Arwain scowled as he jumped down from his horse and handed the reins to the waiting groom.
'Is something wrong, sir?’ said an officer stepping forward to greet him.
Arwain returned his salute and, with an effort, smiled. ‘No, no, Ryllans, he said. ‘Just the dampness after the fog. It seeps into the bones.'
Ryllans raised his eyebrows. ‘I heard there was some disturbance at the palace last night,’ he said straightforwardly.
Arwain shook his head and chuckled. ‘One of the servant girls had a bad fall and needed help, that's all,’ he said. ‘Is there anything you don't hear about, Ryllans?'
'Not too much, I hope, sir,’ the officer replied. ‘Your safety and the Lady Yanys's … are my responsibility and I need eyes and ears everywhere for that.'
Arwain nodded appreciatively.
'Doubtless you'll tell me why this servant girl warranted the attention of the Duke's personal physician when you're ready, sir,’ Ryllans went on softly, his slight foreign accent betraying his true anxiety.
'Doubtless,’ Arwain replied, laughing. ‘If you don't tell me first.'
But Arwain's laughter did not invoke the same in Ryllans. Instead, the older man held Arwain's gaze in silent, but relentless, inquiry. His charge and his guards wandering the cellars at night had to be explained to his satisfaction sooner or later. That they found a physician and his patient instead of secret plotters was irrelevant. Clandestine movement through the palace was always a matter for concern. And there was the matter of the Duke's physician being called out in the middle of the night to attend to a mere servant.
'It's all right,’ Arwain said, more soberly, and also lowering his voice. ‘There was no danger, and there's no plot brewing. It was just an … excess … by my beloved half-brother. I'll tell you what happened later, have no fear, there's no urgency, trust me. Let's proceed with the task in hand.'
Ryllans nodded and turned on his heel.
Arwain looked at the back of the Commander of his bodyguard as he followed him. A little shorter than himself, balding and clean-shaven, Ryllans walked with a slight roll which made him look heavy and clumsy. He was neither. Arwain knew that he would already have quietly wrung all that happened from the guards who had accompanied him through the cellar and that he would probably be well on his way to identifying the girl and the servants.
He knew, too, that the fact that Drayner and the others had been spotted purely by chance would be concerning him greatly, for the security of Arwain and his house came second only to his ultimate loyalty to the Duke, and dominated his thinking.
Arwain liked and respected Ryllans, yet he was always aware of a distance in the man. Not that he was cold or aloof-indeed he was invariably good company-but somewhere inside, there was a part that Arwain knew he could not reach. Not that he was alone in that, he consoled himself, for Ryllans was the most senior of the Mantynnai: the men who had defended the city of Viernce during the Bethlarii inspired rebellion and siege some ten years ago. To a man, they were, at bottom, unreadable.
A small group of foreign mercenaries in the employ of Duke Ibris, and garrisoned at Viernce, the Mantynnai had put down the rebelling faction after the local militia had thrown down their arms. Outnumbered, that in itself had been no easy task, but they had then found the city besieged by the Bethlarii army and had taken appalling losses holding it until the Bethlarii, not expecting and not equipped for a long siege, were put to flight by the unexpected arrival of the Serenstad army with the Duke at their head, soiled and raging, after a prodigious forced march over the snowbound countryside.
As a reward for their exceptional courage and loyalty, Ibris had immediately appointed the survivors to his own palace guard, an elite regiment, entry to which hitherto had been exclusively restricted to the citizens of Serenstad only.
It was a decision that had caused some controversy at the time, prompting angry and anxious debates in both the Sened and the Gythrin-Dy. ‘They're not Serens,’ was the cry. ‘They're not even from this land. A raggle-taggle bunch of foreigners. Warriors for money. We know nothing of them. Not even where they come from, or how they came here.'
The comments were accurate, but the Duke had rounded furiously on the carpers, at one stage throwing a handful of gold on to the floor of the Sened House, and standing over it, sword drawn, shouting, ‘Warriors for money! That's a half year's pay for a Mantynnai infantryman. Which of you here would die for it, or for ten times that amount?'
Then into the silence he had said, ‘They stood, fought and died, where our own kind surrendered or fled. Had they not done so then Viernce would now be a subject city of Bethlar. Do you think we'd be sitting here debating so calmly with the Bethlarii holding all our northern territories?'
'Nevertheless, they are foreigners and we don't understand them truly. They should not be brought so close to the seat of power,’ had come a quieter voice from an older Senedwr.
The Duke had answered him in like vein. ‘Power goes to those who are most fitted for it,’ he said sadly, sheathing his sword. ‘And, believe me, such men could have taken power at any time had they so wished. If they take it now, then it will be by stealth and silence and it'll be a gentler bargain than that which our ancestors, as foreigners, offered the original inhabitants of this land.’ It was the definitive statement of a man who understood the true value of force in governing a people.
The opposition had eventually faded in the face of his determination and as the full truth of the events at Viernce became more widely known. Subsequently, the Mantynnai survivors had taken up their new roles in the palace guard as quietly and inconspicuously as they did most things.
'One of my better decisions,’ Ibris later remarked as he watched this ‘raggle-taggle bunch of foreigners’ gradually improving the weapons and tactics of his guards, and thence the whole army.
More subtly, they also began to develop in the army a sense of discipline and independent loyalty to him as Head of State which did much to lessen the more bloody partisan excesses that stained the politics of the cities.
Now all the Mantynnai held high-ranking posts in the palace guard, and were regarded in many ways as its heart.
'We've made them more Serens than the Serens,’ someone said to the Duke, but he shook his head and replied, ‘No. They've made us more Mantynnai, and we're better for it.'
And I have their finest in my bodyguard, Arwain constantly reminded himself.
It was a source of some irritation to Ibris's other sons that ‘the bastard’ had such a bodyguard, but Ibris was straightforward.
'As you know, certain factions are particularly ill-disposed to him,’ he said to them. Menedrion looked at him darkly, but Ibris carefully avoided mentioning Nefron's name. Her imprisonment was still a topic which they both avoided if possible.
In earlier days, Menedrion, ever headstrong, had quarrelled violently with his father, naively protesting Nefron's innocence. For a while it seemed that nothing would restrain him, but eventually he became quieter. This Ibris attributed to his own quite specific threats, but ironically it was Nefron herself who bade her offspring keep silent for fear that his wildness would permanently estrange him from his father, and see him banished and barred the succession.
Not that she was alone in her concern about that matter. It taxed Ibris also. In the past, internecine fighting between the great families over the succession had done fearful damage to Serenstad and, gradually, the tradition of hereditary succession coupled with the approval of the Sened had evolved. But the problem was still fraught with hazard, and violence was always near the surface.
Like many rulers before him, Ibris found himself facing a dilemma. While he did not name an heir there was the risk of fighting among his sons, and of sudden coups by other families either before or after his death. If he did name an heir, however, the situation would be little improved, as the chosen son would then be a particular target for other aspirants, and he himself perhaps a target for his heir.
In an attempt to minimize this possible mayhem, Ibris had gradually devolved more responsibility for government to the Sened and the Gythrin-Dy. But, as the Mantynnai had equally gradually consolidated the loyalty of the army to him, he decided on balance that there would be more chance of stability if his family knew his mind while he was alive and strong. He fulfilled Nefron's prophecy.
'Menedrion, I name you as my heir. You're the eldest and you've shown yourself a capable leader in battle if little else. Arwain, you in turn shall be his heir until he settles down and breeds one of his own. Goran … Goran! … Don't mutter. And stop sulking! Arwain's bastardy doesn't preclude him as you know full well! You'll be third in line, though the gods protect us if it ever comes to that.'
Then he had wilfully dominated them all. ‘You can choose to fight among yourselves if you wish, but if I get one whiff of it, I'll disown you utterly and banish you to the farthest island I can find. And you've got plenty of cousins waiting to step into your shoes. Menedrion, you will swear the Ducal oath of protection over your brothers, here and now. Arwain and Goran, you will swear your allegiance to Menedrion in turn.'
The oaths were duly sworn and Ibris then gave them his final, quieter benison. ‘Look at our city,’ he said. ‘Rich, powerful, a fine place and one that will become even finer, given peace and thoughtful guidance. Wealth and prosperity are what we must seek. Men won't leave comfortable hearths for the warring streets, believe me. Honour your oaths all of you, not because they're oaths but because they're in everyone's best interests. No one will benefit from a war of succession except the Bethlarii. Menedrion, settle down, get married, breed. Listen to your brothers when you're Duke. Arwain, if I've judged aright, you've little desire for leadership, but help Menedrion for my sake and for the people's. Goran … Goran! Pay attention! You're a fine artist. You above all will make Serenstad the city that will draw the universe to it. Be what you are and be well pleased with it. I envy you.'
It was the best he could do, he reasoned. Menedrion lacked much that was needed in a good duke but he might well grow into one with help from the others. And he did covet the role, which was no small consideration. Naming him might also diminish the influence of his scheming mother. Arwain, on the other hand, was probably ideally suited for the task. But he seemed to have neither ambition nor expectation and, it had to be admitted, to have named him ahead of Menedrion would have been to sentence him to death. As it was, there was little love lost between him and Menedrion.
And yet, of the three sons, Arwain was the most like his father, and Ibris knew he could not read him fully. That caused him some concern, but he consoled himself with the thought that if Arwain secretly intended to oust Menedrion, then he'd have the wit to at least attempt to do it both efficiently and quietly. Yes, Ibris's darker side mused, it had been right to place his most loyal guards around Arwain. They might well also be protecting all of us.
Arwain followed Ryllans along the familiar corridor and through the familiar double door. ‘You'll enjoy this today, sir,’ Ryllans said, turning and smiling at him as he stepped through the door. ‘At least it'll get the damp out of your bones.'
Arwain looked around the enclosed courtyard and returned the smile. ‘I had a feeling that was a foolish remark when I made it,’ he said.
The palace was an ancient building and had been altered and extended many times at the whims and wishes of its successive occupants. As a result, apart from innumerable towers and spires joined by high arching bridges and walkways, there were many isolated alleyways and courtyards such as the one Arwain now stood in. This particular one, however, was unique in that all the windows and doors that opened on to it, save the one the two men had just used, had been sealed.
This courtyard was used by the Mantynnai as a training ground. It had a further uniqueness in that it was the only area used exclusively thus, it being the Mantynnai's general practice to train anywhere that suited the needs of the moment: fields, mountains, rivers, corridors, stairways, rooftops and cellars, and, on occasions, even the rambling, cavernous sewers.
Arwain looked up at the now blind windows with their panels of wood and masonry, each carefully chosen to harmonize with the room or the corridor they had opened from.
Though the surrounding buildings were high, the courtyard was large and spacious, yet to Arwain it always felt claustrophobic. Somehow, he felt, it was the almost obsessive care that had been taken in sealing the windows that affected him. It was like a secret within a secret. And yet the courtyard and its function were not secret. Many knew of its existence, many used it, and any could walk into it should they be so inclined. But only the one way.
It was like the Mantynnai themselves, he thought suddenly. At once secretive and open, approachable and distant.
Ryllans watched Arwain's customary inspection of the courtyard then he pushed him; not violently, but unexpectedly and enough to send him staggering backwards against the wall.
Arwain opened his mouth to protest, but Ryllans pointed an admonishing finger at him before he could speak. ‘You tell me why,’ he demanded.
Arwain knew what was expected of him; an explanation of the lesson he had just been taught. Ryllans’ lessons were always simple but their very simplicity usually obscured them.
Arwain's mind raced for some clue but nothing was apparent. From experience he knew that he had missed the moment and that any amount of searching would not reveal it now.
'I don't understand,’ he said apologetically.
'Go out and come in again,’ Ryllans said, indicating the door. Arwain frowned a little but did as he was bidden.
This time he watched Ryllans carefully as he stepped through the doorway. There was nothing unusual in his behaviour. No indication of a threat. Then his eyes flickered upwards to the sealed windows and Ryllans’ hand came out and struck him lightly on the face.
'Every time you come in here, your actions are identical,’ Ryllans said, laying emphasis on the last word.
Arwain nodded. Sometimes Ryllans taught by talking, long and expansively. At others, as now, his actions were enigmatic and his words brief to the point of terseness.
'And therefore predictable,’ Arwain finished the small lesson.
Ryllans acknowledged the reply with a slightly mocking smile.
'How many times will I have to learn that lesson?’ Arwain asked self-consciously.
'As many times as I will,’ Ryllans replied, taking him by the arm and motioning him towards a group of men at the far side of the courtyard. It was Ryllans’ willingness to admit himself as much a pupil as a master that particularly endeared him to Arwain.
Like all male Serens, Arwain had undergone the basic military training that was both necessary for the security of the city and its dominions and traditionally marked the passage of young men through into manhood. As the Duke's son and as a future officer, his training, like Menedrion's and Goran's, had been more severe than average and he had encountered enough instructors who used brutality and humiliation as their stock in trade to value Ryllans at something like his true worth.
And indeed, as yet another measure of this, Arwain realized that he was alert now. Not tense or anxious, fearful of some impending but unknowable event, but … wide-awake, for want of any more profound phrase … more aware of everything that was going on around him. It was as if Ryllans’ brief lesson had released some inner resource just as a strike on a flint box would make it burst into crackling brightness with the flame that could go on to banish any darkness.
Body and mind, both to be trusted, both to be trained, both to know their strengths and weaknesses. That was the essence of all Ryllans’ teaching. And an unthinking habit was a weakness beyond doubt.
As he walked silently by his mentor, Arwain searched for the deeper lessons that must lie beneath this last one.
Why did he always look up at the walls of this man-made pit? Was he, as he would like to have imagined, quickly and shrewdly examining the terrain for any subtle signs of change that might perhaps mean danger? Ryllans certainly would have approved of that. Or was his action simply a childish retreat into the comforting familiarity of ritual in an attempt to avoid the challenge of newness that must inevitably occur in this place?
Or was there yet some deeper unease that disturbed him? ‘This place is alien,’ he said, stopping suddenly, his breath steaming in the chilly air. Ryllans stopped also and half turned his head towards him, inviting an explanation. ‘It's a Mantynnai place, wherever you come from,’ Arwain went on.
Ryllans did not reply, but looked up at the walls as if he had not done so for a long time and gave a slight, pensive nod.
'Or perhaps not,’ Arwain went on. ‘Perhaps it's just a Serens place, made alien and sightless by your Mantynnai touch.'
'Blinded, eh?’ Ryllans said.
'Blindfolded,’ Arwain added, more compassionately.
Ryllans chuckled, intrigued. ‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘I'll think about that.'
'Or perhaps it's that lonely place that each of us carries inside, even in the middle of the crowd,’ Arwain said, warming to his thoughts, but adding, almost inadvertently, ‘especially in battle.'
'Ah,’ Ryllans said significantly. ‘You are in good fettle today. I'll think about that too. In the meantime, let's continue your training.’ He nodded towards the waiting men. ‘I've asked Hadryn to work on your close-quarter fighting with you.'
Apart from his formal military training, Arwain had received training in the arts of war throughout his youth in the course of his normal education. He was familiar with the principles involved in the use of cavalry and infantry in many terrains, ranging from large set-piece battles across open plains, to close-quarter skirmishing in the mountains. He had been taught about the logistical problems involved in raising, maintaining and moving armies, and he had learned about siege warfare and the use of artillery and blockades and sapping.
As a classroom discipline, this had been interesting, exciting even, but subsequently he had also had much of this theory complemented by some grim practical experience as the constant political manoeuvring of the many cities and towns of the land gave rise at times to outbreaks of armed violence.
What he learned from Ryllans and the other Mantynnai in his bodyguard, however, was different.
Initially, when Ryllans had suggested that he train and practice with his bodyguard, Arwain had declined; time had lent no charm to the memories of his basic training.
Ryllans, however, knew when to charge and when to infiltrate.
'Your father has given me charge of your protection, sir,’ he said. ‘This is a relatively simple matter on the battlefield, but here…’ He waved an airy hand around the busy palace grounds they were walking. ‘It's much harder, perhaps even impossible, given the will and power of the lady Nefron even though she is confined to the Erin-Mal. And there are others with little love for the house of Ibris. Only you can truly protect yourself and protection is more than skill at arms. It's here.’ And he had patted his stomach and then tapped his temple with an extended finger. The latter in particular was to become a familiar gesture to Arwain.
At this further assault, Arwain had weakened a little, but still he held. ‘I've every faith in you and your men, Ryllans,’ he said, airily. ‘I'm sure that we'll be able to work out arrangements that will satisfy your concerns.'
Ryllans had bowed and then made his frontal attack. Fixing his lord with a polite but unflinching gaze, he said, ‘All defences can be overcome, given time, knowledge and resolution, sir. This you know from your studies. And anyone seeking your life will have these resources and also the benefit of surprise. Surround you as we may, there will always be that one moment of inattention. That opening in the shield wall for a stray arrow.’ His voice had dropped. ‘And, sir, we each of us have our price. Something, somewhere. Those who stand closest to you, armed, will be your enemies’ first choice as weapons. It was ever thus. You know this too from your studies, I'm sure.'
The clarity of vision in this remark had truly shocked and frightened Arwain, such was the reputation of the Mantynnai for loyalty and such was the faith placed in them by his father. He wavered visibly and Ryllans moved in and quietly finished him off. ‘And then there is the protection of your intended, sir. The Lady Yanys…'
Ryllans’ instruction had, however, been as far from Arwain's basic training as he could possibly have imagined. Indeed, it proved to be a continuing revelation and Arwain found a new quality developing within himself that seemed to affect almost his every action.
Not that many of the things he learned seemed, at first glance, to be very different from what he already knew. The slight changes that the Mantynnai showed him however, made them vastly different, at once easier to execute and more powerful in their effect.
'Where did you learn these things from?’ he asked once in the early days. ‘From some secret warrior sect?'
Ryllans had laughed outright. ‘No, no. What we know is far too simple to be kept secret. That's why it's so difficult for people to see it.'
'I don't understand,’ Arwain had replied, oscillating between plaintiveness and irritation.
'Just practice,’ was all that Ryllans would offer him. ‘And think. And feel.'
What won Arwain over eventually, however, was the spirit of learning and humble inquiry that permeated his new training, so utterly different was it from the brutal savagery inherent in much of his previous experience.
Now, Arwain relished his practice sessions with the Mantynnai, finding them both relaxing and stimulating if, occasionally, shattering. He sensed too that he was also being surreptitiously forged and strengthened to become part of the team that was his bodyguard.
'Better the shell, than the shrimp within,’ Ryllans had said once, casually, but with some amusement.
Arwain was greeted by the men as he approached. They were laughing at the double entrance he had had to make. Here he was not their lord, he was one of them … or nearly so. For though they were seemingly no more than men, relaxed and humorous, they were also Mantynnai. A dark bonding stillness lay at their heart.
'Having to practice door opening now?’ came one voice, with a despairing, motherly sigh.
'Don't worry, it's harder than it looks, but you'll pick it up eventually,’ came another.
Arwain turned to Ryllans in mock appeal against this welcome.
'Just practice,’ was the dismissive reply. ‘Hadryn, as we discussed, help the lord with his close-quarter work, one against many. He's still showing too much inclination to lose his awareness when he's dealt with one.’ Hadryn was a tall, black-bearded man, loose-limbed and powerful. He nodded. ‘For the moment, unarmed,’ Ryllans continued.
He turned back to Arwain. ‘Work hard on this.’ He tapped his head with his finger. ‘You turn your mind away too easily and it'll get your throat cut. You still think in terms of victory and defeat, and while you do that you will always be defeated.'
Arwain had seen this form of training and even participated in it to some extent as an attacker, but it was a form that was liable to be more frightening for the attackers than the single ‘victim’ and he had ended with an acute sense of his own inadequacy.
As Ryllans walked away towards another group of guards, he clapped his hands loudly. Arwain's assailants moved purposefully towards him.
For an instant, all Arwain's training seemed to leave him, but he retained sufficient wit to realize that someone might be behind him, and he turned round quickly as he retreated.
Then one of the attackers charged at him suddenly, levelling a powerful blow at his head. Arwain knew that the blow would be reduced in force if he faltered and failed to take action, but that did little to reassure the response of his body to the onslaught, and he ducked wildly, just remembering to step to one side as he did.
Then came another and another. Most he avoided successfully, though gracelessly. Others he managed to avoid and deflect, but eventually, fortuitously finding himself on balance, he stepped deeply into one, swept the striking arm downward and threw the attacker towards two of the others who were just approaching. It prompted an ironic round of applause, then, as he paused to watch his assailant roll back up on to his feet, a powerful pair of arms encircled him and two of his attackers gleefully moved forward to seize his legs.
Ryllans, practicing swordwork nearby, favoured him with a knowingly raised eyebrow as he was dumped ignominiously on the hard stone flagging. It was a customary end to such exercises. Or was it?
Arwain rolled suddenly into the nearest pair of legs, causing their owner to lose balance, then he struggled to his feet as quickly as he could, turning to face his attackers as he did so.
A white smile parted Hadryn's black beard.
Then there was some explanation, some debate, a few brief demonstrations, and the exercise was repeated-several times.
Gradually the sweating figures made a mist of their own in the sealed courtyard as Arwain struggled to be calm and yet alert amid the plethora of attackers.
He knew that he was making progress but, as he practiced, he knew too that he could never be as these men were. They absorbed his wilder punches with such ease, either by solid and painful blocks or by gentle deflections that took his balance utterly. And when thrown they simply rolled back up on to their feet as if they had been training on soft spring turf. True, he could do that himself, but two small bones at the bottom of his back told him he did not do it so well, and usually told him for several days afterwards.
Then there was an unexpected voice close behind him.
'Lord.'
He spun round, seized the speaker by the throat with one powerful hand, and thrust him against the wall, only to let him go immediately amid some laughter from his companions.
The man was one of the Duke's messengers.
'Tut tut,’ someone whispered in his ear ironically. ‘Assault on a Ducal messenger. That's a summary flogging if the Liktors get to hear of it, I fear. Shall I call one?'
Arwain dismissed his tormentor with a push.
'I'm sorry,’ he said to the messenger, helping him vainly to straighten his rumpled collar. ‘I'm afraid you picked an inopportune moment to approach me. What is it you want?'
The messenger cleared his throat in a slightly injured manner, though directing his reproach at the smirking guards rather than his Duke's son.
'Your father wishes to see you, lord, immediately,’ he said.
Arwain could not forbear a brief scowl of impatience. But his father's word was not to be disputed.
He held out his hands in a plea. ‘Immediately?’ he asked. The messenger, still struggling with his collar, looked at the sweat-stained figure in front of him, momentarily bewildered. Lords did not ask advice of messengers.
'Immediately,’ he echoed dutifully.