The Seventh Friend (Book 1) (57 page)

“How are you managing on a colonel’s pay?” the young Duke asked. It was a pointed question, and the point struck home, but Skal resisted the urge to snap back. Instead he told the truth.

“I haven’t drawn my pay since I joined the regiment, my lord,” he said. He wasn’t even sure what a colonel’s pay was, hadn’t thought about it. Presumably it was accumulating somewhere back in Bas Erinor.

Aidon raised an eyebrow as though he had expected something else, and he probably had. “Your general speaks highly of you, Skal,” Aidon went on. “He describes your action as pivotal, credits you with foiling the night attack. Is that a fair assessment do you think?”

It was an unfair question, and Aidon knew it. Skal responded by dropping the formality that he had adopted. But Arbak had stayed true, and for a moment Skal knew what it was to trust another man, to have faith in him. He relaxed.

“All modesty aside, Aidon, I really have no idea,” he said. “I did what I thought was best, but it was just so much chaos and blood. A lot of men died. If I helped to hold the wall, then I’m glad of it, but it’s for the general to say.”

“A soldier’s answer,” Aidon said. “What’s happened to the old Skal we all knew and disliked? You have discovered modesty, and it seems that you even have…” He paused for effect. “
Friends
.”

“War happened, Aidon. War is a team sport.”

Aidon laughed. It was a real laugh, a belly laugh. “Gods, I never thought to hear
you
parrot Harad back at me,” he said. “Anyway, as the king would have it let us get to the point. I award you the lordship of Latter Fetch in recognition of your service. You know it, I think. Not too small, but three days ride north of Bas Erinor. It means we will see less of you at court, but I can live with that.” He smiled.

Perhaps it was meant to sting again. Latter Fetch had been one of his father’s smaller estates; a house and five tenant farms. More to the point it was where he had been born; where his mother had died. It produced a small income, but more than Waterhill, and it was a lordship. He was nobility again, his blood raised up. He had done it. He, Skal Hebberd, son of a traitor, had rekindled the honour of his family name in less than a year. Lord Hebberd, first of his line, Knight Talon of the Order of the Dragon, one of the Wolves of Fal Verdan, a man of his own making, bowed deeply to the Duke of Bas Erinor.

“I am honoured, my lord,” he said.

“Yes,” Aidon said. “And now to orders. Colonel Arbak, you are to return to Bas Erinor with all speed and begin rebuilding your regiment. I have spoken with my brother, and it seems they have been taking names of those who want a share of the glory. Five thousand men of the city have applied to join you. This is too many for one regiment, so you will split. There will be a first regiment of the Seventh Friend, and a second, which will be commanded by Colonel Hebberd. At full strength you will each have three thousand men. You are to cooperate in training the regiments and be prepared to march in the first week of spring. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord,” they said in chorus. For the first time Skal exchanged a look with Arbak, a man he had once despised, and he saw an ally, a friend, a capable man. “It will be an honour to serve with the general again,” he said. General was only a courtesy title now. Militarily, Arbak was just a colonel once more, but Skal knew that he would always think of him as the general who held the gate, who inspired men from three nations to work like brothers.

Aidon looked at him. It was a long, hard, appraising look, and then he turned away. King Raffin stirred again, and immediately was the centre of attention.

The rest of the day passed in a daze for Skal. When the King released them he realised that he was starving and went in search of food. Somehow the news of his elevation had spread around the camp, and men shook his hand, bowed – half serious, half playful. He was
their
Lord of Latter Fetch, just as much as Arbak was their Lord of Waterhill. At first Skal had felt that the honour was his, but he quickly learned that all the men believed that they shared in it. They did not seem to resent that they had fought and he had been given a living for their dying. His elevation told them, perhaps, that they had fought for a reason, that their efforts were highly valued by the King and the Duke. Only the Duranders seemed a little distanced by it.

It was in this mood of shared congratulations that he sat outside his tent with Feran, sipping wine and telling jokes. It seemed that Berashi jokes were all different from Avilian ones; partly because they poked fun at pompous Avilians, but also because they seemed to express a different set of values. They were full of clever young men who found clever new ways of doing things. Avilian humour seemed to revel in the stupidity of people who were not Avilian. Skal was surprised that he found both schools of humour equally amusing.

A boy approached them. Skal thought of him as a boy, but he was probably only a year or three younger that Skal. He looked younger, and he stood nearby for a while, hesitant in his manner, though he was clearly waiting for a moment to speak. He was dressed badly – a soldier for sure, and an Avilian by the cut of his tunic. He was wearing a short sword, a cheap thing, tucked into his belt, his trousers were stained with either mud or blood and his boots were worn and cracked. Despite his impoverished appearance the boy looked bright, with an even, pleasing face, grey eyes, straight nose, compact ears, hair cut short and ragged.

“What do you want?” Skal asked. The boy had not expected to be spoken to. He looked startled, and then bowed a deep, respectful bow.

“My lord,” he said. “I’m sorry, my lord, I did not mean to trouble you.”

“Yes you did,” Skal said. “What do you want?”

“Only to serve, my lord.” The boy risked a glance as Skal’s face, then snapped his eyes down to the ground again.

“You are a soldier. You already serve.”

“To serve
you
, my lord. I mean I wish to serve you.”

“What is your name?”

“Tilian, my lord. Tilian Henn.”

“And what are you, Tilian Henn?”

“A soldier, my lord.” The boy did not seem to appreciate the inadequacy of his reply, and Skal heard Feran chuckle. He tried again.

“What were you, before you volunteered?”

“’Prentice, my lord.”

“Apprentice in what trade?”

“Warehouseman, my lord.”

“Were you a good apprentice, Tilian Henn?”

He looked down at his dusty boots. “Better than some,” he said. “Worse than others.”

Feran laughed again. It was an evasive answer, but honest at the same time. Clever.

“And what skills do you have?” Skal asked.

“I can run fast, my lord. I can swing a sword, I can pull a bow, and I can read and write.”

“Can you indeed?” A warehouseman who could read and write would be a rare thing.

“I can, my lord.”

Skal pulled a rolled vellum parchment out from his tunic and handed it to the boy. “Read this to me,” he said.

The boy unrolled the document, and nearly dropped it. The vellum coiled again in his hands, and he opened it again more carefully, more reverently. “My lord,” he said. “This is…”

“Just read the words.”

Tilian Henn held the document open with both hands, like a herald, and cleared his throat. He glanced at Feran, at Skal, sniffed, shifted from foot to foot, and then began.

“This document, given under my hand on the seventeenth day of winter on the twenty sixth year of my possession, in the name of the king, by all the rights and privileges held by my title, according to the law, confirms upon the man Skal Hebberd, Knight of Avilian, colonel of the Avilian army, regiment of the Seventh Friend, the lordship of Latter Fetch, its houses and buildings, its lands and waters and people, and for all time as long as his line shall have life and honour to hold it…”

“That will do,” Skal held out his hand and received the document back. He tucked it into his tunic. “You read well,” he said. “Who taught you?”

“Taught myself,” the boy said.

“I don’t think that’s possible. Do you think it’s possible?” he asked Feran. Feran shrugged.

“I did!” the boy said, his face colouring. “I taught myself. My lord.” The title was an afterthought, an attempt to retrieve what his intemperance might have lost.

“Tell me how.”

“I got Ebner to tell me things, how to say what was writ. What was written,” he corrected himself. “Just words, and I remembered them. I could see what letters made what sounds, well, most of the time. I wrote stuff down and got Ebner to read it back. I read signs in the street; stuff like that.”

Skal looked the boy up and down. If what he said was true it was impressive. It must have taken years. But then again…

“You didn’t learn to read like that from street signs,” he said.

“No. Ebner gave me a book.”

“A book?”

“Yes, a book. It’s called Ten Tales of Karim. There’s lots of words there I didn’t know, so I asked Ebner. He told me what they meant.”

“Just who was this Ebner?”

“He was clerk at the warehouse,” Tilian Henn said. “But he died.” His face fell as he said the words. Ebner had been a friend, a mentor. His death had been a blow. That much was written on his face.

“If you think working for me would be easy duty, you’re mistaken,” Skal said. “I’d expect you to fight beside me, and when other men get time off, you would have to work. If I give an order it has to be obeyed without question, without delay. You would make tea, cook, put up my tent, make sure my clothes are clean and my armour polished, and all that on top of a soldier’s duty.”

The boy nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

“And if I decide I don’t like you, you go back to the ranks. If I find you lazy, cowardly, incompetent, you go back to the ranks.”

“Yes, my lord.” Henn’s eyes were bright now, alight with the certainty that he was going to get the job, and serve a lord.

“And the pay is a florin a week. Still interested?” Half a soldier’s wage. He saw Feran raise an eyebrow. It was a test, of course. He’d pay the boy a florin the first week and then put it up to three, and he’d have to dress him better, too, and get someone to teach him how to fight. He didn’t want a green boy at his back.

The boy’s face was a picture. It had crashed at the mention of the wage, but Skal was pleased to see a firmness about his mouth. Henn nodded.

“Yes, my lord,” he said.

So he was still set on it. Skal wondered why.

“Tea, then,” he said. “Let me see if you can make drinkable tea for us.”

The boy nodded once and ran off.

“You were a bit hard, my lord,” Feran said. “The boy seemed bright to me, and keen on the job.”

“Since when did you call me lord?” Skal asked.

Feran shrugged again. He used the gesture a lot. “Well, you are,” he said.

“And you are heir to one of the better estates and titles in Berash. You’re more a lord than I am, truth be told. Are we not friends?”

“You do not really intend to pay the boy a half wage, do you?”

“Of course not. It was a test.”

“And what did you learn by this test?”

“That he is not motivated by money.”

“I could have told you as much.”

“Then perhaps you are a better judge of men than I,” Skal said. He felt the rise of resentment again. Somehow he did not doubt that it was true, and Feran confirmed it.