The Seventh Friend (Book 1) (26 page)

Lord Quinnial sat at his father’s table and read the letter three times. It was as unambiguous a document as he was ever likely to read, but he read it again anyway. He wanted the words to be clear in his mind.

It was hardly a surprise. He had been expecting a letter from the King, and its contents were exactly what his father had predicted, almost word for word, but he still found it unsettling. This piece of paper was an instrument of power. Change a couple of names in it and it could destroy any man in the land – even his father the Duke.

Times were difficult, there was no denying it. His father had gone, left with the army and with Aidon to answer the Wolf’s call, and he knew that they were going to danger, to war, and possibly a violent death. Almost everyone else had gone, too. All the officers, men, knights and noble scions that filled the castle had packed their weapons and armour and mounted their horses and gone in search of glory.

He was left behind.

There were compensations. His father had given him power over the Duchy, so that until the duke and Aidon returned from war, if they returned, he was effectively the Duke of Bas Erinor. It was a position of great trust. He also felt that it was a position considerably beyond his competence. If not for Maryal he might have despaired.

It was the one good thing. They were betrothed with her father’s blessing. They were in love, and the one person who actually believed that he could achieve the tasks set before him was constantly at his side, encouraging, praising, commiserating, supporting. It made his new life bearable.

Quinnial was no longer a child. He knew that he would make mistakes, and he knew that his father had made mistakes. All men do. What he feared was looking foolish, making some great mistake. It was true that he had men to advise him, and they were, with a couple of exceptions, the men that had advised his father for many years, but he remembered well the last piece of advice that his father had given him before leaving with the army.

It had been a cold day, and his father was uncomfortable with indigestion. It worried Quinnial, because it seemed to be troubling his father more and more often. He was surprised that the physics of Bas Erinor had been unable to engineer a change in diet or a medicine that would effectively answer the problem. They had sat together in this same room, the table covered with papers, his father running through the business of the Duchy once again.

“You do not need to remember it all, Quin,” the duke had said. “There are fifty men beneath you whose concern it is to remember everything. What you must learn is the skeleton beneath that flesh, so that when they tell you that a man has three arms you will know that they are deceiving you.”

“So it is not really I who will rule?”

“Yes, absolutely. No decision that you make can be anything other than your own. Your advisers will advise, they may even try to persuade you to a particular course of action, but the decision is yours. You will be held responsible for every single edict that you issue. A Duke cannot point the finger at an adviser and say it is another man’s fault. Always trust your own instincts. Those are what will make you a good ruler or a bad one. There is no help for it.”

No help for it indeed.

He put the letter down and rang a bell to summon a guard. A man stepped through the door of the chamber almost at once.

“My Lord?”

“Ah, Piras, has the shift changed? I did not see you out there this morning.”

“Indeed it has, my lord.”

“And your son, he is well again?”

“Yes, my lord. Recovered fully a week now. He is back at his training.”

“Well, that is good. Can you bring me the prisoner Skal Hebberd?”

“At once, my lord.” The man vanished again, and he heard words spoken beyond the door, then footsteps going away. It was more difficult to keep up with the comings and goings of the guards now that he was so occupied, but he still made the effort. These men had been his friends for years. They had treated him well in spite of all his difficulties, and he was determined that he would not be so far above them that he would cease to know them.

He picked up the document again and read it yet again.

“My lord?”

He looked up and saw that Piras was back, accompanied by two less prettily attired guards, and between then the forlorn and yet still defiant figure of Skal Hebberd.

“Thank you, Piras,” he said. “Skal, please sit.”

“I prefer to stand,” the young man replied. So full of pride, so doomed by it.

“As you wish.” He set his eyes to the letter again. “I will read this to you.”

He took a deep breath. It was an unpleasant duty, but a duty none the less.

“‘Read and believe’,” he began. “’This letter, duly sealed and signed, witnessed and confirmed is given under the hand of Beras, King of Avilian and all its peoples, lord of all its oceans and those that sail upon them, here in Golt, his capital, on the fifth day of… etc’ I will not trouble you with more of the heading.” He scanned down to the meat of the letter. “’Let all who read this letter understand that the blood of the house of Hebberd, formerly our servants bearing the title of Marquis, of our lands of Bel Arac, is from this time on degraded to the common stock. All lands and property pertaining to this title will pass into the keeping of my loyal servant, the Duke of Bas Erinor until such time as I shall otherwise dispose. The last holder of the title of Marquis, being found guilty of treason against my person and my kingdom is declared outlaw, and subject to any seizure or punishment as any of my subjects should see fit to mete upon him. All other members of his family are at the disposal of the Duke of Bas Erinor, their guilt in this matter and their punishment to be determined by him.’”

He put the letter down and looked into Skal’s resentful eyes.

“You understand this, Skal Hebberd?” he asked.

“This must give you great pleasure,” Skal said.

“You understand this? You must confirm that you understand.”

“I understand.” Skal almost spat the words.

“You misjudge me, Skal. You have not been kind to me, but I would not wish this degradation on you. You have done cruel things, but I do not hold you to be a traitor to our king, to our country.” He rolled the letter carefully and tied a ribbon about it.

“Yet having hurt you so much, I regret that I must hurt you again. I have news that you father is dead. He was slain by Wolf Narak to the north of Afael. He was alone.”

Skal looked inwards for a moment, as though seeking a memory of his father.

“Then he died as he lived,” Skal said. “He was ever alone since my mother died at the hour of my birth. He was not a father to me, or a friend.”

Quinnial sat back in his chair. The unpleasant business was concluded, but this was not how he wanted to leave it.

“I hesitate to show you any kindness, Skal, for I fear you will resent it, but I would not cast you out into the low city until you have had time to prepare yourself. You will remain here, in the castle, under house arrest as you have been, for the duration of a month. You will be accorded the dignity of your former title during that time, though not the title itself. At the end of the month I will ask you if there is a position that you desire, and if it is within my power and prudence, I will grant it to you.”

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’.”