by Tim Stead
“Be careful of it, Captain,” the physic said. “Keep it clean and keep it dry. It will heal well enough, but seek out another physic when you get to Bas Erinor.
So he rode on. He could have lived well enough for a month on the money he’d spent in Kinwood with all the wine, food and loose company he could have desired, but he had other duties now, duties to the one who’d taken his hand.
He was not bitter about it. He was getting old for a sword hand, slowing down. The best he could expect was a quick death in some meaningless squabble he’d been paid a pittance to meddle in. He’d lost a hand, true enough, but he’d gained a future, gained a protector that royalty would baulk at offending, and gained the sort of wealth he could only have dreamed of.
Arbak wasn’t entirely without thrift. He’d saved money. He’d known that mercenaries had a limited working life. His plan, if he survived long enough, had been to take what he’d saved, some thirty gold guineas, and buy an interest in some business. If he worked hard it could give him a decent life, and perhaps a wife and children. Now everything had changed. He was to have his own tavern. His very own. He had thought about it, of course. It was a favoured idea, to buy a share of a small tavern, but they cost a lot of gold. There had been a place on the road between Bas Erinor and Golt, a modest road house, and he’d been offered a half share for sixty guineas. They might as well have asked him for a piece of the moon.
Taverns in Bas Erinor would cost more. How much more he couldn’t say, and he would have to find someone willing to sell, but none of it was a problem. Narak had promised that he would have enough, and enough was a lot of money.
Bas Erinor was just as busy, just as noisy and noisome as he remembered. He rode slowly through the streets, savouring the city, and was surprised that people got out of his way until he remembered that he was shaved, washed, dressed like a gentlemen and rode with three horses. He looked better than he was. No, he rejected that. He looked exactly what he was. He had money. He had power, albeit borrowed power, and borrowed money come to that.
He stopped at an inn. It was better than he was used to, cost more, but it suited Captain Arbak. The groom took his horses and the innkeeper showed him to a large room with a fire and a comfortable bed. It was not yet evening, and so he had food brought to his room, which he ate, and then a bath and hot water. He bathed and shaved; dressed with deliberate care. Making certain that he still had the small white stone that Wolf Narak had given him he left the inn and sought the offices of the moneylender Jessec Bosso.
Bosso’s offices were impressive, daunting even. They were set back from the Sacred Avenue and housed in a stone building that would have been the pride of many cities. It was built like a temple, ornamented with columns and raised three levels above the street. He paused before going in, looked at the name: Bosso, carved above the double doors. Such wealth, such places he would not have dared to enter a month ago.
He walked through the doors and saw a young man, better dressed than he was, sitting behind a desk. The entrance chamber was paved with polished stone, and a small fountain played sweet music at its centre. Closed doors lay to either side, and a broad stair swept up to further mysteries.
“May I help you?” the young man asked.
“I am here to see Jessec Bosso,” he replied.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“An appointment?”
“What is your name?”
“Arbak. My name is Arbak.”
The man consulted a heavy ledger on the desk. He ran his finger fruitlessly down a list of names, and then turned to the back of the book, and a much shorter list.
“Sir,” he said. “Mister Bosso will see you. Please sit and he will be informed that you are here. May I get you any refreshment?”
“No, I am quite refreshed as it is,” he said. The young man gave him a quizzical look and rang a small bell. Another young man appeared, not quite as finely clothed as the first and there followed a brief, whispered conference. The second young man hurried up the stairs and out of sight.
Arbak sat and looked at the fountain. A door at the back of the building was open and he could see gardens beyond. Flowers bloomed, trees rustled, and a scented breeze found its way into the hall where he waited. It was all very pleasant.
The second young man returned and approached Arbak directly. “Sir, please be so good as to follow me. Mr Bosso will see you now.”
Arbak nodded and followed. They went up the stairs and entered a short corridor. Several doors stood open along its length, and as they passed he could see men and women working quietly, writing figures in ledgers, reading documents, talking in hushed tones.
At the end of the corridor there was another door, a closed door. Only the fact of it being closed marked it as different from the other doors, but Arbak’s escort approached it with great deference. He stood slightly to one side and knocked modestly on the wood. It was the sort of knock that assumed an attentive silence in the room beyond.
There was a pause. It grew quite long.
“Perhaps he did not hear?” Arbak ventured, but the young man gave a peculiar, abrupt shake of his head and remained attentive, listening at the door. They were both surprised when it opened.
The man who had opened the door stood framed in it. He was elderly, thin, neat, and dressed in a perfectly cut jacket that was remarkable because it managed to look expensive and yet lacked any form of embellishment or ornament. The man gazed at Arbak out of sparkling blue eyes.
“Mister Bosso, sir, this is the man Arbak.” The young man withdrew, leaving Arbak to face Jessec Bosso on his own. He felt abandoned.
Bosso waved him through the door without a word and closed it carefully behind him.
“You have it?” he asked.
“What?”
“The token, man. Do you have the token?”
Arbak fumbled in his pocket and brought out the stone that Narak had given him. He handed it over to Bosso, who took it at once to his desk and examined it under a glass by the light of a window. His examination seemed satisfactory, and when he lifted his head he was smiling. He put the stone in a drawer.
“So,” he said. “You walk with the wolf.”
“I am in his service, yes.”
“I have your name, of course, but the token is a surety. Meaningless to any thief, absent from any impostor. You have come for money?”
“I… yes, I suppose I have.” Arbak was taken aback. He expected more of a dance around the truth.
“How much?”
“I am not sure. I am instructed to buy a tavern, to buy it in my own name, but I do not know how much I can draw on. I have come to know my limits.”
Bosso nodded and pointed to a seat. Arbak sat, and the moneylender sat opposite, elbows on his desk, hands steepled and touching his chin.
“Were you given a limit?” he asked.
“No, but we talked for only a few minutes, taverns are expensive.”
“Mister Arbak, I can see that you are new to this. Wolf Narak is unlike any mortal employer. He does not forget to tell people that which he considers significant. I manage…” he paused, searching for a word. “I manage a fraction of the Wolf’s holdings – most of the wealth he holds in Bas Erinor – and yet it makes me one of the most important men in this city. The money that I lend builds ships, fleets, towns, puts swords in the hands of armies, feeds nations if needed. I assure you that the purchase of one tavern, even ten taverns, would not inconvenience me in the slightest. Spend what you need to spend. Your credit is good.”
“Nobody cheats?”
“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 re
alised 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 ed
ucated 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.
