The Seventh Friend (Book 1) (24 page)

Days passed, and the work on the Inn continued. It was going to take more than the six weeks that Felix had asked for to effect the transformation that Arbak wanted, and he was continually troubled by the thought that he was indulging in trivia while the rest of the world was girding itself for war.

Money was no problem, and he was doing his best to fulfil the task he had been set by the Wolf, but it didn’t seem to amount to much. He felt a growing resentment within him. If he still had his right hand he would be more use. He could enlist in the levy and be ready to defend the kingdom, all the kingdoms, against Seth Yarra. It was hard for a professional soldier to see the greatest conflict of the age passing just beyond his good years. He was nothing now.

He had persuaded Bargil to practice with him, so that he could at least learn to wield a sword with his left hand, but it felt so much weaker than the hand he had been parted from, and he had so much else to get done.

The deal that he had made with Jerran was saving him a fortune, but he took no pleasure in it. None of the money was his, and it felt more and more like a game, a fiction that he was participating in until his real life started again. Yet for all that he was enjoying himself, at least superficially. Being rich contributed to his sense of unreality, but that his deeds were free of any serious consequences made him bolder, and he took decisions impulsively.

Three days before he planned to open the Inn for the first time the soldiers left the city and headed away to war. It plunged Arbak into a black mood, robbing him of his ease, making him snappish and uncomfortable. There were still details he needed to attend to and everything was taking longer than he’d expected, especially finding men to do his bidding.

He’d been amused, surprised when Jessec had suggested he would need money to hire men, but that was exactly the case. He wanted three to work the bar, a cook who would not disgrace his own dedication to food, a couple of men to help Bargil keep order, and assorted people with lesser skills, cleaners, assistants and the like.

They were hard to find, and he had become so eaten up by the necessities of the running of an Inn that he had all but lost his vision of what it should be. It had become no more than an Inn.

The vision was woken again as he walked back towards the place from lunch. He had taken to eating elsewhere because, he reasoned, he needed to know what the other taverns were doing if he wanted to compete with them. He admitted to himself that it was at least partially a necessary break from the drudgery.

They were cutting through an alley. He had no fear of alleys, nor of thieves when he had Bargil with him. The former guardsman was slow on his feet, but his hands retained their skill, and it was enough to ward off any footpad or cutpurse that might try their luck otherwise.

He heard music.

Music was everywhere in the city, but it was mostly crude and simple; bouncing, beat driven drinking songs with one and two syllable words that were easy for drunkards to remember. The people who played such music were barely musicians at all. They could hold a tune on a pipe or a lute, and belt out the words, but there was no artistry to it. Arbak had heard real musicians a few times; artists, men and women who played for princes and generals, dressed in fine clothes and bathed in the esteem of their patrons.

This was such music. Rich music.

“Where’s that coming from?” he asked Bargil. “Is there a tavern down there?”

“Not in this part of town.”

He listened, and heard it again, an air played on a pipe, a flute perhaps, drifting on the pungent slum breeze like a prince in a pigsty. Arbak turned aside and headed towards the source.

“No fine houses nearby?”

“No. This is a bad area.”

He came to the mouth of an even more noisome alley, quite dark even by daylight, and the music suddenly stopped, as though the pipes had been snatched away from the breath that gave them life. He peered into dim space, barely narrow enough to for two men side by side, but all he could see was rubbish, rags, waste of the worst kind. The smell was enough to make him turn his head.

“Down there?” Bargil asked. The big man wasn’t impressed by the idea.

“I think so.”

“Do you want me to go first?” There was a plea in Bargil’s voice.

“No, you can wait here.”

“I’ll follow you,” Bargil sighed. “Just in case.”

Arbak stepped carefully down the alley. It was silent now, but he was sure that the music had come from here, and sure that it had stopped when the musician had seen him at the mouth of the alley. He trod carefully. There were a lot of things here he wouldn’t want to step on. Hardened as he was by years of war, times when he’d eaten things he’d rather forget in order to live, times when he’d seen men do things to other men that sickened him, this was a terrible place. Who would choose to be here?

He took another careful step and suddenly a pile of rags just in front of him exploded into motion. He saw the whites of eyes, he saw the bright steel of a short blade, and just avoided its point as it slashed past his belly. The pile of rags retreated a few steps and he saw the blade held out to ward him off, the white eyes staring.

“I’ll cut you,” a voice said. It was a ragged end of a voice; a girl’s? He heard a whisper of steel behind him and Bargil was at his side, the length of his blade glinting in the poor light.

“I can deal with this,” the big man said.

Arbak put a hand on his shoulder. “No,” he said. He turned back to the staring eyes. “I mean you no harm,” he said. There was no answer, just the staring eyes and the blade held between them. He could have called Bargil forwards and the guardsman would have taken the weapon as easily as picking an apple off a market stall, but Arbak knew that such a deed would only feed fear and hatred. He could see that in the eyes.

“Are you a musician?” he asked. There was a flicker, but no answer. Arbak noticed that the knife was not steady, but shook with the weakness of the hand that held it.

“Are you hurt?” No answer again, but the eyes blinked twice. To admit to hurt would be to admit to weakness, he understood that.

Arbak crouched down in the filth, bringing his eyes to the same level as the ones before him. More light penetrated the alley, filtering through the space that he had vacated. This was a child, he thought, but looking again at the eyes he could see lines about them, small lines. A woman?

“My name is Cain Arbak,” he said. “I am a wealthy tavern owner.” He gestured back at Bargil. “This man is my protector – he was once a member of the Berashi Dragon Guard and his honour is beyond reproach. We will not hurt you. I just want to know if it was you who played the music we heard.”

The eyes looked past him at Bargil. It was true that Dragon Guard were legendary for their honour. The head nodded. It was a woman. He could see the outline of her face when she moved her head. Her hair was cut short in a mannish style. She seemed very small, and very thin.

“It was me,” she said. It was certainly not a child’s voice. It was heavily accented, and low for a woman, and he recognised the accent as Durander, and the citizens of the magic kingdom were not widely loved in Avilian. It explained the hair, too. It was the Durander way to cut a woman’s hair short and cover it with a scarf or shawl.

“Do you need help?” he asked. It was the wrong question. She shrank away from him another foot. No help then. He fished in his purse and pulled out a coin. It was a florin, enough to eat for a week, enough to buy clothes, a room for the night and a good meal.

“I’m looking for musicians to play in my inn,” he said. “Real musicians, like you, who can play for wealthy people in private rooms. If you want a job, come to my inn tomorrow. It used to be called the Wolf Triumphant. You can find it on King Lane. If you want a job get yourself cleaned up and come and play for me tomorrow. Come in the afternoon.” He tossed the coin and a small, dirty hand reached out and snatched it from the air. He held her eyes for a moment longer, then stood and turned his back on her, motioning to Bargil to go ahead of him out of the alley.

They had walked a couple of streets before the big man spoke.

“That could be a waste of money,” he said.

“A gamble,” Arbak conceded. “I hope she will come, but I am not certain.”

“She? That was a woman?”

“And a Durander, no less.”

Bargil touched his forehead in a superstitious gesture. “Durander?” he said. “I hope you know what you’re getting into. They’re difficult folk. Strange ways.”

“Ah, but they play such music. You will see. If she comes, you will see.”

*              *              *              *

She came to the inn just an hour after they had eaten their midday. Arbak did not recognise her at first. She was dressed in a rough brown dress, a shawl over her head. Her skin was darker than most Avilians, but more olive than brown. She walked with a limp, head bowed, something clutched in her left hand wrapped in old green cloth. She looked little better than a beggar.

She walked across the room to where Arbak sat, and one of the men he had employed to work at the bar moved to intercept her. She stopped and raised her head, and Arbak saw who it was and waved the man away. How he knew her he could not say. It was certainly not the look of her. The only similarities between this woman and the ragged bundle he had seen in the alley were her size and her eyes, which were quite striking. She had a small featured, regular face, a pointed chin, neat ears that lay flat against her head, and hair the colour of a raven’s wing, but it was the eyes that struck him. They were big, brown, and fringed with the most luxuriant lashes he had ever seen.

“Lord Arbak,” she said. “You said a job.” Her voice was sweet and low, and with the Durander accent it was almost seductive.

“I am no lord,” he said, aware of the quick smile on Bargil’s face. “But there is a job, yes. These are your pipes?” He pointed to the green cloth bundle. She unwrapped them and held them so that he could see, but just out of reach. He could see at once that it was a quality instrument. Polished wood, brass and steel all contributed to its air of solid, serious construction. He could see that each of the pipes had been engraved with symbols, and though he had no idea what they meant he recognised the script from the few times he had seen it: the magical script of Durandar. She did not say anything.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Sheyani esh Baradan al Dasham.”

Bargil snorted. “A big name for one so little,” he said.

“It is not my name, man like an ox,” she said. “It is what I am called. I do not tell my name.” She turned back to look at Arbak. He was surprised by her words. His first impression was that she was meek, frightened, but he remembered the knife in the alley. Whatever had happened to her the flame still burned within. He remembered that all Duranders had a secret name. They believed in magic, and they believed that anyone who spoke their secret name had power over them.

“Can we call you Sheyani? Is that polite?” he asked.

“It is.”

“Will you play for us?”

“It is the job, yes?”

He nodded.

“What do you want I should play?”

He shrugged. “I do not know your music. You choose.”

She looked at him for a moment, as though he had disappointed her in some way, or perhaps it was just frustration. He could not read her well.

Sheyani began to play. Standing in the middle of the tavern, without preamble or preparation, she lifted the pipes to her lips and played. It was like nothing he had ever heard before. It was a tune full of sadness and anger. It caught him like a net and took him to a place he did not want to go. He felt resentment building inside him, a sense of injustice that needed to be avenged, and he felt his hand reaching towards the hilt of his sword.