As a reward for their exceptional courage and loyalty, Ibris had immediately appointed the survivors to his own palace guard, an elite regiment, entry to which hitherto had been exclusively restricted to the citizens of Serenstad only.
It was a decision that had caused some controversy at the time, prompting angry and anxious debates in both the Sened and the Gythrin-Dy. ‘They're not Serens,’ was the cry. ‘They're not even from this land. A raggle-taggle bunch of foreigners. Warriors for money. We know nothing of them. Not even where they come from, or how they came here.'
The comments were accurate, but the Duke had rounded furiously on the carpers, at one stage throwing a handful of gold on to the floor of the Sened House, and standing over it, sword drawn, shouting, ‘Warriors for money! That's a half year's pay for a Mantynnai infantryman. Which of you here would die for it, or for ten times that amount?'
Then into the silence he had said, ‘They stood, fought and died, where our own kind surrendered or fled. Had they not done so then Viernce would now be a subject city of Bethlar. Do you think we'd be sitting here debating so calmly with the Bethlarii holding all our northern territories?'
'Nevertheless, they are foreigners and we don't understand them truly. They should not be brought so close to the seat of power,’ had come a quieter voice from an older Senedwr.
The Duke had answered him in like vein. ‘Power goes to those who are most fitted for it,’ he said sadly, sheathing his sword. ‘And, believe me, such men could have taken power at any time had they so wished. If they take it now, then it will be by stealth and silence and it'll be a gentler bargain than that which our ancestors, as foreigners, offered the original inhabitants of this land.’ It was the definitive statement of a man who understood the true value of force in governing a people.
The opposition had eventually faded in the face of his determination and as the full truth of the events at Viernce became more widely known. Subsequently, the Mantynnai survivors had taken up their new roles in the palace guard as quietly and inconspicuously as they did most things.
'One of my better decisions,’ Ibris later remarked as he watched this ‘raggle-taggle bunch of foreigners’ gradually improving the weapons and tactics of his guards, and thence the whole army.
More subtly, they also began to develop in the army a sense of discipline and independent loyalty to him as Head of State which did much to lessen the more bloody partisan excesses that stained the politics of the cities.
Now all the Mantynnai held high-ranking posts in the palace guard, and were regarded in many ways as its heart.
'We've made them more Serens than the Serens,’ someone said to the Duke, but he shook his head and replied, ‘No. They've made us more Mantynnai, and we're better for it.'
And I have their finest in my bodyguard, Arwain constantly reminded himself.
It was a source of some irritation to Ibris's other sons that ‘the bastard’ had such a bodyguard, but Ibris was straightforward.
'As you know, certain factions are particularly ill-disposed to him,’ he said to them. Menedrion looked at him darkly, but Ibris carefully avoided mentioning Nefron's name. Her imprisonment was still a topic which they both avoided if possible.
In earlier days, Menedrion, ever headstrong, had quarrelled violently with his father, naively protesting Nefron's innocence. For a while it seemed that nothing would restrain him, but eventually he became quieter. This Ibris attributed to his own quite specific threats, but ironically it was Nefron herself who bade her offspring keep silent for fear that his wildness would permanently estrange him from his father, and see him banished and barred the succession.
Not that she was alone in her concern about that matter. It taxed Ibris also. In the past, internecine fighting between the great families over the succession had done fearful damage to Serenstad and, gradually, the tradition of hereditary succession coupled with the approval of the Sened had evolved. But the problem was still fraught with hazard, and violence was always near the surface.
Like many rulers before him, Ibris found himself facing a dilemma. While he did not name an heir there was the risk of fighting among his sons, and of sudden coups by other families either before or after his death. If he did name an heir, however, the situation would be little improved, as the chosen son would then be a particular target for other aspirants, and he himself perhaps a target for his heir.
In an attempt to minimize this possible mayhem, Ibris had gradually devolved more responsibility for government to the Sened and the Gythrin-Dy. But, as the Mantynnai had equally gradually consolidated the loyalty of the army to him, he decided on balance that there would be more chance of stability if his family knew his mind while he was alive and strong. He fulfilled Nefron's prophecy.
'Menedrion, I name you as my heir. You're the eldest and you've shown yourself a capable leader in battle if little else. Arwain, you in turn shall be his heir until he settles down and breeds one of his own. Goran … Goran! … Don't mutter. And stop sulking! Arwain's bastardy doesn't preclude him as you know full well! You'll be third in line, though the gods protect us if it ever comes to that.'
Then he had wilfully dominated them all. ‘You can choose to fight among yourselves if you wish, but if I get one whiff of it, I'll disown you utterly and banish you to the farthest island I can find. And you've got plenty of cousins waiting to step into your shoes. Menedrion, you will swear the Ducal oath of protection over your brothers, here and now. Arwain and Goran, you will swear your allegiance to Menedrion in turn.'
The oaths were duly sworn and Ibris then gave them his final, quieter benison. ‘Look at our city,’ he said. ‘Rich, powerful, a fine place and one that will become even finer, given peace and thoughtful guidance. Wealth and prosperity are what we must seek. Men won't leave comfortable hearths for the warring streets, believe me. Honour your oaths all of you, not because they're oaths but because they're in everyone's best interests. No one will benefit from a war of succession except the Bethlarii. Menedrion, settle down, get married, breed. Listen to your brothers when you're Duke. Arwain, if I've judged aright, you've little desire for leadership, but help Menedrion for my sake and for the people's. Goran … Goran! Pay attention! You're a fine artist. You above all will make Serenstad the city that will draw the universe to it. Be what you are and be well pleased with it. I envy you.'
It was the best he could do, he reasoned. Menedrion lacked much that was needed in a good duke but he might well grow into one with help from the others. And he did covet the role, which was no small consideration. Naming him might also diminish the influence of his scheming mother. Arwain, on the other hand, was probably ideally suited for the task. But he seemed to have neither ambition nor expectation and, it had to be admitted, to have named him ahead of Menedrion would have been to sentence him to death. As it was, there was little love lost between him and Menedrion.
And yet, of the three sons, Arwain was the most like his father, and Ibris knew he could not read him fully. That caused him some concern, but he consoled himself with the thought that if Arwain secretly intended to oust Menedrion, then he'd have the wit to at least attempt to do it both efficiently and quietly. Yes, Ibris's darker side mused, it had been right to place his most loyal guards around Arwain. They might well also be protecting all of us.
Arwain followed Ryllans along the familiar corridor and through the familiar double door. ‘You'll enjoy this today, sir,’ Ryllans said, turning and smiling at him as he stepped through the door. ‘At least it'll get the damp out of your bones.'