The Seventh Friend (Book 1) (20 page)

Keb shook his head. “I’m just trying to think,” he said. “What if they knew that you would know?”

“Did you mean to be taken? Was that part of the plan?”

“No. I fled when you returned. I was told to do so if I thought myself discovered. I followed instructions.”

“Nobody is as clever as you think, Keb. You are a sacrifice. What you know is what you are meant to tell me. Do not second guess your masters.”

“Very well,” Keb said. “What I know is this. An army gathers in the east, somewhere north of Afael. I do not know the numbers, but if I escaped here I was to follow the borderlands eastwards, then turn north at the coast.”

“Thank you, Keb. Now I must decide what your masters intended.” He put the wine bottle down next to the prisoner. “I will try to get your conditions improved.”

Narak opened the door and called to the guards.

“Just one thing,” Keb said.

“What is it?” He looked at the Seth Yarra spy, afraid and curled back against the wall.

“Would you really have tortured me?”

Narak smiled. He did not answer the question, but turned away as the guards came towards him, remembering.

Four centuries ago they had caught the man who killed Remard. They had brought the assassin to Narak, and Narak had not been merciful. The Seth Yarra had taken a day to die, but die he had, burned and broken, so far beyond mere pain that he could no longer scream, but whimpered instead, eyeless, drooling, more of a thing than a man.

Could he torture Keb? It was a question he could not answer without the hot knife in his hand. Part of him hoped that he could, and part of him that he could not. He liked the latter part better.

Wolf Narak was back in the Sirash, floating and flying, gliding and sliding. He was in a sea of lights that were not lights, ocean phosphorescence in a night sky of jewels that sparkled to a sense other than sight. He touched wolves on the plains, bid them move to the east, he looked through their eyes, but the closest was still several dozen miles from the coast, and he saw nothing.

The east, he had decided, was the first place to look. Keb had pointed him east, and he judged it a fair chance that this was a lie, but Keb was right in one way. They might have expected him to look west, to read it as a bluff, but he chose a double bluff instead. Clever. Perhaps.

The one thing that he knew for sure was that Seth Yarra planned to invade again, soon, and armed with blood silver this time.

He went back to the wolves that he had set to follow the Marquis of Bel Arac, and was rewarded with the knowledge that Bel Arac had changed direction. He was moving north, and east, following the same borderlands that Keb had named as his escape.

They could both have been lied to. Bel Arac was hardly a major part of their plan, he guessed. What he had learned of Seth Yarra in the last war suggested that a rogue nobleman was something that would have to be disposed of sooner or later, so the Marquis could also be a blind.

Whatever transpired he had his proof.

The other members of Pelion’s Benetheon were easy to find in the Sirash. Of the twenty that had once lived now only seventeen remained, and the lords of the ocean were more fish than man , having taken too much of their lives to the sea, dwelt
there, and rarely if ever walked on legs. He touched them all, lords of forest, plain, air and ocean, weaving a net of connections so that when he spoke all would hear.

When it was done he raised his voice and spoke, but this being the Sirash there was no sound.

“Hear me now, brother gods of the Benetheon,” he said.

He felt eyes turn to him, attention swing like sunlight on his face. He also felt five of the connections die away. Four of those were lords of the ocean, and the fifth was Pascha. She would still not hear him.

“I am Wolf Narak, lord of the forest, master of the hunt,” he announced.

“What of it?” Beloff said. The bear was always a tough audience, had no time for formality and form.

“Seth Yarra has returned,” he said.

A dozen queries came at once. He sensed doubt, disbelief, even annoyance. He told them about Havil, he told them about Bel Arac, and he told them what the spy had said.

“They are really here?” Beloff again. Doubting again.

“Truly. They come once more, and now with blood silver arrows and blood silver blades. It is us they have come to kill.”

“Then we must kill them.” It was a new voice. Jiddian, god of eagles, an ally from the last war, often called the far-seeing eye, and perhaps the best bowman that had ever lived. “I will send eyes east and west, and we will know.”

Narak appreciated his support. Jiddian was one of the most influential. Others would follow where he led; particularly the lords of the air.

Fashmanion Black Wing spoke. The crow god was also a powerful influence, but he was no friend of Narak. In the Great War he had opposed the fight, stayed away until the last moment, and even then had questioned Remard’s right to lead and proposed his own plan to attack Afael. He had been brushed aside by Narak in his rage at Remard’s death. They had not spoken since that day. “If what we are told is true it may be east, if at all. There has been a great fire on the east coast. All eyes were driven away, all food burned. It is a place they would not be seen. I will investigate.”

The danger with the Benetheon, when they were together like this, was that they all wanted to control. They were all gods, creatures of great power, and reluctant to recognise any authority. Each seemed to trust only their own allies, share with only their particular clique. A room could seem crowded with three powerful men present. How much more crowded, then, was this place with twelve gods vying for their chance to lead, to impose their will.

“The armies of men must be raised," Beloff suggested. “Narak is best suited to that task in the east, they love him there.”

“Let him deal with the men of the west also,” Fashmanion said. “None of us is as comfortable with the short lived as he.”

“I have seen their ships.”

The bald statement silenced even Fashmanion, even Beloff. The voice was awkward with disuse, high pitched, but not feminine; more like the whine of a saw that accidentally touches metal. It was the voice of the Shark god, Bondoro, otherwise Red Tooth.

“Where have you seen them, lord of the ocean?” It was the Serpent Sithmaree who posed the question. She had a sweet, low voice. It was said that she could steal men’s minds with her words. She was a beauty, too, tall and dark and slender with still, long fingered hands, eyes as black as coals, swarthy Afaeli skin.

“Beyond the land,” the shark replied. “East and west, north and south, alone and together, like jacks that hunt the pretty anthias above the coral they feign indifference until they strike.”

“Useless.” Beloff again. “His mind is full of salt water.”

Narak wanted to stamp on his foot beneath the imaginary table. It was extraordinary enough that Bondoro was with them at all, even more so that he should speak, that he should help them. Bondoro saw things that none of the others could see.

“The seas are cooling, Bondoro,” Sithmaree said. “Since they began to cool where have you seen the ships of Seth Yarra gather?”

“East. In the channel that men call Ebardine, around the island called Finchbeak. They come and go, but they go with smaller hulls.”

It was a moment before Narak understood what he meant. Smaller hulls seen from below meant they rode higher in the water. It meant that they came full and left empty.

“It is the same place,” Fashmanion crowed. “It is the place where the fire has killed the land.”

Could it be? Keb’s knowledge had been correct, and Bel Arac fled towards genuine allies? The army lay in the east? Narak had guessed that he might be wrong. It was a half chance only, but even so he had tamed his expectations.

“We must be sure that they have not begun to march,” he said.

“They have not,” Jiddian said. “An eagle watches even now. Seven ships stand in the Ebardine Channel. Banks and ditches have been built, and thousands of men swarm around black tents.”

“Can you say how many men?”

“In time. It will take time to count, but there are many thousands. We must be swift. They are well set.”

“I shall leave you, Brother Gods of the Benetheon,” Narak said. “I go to Bas Erinor, to Tor Silas and Afael, and we will see what army marches to meet Seth Yarra.”

He felt the approval of the others, and withdrew from the Sirash to find himself once more in the private chamber at Wolfguard, surrounded by candles and familiar books. He closed his eyes for a moment a savoured the ordinary darkness it brought. It had gone better than he expected. Most of them would help – even Fashmanion.

He had not told them about the Bren. There were those, he suspected, who would take the Bren’s message as a reason to stand off, to let Seth Yarra have their way with the men of the six kingdoms. After all, if the Bren were going to deal with Seth Yarra in just over a year, there were ways of staying clear of them for so short a time. There was no call to risk their very long lives in the cause of the short lived.

Narak thought differently. He was still a man. They were all still men, no matter what changes Pelion had wrought in them. The god of the underworld had not given them life, and they owed that especial debt to mankind.

Arbak had decided that he needed a promotion. It was all very well being a rich man, or appearing to be a rich man, but without some sort of social standing he would always be looked down on. Former sergeant Arbak would always be charged more, gulled more, cheated more than former captain Arbak. This was not true among people of his own humble station, the corporals, sergeants, innkeepers, waggoners, muleteers, and shopkeepers that he habitually dealt with, but the better sort of people, and he used the word ‘better’ somewhat grudgingly, had little regard for common folk.

He’d discovered this almost at once. Riding south after his extraordinary encounter with Wolf Narak he had been in grave need of medical help. The pain in his severed wrist had grown with each mile, and he feared that the injury had become infected. It looked inflamed, red, and though there was no sign of pus, a sure damnation, he badly needed to get it fixed.

The town was called Kinwood. It was big enough to have two physics, and he went to the best. He had the money. The physic, however, saw things differently. He was a portly man of middle years, thick, mousy hair tied back in a powdered queue. He dressed like a gentleman, polished his boots, and he didn’t have time for ruffians. The moment he laid eyes on Arbak he sniffed, ignored him and spoke to his secretary.

“What is this man doing here?”

“He has come for treatment, Physic,” the secretary said. “His arm…”

“Send him to Jereman. Jereman will dose him.”

“He can pay, Physic,” the secretary said.

“Pay. I should think so. He’d have to pay a fortune to get me anywhere near him.”

“I have ears,” Arbak said. “You want to say something, you say it to me.”

The physic peered over spectacles at him, and down at the notes that the secretary had written. “Arbak,” he said. “You can’t afford me.”

Arbak was angry. He knew that he could get the man to treat him by invoking Wolf Narak, but the pompous, arrogant little deer dropping would still sneer and cant every moment that he could. He wanted the man to know that he was not the no-account idler that he took him for, and so he promoted himself.

“Captain Arbak to you, Physic,” he said. “My family’s as old as yours, and better bred, I’d wager.”

The physic looked at him again, more carefully this time. “You’re an officer?” he asked, clearly disbelieving.

“Physic, I have been attacked and severely injured. Two of my men were killed and the others have gone on ahead. I look rough because it is easier to travel that way in the border country. There are no baths and tailors in the areas that I patrol. You will forgive me,” and here his voice began to swell into a shouting crescendo, “if I think it reasonable to get a severed hand dealt with before I have a shave and a bath!”

He felt hot and the wrist throbbed terribly. He knew that he must look frightful, angry, even sick. He was all those things.

The physic was still for a moment, and then the decision was made.

“Bring him through,” he said to the relieved secretary. “Captain Arbak, I will treat you at once. By the look of that arm you are in danger of losing it.”

So the arm was saved because he was an officer. He spent a week in the physic’s house, and he had a bath and a shave, sent out for a suit of clothes more fitting for an officer, new boots, a cloak. He played the part of Captain Arbak with conviction. He’d seen enough captains, both good and bad, to know how to do it. He bowed to ladies, ate carefully with knife and fork, avoided swearing in female company, held his glass by the stem, and shaved and bathed at every opportunity.

The physic charged him two gold guineas, which all things considered was a fair price. He had spent another half on clothes and wine, and when he set out for Bas Erinor he had left the physic as a friend, although he still couldn’t bring himself to like the man.

“I am sorry that we began so poorly,” the physic said as he saddled his horse. It was difficult with only one hand, but he waved away offers of help from the groom’s lad. “You have proven yourself to be a gentleman indeed. Will you accept my apology?”

“I will, sir,” Arbak said. “You have been a friend to me, and to my poor arm.”

“Be careful of it, Captain,” the physic said. “Keep it clean and keep it dry. It will heal well enough, but seek out another physic when you get to Bas Erinor.

So he rode on. He could have lived well enough for a month on the money he’d spent in Kinwood with all the wine, food and loose company he could have desired, but he had other duties now, duties to the one who’d taken his hand.

He was not bitter about it. He was getting old for a sword hand, slowing down. The best he could expect was a quick death in some meaningless squabble he’d been paid a pittance to meddle in. He’d lost a hand, true enough, but he’d gained a future, gained a protector that royalty would baulk at offending, and gained the sort of wealth he could only have dreamed of.

Arbak wasn’t entirely without thrift. He’d saved money. He’d known that mercenaries had a limited working life. His plan, if he survived long enough, had been to take what he’d saved, some thirty gold guineas, and buy an interest in some business. If he worked hard it could give him a decent life, and perhaps a wife and children. Now everything had changed. He was to have his own tavern. His very own. He had thought about it, of course. It was a favoured idea, to buy a share of a small tavern, but they cost a lot of gold. There had been a place on the road between Bas Erinor and Golt, a modest road house, and he’d been offered a half share for sixty guineas. They might as well have asked him for a piece of the moon.

Taverns in Bas Erinor would cost more. How much more he couldn’t say, and he would have to find someone willing to sell, but none of it was a problem. Narak had promised that he would have enough, and enough was a lot of money.

Bas Erinor was just as busy, just as noisy and noisome as he remembered. He rode slowly through the streets, savouring the city, and was surprised that people got out of his way until he remembered that he was shaved, washed, dressed like a gentlemen and rode with three horses. He looked better than he was. No, he rejected that. He looked exactly what he was. He had money. He had power, albeit borrowed power, and borrowed money come to that.

He stopped at an inn. It was better than he was used to, cost more, but it suited Captain Arbak. The groom took his horses and the innkeeper showed him to a large room with a fire and a comfortable bed. It was not yet evening, and so he had food brought to his room, which he ate, and then a bath and hot water. He bathed and shaved; dressed with deliberate care. Making certain that he still had the small white stone that Wolf Narak had given him he left the inn and sought the offices of the moneylender Jessec Bosso.

Bosso’s offices were impressive, daunting even. They were set back from the Sacred Avenue and housed in a stone building that would have been the pride of many cities. It was built like a temple, ornamented with columns and raised three levels above the street. He paused before going in, looked at the name: Bosso, carved above the double doors. Such wealth, such places he would not have dared to enter a month ago.

He walked through the doors and saw a young man, better dressed than he was, sitting behind a desk. The entrance chamber was paved with polished stone, and a small fountain played sweet music at its centre. Closed doors lay to either side, and a broad stair swept up to further mysteries.

“May I help you?” the young man asked.

“I am here to see Jessec Bosso,” he replied.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“An appointment?”

“What is your name?”

“Arbak. My name is Arbak.”

The man consulted a heavy ledger on the desk. He ran his finger fruitlessly down a list of names, and then turned to the back of the book, and a much shorter list.

“Sir,” he said. “Mister Bosso will see you. Please sit and he will be informed that you are here. May I get you any refreshment?”

“No, I am quite refreshed as it is,” he said. The young man gave him a quizzical look and rang a small bell. Another young man appeared, not quite as finely clothed as the first and there followed a brief, whispered conference. The second young man hurried up the stairs and out of sight.

Arbak sat and looked at the fountain. A door at the back of the building was open and he could see gardens beyond. Flowers bloomed, trees rustled, and a scented breeze found its way into the hall where he waited. It was all very pleasant.

The second young man returned and approached Arbak directly. “Sir, please be so good as to follow me. Mr Bosso will see you now.”

Arbak nodded and followed. They went up the stairs and entered a short corridor. Several doors stood open along its length, and as they passed he could see men and women working quietly, writing figures in ledgers, reading documents, talking in hushed tones.

At the end of the corridor there was another door, a closed door. Only the fact of it being closed marked it as different from the other doors, but Arbak’s escort approached it with great deference. He stood slightly to one side and knocked modestly on the wood. It was the sort of knock that assumed an attentive silence in the room beyond.

There was a pause. It grew quite long.

“Perhaps he did not hear?” Arbak ventured, but the young man gave a peculiar, abrupt shake of his head and remained attentive, listening at the door. They were both surprised when it opened.

The man who had opened the door stood framed in it. He was elderly, thin, neat, and dressed in a perfectly cut jacket that was remarkable because it managed to look expensive and yet lacked any form of embellishment or ornament. The man gazed at Arbak out of sparkling blue eyes.

“Mister Bosso, sir, this is the man Arbak.” The young man withdrew, leaving Arbak to face Jessec Bosso on his own. He felt abandoned.

Bosso waved him through the door without a word and closed it carefully behind him.

“You have it?” he asked.

“What?”

“The token, man. Do you have the token?”

Arbak fumbled in his pocket and brought out the stone that Narak had given him. He handed it over to Bosso, who took it at once to his desk and examined it under a glass by the light of a window. His examination seemed satisfactory, and when he lifted his head he was smiling. He put the stone in a drawer.

“So,” he said. “You walk with the wolf.”

“I am in his service, yes.”

“I have your name, of course, but the token is a surety. Meaningless to any thief, absent from any impostor. You have come for money?”

“I… yes, I suppose I have.” Arbak was taken aback. He expected more of a dance around the truth.

“How much?”

“I am not sure. I am instructed to buy a tavern, to buy it in my own name, but I do not know how much I can draw on. I have come to know my limits.”

Bosso nodded and pointed to a seat. Arbak sat, and the moneylender sat opposite, elbows on his desk, hands steepled and touching his chin.

“Were you given a limit?” he asked.

“No, but we talked for only a few minutes, taverns are expensive.”

“Mister Arbak, I can see that you are new to this. Wolf Narak is unlike any mortal employer. He does not forget to tell people that which he considers significant. I manage…” he paused, searching for a word. “I manage a
fraction
of the Wolf’s holdings – most of the wealth he holds in Bas Erinor – and yet it makes me one of the most important men in this city. The money that I lend builds ships, fleets, towns, puts swords in the hands of armies, feeds nations if needed. I assure you that the purchase of one tavern, even ten taverns, would not inconvenience me in the slightest. Spend what you need to spend. Your credit is good.”

“Nobody cheats?”