cold and deathly gaze, yet the work was alive with the desperate and immediate passions of the fighting man.
Duke Ibris was a ruthless and cruel man when the needs of his office required, but he was also a man of fine discernment who cherished all manner of beautiful and well crafted things. Thus, despite his fearsome reputation among his enemies, many artists and craftsmen flourished under his patronage and, in turn, both his palace and his city flourished under their many talents.
'I will make Serenstad a city so dazzling that the whole universe will be drawn to it,’ he had once said, at the same time resting his hand on his sword hilt.
He reached up and touched the statuette. ‘Buonardi's work is magnificent,’ he said, without turning. ‘So vivid. He trained with the Mantynnai, didn't he?'
Aaken nodded. ‘Yes, sire. He left them just before the siege of Viernce, I believe. It seems he's as fine a judge of events as he is a sculptor.'
The Duke turned to look at him. ‘Or lucky,’ he retorted, recommencing his pacing.
Aaken shrugged a little and risked a smile. ‘An essential attribute in a soldier,’ he said.
The remark, however, did not seem to impinge on the Duke who was once more engrossed in the concern that had brought him from his bed.
'How long is it since Feranc left?’ he said, stopping and looking at his chancellor again.
Aaken retrieved an ungainly timepiece from his robe and manoeuvred it until some of the room's light fell on it.
'Almost an hour, sire,’ he said. ‘But the city's choked with fog and we've no guarantee that this … Antyr … will be at his home, or even indeed if he still lives in that district.'
The Duke scowled.
'Feranc will find him if he's in the city,’ Aaken added reassuringly. ‘You know that. But it may take some time. Is this matter truly urgent?'
The Duke did not answer immediately but scratched his stubbled chin pensively. ‘I don't know,’ he said hesitantly after a moment. ‘But I fear so.'
Involuntarily, Aaken's eyes flicked quickly from side to side, to see if any servants might have witnessed this uncharacteristic uncertainty in their lord. All this nocturnal activity was enough in itself to fuel a dozen rumours which could swirl into as many plots and conspiracies, or cause alarm, even panic, among the city's merchants. If such rumours were to be laced with some sign of weakness on the Duke's part then who knew what consequences might come to pass?
But even as he peered into the shadows, Aaken knew that his action was merely one of habit. He knew that the room was empty save for himself and Ibris. The Duke above all was aware of the need to guard against ill- considered utterances.
'You fear so?’ Aaken echoed. He risked a battlefield familiarity on the strength of the confidence that this remark implied. ‘Ibris, what's happened?’ he said. ‘There've been no messengers tonight have there? I've not seen you so agitated for years. Even in wartime…’ He paused, becoming agitated himself at the direction of his own remarks. ‘You haven't caught wind of a Bethlarii attack have you? Or one of our border cities seceding?'
The Duke shook his head absently. No, Aaken thought, Serenstad had never been stronger, both militarily and economically. In any event, had news come of an unexpected defection of one of their subject cities then it would have been a foolish servant who disturbed the Duke's sleep to tell him. And as for a Bethlarii attack after all this time, the Duke would have been mobilizing the army, not pacing anxiously to and fro.
Receiving no rebuff, Aaken pressed on to the point that most concerned him. ‘And why a Dream Finder, sire?’ he asked, lowering his voice. ‘They were much respected when we were young, but this is a different age. Superstitions wane in the light of reason and civilization…'
The Duke held up his hand to end the questions. ‘Sit down, Aaken, you look tired,’ he said as if only now aware of his chancellor's presence.
Aaken bowed and lowered himself stiffly into a nearby chair. The Duke watched him and smiled slightly. ‘You look older than me, old friend,’ he said. ‘I always said you were too anxious to get out of the saddle and into a chair. Now see what it's done for you. You creak like a galleon in a wind.'
Then his smile faded, unable to sustain itself against his darker thoughts. ‘And you were ever without faith,’ he concluded softly, his manner preoccupied again.
Aaken almost started at the word, faith. Ye gods, it's something religious, he thought. His mind raced and he bowed his head. He must keep his feelings hidden and be more circumspect than ever in his questioning if that were the case.
Ibris's remark was quite true. Aaken had no faith, least of all in the preposterous and vast pantheon of gods that were called upon from time to time by the peoples of the cities. Like most practical, rational men of this age, he believed that chance and the wit to respond to its vagaries shaped his destiny, and certainly he feared his fellows far more than he feared any deity. But religion was a potent and dangerous force; one which had brought chaos to the streets, and dreadful, savage armies to the field within his own memory. And one which the Duke never ignored or treated lightly, although he never hesitated to use it for his own highly secular ends.
Yet, despite his own seeming cynicism, Ibris would brook neither mockery nor intolerance of religion, and indeed he carried within him some belief of his own, some strange, deep silence which over the years Aaken had learned to avoid as he might avoid the lair of a dangerous animal.
He had seen many leaders of men in his time and had truly understood none of them. Suffice it that he knew that the Duke was the man to rule Serenstad. What inner forces made him so were of no concern … at least while they remained hidden and thus unassailable, he had concluded.
As Aaken gradually recovered from the initial alarm that the Duke's remark had caused, his curiosity and concern rose to dominate again. There had been no recent unrest, religious or otherwise, in the city, not even in the Moras district. Nor had there been news or even rumours of some new ‘Messenger of God’ causing problems elsewhere in the land. He risked his question again.
'Sire, what's happened?’ he asked. ‘And what's my faith, or lack of it, got to do with it? Dukes pace the floor at night and call their creaking chancellors from their beds to solve urgent political problems, not to debate philosophy. And Dream Finders…’ He allowed himself a modest sneer. ‘Are for quietening the overheated imaginations of rich and idle women.'
Ibris raised his eyebrows and a faint smile appeared again, albeit briefly. ‘I'd forgotten how petulant you could be when your sleep was disturbed, Aaken,’ he said. ‘But bear with me in this and stay silent for the moment. Help me wait. Soon you'll know all that I know.'
Help me wait! A warrior's plea, it could not be denied. Aaken blew out a short breath of surrender and acquiescence and sank back into his chair. The Duke seemed to consider his own request for a moment, and then he too sat down. Choosing a long, winged couch, he threw one leg along it casually, draped his arms along the back and one side and leaned his head back so that he was staring up at the dimly lit ceiling high above.
The two men became as motionless as the watching statues, and the night's silence slowly returned to the room. The soft hiss of the lamps served only to deepen it.
Antyr drew his cloak about him and pulled his hood forward. From its confines he cast a surreptitious glance at the leader of his escort. On two occasions, as was the duty of all the male citizens of Serenstad, Antyr had served with the army in defending the city's increasingly widespread domain, and although he was no expert in military hierarchies, he had the foot-soldier's pride that he could smell a senior officer at fifty paces: and this was indisputably one. His latest examination, however, yielded no more than his previous attempts. The man was half a head taller than he was, though he seemed more, holding himself very straight as he walked, yet without the rigidity that Antyr associated with the officers of the palace guard.
'You're slouching, as well.’ Tarrian's acid comment entered his head, and he straightened up in an involuntary response.
An indignant reply began to form in his mind, but he dismissed it. Tarrian was preparing himself and Antyr knew better than to try verbal knocks with his Companion as the wolf's ancient hunting instinct rose up to join his incisive intellect in readiness for the search.
Then Tarrian was ready and, for a moment, Antyr found himself looking through the wolf's eyes and rebelling at the assault of the smoke-laden fog on the wolf's keen sense of smell. More pleasantly he felt also the strange, deeply balanced movement of his four-legged gait. Despite the disturbing implications of the fact that he was being
