by Tim Stead
“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.
“I helped her when she was in trouble,” he said.
“And you have a Durander Court Piper playing at your inn!” he shook his head in amazement, and looked across at Harad. “Well, that explains a lot,” he said. He must have seen the slight puzzlement on Arbak’s face, because he smiled again. “You don’t know,” he said.
“What don’t I know?”
“What she is.”
“A friend,” Arbak said.
“It certainly does you credit to say so, Colonel,” Quinnial said. “She’s a court piper, and I’ll bet my sword there’s not another this side of the Dragon’s Back, indeed, not another outside Durandar. She’s a Master of the path of Halith, a Mage. If she wasn’t sitting in your inn charming the customers she’d be qualified to sit on Hammerdan’s council, the world’s heart itself.”
“A mage?” He could no longer hide his ignorance.
“My father would have given a thousand guineas to have her march with him to war. Do you know what she can do?”
“She plays very fine music,” Arbak replied. He had decided to be obstinate. He was beginning to realise that he had no really adequate notion of what Sheyani was, or what she was capable of, but to him she was exactly what he had said. She was a fine musician, a woman who he had helped, and a friend.
“You seem to be a man of singular sensibilities, Colonel,” Quinnial said. “I admire that in a man. Be careful what you use her for.”
“Sheyani is her own woman, my lord,” Arbak said. “She will do what she wants to do.”
Quinnial shook his head again. “You really need to learn something about Durander customs, Colonel. They are a very formal people. Every word has special meaning. What she called you, for example: Sheshay. Did she explain that?”
“She said it was a term of respect,” Arbak said, but he knew it meant something else, and he knew that Quinnial was going to tell him. It was like his brief flirtation with schooling, decades ago. Having learned to read and write he’d considered that education enough and fled the place to pick up a sword.
“It is, but it’s a special term of respect. She’s only permitted to give that title to one man,” he grinned at Arbak’s apparent alarm. “No, don’t worry, you’re not married.” Arbak felt slightly foolish, and slightly relieved, but there was a shade of disappointment there as well, and he wondered at that. “According to Durander tradition a mage can only have one master. Most talents of her rank would give that honour to Hammerdan. She has chosen you, for whatever reason. As long as you live she will do what you tell her in the face of all others. Sheshay means master; it means ruler, commande
r, wise man, all those things and more. The only thing she will not do for you is break Durander law.”
“I had no idea,” Arbak said. He tried to recall when she had first called him by that name, and could not, but he was sure that is was early, almost as soon as she had started working for him. “Why would she do that, choose me like that?”
Quinnial shrugged. “A man’s education only goes so far, Colonel, no matter how expensive it is. There are rumours, of course, but they contradict each other, and I would not want to feed you a lie.”
“Well, my lord, you have certainly added to my own education, and I will bear what you have said in mind, of course, but I am Avilian, and no matter the custom elsewhere I will do what is right in my own mind.”
“Spoken like an honest soldier, but Colonel be careful. There are those in the city who would not be pleased that a Durander Mage walks free in our streets, Telans among them. That is why none of us here will breathe a word of this,” and he looked at the lady who accompanied him, and at Harad with serious eyes. “Not a word, do you understand?”
They nodded.
“Have I done something wrong, my lord?” Arbak’s question was a bald one. He felt it was something he had to ask. So much of what Quinnial had said seemed to bode ill, and danger now seemed to threaten for all quarters. He felt he was being chastised for his foolishness, and yet in his heart he knew that he could not have acted any differently, he had done the right thing, and he challenged Quinnial to deny it. Besides, he had a protector; one that even the Lords of Avilian feared. He walked with the wolf.
“No,” Quinnial laughed. “I cannot fault you. With what you knew you could not have done better. You have acted with honour, and it has won you a great prize. I wish you joy of it.”
“Joy. Well, we shall see, my lord.” He stood. “I thank you for this commission, and I shall do my best to see that the regiment is raised and trained, but now I have a business to attend to, so I will leave you to your conversation. Anything you wish will be brought.”
He left them, but he did not go back to the public room. He opened the door to the kitchen just enough to let him see in, and watched Sheyani eating for a short while. She was sitting quietly, hunched over a plate of the excellent leek and onion stew; Arbak’s own recipe; and talking occasionally with the cook. She looked small, almost child sized, just as she had done on the first day she came into the inn. She looked harmless, even vulnerable. A mage?
He had been a fool. He allowed the door to shut quietly and went up to his own rooms above the inn. One of these days he was going to buy a house on the good side of town and leave the running of the inn to someone else, but not for a few years. He should have known better. The first time he heard her play, the very first time, when he was walking through the streets of Bas Erinor with Bargil and heard the haunting music beckoning him, he should have known.
A wise man would fear her. A wise man would not have a Durander Mage playing in his inn every night.
He smiled.
Why, then, I am a fool.
29. Bren Morain
He had wasted three days, but they were days that he had needed to waste. He had spent them in the forest, being the wolf, running through the clean air and sleeping in drifts of dead leaves among the great trees, feeling the simple and grand spirit of it flooding into his soul.
There was no hurry. He had days. He knew where the armies lay, and it would be days yet before Havil joined the others on the northern borders of Afael. The enemy had not moved. He did not see the advantage in that, but did not doubt that it was part of a plan. The moves Seth Yarra had made so far had been foiled, all but one. They had taken blood silver from the mines of Bel Erinor, and now they could kill the members of the Benetheon, but it was not so great an advantage. Cavalry was more important.
Perhaps they thought that the fortifications they had built would alter the balance, but Narak had no intention of attacking walls. There were other ways.
Now he was at his ease. His muscles had lost the tension of the previous weeks, and he found himself able to relax and enjoy a meal with Caster in the old audience chamber. Now that war was certain he could put it out of his mind.
They talked of inconsequential things. Wine and food, the mildness of the season, but eventually the conversation drifted round to swords and sword play. It always did when he talked with Caster. Narak described in detail the fight with the twelve Seth Yarra cleansers at Bel Arac, carefully explaining each move they had made, and how he had countered it. Caster followed well enough, but after a while Narak noticed that his friend was growing less enthusiastic.
“You miss it, old friend?” he asked.
“I was once the finest bladesman in three kingdoms, Deus,” Caster replied. “I have not tested myself against another man for as long as I can recall.”
“You are still the finest I have ever fought, Caster.”
The swordmaster shrugged. “High praise, but it means less that it once did. You will forgive me for being blunt, Deus, but this is a just cause, and my skill would serve it well.”
Narak was silent for a moment. He understood Caster’s eagerness to be part of the battle, but he did not want to lose another friend, and Caster was only a man for all his skill, and in any battle he would certainly seek out the most dangerous places, test his steel in the hottest fires.
“You are Wolfguard’s protector, Caster…”
“Then I am a lock on an empty box, Deus. Nobody has attempted Wolfguard since it was built.”
“But if we fail in this battle…”
“You will not. Numbers and strategy are on your side, the armies that you lead are loyal and strong. You will sweep them aside as you did four hundred years ago, and I will sit here and grow fat and lose my self respect.”
“Caster, you will not go.” He spoke softly, but he saw from the look in the swordmaster’s eyes that the steel of his words had got through the other man’s guard.
“It is too late anyway,” Caster said, his tone resigned. “By the time I got to the east coast the battle would be a month past.”
“I am sorry, Caster,” Narak said. “But since Perlaine’s death I have been afraid to lose another friend. I have so few that have travelled so long with me, now only you and Narala and Poor remain.”
Caster nodded. “I know, but I have to say these things, Deus. I begin to doubt my own fighting spirit. It has been so long since it was roused.”
Narak poured another glass of wine. “I do not doubt it,” he said.
“And to think this all started with some fool killing dogs in Bas Erinor,” Caster said.
Narak stopped with his glass half way to his lips. A fool, Caster had said, and indeed it was a foolish thing to do, a thing almost guaranteed to draw his attention in the end, but he had not been looking, and finally it was a note that had appeared beneath his wine glass, or beneath Caster’s, at least, telling him where to look.
How foolish, then, were Seth Yarra? He had seen no evidence of it apart from this one thing, and so perhaps it was not foolish, and if not foolish, then clever, and that was a cause for worry. He had been drawn to Bas Erinor. He had found the spy, Keb, and Keb had pointed him to a place north of Afael, and there an army of Seth Yarra was landed and waiting. It was like a trail of flour laid along the floor for him to follow, and he had followed, barely looking to the sides. Even if he had not found Keb he would have picked up the knowledge from Bel Arac, from the Marquis. It was as though they had left signposts all across the kingdoms for him to follow.
Yet there was an army on the Great Plain, and it could not be ignored.
He tried to remember what the Bren had told him. They had a great many men under arms, the Seth Yarra, and many ships. Yet the Bren had promised to deal with them just a year and a few months from now; the spring after the one that comes. It was truly winter now, and spring would be hard on its heels. It was not a long time to hold, and knowing this much he could perhaps just wait, keep them penned behi
nd their walls for a year and then step aside for the Bren.
“You are lost in thought, Deus.”
“I am sorry. My thoughts wander back to the war.”
“As they should,” Caster sighed and drained what was left in his glass in a single swallow. “And I shall leave you to your war, Deus. I have more inconsequential things to tend to.”
He watched his friend leave, wishing he could do more for him, and as soon as he was gone Narak rose and walked with purpose down to the lair. The Bren Ashet had said that it would wait in the lair, and he wanted to question it again.
He took a single lamp with him, trimmed it low. He knew that the Bren preferred darkness. There was no other light in the lair, and he looked about the large room, unable to see any sign of the creature.