by Tim Stead
It gave him a chance to watch the general, too. He envied the man his way with people. Arbak would look puzzled, and someone would rush to explain a matter to him. If he licked his lips the barman would produce an ale. When he talked to them he always seemed to use his hands, touching a shoulder, shaking a hand, slapping a back, and it was always exactly right. The general had a gift for contact. Skal had thought that he could learn by watching, but he couldn’t. And the general listened. He bent his ear to listen to the most humble of his people, and seemed to weigh what they said with unwarranted gravity. He had never seen a man so easy with the common people. An uncharitable part of him said that this was because he was one of them, but Skal believed it was something else. He believed it was because Cain Arbak lived his life according to the letter of Karim.
The general was not the Prince of Swords; that was plain enough. Skal himself could have beaten him in a fencing match without breaking a sweat, but Cain Arbak never took others lightly, never lied, never mocked, always honoured his promises, even when to do so was a considerable inconvenience. For all that he was not perfect. He became annoyed, he made mistakes, but at the same time he never blamed others for his shortcomings. It was an object lesson in Avilian nobility and virtue, and yet he was low born and unschooled.
The most apparent thing was that once he had made up his mind to trust you, that was the end of the matter. He trusted Sheyani, and Bargil, and most of the others who worked for him. More to the point, he trusted Skal Hebberd.
Skal had no idea why.
Like the general he had taken to sitting in the public room. As Lord of Latter Fetch he could have set up court in a private room, but he had followed the general’s example, and was glad of it. He had a table in one corner, and everyone knew that he sat there most nights to eat his meal. Officers and others from the second Seventh Friend often joined him. Some sat for the duration of a glass, some for less, and every now and then he would invite a group to dine with him. They never declined. Some evening he sat alone, ate quickly and retired early.
He missed Tilian, even if the boy’s absence had given him an excuse to move into the tavern. The constant reassurance of Tilian’s competence was something he valued highly, and he was more alone for not having him to hand.
It was one of his lonely evenings when he was sitting quietly eating, a jug of ale his only companion when the chair opposite was drawn back and he looked up.
“I was told I’d find you here.” Kaylis Faste sat in the chair. Skal had know Kaylis well at one time. In the old days back at the castle Kaylis had been on the periphery of Skal’s group of followers; never one of the inner circle, but always there or thereabouts. He was the eldest son of the Earl of Pragat, and heir to substantial estates in the west of Avilian. Kaylis had gone east with his father’s men to fight Seth Yarra under the Wolf’s command.
“Kaylis, still alive then,” Skal said.
“So far. You’ve done well.”
“Kind of you to say.”
“Your own command first out, and a victory. Quinnial was good to you.”
“He was.” Skal was cautious. He’d never entirely liked Kaylis. Not that that was a particular damnation. He hadn’t liked anyone much. He wondered what the man wanted. “But a necessary kindness, I like to think.”
“Yes. Who else did they have to send?” It was a slightly pointed question. After all, they sat in the general’s tavern, and Cain Arbak had been overlooked for the command that Skal had been given. “What’s good here?” Kaylis asked.
“The wine, the ale, the food, the music, most of the company. What do you want, Kaylis?”
“Just to talk,” the young man said. “Just to see how you are and what you’re thinking.”
Politics. This was about politics, and in the middle of a war. Skal had been good at politics in a detached sort of way, but his finger was no longer on the pulse. He had been absent from the game too long. He wondered what faction Kaylis represented, and who had sent him.
“I think mostly about the war, and killing Seth Yarra,” he replied. Kaylis smiled.
“Of course,” he said. “We all do. But some are wondering how the war is being run.”
“Well enough.”
“Do you think so? All our troops drawn away to the east, then a massive attack on the green wall. It was only by a miracle that Berash was saved.”
“And Avilian. And Afael. And it was no miracle, Kaylis. I was there. The battle was well fought.”
“Perhaps.” Kaylis called over a man and ordered a glass of wine for himself. He didn’t ask Skal if he wanted anything, and Skal thought to himself that old habits die hard. Kaylis dropped his voice. “Yet the man in command was low born. It should have been you, Lord Skal.”
Flattery? “I was too late to the wall. The battle was already begun, and the wall retaken.”
“A pity.” The wine arrived and Kaylis sipped it. He raised an eyebrow appreciatively.
“Not so much. I was a mere knight of Avilian when I was sent to the wall, and just raised up at that.”
Kaylis laughed. “Yes, but high born, Lord Skal, and blood will out.”
Skal decided to play the game. He was not so dim that he did not see where this was leading. “I could have done better,” he said. “Colonel Arbak failed to guard against a night attack, although there was no reason to suppose the Telans would not try it.”
“Exactly, you make my point, Lord Skal,” Kaylis’ tone was excited, as though his fish had just taken the hook. The old Skal had not been modest, and so he sought the words that his younger self might have spoken.
“Indeed, if it had not been for my prompt action on the wall it would have fallen and we would all be bowing a knee to the invader even now.”
“We owe you a debt, and there are those more highly placed than I who know it.”
“Is that so? I am pleased to know it.”
“Yes. Some would even go so far as to reinstate you at Bel Arac.”
“To have such within their gift they must be highly placed indeed. Do you speak of the King?”
Kaylis seemed a little flustered by such a direct question. “I speak of influence, Lord Skal, not mandate as such.”
“So who is it, this wielder of influence? Please don’t tell me it’s Bizmael.”
“The Duke of Carillon is with us, Lord Skal, but he is not the one who bid me speak to you.”
“Well, at least you have some sense. Bizmael is a fool. He doesn’t like me and it’s mutual, and if you want me to come in with him, then I expect an apology for the little show he put on at the training ground.”
“An apology?” Skal could see Kaylis was shocked at the suggestion. You simply didn’t ask a duke to apologise, and certainly not to a lesser lord like Skal.
“Oh, never mind,” Skal said. “I know he won’t. I’m loyal enough to blood to know where I stand. So what is the plan?”
“Plan?”
“Oh, Kaylis, don’t tell me that you came here just to sound me out. Is there even a plan? I’ll bet there is but they didn’t want to tell you. You’re too small a fish. Just make sure you don’t do anything rash. You do know that Arbak walks with the Wolf, don’t you?”
“Of course. No actual harm will come to him.”
“But you’d rather see the regiment commanded by someone high born. I understand that. Do you have anyone in mind?”
Kaylis opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again. He shook his head. “No, lord Skal, I am not privy to that.”
Liar. He knew well enough, and now so did Skal. They meant to give the regiment to Bizmael, and that would be a danger for all of them. The idiot would probably get all three thousand of them killed and lose Cain’s wall on the White Road. He was truly stupid enough to do that.
“Well, I suppose I ought to meet with someone then,” Skal said. “Someone who knows.”
Kaylis shook his head again. “I will be your contact,” he said. “Anything you need to know you can get from me.”
“Apparently not.”
“I said what you need to know, Lord Skal, not what you want to know.”
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Kaylis,” Skal observed. “You’re going against the Wolf and the duke. I’m not going to do that unless I know who says what goes. I don’t want my life in the hands of someone I don’t trust.” Especially if it’s Bizmael, he thought, who would love nothing better than to drop Skal in the cooking pot.
Kaylis looked at him for a while, studied his face. “I’ll ask,” he said eventually. “I can’t guarantee anything, but I’ll ask.”
“Fair enough, Kaylis. I’ll wait to hear from you.” He drained his mug of ale and poured another from the jug, emptying it to get three quarters of a mug. “Time for you to go.”
Kaylis swallowed down his wine, looked shiftily around the tavern and rose to his feet. “Soon, then,” he said.
Skal nodded and sipped his ale. He watched Kaylis walk to the door, and caught a sharp glance to the right. There was a man there, sitting on his own. He was a nondescript sort of man, dressed in plain cottons, wrapped in a heavy coat. He wasn’t a soldier, though. Well, it made sense. If you were going to risk exposing your plot to someone who you couldn’t be sure of then it made sense to watch him.
Skal glanced across at the general, who was sitting in his usual seat by the bar. He could just walk over there right now and tell him, but then the plotters would know, and he would never find out who was behind it all. He would wait. He would play the game and ride his luck to see what he could discover. The offer of Bel Arac was tempting, as he was sure it was meant to be, but he was equally certain that there was no real intention of giving it to him. Besides, Cain Arbak was a friend, low born or not, and he was a good soldier. There was no chance that he would betray the man, certainly not for the betterment of Bizmael of Carillon.
22. Lord Hesham of Lorrimal
There was whispering in the halls of Bas Erinor Castle. Quinnial should have left for his estates two days ago, and yet he could not bring himself to leave. He sensed danger, but he could not have said why, or what it was that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. He could have said it was the way that people glanced at him out of the corners of their eyes, or the way some people stopped talking, or suddenly spoke more loudly of trivial things as he walked past, but he had always seen and heard such things. He was the duke’s brother, had been the duke’s son most of his life and a cripple to boot. There were many matters that the noble men of Avilian did not want to find their way to the duke’s ears.
The rising sense of wrongness built up within him until the dam of his reticence sundered. He confided his feelings to Maryal.
“You should tell Aidon,” she said.
“Tell him what?”
“What you just told me.”
“That I have a bad feeing? He would laugh and tell me not to drink so much wine. Aidon is not one for feelings. I need evidence.”
“Evidence of what?”
“I have no idea.” He sat down on a comfortable seat, picked a grape from a basket on the table beside it. He bit the grape in half and pressed the seeds out of it with a thumb nail, then popped it into his mouth and crushed it.
They should have gone. By now they would be close to Saylarish, miles away from the city, months away from the war. They planned to marry when they came back. Tradition dictated that a year should pass between betrothal and marriage, but with the war Quinnial was prepared to set tradition aside. He wanted to be wed before spring. There would be a lot of weddings before the spring, and a lot of widows by summer.
Yet Maryal would not be one of them. He could not go, could not fight for his house, his king, his brother. His arm was one reason. It was crushed and useless since childhood, unable to hold a shield or dagger. He had trained himself to proficiency with a blade in his left hand, but there would always be that weakness on his right, his lack of defence, and that was enough for Aidon to forbid him to ride out with the army. Besides, his brother had argued, someone had to stay in Bas Erinor and run the city, and he had already shown his ability in that sphere.
Winter was to have been his time away, his private time with his betrothed. There would be a chaperone, of course, but he was happy enough with that. As much as he loved Maryal he had no desire to trespass on her honour.
“Have you spoken to the steward about our wedding?” he asked.
Maryal’s face lit up. There was no subject she would rather have discussed. She was to wed the duke’s brother, Quinnial Earl of Saylarish, and a lavish performance was expected. Quin himself would have been happy to say the words and drink the marriage cup with just his brother and Maryal’s father and a priest in attendance, but it would have been frowned upon. The blood liked a good party, and not withstanding the war, they expected one from such an occasion. There would be hundreds of guests, mountains of food, clothes to blind a peahen, and in the middle of it all there would be Maryal, outshining them all. He did not begrudge her that moment.
“I have,” she said. “He suggested that we use the Borilan Hall, where your father was wed. It can hold a thousand. Flowers will be a problem so early in the year, but ships can be sent down to the isles to fetch them.” She saw the doubtful look on Quin’s face. “Not a special trip,” she added hastily. “The trade is established, and the ships will go for what trade they already ply, but if we ask, they will bring flowers.”
Quin nodded. He would not countenance any diversion of resources from the war, but if it was part of the normal run of things he was willing to acquiesce. Maryal knew this, and she respected it.
She talked on, and Quin listened with half an ear, picking up on odd details, asking pertinent questions. His thoughts wandered elsewhere. He thought of Cain Arbak. The innkeeper general was a man who shared part of his own affliction. Arbak had lost his right hand, and rumour had it that the Wolf had taken it, but that made little sense, because the man served the Wolf as much as he served Avilian. Yet the one handed Arbak was to command a regiment while Quin stayed in the castle, shuffling paper.
It was an unfair comparison. The last time he had been down to the training grounds he had watched the man practicing with shield and sword, the shield strapped to his truncated right arm, and he had been impressed. Arbak worked tirelessly at his trade, and in spite of being twice Quin’s age he looked hard and fit. He looked like a proper soldier and sweated at his work. The general was not a fencer. He lacked the subtlety and precision of Skal or Aidon, but he was exactly the sort of man that either of those two would want to fill their ranks. He was cautious, sensible, efficient.
But Arbak was something more than a soldier. He inspired loyalty. Officers and men alike went out of their way to show respect. Even Skal. Even Skal. He could not reconcile the man who had come back from the wall with the spoilt, hostile, resentful boy he had sent out in desperation to Henfray. Skal had changed.
Everyone had changed, he realised. Everyone but himself. They had looked at death and walked away again. They had fought the enemy and come away with scars and bloody swords. He thought of all the boys he had grown up with in the castle. Ampet, Faste, Candoran, Bayris, Skal, all the others. Every one of them had been to war and come back as men, if they had come back at all, while he had sat in his father’s rooms and shuffled papers. Oh, he had changed too, he supposed. People had commented on it. He seemed older and wiser, they said, and he supposed that the weight of duty had bent him out of some of his youthful ways, but he had not had a defining moment, like Skal at the wall, or Aidon standing beside the Wolf facing a Seth Yarra charge. They all had tales to tell. He had none.
“Have you made up a guest list?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said. “But you’ll have to review it to see if I’ve left out anyone who would be mortally offended.”
“The steward can do that,” Quin said. “He knows the protocols better than I, but I’d still like to see it.”
“It’s a book, you know,” she l
aughed. “I don’t know half the names on it.”
“Protocols,” he said, smiling a wry smile. “It’s a minor state occasion.”
“Do you want me to fetch it?”
“No. I have to go. There are a few things I want to arrange before we leave for Saylarish.”
“We’re going then?”
“Tomorrow, I think. We’ll go tomorrow. Will you be ready?”
“I’m already packed.” She was happy at the news, and why not? They would be alone, free from duty and family for at least a month. They would ride together, do a little hunting perhaps – it was the nearest to war that he was permitted to venture – and take stock of their estate.