The Seventh Friend (Book 1) (31 page)

It had been a hard day, but Councillor Captain Cain Arbak was very pleased with himself. His first meeting with the council of merchants had been a storming success. The night before he had spent a couple of hours sketching out a plan, and he thought it a fine one. It was not as expensive as a full levy would have been. In fact it turned out so cheap that he could almost have afforded it from his own modest profits.

There would be no levy. The merchants would simply approach the duke and offer to register men, train them, and provide weapons and armour. Each man would be offered a small sum for attending training sessions on three days of each week. Men would continue to work in their usual jobs, but if the call to arms came there would be a regiment of men ready to march at a few days notice, men who could hold a lance, swing a sword to good effect, or handle a bow without causing injury to their own fellows.

He felt that he had justified their faith in him, earned his place on the council, at least for the moment. The others had been appreciative, and even impressed. Jerran had basked in a glow of borrowed wisdom.

Now it was back to business. The Seventh Friend was open again, Sheyani was playing on the dais and Bargil was by the door, counting heads as the early custom crowded into the public room.

It was up to the duke what happened next. It was forbidden for anyone to raise troops in the city without his express permission, even for one’s
own protection, and all the merchant guards and caravan guards were licensed. It would not be the real duke, of course. Elyas was somewhere on the great plains with the Avilian army, sharpening his sword for the battle to come, and for once Arbak was glad that he was elsewhere. It would be the duke’s youngest son, Quinnial, who would decide.

It had become a habit with Arbak to help the barkeepers serve the customers at the start of the evening, singling out customers who came regularly, exchanging a few words with them. It was something he took pleasure in. When he had done this he placed himself at the end of the bar on a stool set aside for his use, and watched the mass of people ebb and flow, laugh and talk, and pay money over the bar. Here he usually sat for about an hour before retiring to one of the private rooms, assuming that one was free, to eat a light meal.

Arbak followed his routine, but he also listened. It was surprising what he could hear from his seat by the bar, and sometimes he walked among the tables to stretch his legs, greet a few regulars, and he heard even more. People talked freely, and sometimes they even talked to the landlord openly of things they would have been better advised to keep quiet about.

Arbak felt that he was becoming an oracle of all things in Bas Erinor.

He could, for example, tell you which blacksmith to avoid if you didn’t want to be overcharged, which inns were reputed to harbour thieves, which husbands sought comfort outside their marital beds, which wives received gentlemen callers when their husbands were absent, and he had a pretty good idea of the balance sheets of every business in the district.

He had just returned to his seat by the bar after one such excursion when one of Bargil’s men approached quickly across the public room, a look of mild panic on his face.

“Captain, the duke is here.” He managed a stage whisper, but a couple of heads still turned. Arbak gathered his thoughts quickly.

“You mean the son?” he asked. “Lord Quinnial?”

The man nodded.

“As a customer?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“How many in his party?”

“Just three, Captain.”

“Prepare Honour,” he said. “Wine, glasses, make sure the fire is well stoked.”

The man nodded and hurried away behind the bar. Arbak wove his way through the crowd to the door. It was a necessary part of his duty as a host when the great came to call. He must greet them, escort them to suitable accommodations. It was expected.

Outside in the street Bargil was guarding the young lord. Arbak could describe it no other way. He stood between Quinnial’s party and the queue waiting to enter, one hand on the hilt of his sword, and the other on his hip, glowering at the crowd. He was half turned, so that he could see the rest of the street as well. It was a classic bodyguard’s stance.

The duke’s son, currently ruler of Bas Erinor in his father’s stead, stood apart with a young woman and an older man, who was undoubtedly a soldier. Quinnial looked mildly amused, the girl, who was quite pretty in the aristocratic manner, stood close by him, and the soldier at a respectful distance.

“My Lord Quinnial, we are most honoured by your visit,” Arbak said, bowing deeply enough to show his respect.

“You are Captain Arbak?” Quinnial asked.

“I am, my lord.”

“Well you certainly seem to have the most popular inn in Bas Erinor,” Quinnial said, gazing pointedly at the crowd. “Can you squeeze us in?”

“A private room is being prepared as we speak.”

He showed them to the room, leading them across the public room, which in itself was quite an event. Many of the people present recognised the duke’s son and the noise of conversation fell away. A few men bowed, others turned to each other and whispered quiet words. Arbak smiled. He could not have hoped for this in a thousand years. The ruler of Bas Erinor had chosen to grace his inn with a visit within a month of opening. It was the sort of thing that changed a man’s fortunes, and he had to admit that his fortunes were already pretty excellent of late.

He did not linger in the public room. He thought it would be an obvious, unnecessary ploy, showing off the duke’s son to the public. He ushered them quickly into the room called Honour, and was pleased to see that food and drink had been laid out for his guests.

“My Lord, “Arbak said. “You will pay for nothing tonight. Consider yourself and all your party as my guests.”

“Absolutely not,” Quinnial said, but he smiled as he said it. “I will pay, as any other customer would pay, and do not seek to discount the prices. I will not have it said that Bas Erinor sold favours to its loyal subjects.”

Arbak was at a loss for a moment. Nobody had ever refused free food and drink before, not here, or anywhere he had ever been.

“As you wish, my lord.”

Quinnial sat down and examined the food, he picked up an olive and put it in his mouth.

“Good,” he said. “And is that Telan wine?”

“It is, my lord.”

“Well, will you sit with us a while, Captain Arbak?” There was a slight emphasis on the rank, not enough to be overtly insulting, but sufficient to show that there was a question mark in Quinnial’s mind.

“Gladly,” he said. In truth it was anything but. Arbak had always found the nobility a disturbing group of people. He didn’t understand them. Soldiers he understood completely, in all their various guises. He could judge them as well as any man, knew the types, the motives, could predict their actions, knew what offended them. Even merchants were easier. He thought of them as soldiers who fought a different kind of battle, with softer weapons and wealth the territory fought over, and this served him well. Nobility, well, they played different games. He understood the words they used, but they had different meanings.

Take duty for example. To Arbak it meant staying awake on watch, guarding his fellow’s back, obeying orders. These were simple things, things that he had learned easily. To someone like Quinnial duty could mean almost anything. It got mixed up with responsibility, with politics, with family and blood. There was no way of knowing when some notion of duty would provoke them to do something that was just plain wrong.

“I received a petition today from the merchant council of the low city,” Quinnial said. “They mentioned your name a great deal.”

So this was not a chance visit, then, not a coincidence.

“I expected it to take a day or two longer, my lord,” Arbak replied. Again he was at a loss what to expect. Did his suggestion trespass upon some noble prerogative? Did it offend? To a soldier it was plain common sense, but if Quinnial ascribed other motives to his suggestion he could suddenly find himself charged with treason. He began to wish that he had refused the council, kept himself to himself. He was not one to play in such high stakes games.

“You are a clever man, Captain Arbak. I like the idea. I like it so much that I am going to lend you my armourer and master at arms, Harad,” he indicated the soldier who sat silently on the opposite side of the table. Arbak knew his type well enough. He was cut from the same cloth as Bargil, only a little older and apparently free from injury. The loan of such a man could mean much, or just that Quinnial thought he needed to be watched.

“I am happy that you find some merit in it, my lord,” he said.

“Don’t be modest,” Quinnial was apparently in an expansive mood, but Arbak could put that down to Sheyani’s pipes. He could hear the music even now, filtering through with the noise of the public room. “It will save the dukedom many thousands, give the merchants a feeling that they are helping to win the war, and may indeed go some way to that end. You are to be congratulated.”

“I do not know what to say, my lord. I am glad to have been of some service,” Perhaps he was not in trouble after all. Quinnial seemed genuinely pleased.

“Well, you can thank me later.” He pulled a rolled parchment from beneath his cloak, and Arbak could see that it bore the duke’s seal and was of the finest quality. It was the sort of thing that generals received to tell them what to do. “A regiment needs a colonel,” Quinnial said. “And since it was your idea, Captain,” again a small pause before the rank,” I am giving you the job. This is a temporary commission into the army of Avilian, at the rank of colonel. It lives as long as the war against Seth Yarra, or until you choose to resign it. Recruit them, train them, arm them. Harad will tell you what provision we have made for training grounds, and I think that you will find it adequate.”

“My Lord!” He was surprised. He had not expected a rank. He had not expected anything apart from a little part time work, a few meetings, and some social contacts with the merchant council.

“Will you drink with us now, Colonel? All that talking has dried my throat.”

“I will drink
to
you, my lord, and to the success of the regiment.” Arbak raised his glass and emptied it in one swallow. He felt the stirrings of a passion within him that he had not felt in a long time. Loyalty. He dismissed his doubts as he looked Quinnial in the eye. This one he would serve.

A knock sounded on the door, and without invitation it was pushed open. Sheyani stood there, staring at the company in surprise. She had clearly expected to find only Arbak, eating his usual mid evening meal in private.

“I am sorry, Sheshay,” she said. “I did not know there were others.”

“It’s all right,” he reassured her. “You’re going to eat?”

“Yes.”

“I will eat later,” he said. “Go head without me.”

He heard a chair scrape back, and was startled to see Quinnial standing, and even more surprised when the lord executed a polite bow in Sheyani’s direction.

“Areshi,” he said. “I am honoured to meet you. Joy upon your house.” He then said a few words in a language that Arbak did not understand, but he knew enough of its rhythm to know that Quinnial was speaking the tongue of Durandar.

Sheyani looked equally surprised, but replied in the same language, and returned the bow politely. She turned back to Arbak.

“I will go now,” she said and did so, closing the door softly behind her.

“Pelion’s Blood, Arbak,” Quinnial exploded the moment she was gone. “How did you manage that?”

Arbak looked at him blankly for a moment. Quinnial had seen something in Sheyani that he had not. That much was clear. He knew that she was Durander, that she was a piper of exceptional quality, and that there was magic in her pipes. Perhaps Quinnial had seen this somehow, or recognised the pipes. She had been holding them when she came in. He decided to react as little as possible.