by Tim Stead
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.”
18. The Wolf Triumphant
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 s
o 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.
“Six hundred is my price.”
Now we come to it. Arbak had never been much at haggling in the market, but he understood one rule. The seller wanted to sell, and the buyer wanted to buy. The one with the stronger hand was the one willing to walk away. That was true enough in a market, but here? Jerran didn’t need to sell.
“It’s going to cost me a hundred to fix the place up.”
Jerran shrugged “Not my problem,” he said.
Arbak looked out of the window. He could pay the six hundred, of course, or Wolf Narak could, but he really didn’t think it was a fair price. If it was his money he wouldn’t pay it, even if he had a thousand to spend. Never the less, it was exactly what he was looking for.
“I’ll give you four hundred and fifty,” he said.
Jerran shook his head. “Six hundred.”
Arbak looked at the merchant. He sat comfortably in his chair, smiling as though this was no more than a parlour game, and perhaps it was, to him. He stood.
“I’m sorry to have wasted your time, councilman,” he said. He walked to the door, opened it to find a footman waiting discretely outside. He asked for his coat.
“Won’t you stay and have a tea?” Jerran asked.
“I’d like to, but I have business that I must be about,” he shrugged. The footman arrived with his coat and he slipped it on.
“Five hundred.”
Well, that was cutting it fine. So Jerran wanted to sell after all. He stepped back into the room and closed the door, still wearing his coat. He had one last card to play.
“If I buy this place I have a lot of work to do. I’m going to need lumber, cloth, lamps, glasses, rugs, and a new stock of wine. There are a thousand things. If you sell it to me for four fifty I’ll buy it all from you, on condition that you give me a discount of one tenth off your regular prices.”
Jerran laughed. “Why would I do that?”
“Your margins are a lot higher than ten percent. You’ll still make money on everything I buy, and it’s a good deal for me, too.”
“I don’t need your good will, Captain Arbak,” Jerran said.
“Of course not, but it’s a good deal.”
“Four seventy and you get your ten percent.”
It was a few coins more than he wanted to pay, more than he thought was fair, but it was close enough, and he was dealing with merchant aristocracy, if there was such a thing. He didn’t want to annoy Jerran, and this was probably the best deal he was going to get.
“Done,” he said and held out his hand. Jerran took it, smiling, and they sealed the bargain.
“I will have it written up,” Jerran said. “It will be round at your inn this evening, and as soon as you sign it the Wolf Triumphant will be yours. Now, Cain, would you like a glass of wine? I have some very fine Telan stock just arrived.”
“It would be very welcome,” Arbak replied.
Jerran seemed in no hurry, and Arbak spent another half hour discussing matters with the merchant, in particular the rumours that the evil of war was upon them again, and this time not with Berash. A general mobilisation had been called for, and the city was filling up with regiments from other
parts of Avilian. Camps had begun to spring up on the common land north of the city, and the taverns were doing a good trade.
“It won’t last, though,” Jerran said. “In a few weeks they will be marching off. East I hear. They say that Seth Yarra has returned.”
“So I have heard. I fear it will be a bloody war. They will have learned some lessons from defeat.”
“Surely they cannot win?”
“Patriotism is a fine thing, Kelso, but in war there are patriots on both sides. I was not here four hundred years ago, but it was not an easy victory. The tales of that time are quite clear. It was difficult. Thousands died.”
