for a full-scale war-a crusade. It's happened before, and this Grygyr's obviously a fanatic. And he's certainly been sent to provoke something. But I can't see it being a crusade myself … it's…’ He left the sentence unfinished.
'Aaken thinks they're just using the Whendreachi as an excuse to distract us while they pull off some other coup such as quietly annexing Meck,’ he went on. ‘Ciarll's keeping quiet until he's something to say, as usual. And I'm listening to all three-silence and all. Irfan, from the little you've heard, what do you think?'
Menedrion did not speak at first.
'What do you think?’ Ibris asked again.
Menedrion shrugged, though not as a mark of indifference or ignorance, but because his body was still rebelling against being restrained from dealing out summary justice to these impudent upstarts who had arrived out of nowhere to insult his father and the city.
'I don't know,’ he said, looking up at the ceiling. ‘The whole thing sounds preposterous to me, but…’ He raised his hands to forestall any rebuke from his father. ‘Not being there of course, I've got no feeling for it. It could be anything. Certainly they've always had their eye on Meck. It would free them from the independents at Crowhell and they could use it for trade or as a base for a navy, or both. That's why we've always kept such a large garrison there. Whendrak, I don't know. It's strategically vital for both of us, because of its location, but…’ He shook his head. ‘That's why it's neutral. They must know we'd fight them to the last man if they tried to move the army in, under whatever pretext. It would be a desperate affair. And these days I think we'd both end up having to fight the Whendreachi themselves. After the last time I doubt they're going to allow their city to be used as a battleground again.'
Feranc nodded slightly.
'But we can talk about this until the Seren runs dry and be none the wiser,’ Menedrion went on. ‘We'll have to question this … envoy … to find out what they're up to. And then get up to Whendrak as soon as possible to see what's really happening there.'
Ibris was seemingly pleased. ‘That, we were just coming to when you arrived,’ he said. He motioned to Feranc who stood up and left the room quietly, then returned his gaze to Menedrion. ‘Put a chair there for him,’ he said, pointing some way in front of himself. ‘Then I want you to one side of him, but behind, so that he can't see your face. And you too, Arwain, other side,’ he added, mindful that Menedrion should not consider himself demeaned in front of his half-brother. ‘Don't speak, either of you. And don't respond in any audible way to anything he says, however provocative. I can't read him yet. We're about evens on insults so far, so I'm not going to mention any of that and hope that our protection of him in the hall has perhaps had some beneficial effect on him.'
Menedrion made a disparaging noise. ‘My men would soon get it out of him,’ he said grimly, standing up and moving his chair.
Ibris shook his head. ‘I doubt it, Irfan,’ he said. ‘You forget what pride they take in their own personal courage and endurance. He could well die before he'd part with a secret. We never had much success with their spies in the field. Force won't be the way. We'll have to lure it out of him. And it may well lie in what he doesn't say.'
Menedrion looked doubtful, but did not argue.
'Besides,’ Ibris went on. ‘We've accepted him publicly as an envoy now so we've got an obligation to look after him. Arwain thinks he's come as a martyr anyway, though personally I doubt that, but whatever, we mustn't turn him into one.'
'Pity,’ Menedrion muttered.
'Irfan,’ Ibris said, affecting not to hear the comment. ‘I'm holding you responsible for his safety and his well- being. He and his men will be treated as honoured guests and given every comfort. Believe me, that kind of treatment will unsettle them as much as any amount of beating.’ He leaned forward purposefully. ‘And make it clear to some of your noisier cronies that if they start talking about summary justice for these men, they'll get it themselves, parentage and patronage notwithstanding.'
'Yes, father,’ Menedrion said flatly. ‘And what would you like me to do if he decides to attack you here and now?'
Ibris's eyes flashed momentarily at Menedrion's tone. ‘You heard me, Irfan,’ he said. ‘He's not to be hurt. I don't want him clubbed and stabbed whatever he does. If needs be, use your garotte to immobilize him. There's nothing like a shortage of air for making people change their minds.'
Menedrion raised his eyebrows. ‘And that's the other reason you want me sitting behind him,’ he said.
Ibris's face abruptly wrinkled into a smile and then he chuckled. ‘There's some hope for you yet, Irfan,’ he said. The tension between father and son evaporated as they shared a brief moment of dark, family, humour.
Menedrion dropped a chair into position for the envoy, then settled back into his own. Arwain sat down next to him on the opposite side of the envoy's chair. Almost immediately, Ciarll Feranc returned, accompanying Grygyr Ast-Darvad. Once again, Arwain was impressed by the presence of the man as he strode into the room, though, oddly, in these more intimate surroundings he seemed smaller, less confident. He sensed too that the envoy was subtly wary of his companion. Immediately, Arwain's mind went back to the meeting in the hall when Feranc had moved to intercept the envoy and with a few soft words and his calm unsettling gaze had held him in thrall.
Despite almost certainly possessing considerable fighting skills, some depth in the man instinctively knew Feranc as his master, Arwain decided. The envoy had already lost any future combat with the Duke's bodyguard. There would be no trouble at this meeting.
Arwain found the realization chilling, though whether it was a new measure of himself or of Feranc he could not have said. He knew however that it was some quality in his training that had given him the insight and he congratulated himself on his assessment of the situation. Then, remembering another attribute of his training, he immediately reminded himself that he could be wrong and that the envoy was carrying his sword and knife again. He cast another quick glance at his half-brother.
Ibris had charged him with the quelling of the envoy if need arose, but Arwain suspected that, for all his fighting ability, Menedrion would scarcely have begun to move before Feranc would have finished the work himself. He found confirmation of this in the relatively casual manner in which his father had delegated the task.
With the exception of the Duke, they had all stood up when the envoy entered the room. Arwain noticed with some slight amusement that although Menedrion managed to keep his feelings from his face as the envoy passed him, he gave up the effort as soon as the man sat down, and his expression became one of undisguised hostility.
Two of a kind, Arwain thought, looking back to the envoy. They would have to come to sword strokes before any mastership was acknowledged there.
Yet somehow Menedrion was not himself. His dark, ferocious anger was muted in some way, as if part of his attention were elsewhere. Briefly Arwain found his own attention clouding with the strange events of the previous night. His awakening, apparently as Menedrion. So vivid. So intense. And the beating of the girl. He looked down at his hands. Was it Menedrion who had beaten her, or was it him doing what he thought Menedrion would do in such circumstances? No answer came.
And then the terrible truth of it all struck him fully for the first time. The truth that the chase through the cellar, Drayner's curt dismissal of his questions, and the day's bizarre events had enabled him to avoid facing squarely. The truth that it had actually happened! Arwain felt his mind beginning to teeter towards whirling uncertainty. Slowly, deliberately, he took control of his breathing and forced himself back to the present. Whatever had happened last night would have to wait yet further before he could ponder it carefully.
'Grygyr,’ his father was saying. ‘I hope the quarters we've provided are to your satisfaction…'
'A prison is a prison be it stone or silk,’ Grygyr retorted before Ibris could finish. ‘My message is delivered. I have nothing more to say. As envoy I should not have been detained thus, it is in breach of the treaty.'
Menedrion's jaw tightened, but he did not speak.
Ibris opened his hands in concession. ‘The treaty is a man-made thing, and thus flawed, Grygyr,’ he said. ‘It states that I may not detain you, but demands also that I ensure your safety. The two requirements conflict in this instance and I must decide which is the lesser breach.’ He leaned back in his chair.
'As I told you before, it's a considerable tribute to your … skill … that you managed to reach here unharmed, but news of your presence will be across the city by now and I wouldn't guarantee you safe conduct across the palace square without substantial protection. You saw in the hall how heated some people can become.’ The envoy opened his mouth to speak, but Ibris continued. ‘So, while my officers are making preparations to escort you safely back to the border, I must perforce imprison you, as it were, though I'd rather you thought of yourself as an
