The Seventh Friend (Book 1) Read Online Free Page B

door, a square of lamplight spilling out into the street. He heard voices, but not words. The dog stopped when the door closed and looked back, staying still for a while, gauging the danger, the apprehension of which diminished steadily as the darkness continued to hold sway. It walked carefully back towards the door. There was a new smell of food here.
     
    The dog bent its head and sniffed at what had been thrown out. There was gravy, a smear, and a few scraps of pastry. Its tongue flicked out and they were gone, barely tasted. The dog looked up again, left, right. It trotted a drunken path down the street, following any hint that food might lie among the rubbish.
     
    Narak stayed with the dog for a while. It was mildly interesting to see how it differed from a wolf. It behaved with the caution of a prey animal, eating on the run, watching for danger even as it bent its head to feed.
     
    It came to the end of the street and paused. There was another dark alley, but to get to it the dog would have to cross a larger road. As it looked about Narak was able to see quite a few people. Several men were unloading a cart outside a tavern, man-handling barrels down through a trap into the basement. He could hear their voices clearly, speaking Avilian. One of them was talking about his wedding, asking the older men questions.
     
    “Once you’re married don’t spare your fists,” one of them was saying. “Make sure she knows what to expect if she gets out of line.”
     
    “You’re a bastard, Tegal,” one of the others said. “You hit your wife and all you get is a surly servant, and if she has brothers, well, you might get your own remedy back.”
     
    “What would you know?” the one called Tegal demanded. He stood up and eased his broad shoulders. He had a brutal, scarred face. A man used to fighting, Narak judged, a thug who spoke with his fists.
     
    “I’ve had more joy out of my marriage than you ever had of yours,” the other retorted.
     
    “Joy.” Tegal spat. “What are you, a fucking poet?”
     
    This was the moment that the dog chose to bolt across the road. It paused and looked again just before the cloak of shadows, listening to the sound of the voices. A shout brought the animal’s head round a half circle. It crouched lower, tense with alarm. There were men there, too, running up the street, one fitting an arrow to a bow. The animal could not recognise the actions, but the running and the noise was a threat, so it turned and ran into the alley, stopping after twenty yards or so to see if the threat was gone.
     
    The men, there were four of them, stopped at the junction and one of them struggled to light a lamp. The man with the bow raised it and an arrow clattered off the cobbles a few feet from where the dog stood and shot off down the dark alley. The dog turned and ran again.
     
    That was enough for Narak. What the note had said was true. They, whoever they might be, were killing dogs in Bas Erinor. He did not think that he would learn more by witnessing the dog’s death or escape. Being inside a dying animal was not something that he wanted to repeat too often. It was unpleasant. He left the dog.
     
    He inhabited the Sirash again. What now? It still meant very little, but if it meant anything at all it was that someone had sought to warn him, to tell him. He could see no way past that. The warning leant gravity to the fact.
     
    The four men had not been very effective. They had not been in uniform. In fact he could not see a point to the other two. The archer, yes, and the man with the lamp perhaps, but the others were just hangers-on. You’d be hard pressed to catch a dog with a knife, or to run it down on foot. These were not members of the city guard, then. Nor were they soldiers of the Duke’s. Not unless things had fallen away very badly.
     
    He could warn the others. But warn them of what? Did he dare cry Seth Yarra on the basis of a few ragged men hunting dogs at night in Bas