treacherous marshland of palace politics.
No one at the palace knew him-even the porter at the Guild House didn't know him! No one except those few who had been involved in his visit to the Duke. His name could only have come to her attention through one of these, who must be among the Duke's chosen. He felt chilled at the thought of his name being bandied about such politically charged circles. Another loose piece to be discarded when the play was over!
For a moment the fear of the very real dangers that faced casual players in Serenstad's political life set aside the darker mysteries that were waiting in the shadow lands of sleep.
'Forget it!’ Tarrian said, sharply, jolting him back to the present. ‘The danger there is only for those who threaten others. Concentrate on the matter in hand, that's far more serious.'
'The dream, sir,’ Antyr persisted, accepting Tarrian's advice. Another military analogy occurred to him. ‘I must have intelligence about our enemy if I'm to decide what to do.'
Menedrion grunted, then, a little self-consciously, he retold the tale he had told to his mother a few hours earlier, neglecting the assault on the girl. When he had finished, he looked at Antyr.
'And can I sleep tonight?’ he asked again.
Antyr pondered what Menedrion had told him, but it gave him no insight. Rather, it raised more questions and uncertainties. He felt his feet reach the end of the road and an abyss open up in front of him. ‘I still don't know, sir,’ he said. ‘I see two choices. Tarrian and I can stay and watch over you tonight, or I can seek out the other Dream Finder I mentioned.'
Menedrion frowned. ‘What prevents you doing both?’ he asked.
'Nyriall lives in the Moras district,’ Antyr replied.
Menedrion's frown deepened and he looked Antyr up and down. ‘You're precious little advertisement for your trade, yourself, Antyr,’ he said. ‘Now you tell me that this person you need advice from isn't some senior Guildsman, but someone even more impoverished than you!'
Antyr's temper flared abruptly. ‘When you go into battle do you use a ceremonial sword, sir? Embossed, engraved, inlaid, beautified-useless? Or do you choose a simple well-balanced one that will hold its edge?'
Menedrion sat up and glared at him. ‘Curb your insolence, Dream Finder,’ he said angrily. But he answered the question. ‘I use a sword I've used before. One I know I can rely on.’ And he went no further with his rebuke. Nor did Antyr apologize.
Menedrion stood up purposefully. ‘You'll have to stay here, then,’ he said. ‘Though it's damned inconvenient. I had … plans … for tonight. Still, you can't go wandering round the Moras at this time, especially with the fog coming down again. And I'm not sending an escort in, it'd start a riot for sure.’ He banged his fist into his hand and swore in frustration.
'We needn't disturb your plans, sir,’ Antyr said helpfully. ‘We don't need to be in the same chamber, just nearby will suffice. And we can't begin our watch until you're asleep anyway.'
This seemed to mollify Menedrion to some extent, but a knocking on the door forestalled any further debate.
'Come in,’ he shouted.
The door opened to reveal the woman who had escorted Antyr through the palace. She beckoned Menedrion forward and there was a brief whispered conversation.
When it was finished, the woman left and Menedrion turned to Antyr, frowning. ‘Come with me. I'll find a servant to look after you,’ he said. ‘An urgent matter has arisen.'
Chapter 15
Menedrion looked round the room as he closed the door. His father, Aaken Uhr Candessa, Ciarll Feranc, and Arwain were seated in a wide circle and there were no servants or guards present.
His father turned towards him as he entered, and the other three stood up.
It needed no great perception on Menedrion's part to know that he had entered into the middle of a vigorous debate. Indeed, he got the impression of the last words fading into the corners of the room even as he took in the fact that his father's mood was stern. He braced himself.
'Gracious of you to favour us with your presence, Menedrion,’ Ibris said caustically, before his son could offer any greetings.
Menedrion looked at him with a mixture of annoyance and bewilderment. ‘What's the matter?’ he asked, less than diplomatically.
'What's the matter is that I've had the palace turned upside down trying to find you all day,’ Ibris replied. ‘While you've been doubtless dallying in the arms of your latest paramour, we've had the privilege of a visit from a Bethlarii envoy no less. Why the devil don't you tell one of your secretaries where you're going occasionally instead of using them to cover your tracks?’ He began to warm to his topic. ‘My God, we could have had the whole Bethlarii army at the palace gates by now while everybody was wandering round looking…'
Aaken cleared his throat awkwardly.
Ibris cast him an irritated look but stopped his diatribe with a snort. ‘Well, at least you're here now, anyway,’ he concluded reluctantly. ‘On reflection, it's perhaps as well you weren't at the audience.'
Menedrion's mouth dropped open as he floundered between preparing an account of his day, and shock at Ibris's news. ‘What do you mean, audience? Bethlarii envoy?’ he managed, eventually.
But Ibris had returned his attention to the others. ‘Sit down. Sit down,’ he said to them with a wave of his arm. ‘And Irfan, find yourself a chair and sit down as well. There…’ He pointed a busy finger. ‘Next to Aaken. He'll tell you what's happened.'
He was barely two minutes into his renewed discussion with Feranc and Arwain, however, when Menedrion escaped Aaken's telling and his voice exploded over the proceedings.
'What?’ he thundered, jumping to his feet.
'Sit down, Irfan!’ His father's equally loud, but more authoritative voice made Menedrion rock back on his heels. When he recovered, he leaned forward towards his father. ‘You hanged them all, of course,’ he said.
'I hanged nobody, Irfan,’ Ibris said in weary frustration. ‘How many times do I have to tell you to restrain your behaviour? Will you sit down and listen, and use your head for once.'
'But you can't let them…'
'Sit down, damn it!’ Ibris declared definitively.
Menedrion held his gaze defiantly for a moment then turned his face away sharply and dropped heavily back into his chair. It creaked in protest.
Ibris winced at the chair's distress. ‘Irfan,’ he said deliberately. ‘When you can make a chair as fine as that, you can treat it like that. Otherwise, don't!’ Then, in continuing exasperation. ‘I don't know how long it's going to take you to take you to grasp this. You'll be Duke one day. You must control your tongue. You must control everything. An outburst like that could launch an army, and impetuosity like that could send it to its doom.'
'There was no one here to see it,’ Menedrion protested unconvincingly.
'There's everyone who matters here,’ Ibris replied angrily. ‘And you'd have behaved just the same in the market place.’ Menedrion pondered a reply, then rejected it. Grinding his teeth, he folded his arms and sat back.
'Good,’ Ibris said. ‘That's a start. Next, learn to control your face.'
Then, placatory, ‘I understand your anger, Irfan. God knows I do. My reaction was the same.’ He almost snarled. ‘It still is,’ he added viciously. ‘But there's obviously a lot more going on here than meets the eye. You're commander enough to smell an ambush and to know the importance of good intelligence and careful planning. This business needs thought and consideration before it needs action.'
Menedrion grunted a surly agreement.
'Aaken's told you the heart of it,’ Ibris went on quietly. ‘And I wanted to discuss it between ourselves before I consult the Cabinet and report to the Sened. I also want to talk to this envoy more informally. See if we can get a better idea of what they're really up to. He might be more forthcoming in private. What he's said so far seems to make precious little sense.'
He frowned. ‘Arwain's of the opinion that it's some religious group that's taken over and that they're looking
