The Seventh Friend (Book 1)

by Tim Stead

  “If you will accompany me, Deus, I will conduct you to a place where you may be more comfortable while the Duke is informed of your presence.”

  They walked through the gate and into the great courtyard. This was the only part of the castle that still preserved its ancient function. It was paved, clean and bare. To the right lay the stable houses, a collection of low buildings in which the gentry and soldiers houses their mounts, fodder was stored and grooms slept. They were all in good repair, the water troughs along the wall were now filled with flowers, however, and a small group of stable lads sat on benches around a table drinking and gambling. One or two of them looked up as they passed, but quickly returned to their gaming.

  On the other side of the courtyard lay the store houses, and through them the kitchens. It was all quite familiar. He remembered being impressed, the first time, simply by the size, the numbers of people, the degree to which so much could be organised. It seemed like chaos at first glance, but the whole rumbled along like some great mechanical device, producing everything that was needed when it was needed from the midst of all the shouting and running and idling and sweating.

  He had grown to dislike it.

  They passed through another archway, across a small garden with neat octagonal lawns and beds planted with red and gold flowers. There were seats here, too, and a fountain, but nobody was enjoying it. Then into a long, whitewashed corridor that ended at the foot of a broad stairway which they mounted and eventually came to a large door with an armoured guard on each side. These guards were of a different stamp from the ones at the gate. They did not slouch, but stood as stiff as frozen thorns, their breastplates polished mirrors, red tunics and trousers immaculately pressed, black boots buffed to an obsidian finish. These were not soldiers for fighting, they were there to be looked at, though their swords, he was sure, were as sharp as any in the castle. They stepped aside reluctantly for the dusty figure of the captain and his charge. The captain and Narak would certainly not improve the cleanliness of the chambers beyond.

  Beyond the door was another short corridor which ended in a sumptuously decorated chamber. There were couches on which to recline, chairs, tables, cupboards. Narak was pleased that it was unchanged. This room had been a favourite. He walked across the carpets to a solid, weathered looking cabinet and opened a door, took out two glasses and a bottle.

  “Take a glass with me, Captain?”

  The officer hesitated, then shrugged. “Gladly,” he said. It was not often that one had a chance to drink with a god, but perhaps it was his reputation as a warrior that made the man accept, or perhaps he was just being polite.

  “Tell me, captain, do you think there will be war with Berash?”

  The captain considered the question for a moment. He sipped at his glass.

  “I do not believe so, Deus,” he said.

  “And the cause of the trouble?”

  “It is simple enough. They claim that two of their border patrols have been wiped out, and see us as the most likely culprit – or perhaps the only possible culprit. But we have nothing to gain by the action, and much to lose from a war.”

  “So what do you think has occurred?”

  The man shrugged. “It is not my place to speculate, Deus. I do not have the reports of our agents, nor do I command our armies, but I have survived one battle, and I would not wish such glory on another.”

  “Quite so, and the Berashi are a hardy people. They make fine soldiers.”

  “As you say, Deus, but I have no doubt that Avilian would prevail should it come to that.”

  “So neither side wants war, and yet it draws closer by the day. Does this suggest a third force is involved, perhaps within your own soldiery?”

  “I will not speculate, Deus.”

  “And I suppose you will also deny yourself the pleasure of discoursing on the character of the Duke, his sons, and the other noble gentlemen of the household?”

  “I am afraid that I must, Deus.”

  A man of honour, then, which was what he had expected. A pity, though. He would have liked to have known the man’s views, even more so knowing that he was a veteran. They sipped their wine in silence, but Narak could detect that the man wanted to speak again, but hesitated to do so.

  “What is it, Captain?”

  “Just one thing that I wish to say, Deus, concerning the Lord Quinnial.”

  “The Duke’s second son?”

  “Yes, Deus. I only ask that you not dismiss him because of his injury. He will be a fine man when he comes into his majority, and men will stand by his banner when others fall.”

  A nugget of pure gold. He knew of Quinnial, of course, but the boy was no more than a name to him. He knew his age, and the facts deemed important enough to be reported. He knew about the accident, the crippled arm, but nothing of Quinnial’s character.

  “Thank you, Captain. I will bear what you say in mind.”

  It was all that the captain had to say, and shortly afterwards the Duke’s secretary arrived and the soldier was dismissed back to his duty at the gate. The secretary poured himself a glass of wine. He seemed in no hurry to conduct Narak to his lord the Duke.

  “So you are Wolf Narak,” the man said when he had tasted the vintage. Narak knew this man as he knew all men. He had met him before with a different face and a different name. The secretary was well dressed, his voice was polite, and he wore a smile in much the same way as he wore his chain of office. He was a politician. His face seemed open, his manner courteous, but none of it could be relied upon.

  “I am.”

  “Please forgive me if I do not immediately believe you, Deus, but many here would be inclined to question your existence.”

  “I see. You want me to prove that I am the wolf god?”

  “Prove is a strong word, Deus. I myself would be willing to accept your word, but my duty to the Duke, you see… “ he pulled a face.

  “I understand that you do not wish to look a fool, bringing am impostor before the Duke, but that is the nature of your position. I will offer you no proof, and you will conduct me at once to the Duke’s presence. If not I will find my own way. Did you not speak to the guard?”

  The secretary looked alarmed.

  “I did, Deus, and he said some things that incline me to accept you for who you say you are, but such men are easily impressed…”

  “In my experience they are not. Now will you show me the way or must I carve my own path?”

  The man was clearly afraid, but to his credit he stood his ground, drawing himself up to his full, unimpressive height.

  “Deus, I am not a warrior, and it does you no credit to threaten me.”

  Narak smiled, and then laughed, his annoyance evaporating in the face of the man’s unexpected pluck. He returned to the cabinet and poured himself another glass of wine, sat in a comfortable chair.

  “You are right, sir secretary,” he said. “I should not threaten you, but nor shall I give you the proof that you ask. I am not a sideshow to be marvelled at. You may tell the Duke that there is a man claiming to be Wolf Narak waiting in the outer audience chamber, if this room is still so called. I will wait.”

  The secretary hesitated. There was really little that he could do. If he ordered men to remove Narak from the room he would find out for certain if he was the wolf god, but if he was wrong he could not justify the blood spilt. He could not simply leave him waiting.

  “I will tell the Duke,” he said, and with an elegant bow he swept from the room. To some extent honour had been satisfied for both. The secretary could pass the decision to his lord, and Narak had declined to perform for a man who, despite his surprising display of courage, was no more than an administrator, a lackey.

  It was not long until the secretary returned. Narak had not expected it to be long. Even simple curiosity would compel the Duke to see a man who claimed to be Wolf Narak.

  “Follow me please, Deus.”

  He followed. They went along another corridor, through
a doorway where they picked up an escort of more visually stunning guardsmen, resplendent in their polish and pressed cloth. The guards followed behind him at a respectful distance.

  Another doorway, and then they were in the Duke’s chambers. More guards stood by the door, and the Duke himself, Duke Elyas of Bas Erinor, the twenty-seventh man to hold that title, sat at a table dressed in no more than a comfortable gown. The table before him was strewn with papers, a hot drink steamed by his hand. Narak scented honey and various fruits and herbs.

  The Duke was not a young man. His hair was cut short, iron grey, neat. The face reminded him of the face he had known so many years ago – not in its features, for the current duke was a more handsome man – but in its attentive tilt, the lines around the eyes and mouth that suggested laughter. The Duke stood.

  “Deus, we are honoured by your visit,” he said.

  “I apologise if I have distracted you from your duties,” Narak said. “I have an urgent need to speak with you.”

  “Do not apologise,” the Duke stood and dismissed the papers with a wave of his hand. “I detest papers, but it is necessary, and Gerant makes it bearable.”

  Gerant. That was the secretary, and a compliment, and perhaps the gentlest of reproaches directed at Narak. The Duke was saying that he valued the man, and he had been poorly used by Narak.

  “I must speak to you alone, lord Duke, and with your sons.”

  “My sons?”

  Elyas seemed surprised, but the emphasis in his question was on the plural. He was surprised that Narak wanted Quinnial present, and that told Narak a lot about the duke’s household. The guard captain had implied some issue unresolved, and here it was again.

  “Yes,” he said. “Aidon and Quinnial.”

  The duke hesitated. “Very well, I will send for them.”

  One of the glittering guardsmen withdrew to perform this task and the duke gestured that they should sit in more comfortable seats. He did not share his secretary’s desire for proof, it seemed, and he dismissed Gerant and the remaining guards, telling them to await his call in the audience chamber. It was a gesture of trust. Narak still wore twin blades on his back.

  Narak took the opportunity at once.

  “Duke Elyas,” he said. “Forgive me for being forward, but you are unwell.”

  Elyas laughed.

  “And Gerant doubted you,” he said with a shake of his head. “How do you know?”

  “Despite my appearance as a man there is always part of me that is the Wolf. Even in my present form I can smell sickness and corruption better than any man. What have your physics told you?”

  “Enough. They tell me enough.” He leaned back in his chair and sighed. “They tell me that I am dying, that there is no cure.” He sighed. “I have not told Aidon or Quinnial, but Gerant knows, and a few trusted advisors. The disease will not cripple me for a few months yet, and I am doing my best to prepare Aidon.”

  “Will he be ready?”

  “To be Duke? Of course. He is born to it. Does he need to be?”

  “I do not know. I am here because I am uncertain, and I have questions for you. I want your heirs to know my mind in case there is war.”

  “With Berash?” the duke sounded dismissive. Apparently he did not consider war with Berash a likely event, or a dangerous one at any rate.

  “Perhaps with another.”

  The duke was instantly attentive, leaning forwards, that familiar family tilt to his head, eyes keen.

  “What do you know?” he demanded. “Afael?”

  “Afael is no threat, and Berash is, I think, a distraction.”

  “Gods, you are talking about Seth Yarra!”

  “I did not mention the name, nor shall I. Something has occurred which makes me believe that there is some trouble in the wind. That is all.”

  The duke questioned him further, but had no satisfaction of it. Narak avoided revealing his slender cause for concern. He feared that the duke would dismiss his worries, and that nothing would be done. It suited his purpose that Avilian, and especially the house of Bas Erinor, should be alert.

  The sons arrived together. Either they had been found together, which was possible, but unlikely, or one had waited for the other before entering. Narak preferred the latter explanation because it suggested a bond between the young men. Less certainly it suggested that the older brother shared the guard captain’s opinion of his younger brother.

  Aidon was two years older than Quinnial, but still only twenty. He was tall, broad, handsome, and dressed for combat. He had not even bothered to take off his leather breastplate before answering his father’s summons. His face was still flushed from exercise, and his fair hair was swept back and damp.

  Quinnial was dressed in blue, chased with silver threads. He had not been training. He had the same handsome look, but there was something in his eyes that was lacking in his older brother’s open countenance. He was cautious, guarded, and perhaps nervous. Narak detected the volley of glances that he threw at his father, but they showed only doubt and anxiety.

  “Aidon, Quin, you are honoured to be in the presence of Wolf Narak, lord of the forest, Victor of Afael, and an ally of this kingdom.”

  It was an interesting choice of titles, technically quite polite, but emphasising his ties to Avilian and the Great War. More interesting still was the response from the duke’s sons. Aidon bowed from the waist. Again this was technically correct, polite to the point of perfection, but it was Quinnial that caught his eye. The younger man bent his knee, touched it to the ground and stood again. This was a greater mark of respect, and it marked Quinnial as a worshipper, one who made offerings at the dark granite temple dedicated to the wolf god.

  He noted Quinnial’s arm, his right arm, strapped against the body.

  “I am pleased to meet you both, my lords,” Narak said. “Now please be at ease. I have some questions for you all, but it is as important that you know the questions as the answers, so attend carefully.”

  The young men sat, Quinnial on the right so that his damaged arm was hidden by his body. Narak had their complete attention.

  “Why are you killing dogs?” he asked.

  A quizzical look from Aidon – he did not know that this was happening. Quinnial looked grim, and the duke himself slightly puzzled.

  “It is an illness, Deus,” the duke said. “Dogs carry it, so we kill the dogs.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “What is there to tell?” The duke seemed not to understand. It was Quinnial who took up his meaning.

  “The illness is not fatal, but puts a man down for days. The Merchants insisted on action, and it was the high priest of Ashmaren who offered a solution. They say the same illness swept through Telas Alt last year or the year before, I do not remember. Many dogs have been killed and the number of cases had dropped.”

  “Ashmaren, you say?”

  “Yes, Deus.” Quinnial now seemed almost embarrassed that he had spoken so much.

  “Thank you, Lord Quinnial. An appropriate summary,” Narak said. The young man could not meet his eyes and flushed beneath his tan. Narak was now equally puzzled. The illness and the response appeared genuine. No secret game was being played unless it was of a subtlety that stretched credibility. Ashmaren, or at least the priests of Ashmaren had no axe to grind that he knew of, and the story sounded plausible. He made a mental note to check the tale of the illness in Telas Alt. Poor would know if such a thing had occurred.

  “Tell me of the border incidents, the Berashi border,” he said.

  Here the duke was on surer ground, and leaned confidently forwards.

  “It is a mystery to me, Deus,” he said. “We stand accused by the Berashi of wiping out two of their border patrols, but we have issued no orders to that effect. I have checked with the commanders in the march wards and they have not engaged Berashi troops at all this year.”

  “And your agents?”

  “That is the puzzle, Deus. My agents on the Berashi side of the
border believe the stories. Men have been killed, and we are widely blamed for it.”

  “Two possibilities, then,” Narak suggested.

  “Either one of my commanders betrays me or there is a third party at work. Yes, I have given it much thought, but I cannot see a reason for either, and what third party would stand to benefit from a …” The duke’s voice tailed away and Narak found him looking very hard in his direction, but the words remained unspoken.

  “Well,” Narak said. “I have asked my questions, and you have answered them as you are able. I ask you to be alert, and to inform me if something occurs that may lead you to better answers. I myself will visit the Berashi court and see for myself what their reasoning might be.”