Antyr was still chuckling at Tarrian's discomfiture as they crossed the wide hallway with a purposeful clatter.
Reaching the main door, they found they had to wait through another of the porter's rambling rituals after Antyr made his request for the address of Nyriall. First came the look over the eye glasses and then the scowl at this interruption to his duties. Next came an inquiry: ‘And what is the reason for wanting this address?'
'Don't take that,’ Tarrian said indignantly. ‘It's none of his business, cheeky old devil.'
'A Dream Finding matter,’ Antyr said diplomatically but firmly, returning to the porter a portion of his scowl.
Then came another search through the book, even more leisurely than before, and finally there was a painstaking search for paper, pen and ink and a writing down of the address. Throughout this Antyr managed to maintain a fixed smile, but as the porter finally began to wave the paper with exaggerated slowness in order to dry the ink, Tarrian put his forelegs on the counter and, craning forward, fixed him with a grim grey-eyed gaze.
The porter thrust the paper into Antyr's hand quickly and gave him a surly nod of dismissal.
Antyr looked at the smudged writing as he moved to the door and his heart sank.
'What's the matter?’ Tarrian asked.
'Dream Finder Nyriall might find favour with our bumptious rabbit, but seemingly not with anyone else,’ Antyr replied. ‘He lives in the Moras district.'
Before Tarrian could voice his opinion on this revelation, however, the main door opened and two soldiers entered. Antyr recognized the livery of the Duke's bodyguard again and he stepped back to let them enter. As they passed him, he saw they wore the insignia of the eagle without the lamb. They were the guards seconded to Lord Menedrion.
'Wait a minute,’ Tarrian said as Antyr made to leave. ‘Let's see how Happiness here treats the Duke's men. I doubt they'll be as patient as we were.'
Tarrian's prognostication was correct.
'You,’ said the first man authoritatively, slapping his hand smartly on the counter.
Antyr and Tarrian chuckled privately at the alacrity with which the porter stood up and, smiling sycophantically, began rubbing his hands together.
The soldier eyed him coldly. ‘We're looking for the Dream Finder Antyr. Where can we find him?'
The porter's eyes gleamed knowingly.
Chapter 11
Arwain was still soiled and sweating as he dismissed the messenger and walked towards the large stateroom that he had indicated.
Already puzzled by the sudden summons from his father, Arwain's curiosity was further heightened by being directed towards this particular room. It was not the one which the Duke normally used for day-to-day business matters, but one of several small halls which were generally used for private entertaining and minor state occasions, such as the presenting of an honour or the receiving of some petition or a work of art. Yet no such occasion had been planned for today as far as he knew.
Two servants opened the double doors to admit him, at the same time releasing the considerable hubbub that was filling the room. Taken aback by the unexpected noise, Arwain hesitated, then stepped inside quickly.
The room was very full. Looking around, he saw his father was at the far end, sitting in a large wooden chair richly inlaid with gold and decorated with engraved marble panels. From the top of it stared the glittering, watchful eyes of a great eagle.
Indeed, so skilfully had the bird been carved and painted, that no matter where an observer stood in the room, its eyes would always seem to be staring at him. Significantly, its wings were raised slightly so that it might be either landing or just about to take flight after some prey. The detail that Arwain always appreciated, however, was in the carving of the talons, which had been done in such a way that they appeared to be crushing the wide, carved, top rail of the chair.
Seated either side of the Duke were Ciarll Feranc and Aaken Uhr Candessa, the one very still, the other fidgeting restlessly. In front of them was a semicircle of empty floor while behind them stood various other of the Duke's close advisers. Behind the whole arced a semicircle of the Duke's bodyguard.
The rest of the hall was filled with a random assortment of senior court officials, both civilian and military; high-ranking Senedwr and Gythrinwr, standing conspicuously apart; various lords and their advisers; some senior Guild officials; several of the city's major merchants, and a leavening of scholars and artists. As usual too there were petitioners from Serenstad's allied towns and cities, distinctive in their local dress and noticeably brighter eyed than the normal courtiers.
Arwain raised his eyebrows in surprise. This was a far larger gathering than normally surrounded his father. Had he indeed forgotten some formal event that required his presence? He could remember nothing and, moreover, there was a feeling of tension in the air which had an uncharacteristically sharp edge to it.
As he made his way towards his father, Arwain also saw that several of the Duke's bodyguard were wearing their normal court clothes and mingling casually with the crowd.
With a little gentle pushing and apologizing he managed eventually to reach the empty space in front of his father.
'Father,’ he said, stepping forward a few paces.
The Duke, who had been talking quietly to Aaken, turned to him and beckoned him forward.
'Ye gods, Arwain, you look like an ostler's rag,’ he said, then, wrinkling his nose, ‘and you smell like one, too. What have you been doing?'
'Just training with Ryllans and the others,’ Arwain replied. Ibris gave a shrug eloquent with both approval and regret. ‘Ah well, I did tell you to come immediately so I suppose it's my own fault.’ He took Arwain's arm and pulled him forward so that he could talk more quietly. ‘Anyway, you're here,’ he said. ‘Menedrion's nowhere to be found, as usual, and Goran's down at Farlan looking at some new marble that one of our merchants has managed to import from somewhere…’ He furrowed his brow and waved his hand to bring his conversation from the desirable to the necessary. ‘It's perhaps as well you look so rough. We've a Bethlarii envoy coming. Ciarll's men are bringing him and his escort from the Norstseren Gate right now.'
Arwain's face darkened. ‘An envoy?’ he said. ‘And escort? Here? Now?’ He put his hand to his head and shook it as if to waken himself. ‘Without a formal request? Notice to the Sened and the Gythrin-Dy? Toing and froing of heralds etc? Endless debates about location and precedence? Have they forgotten we've a treaty with them which deals with these procedures? What are they up to?'
Ibris acknowledged Arwain's bluster with an offhand shrug, and, taking a letter from Aaken, held it out to his son. Arwain wiped his hands on his tunic, took the letter, and unfolded it carefully. It was written in the harsh, angular script typical of the Bethlarii scribes.
'To our vassal, Ibris of Serenstad. You will receive our envoy and discuss with him a matter of great mutual concern. His person and escort of three are inviolate. Harm to them will constitute an act of war.'
Underneath this brief missive was an illegible signature and the seal of the Handira, the council of five that governed Bethlar.
Arwain looked up from the sheet and stared at his father open-mouthed. ‘This is unbelievable,’ he said. ‘Coming unannounced is a breach of the treaty, as is bringing their own escort, but…’ He gaped as he struggled for words, waving the paper about vaguely. Ibris took it from him gently and returned it to Aaken. ‘The tone. It's arrogant by even their standards. Their vassal! It's a … wilful provocation … How did it get here?'
'It arrived barely an hour ago,’ Ibris said, watching his son carefully. ‘Brought by a Bethlarii Ghaler disguised as a messenger from Hyndrak, and…'
Arwain interrupted before Ibris could continue. ‘In disguise? A Ghaler?’ he exclaimed. ‘A Bethlarii foot soldier?’ He shook his head. ‘Never. Their colours are sacred. A Ghaler wouldn't go into enemy territory with them covered under any circumstances. It would be sacrilege. Whatever the man is, he's no Ghaler. He's probably one of their officer corps. And probably an assassin. Has he been questioned? Searched? Don't let him near you…'
Arwain stopped as he caught a small admonitory gesture from Ciarll Feranc and looked up to see the
