Suddenly he let out an anguished cry and dropped his head into his hands. Nefron looked at him, wide-eyed and, for the first time in her life, speechless with shock.
'I'm not mad, mother,’ Menedrion said unexpectedly, without looking up. ‘I'm not mad.'
Nefron opened her mouth to speak some reassurance, but she knew her voice would betray her. Instead she laid a hand on his head as the cold, reasoning part of her mind struggled to dominate the powerful emotions that had swept through her in response to her son's pain.
Menedrion looked up. ‘I'm not mad,’ he said viciously into her silence. ‘I know that. I thought I might be, but telling you about it has told me I'm not. It could have been a madman's dream, but it wasn't. But I am frightened.'
Nefron had never heard, nor thought to hear, such an admission from her son in all his life, but still she could not trust her voice. Menedrion had many flaws in his character, but he had both faced and dealt out death in combat and his judgement in the heat of action was to be trusted utterly. Beset by enemies, Menedrion knew where every part of his mind and body were to an extent that would be the envy of a meditative sage. It was his wholeness that made him so formidable, often robbing his opponents of their will even as they attacked him.
It came to Nefron gradually that she must do as others had done in the past. She must shelter behind his shield while she sought a few moments’ respite. She must trust his baffle-tested judgement.
Yet she knew she could not be seen to be doing this for that in itself might mar this judgement.
'You're right,’ she said firmly, standing up and hoping that the flow of her words would lead her correctly. ‘There's no question of madness here. Your feet are far too well planted on the ground and besides…’ She allowed herself a knowing smile. ‘You haven't the imagination to go mad.'
It was a gentle taunt, but an old familiar one, and Menedrion's grim face lightened a little.
'We have two problems,’ Nefron continued, taking command again. ‘One is the girl.’ She turned to her son. ‘You must see to that. Go and see her, see her parents. Make what amends you can. Say…’ She shrugged. ‘Say it was a nightmare … probably something you ate … something noxious in the fog … it kills enough people, after all. Be contrite. I don't have to tell you, do I? A judicious combination of money and that grotesque charm of yours should do it.’ She paused pensively for a moment. ‘Attend to that as soon as you leave here, and don't delay.'
'What about Drayner?’ Menedrion asked, glad himself to be shielding behind his mother's will.
Nefron was dismissive. ‘Drayner doesn't gossip,’ she said. ‘And if anyone else knows about it, it won't matter if there's no complaint from the family.'
She nodded to herself, satisfied. Then, as she had expected, the answer to the second problem came to her. She smiled to herself at its elegance. It would deal with this matter and help with another one also.
She sat down opposite Menedrion again. ‘This other business is more serious, though,’ she said, concerned, but purposeful. ‘We need to know what happened to you last night, but we can't find out on our own.’ Then, as if the thought had just occurred, she laid a hand on his knee. ‘You must consult a Dream Finder,’ she said in mild triumph.
Menedrion looked at her uncertainly. ‘A Dream Finder?’ he echoed.
Nefron nodded by way of a reply.
'No one uses Dream Finders these days,’ Menedrion said, dismayed. ‘They're quacks. Like…’ He searched for a word. ‘Fortune-tellers, market tricksters. Reading the future from the dregs of a wine cup. They're for merchants’ wives with too much time and money on their hands…'
Nefron smiled broadly at the outburst and shook a silencing hand at him. ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘There are some charlatans about, but they're still a respected Guild and they were much used once. I heard of one recently. Not a famous one, but very good. Used by some important people…’ She snapped her fingers softly. ‘What was his name now?'
Her face lit up. Menedrion bathed in its certainty.
'Antyr,’ she proclaimed. ‘That was it. When you've made your peace with the girl and her family, Irfan, go and find the Dream Finder, Antyr.'
Chapter 7
Arwain scowled as he jumped down from his horse and handed the reins to the waiting groom.
'Is something wrong, sir?’ said an officer stepping forward to greet him.
Arwain returned his salute and, with an effort, smiled. ‘No, no, Ryllans, he said. ‘Just the dampness after the fog. It seeps into the bones.'
Ryllans raised his eyebrows. ‘I heard there was some disturbance at the palace last night,’ he said straightforwardly.
Arwain shook his head and chuckled. ‘One of the servant girls had a bad fall and needed help, that's all,’ he said. ‘Is there anything you don't hear about, Ryllans?'
'Not too much, I hope, sir,’ the officer replied. ‘Your safety and the Lady Yanys's … are my responsibility and I need eyes and ears everywhere for that.'
Arwain nodded appreciatively.
'Doubtless you'll tell me why this servant girl warranted the attention of the Duke's personal physician when you're ready, sir,’ Ryllans went on softly, his slight foreign accent betraying his true anxiety.
'Doubtless,’ Arwain replied, laughing. ‘If you don't tell me first.'
But Arwain's laughter did not invoke the same in Ryllans. Instead, the older man held Arwain's gaze in silent, but relentless, inquiry. His charge and his guards wandering the cellars at night had to be explained to his satisfaction sooner or later. That they found a physician and his patient instead of secret plotters was irrelevant. Clandestine movement through the palace was always a matter for concern. And there was the matter of the Duke's physician being called out in the middle of the night to attend to a mere servant.
'It's all right,’ Arwain said, more soberly, and also lowering his voice. ‘There was no danger, and there's no plot brewing. It was just an … excess … by my beloved half-brother. I'll tell you what happened later, have no fear, there's no urgency, trust me. Let's proceed with the task in hand.'
Ryllans nodded and turned on his heel.
Arwain looked at the back of the Commander of his bodyguard as he followed him. A little shorter than himself, balding and clean-shaven, Ryllans walked with a slight roll which made him look heavy and clumsy. He was neither. Arwain knew that he would already have quietly wrung all that happened from the guards who had accompanied him through the cellar and that he would probably be well on his way to identifying the girl and the servants.
He knew, too, that the fact that Drayner and the others had been spotted purely by chance would be concerning him greatly, for the security of Arwain and his house came second only to his ultimate loyalty to the Duke, and dominated his thinking.
Arwain liked and respected Ryllans, yet he was always aware of a distance in the man. Not that he was cold or aloof-indeed he was invariably good company-but somewhere inside, there was a part that Arwain knew he could not reach. Not that he was alone in that, he consoled himself, for Ryllans was the most senior of the Mantynnai: the men who had defended the city of Viernce during the Bethlarii inspired rebellion and siege some ten years ago. To a man, they were, at bottom, unreadable.
A small group of foreign mercenaries in the employ of Duke Ibris, and garrisoned at Viernce, the Mantynnai had put down the rebelling faction after the local militia had thrown down their arms. Outnumbered, that in itself had been no easy task, but they had then found the city besieged by the Bethlarii army and had taken appalling losses holding it until the Bethlarii, not expecting and not equipped for a long siege, were put to flight by the unexpected arrival of the Serenstad army with the Duke at their head, soiled and raging, after a prodigious forced march over the snowbound countryside.