The Seventh Friend (Book 1) (9 page)

It was much as he remembered it. Once it had been a great fortress, and it still retained the thick walls and crenulated towers of its former identity, but for many centuries it had been the seat of the Dukes of Bas Erinor, and the Dukes had grown fond of their comfort. Where there had been forbidding slits in the massive stone waiting for an archer’s arrow there were now windows, widened to let in the light, glassed to keep out the wind, and curtained to keep in the heat on cold nights. Banners of many colours flew from the towers that bracketed the gateway, announcing the lineage of the noble men and women that dwelled within. It had become no more than a great house, and though the curtain wall was formidable, it was no more than an accident of history.

Narak walked beneath the arch and found his way barred by the guards.

“Your business?” one of them asked. He was not rude, and yet not quite respectful.

“I have come to speak with Duke Elyas,” he said. The guards looked at each other.

“Wait here,” one of them said, and vanished within. The simple word: Duke. It had triggered a response. Anyone who even claimed to want to speak with the Duke was a problem best passed up the chain, and in due course the guard returned with a better dressed military figure. An officer. Narak had learned to respect the officers of the Duke’s guard in the Great War.

“Good day to you, sir,” the officer said. “I am Captain Tarell of the Duke’s guard. You wish to see the Duke?”

“I do.”

The captain looked him up and down. He was not dressed as nobility, but the captain was a wise enough head not to judge solely on appearances.

“Your business?”

“Matters of State,” he replied.

“I see,” the man looked doubtful. “Have you applied to the Duke’s secretary?”

“That will not be necessary,” Narak said. “He will see me.”

An eyebrow was raised. “Your name?”

“Wolf Narak.”

The captain looked at him, his eyes glazing over slightly. Four hundred years of improbability challenged the words that the thought he had heard.

“I’m sorry,” the captain said. “Could you repeat that?”

“Wolf Narak,” he said. “To see the Duke.”

He could see doubt in the officer’s eyes. He was being asked to believe that this quite ordinary looking man in merchant’s dress was the Bloodstained God, the master of the hunt, the Victor of Afael. He had some sympathy for the man. To make things easier he lifted the veil just a fraction, allowed something of his aspect to be seen just for a moment. The two guardsmen stepped back involuntarily. The captain flinched very slightly, but he turned to the guards with admirable self control and ordered one of them to seek out the Duke’s secretary and tell him that Wolf Narak was here to see the Duke.

“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.