The Seventh Friend (Book 1) (21 page)

“Think about who you are cheating, and how he might react.”

“I take your point.”

“Do not misunderstand me, Mister Arbak. Spend what needs to be spent to do the task as well as it needs to be done, as well as you
can
do it. Neither should you stint your own comfort. As a servant of the wolf you are a lord among men, and he would expect you to live like one. You have been raised up. You have not yet realised a tenth part of your good fortune.”

“Perhaps I have not,” Arbak understood, he thought he did. Narak was wealthy beyond the ambition of men. So many years and so many gifts, and him spending so little, he had employed men and companies of men to manage his wealth. They had done well, and the Wolf’s holdings now underpinned more than one of the southern kingdoms.

“Anyway,” Bosso continued. “You must have some spending money, something to buy clothes, hire men, pay for carriages and such. Will fifty guineas suffice? You can come back for more if you run out.”

Carriages? Men? “Fifty would be plenty,” he said. It would be more than he had saved in eighteen years of soldiering for money, and so easily had. Just a word. Yes.

Bosso rang a small bell that stood on a corner of his desk and a few moments later one of the young men knocked on the door.

“Come!” Bosso shouted. The man entered and approached the desk. “Beris, isn’t it? We need a purse with fifty guineas, Beris. Have it brought here at once.”

The young man vanished silently, and Bosso continued. “Are they treating you well, the clerks?”

“Very polite,” Arbak confirmed. “Like a lord.”

The moneylender nodded. “Yes. Well it would be easier if they thought we were friends, as I hope we will one day become. You have a given name?”

“Of course. My father called me Cain. Cain Arbak,” he replied.

“And you must call me Jessec. I think that our business is done for now. When Beris returns you should go, but follow my lead in our parting exchange.”

Arbak raised an eyebrow, but he nodded. He was a stranger in this rarefied atmosphere, and would allow himself to be guided by Bosso. Jessec, he corrected himself.

Beris returned with the purse, having knocked as always. He placed the purse on the desk between them.

“Well there’s your gold, Cain,” Bosso said, standing and holding out his hand. Arbak noticed that he held out his left hand, even though he was assuredly right handed. It was a thoughtful gesture, seeing as Arbak only had a left hand to shake with now. Arbak took it and found a surprisingly firm grip. He picked up the purse, which was shockingly heavy, and with some difficulty tied it to his belt.

“I’m obliged to you, Jessec,” he replied. They smiled at each other.

“Come by if you have any questions or you think I can be of help in any way,” Bosso suggested.

Arbak wanted to say that it wasn’t likely with fifty guineas in his purse, but he knew his part. “Of course,” he said. “Perhaps you would do me the honour of advising me on any investments I might make?”

“I’d be glad to, Cain.”

He nodded and was ushered from the room by a respectful Beris. He descended the stair, nodded again to the clerk at the desk and stepped out into the brisk air of autumn.

He should have asked more questions. How do you go about buying property in Bas Erinor? How do you find out who owns it? Well, he’d have to find out the hard way. He set off on the road back to his lodgings, thinking to pick up a meal there and pay for his rooms a month in advance. He was a wealthy man now.

Tomorrow he would begin work in earnest, searching for the right tavern to buy. He had already cast an eye over the one he was staying in, and had decided that it was too small, too close to the better parts of town, too high class. He wanted something that anyone would feel at home in, and that meant a large public area, space for private rooms at the back where gentlefolk could avoid mixing with the rougher, harder drinkers, and preserve their pretty manners.

It would be best to have rooms as well, places where people could stay, and food. He needed a good sized kitchen. Perhaps he would make a list.

As he walked he became aware that he was being followed. It was a gradual thing, and he became certain as he was cutting through one of the poorer neighbourhoods where streets were emptier. He glanced behind him. There were two men, younger that he was, and they were closing in. A month ago he wouldn’t have worried, but a month ago he was Sergeant Arbak, and he carried a sword. Now he was Captain Arbak with fifty guineas in his purse, no right hand, and he was in the wrong part of town.

He walked faster, knowing that it was futile. In a moment they would move to cut him off, and this was their ground. He would be caught and robbed, and if he was lucky he would go back to Bosso and confess his foolishness. If not he would be dead in some nameless alley, killed by his own stupidity.

He looked for a door that he might slip through, a place where crowds would discourage the pursuit, but the thieves had chosen their spot well. It was a barren, derelict area, houses barely held together by rotting mortar and buttressed by worm ridden planks. He looked back at the men again, and saw that they had closed the gap. They were only ten paces behind him.

He walked straight into the other man. Arbak was not short, but this one was a head taller than him, and broad. It was like walking into a wall. He felt hands the size of skillets grip his shoulders, and then release him. He looked up into a weather-beaten face, dark eyes, a scar across one cheek.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the giant said. “I didn’t see you.”

Arbak just stared. He was aware that the other men, the thieves that followed, were keeping their distance. This man was not with them.

“Can you spare a few coppers, sir?” the big man asked. He had an accent. Berashi. Now that he’d stepped back Arbak could see him more clearly. He stood
that
way, he held his shoulders
that
way. This man was a soldier, and a proper one, not part of a levy. His eyes caught the faintest trace of a tattoo on the man’s right shoulder, a scaled tail coiling down below the end of his short, torn sleeve.

“You’re dragon guard,” he said. But that was impossible. Dragon guard were the cream of the Berashi army, chosen for strength, endurance, skill. What would one be doing here?

“No, sir. I was, though.”

“Was?”

“Combat injury,” the man said. “Can you spare a few coppers?”

“Can’t you find work?”

The big man sighed. His polite manner frayed a little. “Would I be begging if I could? Nobody wants a Berashi, especially one with a bad leg.”

Arbak’s mind was working again. He’d recovered from the shock quickly. This man could be a valuable asset, and he felt some sympathy for him. He had his own combat injury.

“Do you want a few coppers, or do you want a job?”

The big man was silent for a moment.

“What job would that be?” he asked. There was a note of caution in his voice. It spoke volumes to Arbak. Of course he would have been offered work before, but not anything that an honourable man could take.

“Honest work,” he said. “To begin with you could escort me back to my tavern.”

“Bodyguard?” He looked over Arbak’s shoulder. The two thieves were still there. “I’ll do that, but I’m too slow. I could barely keep up with you.”

“I had something else in mind. No running around involved, just keeping order.”

“Legal?”

“Perfectly. I’ll pay room and board and three florins a week.” It was a little high, but he didn’t want to lose this man.

“That’s a good offer. Are you sure it’s legal?”

“What can I say? I’m rich.”

“I’ve got nothing to lose,” the man said. He held out one of his massive paws. “Bargil,” he said. “Tane Bargil.”

Bargil was, he discovered, a former sergeant with the Dragon Guard, skilled with sword, lance and bow. He’d had his leg broken in a skirmish with bandits in the northern marches, and it had healed badly, leaving him with a pronounced limp. He had no family, and he couldn’t bear to live in Tor Silas where he saw his old comrades every day, reminding him of what he had once been, and so he’d come to Bas Erinor. He’d been in the city nine months, and in all that time he’d not been offered honourable work.

Arbak hired a room for him at the tavern, and they dined together. The old dragon guard wasn’t an educated man, but he was clever in the way that many successful soldiers are clever. He was packed with common sense, he was decisive, and he had the ability to smell foolishness a mile off.

He was exactly the man that Arbak needed.

*              *              *              *

The next day Arbak hired a carriage. He took Bargil to a tailor’s shop and had him fitted out with a decent set of clothes, and then took him to an armourer and bought him a serviceable sword. He watched the huge man getting used to the blades he was offered, and recognised very quickly that he was a better blade than Arbak had ever been. That was a good thing, but he couldn’t help a feeling that Bargil was the better man out of the two of them, and yet Arbak was the one with the money and the Wolf standing behind him.

They dined at a different tavern. The food was good, but a quick look around told him that this, too, was smaller than he hoped for, and it was doing well. He had realised the previous night that he would be hard pressed to buy a successful ale house for anything like a reasonable price. Nobody would want to sell.

He was looking for a struggling business.

Several taverns later they rode back to their inn and Arbak was somewhat dispirited. A day had gone by and he had seen nothing approaching what he wanted. Bargil had been watching him all day. The old soldier had been silent, but he had been thinking.

“If you don’t mind me asking, Captain, just what is it that you’re trying to find?” Captain. He’d passed that particular lie on to his hired man, and didn’t feel too happy about it. He’d tell him one day, but this wasn’t the time. He tried to explain his idea of what he was looking for. Arbak was not above getting a little help, and Bargil had been in the city quite a while.

“You should have said,” Bargil admonished. “I know a place. We’ll go there tomorrow.”

“Why not now?”

Bargil shrugged. “No reason. But you look tired.”

They went anyway, with dusk laying its flattering blanket over the streets and the grubbiness of everything in the low city hidden in the shadows from yellow oil lamps. They rode through the evening world where work is done for the day, the taverns are busy, and everything is just a little bit finer than an hour before. It lifted Arbak’s spirits, and by the time the carriage drew up outside the inn he was almost jolly again.

The place was everything that Bargil had promised. From the outside it looked big. It sat on the corner of a street and a narrow lane. He paced the extent of it down one street and then the other. It was very big. The site was close to an acre in size. There was a gate that stood locked against the street, higher than Arbak’s eyes.

“Can you lift me?” he asked Bargil. The big man didn’t reply, but stooped and suddenly Arbak found himself looking over the gate into an unlit stable yard. An ancient wagon stood to one side, broken and abandoned. There were no horses, no grooms, and the yard had an air of decrepitude.

They went back to the tavern’s entrance. It was a big door, but only half of it was opened, and a single lamp burned below a sign that was difficult to read. The letters were faded and the picture difficult to make out. By the lights of a passing carriage he saw the name.

The Wolf Triumphant.

Well, if that wasn’t an omen Arbak had no idea what could be. They went inside.

The interior lived down to the dismal promise of the exterior. It was poorly lit, cold, and sparsely populated. Perhaps twenty men sat around in a great space that could have held five hundred, huddled around small tables or sitting alone. There was no entertainment, the fire was small, the barman looked bored and uninterested in their arrival.

It was perfect.

He walked over to the bar and leaned on it. The barman carried on ignoring him.

“Do you serve ale?” he asked.

“It’s a tavern, isn’t it?” the barman said. He reluctantly pulled himself away from doing nothing and faced Arbak and Bargil. “You want ale?”

“Two,” he replied. Two were poured from the barrel and placed on the bar.

“That’s eight pennies,” the barman said. It was a high price, but Arbak put a florin on the counter. The barman looked at it as though it were a poisonous spider.

“You don’t have anything smaller?”

“Keep the change,” Arbak said, and was rewarded with a look that mixed surprise and avarice in equal parts. The barman shovelled the coin into his pocket. “Do you have private rooms?”

“Yes, sir,” the barman said.

“Will you show me?” He sipped the beer, which was surprisingly good. The barman seemed reluctant to leave his haven behind the bar, but the spur
of a twelve penny tip was just lever enough. He unhooked a bunch of keys and led them across to a door beside the bar. He lit a lantern that hung by the door and turned a key in the lock.

The private rooms had clearly not been used for years. There were three of them, one large and two small, leading off a passageway. They were dusty. Tables and chairs were stacked in the corners and the fireplace in each was still host to the ashes of a fire that might have predated the current king’s reign.

“I can clean them up,” the barman volunteered.

Arbak nodded absently. This place was better than he could have imagined. It was old, full of character, huge, and dishevelled. Whoever owned it was getting almost no return on their money, and obviously didn’t care too much.

He allowed himself to be led back into the tap room by the barman.

“Where do you get your beer?” he asked. “It’s quite good.”

“Got a brewer,” the barman said. “Does his own.”

Better and better. “And do you have rooms for guests?”

The barman looked uneasy. “You asking a lot of questions,” he said.

Arbak was ready for this. He’d measured the man and thought another florin about equal to his reluctance. He took the coin out and tapped it on the bar. “Just curious,” he said. The barman looked at the florin and confirmed Arbak’s judgement.

“Used to have,” he said. “There was
ten rooms upstairs, but people stopped staying here, so we sold the beds and stuff. Just empty rooms now.”

“I see.” He let the florin free on the bar and watched it vanish as quickly as the first. If he ever did buy this place the barman would be among the first things to go. “Well thank you,” he said. He picked up his ale and led Bargil to on of the tables.

“This is just about the worst run tavern I’ve ever been in,” he said in a hushed voice.

“I thought you’d like it, Captain,” Bargil grinned. He hadn’t seen the big man smile before, he realised. It was a whole grin. Bargil had done something useful, and he was happy about it.

“You’ve earned a finder’s fee, Tane,” Arbak said. “This place has made my day.”

Bargil continued to grin, and they both finished their ales.

“You’ll keep the brewer?” Bargil asked. “This is good ale.”

He nodded. “We’ll keep the brewer.”

*              *              *              *

It was a simple matter, in the end, to discover who owned The Wolf Triumphant. It was not so easy to buy it.

There was a register, kept at the guild of merchants. It was available to anyone who was willing to pay half a florin to look at it, which ruled out most of the city. Arbak paid, and quickly discovered that it was owned by a merchant who bore the name Kelso Jerran.

Jerran was a successful man. He owned everything that it was possible for a man to own without the benefit of blood. Ships, shops, buildings, land, wagons, inns; the man was a leading light on the council of merchants who ran the low city. He was so far out of Arbak’s league that Arbak began to doubt that the man would even see him.

He went to see Jessec.

“Kelso will meet you.” Jessec advised. “You just have to give him to understand that there is a profit involved. He is a man who lives for a profit.”

“Do you know what he paid for it?”

“Me?” Jessec smiled. “No. But you can look up the previous owner. He might tell you. In the end it won’t matter much. Kelso is man who knows the value of things. You won’t get a bargain.”

Arbak did things the proper way – the way that Jessec told him to do things. He sent Bargil round to Jerran’s house in a carriage with a letter requesting a meeting that could be to their mutual profit. He gave his address as the Shining Star Inn. When Bargil came back the big man was impressed.

“What a house,” he said. “Bigger than the Inn you’re trying to buy. He’s got liveried footmen at the gates, armed guards on the street. The place is like a palace.”

“He’s rich. He’s very rich.” He tried to make it sound matter of fact, but in truth he was worried that Bargil was so awed. The ex-guardsman was nothing if not level headed.

The reply to their note came the next morning. It was sooner than Arbak had expected, and made him worry even more. He thought he knew people, but not these people. The rich were a different species, and Kelso Jerran was feared even by the rich. Arbak dressed in his most respectable outfit, hired a carriage, and rolled to a halt outside Jerran’s gates a few minutes before the appointed hour.

He could see why Bargil had been impressed. Jerran’s house was a temple to wealth. The lawns looked like they’d been cut with scissors; the men at the gates were equally immaculate. The main house was in a classic Avilian style, a central door, six windows either side of it, a balcony above the door and six windows either side of that. The windows were framed in white stone, and the rest of the façade plastered and painted in a pale cream tone, the roof, which boasted eight dormer windows, was grey slate. A gravel path led to the door.

“Captain Arbak to see Kelso Jerran,” he told the footman. “I’m expected.”

“Of course, sir.” The footman led him to the house, through the door. “May I take your coat?”

The house was warm. A great fire burned in the hall against the bite of autumn, and he could see another through an open door. The hallway was two levels high. A broad stairway went up from the door and split, merging with a balcony that surrounded the hall on the second level. A great light fixture of crystals and candles hung from the roof into the open space.

Arbak surrendered his coat and was led to one side, though a doorway and into what he guessed was Jerran’s office. This, too, was an impressive room. It was dominated by a great desk, but also boasted six comfortable chairs, a roaring fire, and shelves packed with books. Red Telan rugs completely hid the floor, and the room was filled with light from a broad set of windows that looked out on delightfully chaotic gardens behind the house. Trees blazed with autumn colours, and two men could be seen in the middle distance raking leaves.

Kelso Jerran sat in one of the six chairs reading. A hot drink steamed on a table by his right hand. He put his book down as Arbak was shown in. He stood and offered his hand.

“Captain Cain Arbak,” he said. “Welcome to my home.” Arbak felt Jerran’s eyes measuring him.

“Thank you, councilman.” Jessec had told him that Jerran was proud of his civic position. It would not hurt to harp upon it, to let him know that Arbak knew.

Jerran smiled. “You have a proposition? Mutual profit, your note implied?”

To business, then: “Yes, councilman. I wish to buy one of your properties; a tavern that goes under the name of The Wolf Triumphant.”

“Ah, that one. Terrible state, isn’t it?”

“It could be tidier, councilman.”

“Please call me Kelso. You do not mind if I call you Cain?” Jerran sat down. “Would you like something to drink? A tea, perhaps? We have some very fine examples.” It was interesting that as soon as Jerran had determined the nature of the deal he had sidetracked into pleasantries.

“No, thank you, Kelso. It is kind of you to offer, but I am quite slaked.”

Jerran sipped his own drink, taking his time to enjoy the flavour. Arbak sat opposite him and forced himself to slouch back in the chair, to ease each of his muscles and relax.

“You have seen the property?”

“A cursory examination only. The building is sound, and the position suits my purpose.”

Jerran smiled. “You are an interesting man, Cain,” he said. “I tried to find out something about you, but there is very little to be known. You bank with Bosso, which seems to recommend you, but I can find no trace of your military record.”

“I was a mercenary, so there is no record to find, but surely my past is of little consequence?”

“You are right, of course, a deal is a deal. But I do like to now the men I deal with. You are a genuine military man? You have fought in battles?”

“Eighteen years service,” Arbak replied. “And I have this to show for it.” He held up his right wrist and Jerran winced at the sight of it. “And a certain amount of money. What is your price?”

Jerran was too old a hand to be influenced by sympathy.

“Six hundred guineas,” he said.

That was a lot. It seemed a high price, especially given the condition of the place. Arbak had made his enquiries, and knew that Jerran had paid only three hundred and fifty guineas, but that had been three years ago.

“Too high,” he said. “If it was pristine it might be worth that, and it must be costing you to keep the money tied up. What do you get from it? Fifty guineas a year?” Jerran smiled, and he knew that his guess was close. That was still enough money to live like a gentleman, but he thought it could generate a lot more. “I’ll give you four hundred,” he said. It was fair to allow the man a profit.