He looked up and met Tarrian's gaze. ‘It was like a dream,’ he said, his voice flat but fearful.
Tarrian did not reply, but his concern and denial flooded into Antyr's mind. Dream Finders did not dream; could not dream, seemingly. Yet despite this response there was doubt also.
'You were gone … somewhere,’ he said eventually. ‘Your body was here, but your Dreamself was gone. Gone as if it had never existed. And all ways were closed to me. Like when your father died.'
The wolf's very quietness brought chills of fear to Antyr again.
'Do you really think I've brought this on myself,’ he asked, almost plaintively.
This time there was confusion in Tarrian's response: the habitual anger that inevitably arose when Antyr's indiscipline was discussed, and a newer, deeper anxiety; a sense of the need to set old matters aside and to both give and receive companionship in the face of some unknown threat.
'I don't know,’ Tarrian concluded soberly. ‘Let the daylight in and then tell me exactly what happened … what you saw and felt.'
Antyr was surprised how unsteady he felt as he walked to the window to draw back the curtain. Nevertheless he was mildly expectant. He had a vague impression that behind it would lie some splendid view of the city, the palace being a high and dominating building. Instead, however, he found himself overlooking a small, enclosed chasm of walls, gloomy and lichen-streaked in the grey morning light that filtered down from a ragged skyline high above. Looking down, he saw a paved yard littered with random and ill-repaired outbuildings, their roofs shiny with the morning's dampness.
A small piece of the Moras district in the very heart of Ibris's palace, he thought wryly. The light, however, brought with it some optimism.
'Well, at least the fog's gone,’ he said as he turned away from the window. ‘And we've survived to greet another day.'
It was a phrase he had not used since he was last in the army. Tarrian, however, was indifferent. ‘Tell,’ he demanded.
It took Antyr only a few minutes to relate the events he had experienced but he found that the daylight did little to mitigate the deep alarm which he had felt and which was on the fringe of returning even as he recounted the tale.
'Well?’ he asked when he had finished.
Tarrian had been silent during the telling, and now he offered no observations.
'Let's leave,’ he said, standing up and stretching luxuriously. ‘Let's get out into the country for a while. We both need to think.'
Antyr hesitated. ‘Do you think we should?’ he said. ‘The Duke said we shouldn't leave the city.'
Tarrian was dismissive. ‘He meant travelling abroad,’ he said. ‘As if we ever did. He won't mind us wandering the countryside for an hour or so.'
Antyr was unconvinced. ‘I don't know,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we should tell someone.'
'Open the door, for pity's sake,’ Tarrian said testily. ‘After what's happened-whatever it was-I need room to move, and air to breathe. And you need … something … I don't know what. Exercise probably. Come on, no one's going to be bothered about us and we'll be back before noon.'
Antyr bowed to his friend's insistence and cautiously opened the door. He had half expected to find a guard standing there and was uncertain whether to feel relieved or disappointed to find the corridor deserted.
'I told you no one would be bothered,’ Tarrian declared in offhand triumph. ‘Come on.'
Antyr, however, had no idea where he was or how to go about finding his way out.
'You should pay more attention,’ Tarrian said impatiently. ‘It's this way. Just follow your nose.'
They had no difficulty in leaving the palace. Tarrian guided them unerringly through a bewildering maze of corridors, hallways and staircases, and such people as they met paid them little heed, seeming intent on tasks of their own. Indeed, as they passed through the palace gate, some of the guards acknowledged them. Their escort from the previous night, Antyr presumed.
The weather was cold and damp, with a residual taint of the night's fog still lingering, making the grey sunless sky yellowish. The streets too bore the glistening signs of the fog and were virtually deserted except for the Torchlighters’ apprentices dutifully extinguishing the public torches. A forest of ragged black pillars of smoke rose up like slender supports to the greyness above.
Tarrian trotted on relentlessly through the waking city, occasionally stopping to wait for Antyr, but making his impatience quite clear.
Eventually they reached the great Norstseren Gate. As it was still early in the day, the main gate was closed except for a wicket just large enough to admit a horse. This had been opened to allow in those travellers who had been benighted outside. Later in the day there would be carts and caravans and innumerable travellers arriving and leaving, and both leaves of the gate would be thrown wide in welcome.
'Tarrian taking you for some exercise,’ guffawed one of the guards, echoing the wolf's own comment, as they passed through the wicket into the shelter of the broad arch of the gate. Antyr gave a self-conscious shrug, disoriented for the moment by the surge of disapproval that came up from Tarrian.
'One of your drinking cronies, I suppose,’ he said scornfully.
The guard came over to them and gave Antyr a look of knowing confidentiality. ‘Make sure you see the Exactor,’ he said softly through barely moving lips. ‘He's new and a real son of a whore. He'd Gate Tax his mother for the mud she brought back on her shoes.’ He terminated the advice with a broad wink.
Antyr nodded his thanks, at the same time throwing a small jibe at Tarrian. ‘You see. My cronies sometimes prove useful. You'd be less than pleased if I'd to spend half the day proving you were mine when we came back, wouldn't you?'
'Yours?’ Tarrian replied with withering disdain. ‘You people are unbelievable.’ Then, despite his preoccupation, a small flood of righteous, very human, anger burst out. ‘And you're as stupid as you're barbarous. Exactors! Who in their right mind would pay taxes to pay for wars to make more money to pay more taxes …?’ The brief diatribe ended in an incoherent snarl.
Antyr grunted. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said dismissively, walking across to the small enclosure that housed the Gate Exactor. ‘You're right. You've said it all before and your logic's impeccable. I know exactly where we fit into your scheme of things. In the meantime, a little less philosophy and a little more pragmatism, please. Just make sure this one remembers you for when we come back if you want to get home before sunset.'
Their short, familiar skirmish ended, the two became trusted conspirators again and Tarrian bounded into the enclosure.
Antyr, several paces behind, heard the startled cry from within and as he stepped through the door he beamed his friendliest smile.
Tarrian had his feet on the collecting table and was leaning forward and panting dubiously into the face of a wide-eyed official who was sitting motionless, his red cap of office incongruously askew.
'We'll be back before sunset,’ Antyr said heartily. ‘No goods in or out.’ The Exactor's eyes flicked an appeal for rescue which Antyr wilfully misconstrued as an acknowledgement and, with a friendly wave, he turned and left. Tarrian stopped panting and, craning forward a little further, abruptly licked the Exactor's face wetly, before dropping back on to the floor and following Antyr.
Outside the Norstseren Gate, Antyr and Tarrian made their way through the tents and temporary dwellings that were always clustered there. Known as ‘The Village’ by the residents of Serenstad, this strange, ever-changing community consisted of all manner of people drawn from all manner of distant places by the fame and splendour of Ibris's city. Merchants, scholars, entertainers, travellers, seekers after fame and fortune, seekers after anonymity; all were there from time to time.
It was often a colourful and exciting place, but today the cold dampness of the morning following on the night's dank fog gave the place a sodden, down-at-heel appearance and such gaudy signs as there were looked glumly futile while streams of pennants and buntings hung listless and unmoving like some weary fisherman's unsold catch.
For a little while, Antyr and Tarrian walked on in the self-satisfied glow of the small mischief they had wrought on the Gate Exactor, but the only signs of life they encountered were four dour-faced riders, and as the mournful atmosphere of the Village gradually weighed in upon them, the strange events of the night soon rose to dominate their thoughts again.
'Where are we going, Tarrian?’ Antyr asked eventually, some time after they had left the Village.
