The Seventh Friend (Book 1) (56 page)

“Drink this.” Sheyani offered him a cup in which she had brewed something hot. He sipped it, thinking it was a tea, but the bitter taste surprised him. “Drink it,” she insisted. “It will make you feel better.”

He scrubbed his face and took another sip. Sheyani sat across the tent from him and picked up her pipes. She played a quiet tune, and between her music and the tisane he could feel the sickness retreating from his body. In five minutes he was beginning to feel hungry.

“I did not know that you were good with herbs, Sheyani,” he said. “It seems that there are many things about you that I do not know.” They had not spoken of it since the night a man had tried to kill her, since he discovered what Esh Baradan meant.

“You are angry with me, Sheshay.”

“No.” He spoke automatically, then again in a more considered tone. “No, I am not angry with you. It is just that I do not understand everything. There are so many surprises.” She said nothing, and would not meet his eyes. He put his hand against his chest, over his heart. “You are important to me, Sheyani. Here. But you are a King’s daughter, a mage of Durander, and I am a creature of the low city. My father was nothing, a man who did what work he could find, sweeping, carrying, the basest blood.” He did not know why he was telling her this. It could only complicate things.

“We do not measure a man by his bloodline in Durandar,” she said. “A man is what he does, not what his ancestors have done.” She met his eyes. “And you have done much, City Councillor, General Cain Arbak. You are a wealthy man, a father to the men who fight under you.” She took his hand in hers, holding it between them so that he could feel the warmth of her flesh surrounding his. “These are the things that must be counted,” she said. “In Durander we have a saying, that a great man is one who can swim in the ocean and not get wet. You are such a man.”

“You have always been kind to me, Sheyani,” he said.

She laughed. She laughed like a child, delighted and unrestrained, and in a moment she had flung her arms around his neck. She held him for a moment, and he hardly dared to breathe, but put his hand gently on her shoulder. After a moment she pulled away, still smiling.

“I will fetch you breakfast, Sheshay,” she announced.

“No,” he said. “You do too much for me already. I will eat in the mess tent. The walk will help to wake me up.”

He left her in the tent and stepped out into the cold morning air. It was going to be another winter diamond of a day; blue sky, bright sun, a scent of snow in the air. The only thing that spoiled it was the sweet smell of burning. The Telans had cleared up the killing ground while they waited for the gate to be repaired. They had built pyres of cut wood and fallen men, poured oil over them and lit them. Everything now carried their smell. He walked across the camp. It was bigger now, he saw. New tents had been raised, a new suburb of their tent city. They were high, Berashi tents with low wings for sleeping. They were more elegant than the boxy, utilitarian Avilian tents. He guessed that no more than five hundred men had come. He wondered what the place would look like with another fifteen thousand men.

The mess tent was half empty. It was in fact a collection of boxy Avilian tents placed together with the sides lifted so that it was like a forest of poles supporting a sea of canvas waves. Tables, each big enough for eight men to sit at, scattered themselves about the space. To one side men prepared food. Even as late as this there were two dozen men eating here. The smell of cooked food was powerful enough to banish the scent of pyre smoke, and Arbak felt his appetite surge.

Men half stood as he crossed to the cook fires, and he waved them down again, collected a large plate of fried vegetables and a pitcher of weak beer and looked for a suitable seat.

She was sitting on the far side of the space, so he had not seen her when he came in. Her red hair, even tied back, was like a warning signal, and all the tables around her were vacant. On an impulse he walked over to where Passerina sat and took the bench opposite.

She looked up at him, stared for a moment, and then lowered her eyes to her food again. “I did not invite you to sit with me,” she said.

“It is the custom of the mess, Deus,” he replied. “A wagon boy may sit next to a king.”

She ate in silence. Arbak thought he detected a slight quickening of her pace as though she wanted to be away from him.

“You blame me for the death of Perlaine, Deus,” he said. She looked up again, and he thought he detected the smallest indication of surprise that he had raised the subject.

“You killed her,” she said.

“I do not deny it,” he replied. “But I would like to ask you one question.”

She stopped eating and looked at him, her eyes trying to know what he intended, so he knew she was curious, that she would hear what he wanted to say.

“You may ask your question.”

“It begins with a story.”

Passerina put down her knife and looked across the table, giving him her undivided attention. Perhaps he had been wrong to do this.

“Tell your story,” she said.

“I worked for a traitor,” he said. “This in itself could be considered a crime, but among the mighty men are judged by their loyalty, not by their moral sense, and so I was loyal, my master being a man with gold. I was a mercenary.

“This traitor had achieved his purpose, but he wanted to brush his trail clean, and so he left a squad of men behind, just three as it happens, to clean away the signs of his crime, the evidence that he had ever been there. It was a trivial job, really. I was reliable, so he left me and two foolish boys who were good with bows but lacked the common sense of a starling. We did the idiot job that was assigned to us. We burned things, swept the dust, broke down what had been built, and every day the two bowmen went hunting in the forest because we liked to eat venison and coney. It was an easy job; light duties you might say.

“Then the boys came back without any game. They were wide eyed, breathing hard, flushed. They said they’d shot and killed a spy – a woman walking in the woods nearby with a wolf at her side.

“You and I, we know better. We know that one who walks with a wolf serves Narak, and you don’t stick arrows in Narak’s people. It only leads to one thing.

“I was afraid, but the boys were idiots, so I went into the woods and looked where they said they’d killed her, and there she was, but not dead like they’d said. They’d hit her all right. Two or three arrows, I can’t remember. Only one in the wolf, but the wolf was dead. She was dying. One arrow through the belly, another through the lung. The lower had stuck in her spine, and if nothing else she was bleeding to death, drowning in her own blood, and you know what a belly wound is like if you’ve seen a friend die of one.

“I knew she was dying, and she knew it too. I could see it in her eyes. Most people are afraid when they’re dying, but not her.” Telling the story brought it back. The woman lying on the ground, her upper body across the wolf. There was blood on her lips, bubbles of blood, and a sucking sound every time she drew breath. Tiny flecks of blood were scattered across her pale, alabaster face, some smeared and others like little rubies on snow. She’d met his eyes. A brief examination told him that the wounds were fatal. There was nothing left for her but pain and death. He’d seen in her eyes that she knew that.
Do you want me to end it?
He’d asked the question. She had nodded. There was no mistake. Even so he’d asked a second time.
Are you sure?
She nodded again. Knowing that she wanted to die, knowing that it was the right thing to do and that there was no help for her, even then it had been a hard thing to do. Very hard. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

“You said you had a question?”

He was pulled back from his momentary reverie. Passerina was still staring at him, unblinking, but now there was something else in her eyes that he couldn’t decipher.

“Yes. The question.” He paused, partly for effect, and partly to make sure he said the right words in the right way. “What would you have done?”

Her gaze fell back to her plate for a moment. “You are most eloquent for what you are, Arbak,” she said. “For what you were. But there is still the matter of your lying.”

“Lying?” She had avoided the question, but not for long.

“Captain Cain Arbak?”

Arbak smiled at the memory. “Some doctors are picky about who they save.” He lifted the stump of his wrist above the table. “The one who treated this would have no dealings with a common soldier.”

“But you persisted in the lie.”

“What would you have done, Deus?”

The question discomfited her again. She looked down at her plate.

“I can see why he likes you, Arbak,” she said. “You’re clever.”

Arbak said nothing. He began eating again, forking the cooling food into his mouth. He swigged at the beer, enjoying the refreshing bitterness after the slightly burnt, slightly sweet taste of the fried vegetables. Passerina was still staring at him, but he ignored her stare.

“I hear that the King will arrive today,” he said.

Still she said nothing. Arbak wondered if he had misjudged this, if he had misjudged her. He put more food in his mouth.

“Have you met King Raffin?”

She didn’t answer, but pushed her food to one side and stood up.

“Have I offended you, Deus?” he asked. “It was not my intention.” He met her eyes again, and she held his gaze for a moment.

“I hope that I would have the courage to do as you did, Colonel Arbak,” she said, turned and walked away.

Outside there was the sound of a horn blowing, and people running, and horses hooves.

Skal had relented. His anger at Feran had been foolish. He had allowed pride to get the better of him, and pride was not always a faithful servant. A night’s sleep had made the difference. In the morning he had apologised to the Berashi lieutenant and asked if he would teach him their way of fighting with short sword and shield, and Feran had said that he would – later.

News of victory came soon after. The Wolf had come with fresh troops, Telan troops, and swept the Seth Yarra army from the woods beyond the walls, slaughtered them almost to a man. It was victory after all, and victory meant celebrations, but it also meant rewards. One of Feran’s men brought them skins of cheap wine, enough for all the wounded, much to the disgust of the physic – he was called Forlis, Skal had learned – and Forlis had informed them quite stiffly that wine would not help them recover and that he would have no part of it, and then he had stalked out of the tent, a difficult thing to achieve for a man of his bulk and years.

But it was victory, and the men did not care. Skal was less caught up in it. He drank a beaker or two and thought about his prospects. The rest of the battle had been lost to him, but he had done well, and Arbak was giving him credit, publicly, for what he had done on the wall. That had to be worth something. Would Arbak say the same to Raffin? Would he say it to the Duke? He assumed that the Duke would be here. He was with the army, had gone to war with the army. One thing he was sure of was that the Duke was not biased against him. The old man had always treated him fairly, even if Skal had made himself difficult to like. Oddly he had always believed that merit should be enough, but recently he had seen the lie in that. He had learned that much from Arbak, whom the soldiers regarded with something between awe and love. Skal had no doubt that most of them would die for their general. So he sipped wine and laughed with the men, used his wit to make them laugh, and tried not to think beyond the day.

The next day Feran had made good on his promise. The Berashi’s good arm was injured, so he was unable to wield a sword, but he found a man to swing a blade and provided Skal with a shield and sword in the Berashi style. Skal, with his injured leg, could not move much, but still they tried. Forlis had made them go outside, forbidding them to swing edged weapons in his domain, and so began a series of awkward, painful lessons.

Skal was used to perfect visibility, and he found that the shield, useful as it was, got in the way. As often as not it blocked his peripheral vision on his left. When he complained Feran told him not to worry. When his legs were better he could use his body to create the space he craved. Instead of fighting Feran took him through a series of upper body motions, ways of using the shield and blade in combination, how to catch a blade with the boss and force it down creating an opening. For his part Skal could see the advantages. He learned the moves quickly, and began to string them together. More than once an instinctive use of his legs caused him pain, but he didn’t mind that. He was learning a new skill.

He healed quickly in spite of the exercise, and by the fourth day after the victory he was using a stick, but otherwise was able to move with little more than a limp. The shield was beginning to feel comfortable on his left arm and he was getting used to the lack of reach with the short sword. It was quite a different style; more conservative, stripped of grand gestures and elegant moves. It was what he had seen on the wall.

When the army arrived everything changed again. Feran was more distracted. There was a chance that he would be relieved, could go home to his family. Their tent village became a city. Thousands of men bustled in the muddy thoroughfares, stood on the wall to see the site of the battle, filled every space with noise and movement. In a way he found it comforting to be among so many people again, but he also felt that they had stolen the closeness that they had all shared, those that had fought on the wall.

But the king had come, and with him the news that the old duke was dead, and Aidon was duke now in his stead. It somewhat lessened his chance of advancement, Skal thought.

He had expected the King to do something, to order a feast, to give a public audience, but for days it seemed he sat with Narak, Passerina, another god called Jiddian and Aidon and talked, closed up in his great tent. Even Arbak was excluded. It went on for so long that the men, the men who had fought the wall, began to grumble on Arbak’s behalf.

The public audience never came. Instead a soldier appeared at Skal’s elbow while he was eating his midday in the mess tent with Feran. It was late for a meal. In spite of three more mess tents being erected by the Avilians there was still nowhere near enough room for the army to eat midday at mid day.

Many of the Berashis and all of the Duranders shunned the mess tents. It wasn’t their tradition. Instead they gathered round small cook fires by their own habitations, rotating the duties among a small group. It was deplorably inefficient. Skal couldn’t see why they couldn’t see that the mess tent system was more proper – specialist resources, no need for the men to cook, better standard of food. It seemed simple.

The soldier coughed. Skal looked up at him.

“What?”

“Colonel, sir, the King commands your presence in his chambers.”

“Now?” Skal was dressed in a rough tunic, stained with sweat. He had been practicing with Feran for two hours before the meal. He was grubby and probably stank. Besides all that he was hungry, and he’d only just sat down. It was a foolish question, though. If a king commands, you’re well advised to obey.

Feran chuckled and shook his head, “Better change that tunic,” he said.

Skal left his food uneaten and rushed across the camp to his own tent, making sure that the soldier followed him. The last thing he wanted was the man going back to the king and telling him Skal had gone to change his clothes before obeying the summons. He was lucky that the messenger was a veteran and not some parade ground dandy. He ordered the man to wait and ducked under canvas. He dashed water over his face, scrubbing it with his hands, dried it on a cloth and quickly changed into a colourful linen tunic with red silk panels, threw a cloak over it and rubbed his boots against the tent canvas. It would have to do. He ran a comb quickly through his hair and ducked back out again.

The soldier was still there.

“Show me to the king,” he said.

A minute later he was ducking under the entrance of a grand tent. The thing was as big as the mess hall, but unlike the feeding station it was a custom built canvas palace in the Berashi style, all curves and wasted space. It looked pretty enough.

Inside it was even more impressive. The canvas was hidden behind silk; gold and red and blue on white. Lamps burned everywhere, filling the space with a rich, yellow light. It made the blues look black and the white look like pale gold. Braziers burned, six of them, and the tent was warm, almost uncomfortably so for Skal, who was still full of heat from his training session.

There were a lot of people in the tent. Soldiers stood around. They were dragon guard men, cased in steel, clutching lances and staring stiffly ahead as they stood like trees on a processional road, guiding the eye up to the low dais on which the King sat. There were others there, too. He saw Narak and Passerina, both on the dais, and two others with faces he didn’t know, and he guessed that they were the other gods who had come with the army, the Eagle and the Snake.

Aidon was standing in the small gathering that occupied the space before the king, and he glimpsed others, too. Arbak was there, and Tragil and Coyan.

He ignored them all and walked in a straight line until he stood ten feet from King Raffin. He bowed deeply.

“Lord King,” he said.

“Here at last,” the king said. He looked at Skal’s stick, the bandage on his leg, and at his wet hair. Skal hadn’t thought of his leg as an excuse. He could make a pretty good pace now if he was willing to suffer a little pain, but the king seemed to think it was a good enough reason to see him last to arrive.

Raffin glanced around at the others on the dais and then banged his heel on the floor. The Dais was hollow enough to make a booming sound when struck, and everyone in the tent was suddenly silent.

“To the point,” Raffin said. “Major Tragil.”

Tragil stepped forwards and bowed. “Lord King,” he said.

“You lost the wall,” Raffin said, and Skal could see Tragil blanch. It was as blunt a statement of military failure as he’d heard. “Yet it was taken from you by treachery, and by those who were vouched for by the Wolf himself, so we will not hold the failure against you. You helped to retake it, and you led your men valiantly in its defence. Your elected general saw fit to brevet you colonel, and I am inclined to confirm the promotion.”

“Thank you, Lord King.”

“This wall still needs guarding, but we are at war, and a stronger force is required. You will be given three thousand men, and you will remain here in command.”

Tragil bowed again, but Raffin was already moving on.

“Coyan, Arbak, Hebberd,” he said. They stepped forwards. It wasn’t coordinated, and nobody had told them what to do, but they followed Arbak’s lead, and so promptly that it would have been difficult to detect that they did not move as one. “It is not our custom to reward those of other nations who have done a service to the kingdom, but it
is
our tradition to honour such men. You have perhaps heard of the Order of the Dragon? It is a degree of knighthood that is entirely within the king’s gift, my gift.” He paused, looking at each of them in turn. “Colonel Arbak, Colonel Coyan, Colonel Hebberd, I hereby admit each of you to the Royal order of the Dragon, and from this day you will be entitled Knights Talon of the Berashi Order of the Dragon. There is no property or income attached, but it is a great honour among my people.

“If not for your several joint and separate actions upon the wall we might now be engaging the enemy somewhat east of here, and the people of Berash are grateful. I am grateful.”

One of the Dragon Guard, an officer that Skal did not recognise, stepped forward and with great ceremony hung a talisman around each of their necks. It was a heavy silver thing on a slender red silk rope, and Skal touched it when the officer passed on to hang one on Coyan, lifted it so that he could see it. A claw. A dragon’s claw, he supposed, or a representation of one. It was about an inch and a half long, and he believed that a life size item would be somewhat larger. It was intricately carved with an even smaller likeness of a dragon along its length – fine workmanship, that.

Aidon stepped out. It was prearranged, Skal could see that. It was Aidon’s turn. But it wasn’t Aidon that he saw now, it was the Duke of Bas Erinor, a man blooded in battle, a leader. His face seemed thinner and harder. The boyishness and easy charm was stripped away. Skal wondered if something similar had happened to him, to all of the boys who had played so fiercely in the courtyards and corridors of Bas Erinor Castle.

Aidon smiled, and for a moment the boyish charm was back like a ghost of childhood.

“Councillor Cain Arbak, Colonel, regiment of the Seventh Friend, the first man ever to name a regiment after a tavern. I am happy to say that it
is
my place to reward you.”

Arbak bowed. Skal could see that his face was flushed. The man was embarrassed, but if Aidon noticed he ignored it.

“You have done a great service to all of us, Colonel,” Aidon went on. “You retook the wall, held it against the odds, and kept the enemy from our lands and peoples. In recognition of this I award you the lordship of Waterhill, to hold in your name and in your descendants’ names for as long as your line shall be fruitful.” He reached out and put a hand on Arbak’s shoulder. “It’s a small house,” he said, reverting to a conversational tone. “Not more than two hours’ ride from the river gate, and there are only two hundred acres, but it does have a small income, and it’s a place you can use to get away from the city.”

Arbak stood with his mouth open for a moment. He was having trouble, clearly, with the concept of being Lord Cain Arbak. Aidon’s smile became a grin, and he slapped Arbak on the shoulder, and turned to Skal.

“Skal Hebberd, Knight of Avilian,” he said. “My brother was right about you. You’ve done well.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Skal replied. He knew Waterhill. He’d visited it once – a tiny part of the holdings of the Duke, a modest, pretty house that he knew Arbak would think large, but seven bedrooms and ten servants was not a big place by the standards of Avilian nobility. It was a minor lordship, a trivial one, even, but he could not but envy the innkeeper. He would have given a great deal for a lordship, even for Waterhill.