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
'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,
