suffered by the comparison. He consoled himself, however, with the fact that the rich variety to be found in Serenstad's society had achieved far more in almost every sphere of endeavour than the stark ranks of uniform and regimented humanity that were the Bethlarii. They had also held their own against the Bethlarii army when need arose.
The Duke levered himself into a more comfortable position as the guards halted some way in front of him and the front rank opened to let the envoy move forward. Arwain willed himself to relax and watch the man calmly, though it was not easy. All three men carried themselves with such arrogance and disdain that it seemed that any form of polite discourse was out of the question.
As the first Bethlarii stepped forward, Arwain noticed that he wore a short sword and a dagger in his belt. A quick glance revealed that the other two were similarly armed. More breaches of the treaty. Arwain felt surprise and alarm taking hold of his features then he remembered his father's injunction. ‘Don't let the faintest shadow of your mind appear on your face,’ and, with an effort, he forced his expression into one of polite indifference.
For a moment he was tempted to work out how he might best defend his father should a sudden attack be made on him, but he rejected it. He had learned enough both from Ryllans and in the field to know that in close quarter fighting there was no time to marshal and choose detailed plans. Awareness and single-minded ruthlessness were the watchwords. And he knew too that any rash move on his part might only impede the responses of Feranc's guards, not least the hidden archers behind him, and while a knife blow might perhaps be redirected at the last moment to avoid a friend, an arrow could not be recalled.
Watch and listen. That was what his father wanted him to do and that also would be his best defence against any attack. It was unlikely anyway that the envoy would be allowed within four paces of the Duke and he would be dead within two paces from half a dozen blades and points if he made any threatening move.
Ciarll Feranc stood up and walked forward, discreetly interposing himself between the man and the Duke. As he did so, Ibris also stood up and signalled to someone in the crowd. Arwain did not see the recipient of the signal, but, almost immediately a group of court musicians struck up. For a moment, the piece they were playing, though familiar, eluded Arwain, then he identified it as the Bethlarii AnFest, a hymn from their ancient past ostensibly written to celebrate the passing of a devastating outbreak of the plague. It was a tune which held a high place in their otherwise relatively unmusical culture.
Arwain was momentarily puzzled by his failure to identify the piece immediately. He had heard it more than once before: strident and raucous during battle; mournful and solemn afterwards as the dead were carried away under flags of truce; occasionally almost jolly, emanating from their waiting, watching camps in the evening before battle. Then he realized that it was because it was being played on instruments. He had only ever heard it being sung previously. He watched the three Bethlarii closely to see how they would respond.
The eyes of the two escorts flickered briefly and they seemed to become even straighter than before. The envoy himself stopped and stood motionless while the music was played, but gave no other sign that he had heard it.
As the final chords died away, the Duke sat down again. ‘Welcome to our city and our palace, envoy,’ he said genially. ‘Our greeting would have been a little more lavish had we had due notice of your coming. However, I understand from your message that a matter of some urgency has arisen that requires our immediate attention so we must accept a degree of informality.’ He leaned forward. ‘I presume, however, that the urgency has not precluded your bringing letters credential from the Handira.’ He extended his hand towards Feranc.
The envoy looked from the Duke to Feranc, then turned his head slightly and made a small, curt gesture. One of his escort stepped forward smartly and handed a document to Feranc who opened it slowly and read it carefully before turning to the Duke.
'My Lord Duke, may I introduce Grygyr Ast-Darvad, head of the house of Darvad, deputed by the Handira at the behest of the Hanestra to act as envoy for the city and dominions of Bethlar.’ He examined the seal. ‘This letter bears the seal of the Handira, which I recognize and validate, and the same signature as the previous message.'
Ibris inclined his head in acknowledgement of this introduction then made another signal to someone in the crowd. On the instant, a small group of servants bustled forward, carrying chairs and a heavy, food-laden table which they set out in front of the Bethlarii.
'Please be seated, gentlemen,’ Ibris said. ‘And please eat. It's a chilly day and I've no doubt you've been travelling for some time.’ He became knowingly avuncular. ‘I know well enough that camp fare usually leaves something to be desired.'
For the first time since their arrival, the Bethlarii seemed to be unsettled. To have remained standing would have obliged them to conduct their debate over the table, looking like servants pleading before their master, while to sit would have lessened their stern presence. Arwain found it difficult to keep a smile from his face as he watched the envoy's brief unspoken debate. It concluded with his sitting while his escort stood stiffly on either side of him, but a pace back.
Added to the envoy's dissatisfaction was the fact that the chair was large and lavishly cushioned, in stark contrast to traditional Bethlarii furniture. But having chosen to sit, it was not possible for him to stand again without looking foolish. He succeeded in recovering a little of his poise, however, by slowly and deliberately brushing the plates in front of him to one side and leaning forward into the empty space.
'My preference is for camp fare,’ he said, speaking with a heavy Bethlarii accent and with a voice that was guttural and strained as if he had spent his lifetime shouting orders on a parade ground. ‘And I am indifferent to the vagaries of the weather.’ As he spoke, his eyes seemed to come unnervingly alive.
Ibris nodded slightly in acceptance of this declaration, but showed no reaction to the calculated omission of his title. The watching crowd grew more silent, and Arwain could feel a tension beginning to grow. If this day didn't end in steel and blood it would be a miracle, he thought.
Ibris made to speak.
'Where is my messenger?’ asked the envoy, bluntly cutting across his intention.
The Duke affected a brief uncertainty, tapping his mouth with the edge of his forefinger and frowning slightly. ‘The servants will be attending to him, I imagine,’ he said. ‘I really don't know. He's probably dining. Or resting. I'll send someone to find out and have him brought here for you.'
Turning, he spoke softly to one of the guards behind him. The man nodded and then quietly left the room. Ibris sat back and waited, not attempting to speak again as if to do so in the absence of the fourth Bethlarii would be a discourtesy. The envoy wriggled surreptitiously on the too comfortable chair. Carefully, Arwain felt for the man underneath the stark image.
Eventually the guard returned, accompanied by the messenger who went immediately to the envoy, saluted ferociously and joined his two colleagues in their stiff array.
Now, Arwain thought. That's the end of the skirmishing, let's see what the attack will be like.
Apparently reaching the same conclusion, the envoy laid his hands flat on the table and prepared to speak. Ibris, however, used his own device against him, and spoke first.
'If I may, Grygyr, before you begin,’ he said. ‘There's a slight problem that I'd like you to clarify before we get down to your urgent message.’ He did not wait for an answer, but took the original letter from Aaken and handed it to Feranc who placed it in front of the envoy.
The envoy stiffened slightly as if preparing for some kind of assault.
'I see the seal of the Handira,’ Ibris went on. ‘But I cannot make out the signature. I'm not concerned myself, you understand. Man to man, I've no reservations about you, but there are legal forms to be observed under our treaty, as I'm sure you appreciate, and it is our duty…’ He waved a hand between himself and the envoy. ‘…to ensure that they are observed correctly. As on the battlefield, so here, in friendly discourse, if the forms are not observed then dishonour and treachery lie ever in wait.'
The envoy's eyes narrowed perceptibly, and he glanced briefly down at the letter. ‘It's the signature of some scribe,’ he said dismissively. ‘His name is of no importance. The seal of the Handira needs no endorsement.'
Ibris puffed out his cheeks in reluctant disagreement. ‘The treaty, as I recollect it, says otherwise. Something to the effect that your official documents shall bear the seal of the Handira, and the signature of the then most senior. I'm no lawyer, the exact phraseology escapes me, but that's the gist of it, I believe.'
The envoy scowled openly.
The Duke went on. ‘The difficulty is, Grygyr, that this same signature graces your letters credential and if it is indeed the hand of some lowly scribe instead of the senior Handiran, then, strictly speaking, whatever we discuss is
