he said. ‘I hope you're paying attention to the way we're going.'
'Right at the bottom, along the corridor, across the hall, bear right after the decorated archway…’ Antyr began reciting.
'All right,’ Tarrian interrupted unkindly, adding, ‘Let's see how you manage coming back.'
'I'm not envisaging any difficulty,’ Antyr replied haughtily.
Tarrian gave an anticipatory ‘We'll see’ grunt.
'Right, here.'
'Left!'
A little while later, and after explaining themselves to three separate servants from whom they inquired about the route, they arrived at a door bearing the worn and cryptic legend ‘Chanc Gen’ in ancient capital letters.
'Oh dear,’ Tarrian said ominously. ‘He's too mean to have the sign on his door repainted. I don't think this is going to be easy.'
As Antyr reached out to push it, the door opened to reveal a palace messenger. There was a brief dance as the two men both hesitated in the doorway and then stepped sideways and forward simultaneously. Tarrian ploughed through the resultant collision regardless, ensuring complete confusion.
'Come on,’ he said, impatiently. ‘I'm hungry.'
After a spluttering of mutual apologies with the messenger, Antyr found himself backing into the ‘Chanc Gen’ office.
'Oh dear,’ he heard Tarrian say again.
Turning, he found himself standing in a large hall filled with rank upon rank of desks, each occupied by the hunched form of a black-gowned clerk. Along one of the side walls were shelves laden with heaps of scrolls and papers and dangling seals. They reached from the floor to the high ceiling, growing dustier with height, and they were complemented on the opposite wall by stacks of large drawers which also shouldered up against the ceiling as if supporting it.
As he took in the scene, Antyr became aware of a small but steady movement of clerks migrating from desk to desk, desk to shelf, desk to drawer, with the slow purposeful randomness of a mysterious but thoughtful board game. And the air was filled with the insect twitterings of innumerable scratching pens, underscored by the shuffling feet of the migrating clerks and a low hubbub of voices, though he could see no one speaking. Occasionally there was the explosive discharge of a cough.
And there was a smell …
Tarrian sneezed damply.
'Dust,’ he growled. ‘Dusty ink, dusty paper, dusty clothes and dusty people.’ He sneezed again. ‘Don't just stand there, man. Speak to someone.'
Facing the massed ranks of Aaken Uhr Candessa's troops and their lowering flank guards of shelves and drawers, Antyr quailed.
'Perhaps we should come back later,’ he said.
'Speak to someone,’ Tarrian ordered him, pitilessly.
Goaded by his commander's blade, Antyr moved towards the nearest clerk.
'Excuse me,’ he said hesitantly. ‘Who do I see about getting paid for…'
'Payments over there,’ the clerk said without looking up, but marking the direction with a rapid flick of his pen.
Antyr turned and examined the sector indicated by his guide. It looked the same as everywhere else. He hesitated, but, sensing Tarrian's mounting disapproval, he forced his feet forward.
As he threaded his way along the criss-crossing aisles, his footsteps rose up to beat an unwelcome tattoo across the hissing murmur of the hall and he found himself slowing down and clearing his throat self-consciously. Tarrian had no such concerns, however, and he pattered ahead, sniffing at desks and occupants indiscriminately and proprietorially.
A small ripple of consternation followed their progress, until, to his relief, Antyr stumbled upon a small enclave of desks set apart from the main body. He selected an old, quite distinguished-looking clerk.
'Excuse me…’ he began.
A familiar flick of the pen redirected him to the next desk.
Tarrian placed his forepaws on the desk indicated and stared intently at its occupant, a middle-aged man dressed identically to the others. He looked up and, unexpectedly, smiled broadly. First at Tarrian and then at Antyr.
'Lovely dog,’ he said, reaching out and stroking Tarrian before Antyr could intervene.
Tarrian, however, took no exception, but half closed his eyes and moved his head from side to side under the man's hand.
'Yes, he is,’ Antyr replied, in the interests of simplicity and seizing this moment of humanity amid the quietly relentless grind of the administrative apparatus of Ibris's dominion.
'What can I do for you?’ the man asked, still smiling.
'I'm trying to find someone who can pay me for some work I did last night for the … the Chancellor,’ Antyr said.
The man raised his eyebrows, but made no comment, although his eyes moved quickly over Antyr as if balancing the likely truth of this assertion against his appearance.
'For the Chancellor?’ he echoed. ‘Himself? Personally?'
Antyr nodded.
The man's smile became uncertain, and Antyr became aware of other heads surreptitiously turning in his direction. Then the man pursed his lips and became businesslike. ‘Have you got a docket?’ he asked.
'A docket?’ Antyr repeated vaguely.
'A note authorizing payment,’ the man explained. ‘From the … Chancellor. He should have given you one.'
Antyr shrugged. ‘No,’ he said. ‘He didn't give me anything.’ Then, into the ensuing silence he began to gabble. ‘The Duke told him to pay me, then Commander Feranc was going to escort me home, but Chancellor Aaken said he thought I ought to stay in the palace because of the fog, and because I was tired … then I think perhaps he forgot about my fee. It was all very late last night.'
'The Duke? Commander Feranc? Last night?’ The man's eyebrows rose even further.
'He's thinking about calling the guard,’ Tarrian said. ‘You're not handling this very well, are you?'
'I'm sorry,’ Antyr said, gently pushing Tarrian down from the desk. ‘It is a bit complicated, I know. And I'm more used to dealing with private clients, I'm afraid I don't know how you…'
His explanation, however, was ended by the sounding of a small bell.
Abruptly the sound in the hall changed and a relieved chaos descended as pens were laid aside, books closed, chairs pushed back and casual conversations begun and ended. Antyr looked around in bewilderment. The hall was suddenly a sea of black, flapping waves as gowns of office were discarded to reveal a crowd of ordinary people in their workaday variety.
When he turned back to his own interrogator Antyr found that he too had shed his official skin and metamorphosed into a person. His smile too had returned, though it seemed a little strained. ‘I'm sorry,’ he said, stepping round his desk. ‘You'll have to come back tomorrow. Today's not a payment day anyway, but I might have been able to sort out some of the paperwork for you if we'd had time.’ He took Antyr's elbow and guided him anxiously into the flow now heading for the exit. ‘You'll have to find the … Chancellor … and get a docket from him before you come back though, otherwise no one can pay you anything,’ he went on. ‘You know how it is. The Chancellor himself is a stickler in these matters. I'm very surprised he didn't give you one.'
Then they were at the door and, with a hasty farewell, he was gone.
'Masterly,’ Tarrian said as they eventually disentangled themselves from the homegoing crowd. ‘I couldn't have handled it worse myself without a lifetime's practice. He thought you were a lunatic, and I'm not surprised.'
'Be quiet,’ Antyr replied crossly. ‘It's not my fault Aaken doesn't know his own system. I just … trusted him … I suppose.'
Tarrian made a disparaging noise. ‘Well, now you'll be dunning him instead,’ he said. ‘And I'm damned if I'm
