by Tim Stead
Skal looked at him. Quinnial read surprise, calculation, and resentment. He hoped the latter would pass.
“Why?”
“You are a fine swordsman, a useful strategist, a loyal Avilian. These things should not be lost to us because of your father’s crimes.”
“I will think on it,” Skal said.
“I am sure that you do not want my advice, Skal, but you will have it anyway. Do not seek revenge. Do not brood upon your past and the injustice that fate has worked upon your fortunes. Your life begins today. Make it anew.”
Skal sneered. “It is not an arm that I have lost, Quinnial. It is my blood, my reason for existing.”
Quinnial signalled to the guards and Skal Hebberd was led from his sight. He hoped that the man would awaken to the possibilities, but he did not hope too much. Skal was a bitter man, had been a bitter child, and it would take a lot to wring that bitterness from him.
Alone again he looked around at his papers. He was hungry, he realised. It must be well past midday.
He called for Gerant, his father’s secretary, and the man appeared quickly.
“Put this somewhere it will not be lost, Gerant,” he said, handing him the King’s letter. “If anyone seeks me I shall be lunching with Harad in his chambers.”
“Yes, my lord.”
He left Gerant to tidy up after him. It was poor use of the man, but he admitted to himself that he was not overly fond of the secretary. The man was useful, no question of that. Without him the Duchy would flounder in administrative chaos, but Quinnial thought him pompous and very full of himself and his position. He preferred the company of men like Harad.
Harad was his touchstone. The armourer kept his eyes and ears open, and passed on what he learned to Quinnial. At present there was a general dissatisfaction among those that had been left behind. Many of those were older, had families, or, like Quinnial himself, carried some injury that prevented them from being useful in war. It was not a problem because they knew that he was tarred with the same brush. They sympathised with him, and he with them. There was anxiety in the city. They did not know war, and the enemy was powerful and legendary. All this did not surprise him, but it was good to see beyond his narrow circle.
Harad was already eating when he arrived. It did not bother him. He helped himself to a plate full of food from the larder and sat down with a glass of wine.
“Any news?”
“Well, my lord, as you know, rumour flies faster than eagles. We hear that Telas has promised troops, and that Narak has gone to Durandar, but no word yet from the magic kingdom.”
“And the people of the city?”
“Much the same. Many chafe at inaction. The merchants are looking for something that they can do to help win the war, and the people in general are ready to fight. A levy now would be filled quickly.”
“That is a thought, but then we would have to feed them, arm them, even train them, and we do not have the resources. We must wait, I fear.”
Harad nodded. The levy would take time. It was a last resort. If the army now marching to war was defeated they would raise and train a levy in the hope that it would be strong enough to defend Avilian from the remnant of the enemy. It would be a large army, but comparatively unskilled and likely to suffer from poor morale.
“There is one thing of interest, my lord,” Harad said, and Quinnial could see a smile on his face.
“What?”
“A new tavern has opened in the low city.”
“This is news?”
“It is. You remember the old Wolf Triumphant?”
“Yes. A shoddy place by repute.”
“It’s been bought by a man, Captain Cain Arbak, a retired mercenary, and he’s quite turned it around. I think it may be the most popular tavern in the low city.”
“The Wolf? Are you sure?”
“He has renamed it. The Seventh Friend. An odd name.”
Quinnial smiled. There were few reasons for the literary education he had been put through, but he had found one of them.
“It’s from Karim,” he said. “You know: Ten Tales of Karim?”
“I know of it,” Harad shrugged. “I was never one for reading. Anyway, most people just call it ‘The Friend’.”
“Have you been?”
Harad shook his head. “No,” he said. “But you might consider a visit. They have private rooms, and if reports are to be believed they have music and some of the best ale in the city. If that wasn’t enough, the doorman used to be Berashi Dragon Guard.”
“What do we know about this Captain Arbak?”
“Not much. He’s Avilian born, or claims to be. Did his soldiering elsewhere – we have no record of him - and he seems to be quite rich.”
“Might be interesting. He could be working for one of the other kingdoms, but we’re all on the same side now.”
Harad raised an eyebrow.
“As you say,” he said. “There is one thing, though. I know a couple of old hands, veterans, who seem to be making a habit of the place. These are serious men whose judgement I trust, but their reports are, well, stuffed with praise to the point where I find them hard to believe.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“No inn is that good, my lord.”
“Go and look yourself,” Quinnial said.
Harad nodded, helped himself to another glass of wine. “That’s exactly what I’ll do, My Lord.”
24. The First House
There was only one guard on the gates of the First House, and he was a man with a staff and no armour. Instead he wore a black silk gown that reached to his feet and wrapped himself in a sky blue cloak. He was bare headed. His face was marked with a tattoo above the right eye, a snake with five bars above it, and his head was shaved. He watched Narak approach with keen, dark eyes.
“Areshi,” Narak greeted him, stopping a little before the threshold and raising his open hand. “I seek audience with the First Mage.”
“You are not known to this house,” the guard said.
“I am known to the house,” Narak replied, “but perhaps not to the people within it.”
The guard gestured and spoke a word, and the air about them both glittered for a moment, like a fine rain caught in morning sun. The colours faded and the guard bowed.
“God of Wolves, I did not know you. Forgive my ignorance.”
“Areshi, if there is a fault it is mine. It has been many years.”
The guard pulled a thistle head from his pocket and carefully removed one seed, a silken tuft that he held for a moment in the palm of his hand. He bent his head and spoke to it softly, and when he pulled his hand away it remained motionless, floating quite still, immune to the breezes that wandered through the gateway.
“Follow the thistledown, God of Wolves, and it will lead you to my lord.”
Almost at once it moved through the air and paused, impatiently awaiting its charge. Narak had forgotten this piece of magic. It had been so long. Now he found it charming again, as he had done once before.
“Thank you, Areshi,” he said. “Joy upon your house.”
It was formality upon formality, but to Narak it seemed an honest sort of stiffness. He liked the Duranders despite all their difference, all their magic and ritual. He followed the thistledown guide along a series of passageways. The First House, as they liked to call it, was certainly not anything that he would have described as a house. Nor would he have called it a castle.
In truth the First House was a labyrinth. On the surface it was a single storey building, a construction started over a thousand years ago and added to by each First Mage. Beneath the ground it was the same again, and again, and again. In all it went down seven levels, and he had heard rumours that there were more levels beneath, a knot of hundreds upon hundreds of curving tunnels and secret chambers so that not even the First Mage himself knew all the ways of it. The thistledown guides could be told to find a person or a room, and they would do so, but without them almost a
ny member of the occult court of Hammerdan would be lost in the maze.
Narak walked behind his guide for over twenty minutes. At times they passed down corridors no wider than three hand spans, and he was forced to edge through with his shoulders turned slantwise, and at other times he walked passageways so wide that twenty men could have walked abreast. There were rivers here, too. He crossed four bridges, though he had no way of knowing if they were the same one. The thistledown guides never took the most direct route and the bridges were all deliberately identical.
He came eventually to a great room deep within the earth, and he recognised it at once. He would not have known that this was a cave if he had not descended so many stairs. Of course there was no guarantee that it was a cave. It was possible that each significant chamber was placed at a different point in Durandar, and all were linked together by magical portals. It was just the sort of thing the Duranders would do.
The room, the cave, the chamber, whatever he called it, was one of the most remarkable anywhere in Terras. The ceiling, some twenty feet above his head, flowed with light. It was a little like looking up at the surface of a lake from beneath, and a little like seeing the ceiling burn. The light filled the room. The chamber was circular, with three entrances, and the walls were carved with scenes from battles, the faces and figures of great heroes from Durandar’s past, and with sigils and runic writings. The detail and skill were likely to trap the eye, but Narak had seen them before. Long ago he had seen his own face there, read his own name.
Within the chamber stood a great round table carved from the rock. The table was a great symbol of the power of Durandar, sometimes called the magic circle, the great ring, or the world’s heart. Nine sitting-stones lay evenly spaced about its rim, and at eight of those the great Mages of Durandar sat in council. The ninth stone was vacant. Men had died sitting upon it, for it doubled not only as a guesting seat, but a trial seat, a pleading seat, and sometimes an altar.
Each mage was clothed in heavy robes, hooded, and faced the centre of the table where a single white light burned. Seven wore coloured robes, imitating the rainbow, and the eighth wore white. The white robed figure, Narak knew, was Hammerdan.
This was a delicate moment. His personal standing with the court of Durandar had not always been high, and relations not always as cordial as he might have wished. His bluntness had given offence in the past, and he had no idea how the current court regarded him. He had met none of them. In theory he should be at least formally welcome. These people worshipped Pelion above all others. They referred to him as the Great Mage, and many disliked his being elevated to godhood in the other kingdoms. They saw him as their founder, their father, their template.
But Durander magic, for all its potency was not even a shadow of the power that Pelion had wielded. He had stamped his will upon the world with authority, and none had the power to oppose him.
“I am here to speak with Hammerdan the White,” he said.
The white robed figure stood, but none of the others moved, even to turn their heads at the sound of his voice. Hammerdan threw back the hood of his robe, revealing a broad, smiling face. He had blue eyes, a tousled mop of thick, fair hair, and he held his arms wide in greeting.
“Mighty God of Wolves, Child of Pelion, you are most welcome here,” he said.
So much for the Duranders being barbarians, so much for them trying to kill me.
“I thank you for your welcome, First Mage of Durandar. I am pleased to be among friends.”
“So it must always be,” Hammerdan replied. “Will you take the ninth seat?”
Narak stepped forward and settled himself on the sitting stone. Given the apparent warmth of Hammerdan’s greeting he decided upon a direct approach.
“Seth Yarra have landed an army in the east,” he said. “It is a great army, and the three kingdoms of the east march to give battle. I am here to ask for your help in the enterprise.”
Hammerdan had taken his seat again, and he leaned forward, shaking his head. “We know, of course, that they have come, and it is a terrible thing, but they are far away, and time is short. We can spare few mages from the protection of our border.”
“The Telans will send a thousand men to war if you will match it.”
“A thousand men? Soldiers? We can raise such a number, but you know it is not swords that defend us, and not arrows that keep our borders safe.”
“I will, of course, be grateful for the few mages that you can spare, Lord Hammerdan, but Terresh made the men a condition of his own assistance.”
“The man is a fool, but we will meet his terms if it helps you, Deus. We will also send ten mages, and they will travel more quickly than soldiers, and may yet be of some use to you in the battle.”
“I am grateful, Lord Hammerdan.” It was a boon indeed. He knew the effectiveness of Durander magic, though immune to it himself. Theirs was not a great magic, not like the magic of Pelion, nor yet like the magic of the Benetheon, which came easily to them, and was as natural as breathing. With this aid the armies of the east would be stronger, more certain of victory.
The white light at the centre of the table flickered blue for a moment, and Hammerdan turned to the blue robed figure sitting to his right.
“You are concerned, Kelmarrim?”
“It is a trick,” Kelmarrim said. The voice was that of a woman, but she did not draw back her hood. She spoke forcefully, her voice ringing through the chamber as powerfully as Hammerdan’s own.
“To what end?” Hammerdan asked.
“I do not know, First Among Us, but Terresh is not such a fool to think a thousand of our men match a thousand of his own. He has some other purpose in mind.”
“Your words are wise, and have the light of truth, Kelmarrim, but they do not change my decision. Perhaps there is some Telan political intrigue involved?”
“Perhaps, First Among Us, but I fear the hand of his woman in this. She is a cunning enemy and has cost us dear in the past.”
“It was Hestia who suggested it,” Narak confirmed. “But I cannot see what she might gain. Ten mages will surely not weaken you so much, and she did not ask for them, just for a thousand men?”
“Mighty Narak, God of Wolves, you see clearly,” Kelmarrim said. “But Hestia is a master of the crooked path and it may be that even your wisdom cannot unravel the twistings of her subtle scheme.”
Narak wondered at this. He had himself thought that Hestia was the mistress of Telas, but he had seen no hint of scheming or wickedness in her. She was beautiful, and she seemed intelligent, and yet what Kelmarrim said recalled something Pascha had once said to him: that he was too honest to see a lie, and too trusting to know deceit. He did not think of himself as particularly guileless, but there was an ounce of truth in what she had said. He preferred to deal with honest men. He was almost unhappy to have come here, to have heard the doubt voiced, but he could not see an advantage for Telas whatever angle he viewed it from.
“You may be right, Kelmarrim Mage,” Narak said. “But if the scheme involves sending a thousand men to fight against Seth Yarra, then I for one am willing to watch it unfold.”
“But watch it we must,” Hammerdan said. “We will keep our eyes upon their forces, and they shall not move without our seeing it.”
They talked more, but it was of little consequence. When the time came for Narak to leave Hammerdan told him to leave by one of the three doors, and that no guide would be needed.
He walked through a short passageway and out into a glade of trees. They were trees that he knew. They were friends. When he turned back the opening through which he had walked was gone, had probably never been there, and there was only the sky and a river flowing between overgrown banks, the green light filtering through the canopy showing him a doe that stood quite still, ears pricked in alarm, staring at him.
He laughed, and the doe was released in a rush of hooves and flying leaves that took it into the undergrowth and out of sight. He turned again and began t
o walk. He was less than half a mile from Wolfguard.
25. The Seventh Friend
Arbak could not believe the degree to which his Inn was a success. Night after night it was thronged with men and women, drinking and eating, singing, talking and shouting. He was taking more money over the bar than he had ever seen in his life. He was averaging more than ten guineas a night, and six of that was profit. If it carried on like this, well, he would shortly be a very wealthy man. In the first week he had more gold in his hand than he’d managed to save through his entire mercenary career.