Free The Seventh Friend (Book 1) by Tim Stead Page B

and ordered beer for all his men.
     
    “You’re not troubled at the explanation?” Narak asked.
     
    “Friend, if you’re the one that put him down the only reason I’d want to know your name is to make sure every watchman in the city got a chance to buy you a drink. That bastard knocked one of my men about so bad he’s going to be a week in monk’s house, and then a month off duty. He almost died. If someone told me the moon fell on Tegal’s head it’s all the same to me. We got him, and there’s a reward coming.”
     
    The watch leader’s second approached, smiling broadly.
     
    “He’s pretty banged up, sir,” he said.
     
    “Details?”
     
    “As far as I can tell, concussion, broken nose, dislocated shoulder, several cracked ribs and a broken foot. When he comes to his senses he’ll barely be able to walk.”
     
    “Citizen here says he fell over,” the watch leader gestured to Deadbox, and the second grinned more widely.
     
    “Reward?” It was Cherat who asked.
     
    “A good one. Five gold guineas. Are you claiming it?”
     
    Cherat looked at Narak, then away again. “No,” he said.
     
    “It should go to this man,” Narak said, indicating Deadbox. “He sent for you.”
     
    Deadbox looked at him with a mixture of surprise and gratitude in his eyes. Five gold guineas was a lot of money. He had no idea what the old man did, but he had an apprentice, so he must be a craftsman of some kind. Even so, it was a lot. Twenty pennies to a florin and twenty florins to a guinea – it was enough to feed a poor family for a year.
     
    The watch leader didn’t miss anything. He looked at Narak more closely, his eyes picking out the swords, taking in the wiry, lean frame.
     
    “I’d wager you were standing close to him when he fell,” he said, but he was still smiling.
     
    “I was sitting,” Narak responded, and the watch leader laughed again.
     
    “Now to business,” he said. “Your name, citizen?” He was looking at Deadbox.
     
    “Alos,” Deadbox said. “Alos Stebbar, Carpenter, Kale Street.”
     
    “I will see that you receive the reward.” He wrote a note on a scrap of paper. That done, he joined his men. By this time they had fetched a sort of stretcher from their watch house and they loaded Tegal onto it, being none too gentle about it. The man’s hands and feet had been bound. Even in his somewhat diminished condition they clearly considered him a threat.
     
    Narak spent another hour in the tavern, mostly drinking to the good fortune of Alos Stebbar, otherwise Deadbox. It turned out that not only was the old man a carpenter, but most of his trade was coffins, and hence the familiar name. Narak enjoyed their company, and after a couple of drinks the journeymen became quite relaxed in his presence. He left them celebrating again after Alos had decided to give them the rest of the day off.
     
    He had reached the door when he felt a gentle touch on his shoulder. It was Alos. The old man looked up at him with a peculiar expression on his face, his eyes shining.
     
    “What is it?” Narak asked.
     
    “I am an old man,” he said. “I have seen many days, but this is the best day of my life. I am honoured beyond my ability to express it, Deus.”
     
     
    Narak smiled. “How did you know?” he asked.
     
    “There is an image in your temple, but such images can be many men, and yet it is a good likeness, and then there are the swords, but I did not dare to believe until you raised Tegal above your head as though he were a child. I know the old stories, all of them, and they are true to your spirit.”
     
    Narak reached out and touched the old man’s head, gently.
     
    “You are in my favour, Alos, but forgive me if I say that I hope to never need your particular services.”
     
    *               *              *              *
     
    His mood was better as he walked up the Divine Stair. This was still the same city. It would probably