sober.'
The sudden, blistering contempt in Tarrian's voice struck Antyr like a blow and choked his reply in his throat. He struggled unsteadily to his feet, and snatched up the candle.
'Go to hell, dog,’ he tried to shout, but the curse degenerated into a strained squeak as his voice, marred by fog and drink, declined to respond.
Leaving the room, Antyr lost the small remains of his dignity by colliding with the door jamb.
He had intended to go upstairs to his bed, but his sudden rising and his collision with the door released the forces he had set in train earlier that evening. His stomach took urgent and explosive charge of events.
Somehow, Antyr reached the kitchen and an empty bucket just in time, and a few retching minutes later he was sitting on the cold floor leaning miserably against the wall with his arm draped around the stinking bucket like a grotesque parody of a replete lover and his chosen.
His head felt a little clearer, though that merely served to accentuate his distress.
'You have a rare gift, Antyr,’ his father had said. ‘Greater by far than mine. But it will bring you nothing but pain if you do not embrace and cherish it. We are Dream Finders. In some matters we have no choice. Some dreams seek us, not we them.'
'You'll doom us both.’ Tarrian's words returned to him in the wake of the memory of his father's anxious words. Antyr tried to curse the wolf again, but the oath died unborn as he gazed up at the kitchen window, etched a dim yellow in the darkness by the fog-strained torchlight outside. He knew that Tarrian was right and that even now the wolf would be silently prowling the dark edges of his addled mind to protect him from unseen dangers, just as its wilder fellows would prowl the woods in search of prey. No matter what Antyr did or thought, Tarrian would do what he knew to be his duty, waiting for that moment when his charge would accept the burden of his calling.
Antyr wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood up. His head ached with it all. He walked to the stone sink and took a ladle full of water from a bucket. After noisily rinsing his mouth he drank a little. Its coldness mapped out the route down to his rebelling stomach where it landed like retribution.
Then he dashed a handful into his face by way of penance. ‘Tomorrow, we will talk, Tarrian,’ he said to the yellow window.
A faint whiff of doubt and regret seeped reluctantly into his mind that he knew came from the watching wolf.
'No, I mean it this time,’ Antyr said earnestly, well conscious of the fact that his protestation of good intentions was by no means new. ‘I mean it,’ he repeated, pointlessly.
'Someone's coming.’ Tarrian's voice was suddenly awake and alert. Antyr started. It never failed to amaze him that the wolf could come from the deepest sleep to the fullest wakefulness in the blink of an eye.
'No,’ Antyr said, shaking his head slowly. ‘The streets outside are as dark as any dream likely to be dreamt tonight.'
'There's several of them,’ Tarrian said, ignoring the denial. ‘I can smell no danger, but…'
Antyr felt Tarrian rising up and walking inquisitively into the hallway, but before he could speak again, someone beat a purposeful tattoo on the door.
'Ye gods,’ Antyr muttered, frowning. ‘I don't care who it is, I'm not turning out tonight for anyone.’ Then, as Tarrian's comment registered, the concerns of the daily round impinged on him. ‘Several of them! It's not the Exactors is it, Tarrian?’ he hissed, lowering his voice.
Tarrian's voice was scornful. ‘Since when did you earn enough to warrant the midnight attention of the Exactors, Antyr? Just answer the door quickly, this is intriguing.'
Reinforcing Tarrian's advice, the tattoo sounded again, echoing through the darkened house. Antyr picked up the lamp.
'Are you sure it's not the Exactors?’ he whispered again to Tarrian.
The wolf's sigh filled his head. ‘Don't be ridiculous,’ came the irritable reply, then, with an unexpected touch of humour, ‘Besides, the Exactors are predators, they wear soft-soled boots so that you can't hear them coming- and they don't knock.'
'Very droll, Tarrian,’ Antyr replied, as he cautiously opened the small sentry flap in the door. He was relieved that these unexpected visitors had set the mood of acrimony aside, at least for the time being, but he was a little concerned by the excitement he sensed surrounding the wolf's thoughts. Tarrian had probably smelt an ‘interesting’ client and he really was in no mood for working tonight.
'Who is it?’ he shouted as he peered through the small opening. ‘Don't you know what time it is?'
By way of reply, a clenched fist appeared immediately in front of his face so that he had to withdraw a little to focus on it. On the middle finger of the fist was a signet ring. It was the seal of the Sened Watch.
'Open the door,’ came a commanding voice.
Hastily Antyr drew back the bolts and opened the door.
He twitched an apologetic smile as it screeched its usual protest, then he stepped forward and peered, bleary-eyed, at the unexpected visitors.
The man who had offered him the seal of the Watch stepped deferentially to one side and raised a torch high to reveal another figure standing about a pace behind. Despite the large cloak wrapped about him and the hood hiding his face, this second figure radiated authority, and behind him again, merging into the fog, as Tarrian had said, were several others. Some were carrying torches. The others were carrying-Antyr peered further into the gloom, then his eyes widened in alarm-the others were carrying the lethal-bladed short pikes of the palace guard.
The Sened Watch? Palace guards? What …?
'You are Antyr the Dream Finder, the son of Petran,’ said the man. His voice confirmed his posture, and cut through Antyr's mounting confusion.
Antyr swallowed nervously. ‘Er, yes,’ he managed after a moment. ‘Who are …?'
'Come with us. You are needed,’ the man continued, disregarding the half-formed question.
'But…'
'We will escort you,’ said the figure, turning away and indicating the men behind him. ‘Bring your Companion.'
Antyr was about to repeat his question when the man's cloak fell open to reveal the insignia on his tunic. It was an eagle with a lamb in its talons: Duke Ibris's insignia. And the only people who wore that were …
'The Duke's personal bodyguard.’ Tarrian finished the thought for him.
Chapter 2
Aaken Uhr Candessa, once humble Aaken Candes, sheep-herder, mercenary, shield-bearer and successful conspirator, now chancellor to the Duke Ibris, stood fretfully by as his erstwhile co-conspirator and now master paced to and fro.
The room was lit by only three lamps, and though they were bright they reflected the Duke's mood and cast more darkness than they did light: the lavish paintings around the walls had become like black night-watching windows, and the faces of the many carved figures that graced the room were prematurely aged in their motionless vigils by shadow-etched lines.
Only the armour and the weapons responded to the lamps, glittering watchfully as if lit by the light of some blazing enemy camp.
'Sire…’ Aaken ventured.
The Duke waved him silent and continued his pacing. Aaken surreptitiously shifted his weight from one foot to another and resigned himself to not returning to his bed for some considerable time that night-if at all.
The Duke might be four years his senior but in his many appetites and strengths he could have been ten years his junior, and he was more than capable of pacing the floor all night in pursuit of some unspoken problem without saying a word until the palace began to rouse itself the next day.
Aaken began to fidget with his sparse grey beard.
Abruptly the Duke stopped in front of a small statuette. It was a warrior crouching forward behind his shield and preparing to thrust with his spear. As was the current fashion, his eyes had neither iris nor pupil, giving him a
