more sober considerations, but now he was closing, sword in hand, with a possibly armed group about whom he knew nothing, except that they were sufficiently desperate to wander the palace grounds at the darkest time of the night, and knew their way through the palace cellars.
'Mistake,’ part of him said. ‘Starting a battle without proper intelligence.’ But his reason just managed to hold the reproach at bay. It was no mistake. He had three palace guards with him and he himself had faced men in combat before now. To have sounded the alarm might indeed have enabled these … conspirators? … to escape, or worse, to fulfil their mission quietly amid the confusion. He had had no alternative.
Abruptly he found he was angry at having to justify himself to himself. He found too that he was baring his teeth and loosening his sword arm.
The light was coming from around a corner ahead, throwing the faces on the column heads into silhouette. And, as if the faces themselves were talking to one another in the gloom, there came the sound of lowered voices. Arwain turned to the guards and whispered a brief order, then, suddenly, the torches were unhooded and with the guards at his back Arwain stepped around the corner with his sword levelled.
'Stand, in the Duke's name,’ he shouted authoritatively. There was a gasp and a scream, then someone dropped a torch. Finally came the sound of a sword being drawn as a figure pushed to the front of the surprised group. The three guards brought their pikes down alongside Arwain's sword.
'No, wait, Dirkel,’ came a stern voice from the group. Arwain took in his quarry at a glance. There were five in all, but they were not what he had expected. True, the man who had stepped forward looked sinister, with the hood of his cloak hiding his face, but from the guard he was presenting with his sword it was clear that he was no swordsman; and he was faltering, either at the sudden command or the sight of Arwain's grim face and the three pikemen with him. Behind him stood two others, an old palace manservant who looked as if he had been running and who had obviously thrown on his livery in great haste, and another man with his cowl pulled forward. Between these two and leaning heavily on the hooded man was a young woman. Her head was bowed and her long brown hair had fallen forward hiding most of her face, but Arwain could see blood on her gown and her hands. At the rear of the group was an old woman, wringing her hands; another servant, Arwain guessed, probably from the laundry or the kitchens.
With an irritable gesture, the man supporting the young woman threw back his hood to identify himself.
Arwain stared in disbelief. He had thought the voice was familiar.
'Drayner?’ he exclaimed. Then, after an awkward pause, ‘What's my father's personal physician doing prowling the courtyards and the cellars in the middle of the night?'
'Nearly suffering an early demise thanks to young men leaping out of the darkness and waving swords at me,’ the old man replied acidly. Arwain winced a little at the characteristic tone, but having delivered his barb, Drayner turned fussily to practical matters.
'Dirkel, put your sword down,’ he said. ‘You're only going to cut yourself and I'm going to have enough to do tonight without sewing you up as well. And someone pick up that torch for mercy's sake, there's enough fog outside without making more in here.'
The old woman's hands disentangled themselves and fluttered nervously for a moment until with a noisy effort, she bent down and picked up the spluttering torch. Drayner's defender somewhat sulkily sheathed his sword, as did Arwain, and the three guards raised their pikes. Eron Drayner was not only Duke Ibris's personal physician, he was highly respected both in Serenstad and beyond, and was one of the few men in public life who could stand contemptuously aloof from the perpetual bickering and scheming that marred it.
He also had a tongue ‘worth ten pikemen’ according to those who had cause to know, and pointing a weapon at him was a decidedly unwise act.
Drayner's face puckered indecisively for a moment, as if he had lost his train of thought, then the woman he was supporting gave a low moan and with a brief grimace of self-reproach he took abrupt charge of the proceedings.
'Anyway, now you're here, you can help me get this young lady to my surgery,’ he declared. He turned to the servants. ‘You two can go back now, Lord Arwain will escort us from here.'
The manservant bowed and turned to leave, but the old woman laid a hand on his arm to restrain him. She cast an anxious look first at the young woman and then at Drayner. ‘Go, go,’ Drayner said urgently, but gently. ‘She'll be all right.’ Adding significantly, ‘Look to yourselves.’ The old woman hesitated a little longer, then, at another nod from Drayner, she made a brief curtsy and left.
Without being asked, Arwain stepped forward and put his arm round the young woman, but she started violently at his touch and shook it off, taking hold of Drayner's arm tightly. ‘I can manage, now,’ she said, her voice muffled and distressed.
Arwain looked at Drayner, puzzled.
'Let the lord support you. He's stronger than I am,’ the physician said, patting her arm reassuringly. ‘And he's not like…’ He stopped in mid-sentence and turned away from Arwain sharply.
'Dirkel, run ahead with one of the guards and make the surgery ready,’ he said briskly to cover the apparent slip. Arwain nodded his confirmation to the guards and then hesitantly reached out to support the young woman again. This time she accepted his arm.
'What's happened?’ Arwain asked as they walked slowly back. ‘And why were you trailing through the cellars?'
'The young lady's had a nasty fall,’ Drayner said. ‘And we came this way because it's the quickest way and because the fog will chill this poor girl into a fever in her present condition.’ His voice, however, was a little too loud, as if he were anxious not to elaborate on the incident. For a moment, Arwain considered pressing him, but the woman was obviously in need of attention and if Drayner was choosing to lie about what had happened then it was not a matter to be aired in front of the guards: Drayner might be above politics but he was not oblivious to them.
Arwain nodded but remained silent until they eventually arrived at Drayner's surgery where he dismissed the guards.
'Thank you, Lord Arwain,’ Drayner said as they entered the surgery. ‘I apologize for disturbing your sleep, but your help was most timely. If you'll excuse me I'll have to look to my patient now. I'll let you get back to your bed.'
He was leading the woman into a nearby room while he was speaking and he concluded his comments over his shoulder, almost offhandedly. Arwain made no reply, but instead of leaving, sat down on a long wooden bench.
The surgery was warm and bright after the journey through the cold cellars and the even colder fog, but welcome though the warmth was, Arwain felt uneasy.
Apart from the effects of his strange early rising, and his curiosity about the events that had brought no less a person than Drayner from his bed, the room held old childhood memories for him, most of which were not particularly pleasant. Drayner had been the court physician for many years before he had risen to become the Duke's, and Arwain had been his reluctant patient on more than one occasion.
As he sat waiting Drayner's pleasure, he did as he had done as a child-he stared around at the shelves that lined the room. A battle array of ancient mysteries defied his adult gaze: tall bottles, green and bulbous; short ones, brown and squat; dull ones, red and menacing. Dusty bottles with peeling, faded labels, strangely stained; shiny, freshly labelled bottles; bottles with strange fluted spouts and twisted necks. Then there were the flank guards: ranks of small boxes and solid commonplace clear glass jars full of pills and powders and … other things.
Arwain's gaze yielded the field and drifted to the cupboards. Some were glass-fronted, dimly revealing the fearsome weapons of Drayner's art; others, mercifully, were blank-faced with polished wooden doors and polished brass hinges and handles.
Briefly, he took in the rest of the room: the large cabinet with its ridiculous little legs and its row upon row of tiny drawers; the pictures and charts; the occasional mournful bone; that damned skull with its hollow eyes, and finally, the table. Then the vividly evocative smell of the room reached through his fog-stifled senses and he puffed out his cheeks unhappily.
Straight from his childhood came the urge in his legs to flee and, urgently, and rather self-consciously, he brought his hands to his knees to still them. Then, sitting up stiffly, he dragged his attention back to the matter in hand.
There was some coming and going in the adjacent room and the occasional muffled comment which Arwain
