The Seventh Friend (Book 1) by Tim Stead

satisfaction of it. Narak avoided revealing his slender cause for concern. He feared that the duke would dismiss his worries, and that nothing would be done. It suited his purpose that Avilian, and especially the house of Bas Erinor, should be alert.
     
    The sons arrived together. Either they had been found together, which was possible, but unlikely, or one had waited for the other before entering. Narak preferred the latter explanation because it suggested a bond between the young men. Less certainly it suggested that the older brother shared the guard captain’s opinion of his younger brother.
     
    Aidon was two years older than Quinnial, but still only twenty. He was tall, broad, handsome, and dressed for combat. He had not even bothered to take off his leather breastplate before answering his father’s summons. His face was still flushed from exercise, and his fair hair was swept back and damp.
     
    Quinnial was dressed in blue, chased with silver threads. He had not been training. He had the same handsome look, but there was something in his eyes that was lacking in his older brother’s open countenance. He was cautious, guarded, and perhaps nervous. Narak detected the volley of glances that he threw at his father, but they showed only doubt and anxiety.
     
    “Aidon, Quin, you are honoured to be in the presence of Wolf Narak, lord of the forest, Victor of Afael, and an ally of this kingdom.”
     
    It was an interesting choice of titles, technically quite polite, but emphasising his ties to Avilian and the Great War. More interesting still was the response from the duke’s sons. Aidon bowed from the waist. Again this was technically correct, polite to the point of perfection, but it was Quinnial that caught his eye. The younger man bent his knee, touched it to the ground and stood again. This was a greater mark of respect, and it marked Quinnial as a worshipper, one who made offerings at the dark granite temple dedicated to the wolf god.
     
    He noted Quinnial’s arm, his right arm, strapped against the body.
     
    “I am pleased to meet you both, my lords,” Narak said. “Now please be at ease. I have some questions for you all, but it is as important that you know the questions as the answers, so attend carefully.”
     
    The young men sat, Quinnial on the right so that his damaged arm was hidden by his body. Narak had their complete attention.
     
    “Why are you killing dogs?” he asked.
     
    A quizzical look from Aidon – he did not know that this was happening. Quinnial looked grim, and the duke himself slightly puzzled.
     
    “It is an illness, Deus,” the duke said. “Dogs carry it, so we kill the dogs.”
     
    “Tell me more.”
     
    “What is there to tell?” The duke seemed not to understand. It was Quinnial who took up his meaning.
     
    “The illness is not fatal, but puts a man down for days. The Merchants insisted on action, and it was the high priest of Ashmaren who offered a solution. They say the same illness swept through Telas Alt last year or the year before, I do not remember. Many dogs have been killed and the number of cases had dropped.”
     
    “Ashmaren, you say?”
     
    “Yes, Deus.” Quinnial now seemed almost embarrassed that he had spoken so much.
     
    “Thank you, Lord Quinnial. An appropriate summary,” Narak said. The young man could not meet his eyes and flushed beneath his tan. Narak was now equally puzzled. The illness and the response appeared genuine. No secret game was being played unless it was of a subtlety that stretched credibility. Ashmaren, or at least the priests of Ashmaren had no axe to grind that he knew of, and the story sounded plausible. He made a mental note to check the tale of the illness in Telas Alt. Poor would know if such a thing had occurred.
     
    “Tell me of the border incidents, the Berashi border,” he said.
     
    Here the duke was on surer ground, and leaned confidently forwards.
     
    “It is a mystery to me, Deus,” he said. “We