foot on his sword and your blade at his throat. Then, perhaps you might have been able to pause a little, if it was only him you were dealing with.'
'I know, I know,’ Antyr managed to stammer.
'Only here,’ Ryllans said, tapping Antyr's head. ‘You've got to know it here.’ He tapped his stomach. ‘Or you're dead.'
Antyr nodded energetically.
'Learn this, Antyr,’ Ryllans went on, still holding Antyr tightly as if to squeeze the lesson into him. ‘The most dangerous time in close-quarter fighting is when your opponent goes down. You relax, thinking it's over. He however, is galvanized by his danger and…’ He drew his finger across his throat. ‘Fighting is cruel and horrible beyond belief. The difference between living and dying depends on your willingness to accept and implement immediately, whatever your survival demands. You must understand this totally if you're going to carry a sword with a view to defending yourself with it.'
He released his pupil, who muttered an awkward acknowledgement.
'How is he?’ Ryllans asked Estaan bluntly. ‘I see he's graduated to a training sword.'
Estaan smiled and nodded. ‘He's no sword-master, nor ever likely to be, but he's better than average,’ he replied. ‘And much better than he was a few days ago. I think he has a more realistic measure of his own worth now. He knows to run away unless he's cornered and he's had enough battle experience to realize that other resources will come to his aid if that happens.'
Ryllans nodded. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Keep him at it.'
Antyr glanced from one to the other as they spoke, like someone awaiting sentence, then he turned to the Duke as if to a higher court.
But Ibris deemed the matter beyond his jurisdiction. ‘I apologize, Antyr,’ he said. ‘I should have known the Mantynnai would knock you into shape when I gave them the job of looking after you. They take it as part of their protection for you that you have to be trained to look after yourself.'
'I think I volunteered for it, sir,’ Antyr replied.
The Duke seemed doubtful. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But you'd have ended up doing it anyway.'
He signalled an end to the discussion with a gesture and then motioned Antyr towards a bench at the side of the hall.
'I want you to listen to Ryllans’ tale,’ he said, as he sat down. ‘I doubt you'll understand it any more than I did, but ask him any questions you like and don't feel obliged to make any comment about what you hear. I just want you to know everything that I know about this business. Whether or not it's important remains to be seen.'
Later, the Duke spoke privately with Feranc.
'Have you anything to tell me that I need to know?’ he asked.
Feranc shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, simply.
Ibris looked at him anxiously. ‘Your land has suffered greatly and strangely since you left, Ciarll,’ he said. ‘Armies raised, battles fought, civil war. Strange powers at work. Haven't you to tell me that you regret leaving; that perhaps if you'd stayed, events might have been different?'
Unexpectedly, Feranc smiled, though sadly. ‘I've no regrets,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘Events would have been different if I'd stayed, but for better or for worse, who can say? Who can say which side I'd have joined? I'd no close kin, and I was young and tormented.'
Ibris opened his mouth to speak, but Feranc continued. ‘I'm curious to know what happened, very curious, and perhaps one day I'll be able to speak with Ryllans and the others about it at leisure. But it's of no importance.’ He turned to the Duke. ‘More important at the moment is the presence of the two men that Ryllans saw.'
'Could they be your countrymen looking to bring their old enemies to justice?’ Ibris asked incredulously.
Feranc nodded. ‘It's possible,’ he replied. ‘But we'll know for sure if we find them.'
'If we find them?'
'If they've come so far, then they're no ordinary king's men and if they're who I think they are, then if they don't wish to be found, they won't be,’ Feranc said.
A brief look of irritation passed over Ibris's face. ‘You're their kind, Ciarll. Just find them. And soon.'
Feranc looked mildly surprised at Ibris's tone.
'Yes, it's that important,’ Ibris said sharply, answering the implied reproach. ‘Despite my curiosity about these shades from times long gone, my real concern is still for the problems we have here and now. And these people-if they're Ryllans’ people, your people-have faced and defeated this … power … that assails us. We must recruit them as allies.'