The Broken Blade (17 page)

Hughan. In that twilit hour his thought turned to the King. It was for one man and his sake alone that he bore all. Every scar, every hurt, every tear, every fear, every fire. Flame, tempest, tooth, claw, blade, bile.

All of them for Hughan.

Why do you bear it, Eben's son?
The words shivered through him. For a terrible moment he was afraid that the Master stood by him.
Why should you cede everything to him? He is but a man.

“It is his right,” Eamon answered wearily.

His right!
The voice mocked him.
His blood is feeble, weak, dying. It has no right.

“He is the King.” With the words came a depth of feeling which in his guilt and pain and exhaustion he had nigh forgotten.

This land has a throne and one to sit on it,
came the dark answer.

Eamon looked past the walls of the city towards the plains and the mountains. Suddenly he sensed forest and fen, river and sea, and knew that every part of it belonged to the King's house. He did not understand that authority, nor how the house had come to be entrusted with it, but guardianship over the River Realm had been given to the house of Brenuin. “This land belongs to Hughan,” he whispered. “The house of Brenuin has held.”

And the house of Goodman?
sneered the voice.
The blood and heart of Eben's son? Has that held?

He pressed his eyes shut.

Hold to me, First Knight.

Eamon breathed deep. His worth was not in the caresses and words of the throned; it was in his service to Hughan. That was what had brought him to Dunthruik, what had driven him to do every good he could in the East, and to take Cathair's life. Hughan was a true and noble man, fierce in justice and in love, and he was the King. That was why Eamon served him.

Never have you rendered your precious Serpent better service than you have this day!
The voice crooned.

Eamon reeled. The Nightholt, the Nightholt… He could not drive it from his mind.

Do not be afraid, Eamon. You served the King today.

Eamon looked across the palace stones. The city gazed back at him, serene in the moonlight. As he looked, his heart stilled.

The King had sent him to Dunthruik; however much or little that there was left for him to do…

There is nothing left, Son of Eben.

“The King sent me,” Eamon whispered, “and until he tells me
that my work is done, or until I have no breath left to render it, truly I will stay.”

The voice of Edelred was silent.

Eamon stood and watched as the dawn touched the city's stones with its long rays, driving away the moon and striking all with ruddy gold. But how much longer could he stay true to Hughan when he was circled on every side by the deepest counsels of the King's enemies?

He lifted his eyes to the distant mountains and saw the shapes of craggy passes and purple ravines picked out in the dawn's majestic hue. They marked the way to the east, where the sun was steadily rising.

“Come swiftly, Hughan,” he whispered. “Come
soon
.”

The sunlight touched his face and Eamon breathed deeply. As surely as the day followed the night, as surely as the sun moved from east to west, the King would come.

Until then, he had to do what Hughan had sent him to do.

Eamon rubbed his chilled hands together and moved away from the window.

 

He went to breakfast. Everywhere the servants and the Hands bowed, and his name darted before him down every corridor like a loosed bird.

The doorkeeper admitted him through the leafy gallery to the breakfast hall with exceptional gallantry; the man noted the bandage on Eamon's arm with delight.

The Master rose from his table as Eamon entered and swept forward, his arms wide and his eyes exultant. “Eben's son!” he cried. “The whole city sings of you this morning.”

“Sings it drunkenly?” Eamon answered wryly.

A look of delight crossed the Master's face.

“It is drunk with your success. This deed shall outlive you, son of Eben.”

“Then may it outlive me only to prove the glory of him I serve,” Eamon said. Reaching out forthrightly he took the Master's hand and bent down to one knee to kiss it.

The throned's face flushed with pleasure and pride.

“Your success has made you bold, Raven's Bane. Your boldness pleases me.”

“Your pleasure has made me bold,” Eamon replied, rising. “What service may I render you this day?”

Smiling, the throned drew Eamon across to the table where servants seated him; the Master's house would not meet his gaze that morning.

“You will name a Quarter Hand,” the Master told him. His grey eyes sparked with fire.

Eamon watched him for a moment. “Forgive me, Master,” he said, “but my wit does not match yours. What mean you?”

“The Raven has taken flight,” the Master answered. “Another must be limed.” He met Eamon's gaze. “You shall choose the Hand to go in Cathair's stead.”

Eamon stared. The throned delighted in it.

“Master, I am not fit to name a man to serve you.”

“Are not fit, Eben's son?”

Eamon pursed his lips together. “Master, I did not mean –”

“You demean yourself to speak so humbly,” the throned told him. “And that demeans me.”

Eamon was silent for a moment; he felt the weight of the Master's gaze. A name sprang to Eamon's mind, and it surprised him: Lord Febian. Febian had fought with him at Pinewood and had been witness to when he left Hughan's camp with Rendolet's head. Eamon had a hold over him – Febian had been sent to monitor him but had failed in allowing Eamon to see him – and nominating him might just bring him some kind of ally, albeit a forced one. The more he thought on it, the more the idea appealed to him. Any leverage he could gain might well help in the coming days. “I would nominate Lord Febian,” he said at last.

“Lord Febian?” the Master repeated curiously. “Explain your choice to me.” Eamon detected an odd tone to the voice.

“Febian is of the West, and knows Cathair's quarter well. He has
often worked at the port, and at Ravensill, and knows both places and their business. At Pinewood and in returning from that field, he proved himself valiant and ferocious in serving your glory and performing your will. You rewarded such qualities in me, Master, and I myself would render out gifts such as those you have bestowed on me.”

The Master smiled – and Eamon knew he had convinced him. Edelred gripped a jewelled chalice and raised it wryly to his lips.

“Lord Febian for the West,” he said.

 

The dawn gave way to a striking morning, with air so crisp that the crest of a single wave in the harbour could be distinguished from its fellows, and the nearer valleys of the mountains were as clear as a man's hand before his face.

Eamon rode to the Ashen, keenly feeling his authority. For once, the burden did not feel toilsome or heavy.

The square was lined with sombre faces, all of which recognized him and bowed to him as he rode. Most of them were Gauntlet from the East Quarter; others were newcomers to the city who had simply been stationed there. The insignia of half a dozen other divisions and regions marked the men. As he passed, he reflected on how many men there now were in Dunthruik – men he had only considered as numbers in a Hand's report.

At the far end of the square stood another group: the Hands and captain of the East Quarter, arrayed formally by the college steps. Arlaith stood first among these men and greeted Eamon as he dismounted.

“Lord Goodman,” Arlaith said with a bow. He extended his hand. “It is good to see you.”

“Thank you.” Eamon took the proffered hand and clasped it.

Arlaith led the group of men into the college and across to the courtyard, where the ceremony was to take place. Arlaith, Eamon, and the other Hands went to one side of the college's speaking platform while Anderas went to its head.

Eamon halted and turned to look back across the courtyard. The East Quarter ensigns, cadets, and officers had drawn up in neat ranks down one side. Down the other gathered a group of men and women without uniform, dressed in formal attire. The mothers, fathers, and relatives of the dead and disgraced men seemed grossly outnumbered by the red uniforms. Eamon's thought turned to all those others who had been forced to quit the city and he wondered if they would ever return to it.

A moment later a lone trumpet sounded. The courtyard, which had been hushed already, now fell silent as a slow procession of Gauntlet soldiers appeared in the doorway. The two leading men carried a banner between them, showing an eagle whose breast was marked with a sprig of ash. Behind the banner-bearers walked three more men, one for each of the men who had been slain defending the grain; each man bore a sword upright in his hands. Behind them came the other ensigns and cadets who had been discredited, their faces solemn. Eamon was glad to see Wilhelm Bellis walking among them.

The procession came to the foot of the captain's platform and there it paused. The banner-bearers went up the steps to stand before Anderas. There they set the banner onto the platform's broad table. The two bearers then stepped to either side of it, drawing with them the wings of the banner's eagle. These they spread wide.

The first sword-bearer came forward. He climbed the steps and walked to the eagle. Then he turned the sword and spread it flat across his hands and faced the crowd.

“Draybant Joel Greenwood.” Anderas's clear voice pronounced the name into the silent yard. As his words hung in the air, the ensign turned and laid the sword down upon the banner's breast. Then he quietly left the platform, returning to the ranks of standing men. Two more swords were laid on the banner in the same way.

When all the ensigns had rejoined the ranks, Arlaith stepped forward to stand behind the eagle.

“These men served the Master and brought him glory,” he said. “Let us bring him glory also.”

“To his glory,” answered the yard. The two banner-bearers slowly folded the eagle's wings in over the swords. They stood back and the remaining men from the procession – those who had survived – climbed the platform; each touched his hand once to the folded banner before forming a line before Arlaith.

“These men also serve the Master,” Arlaith declared. “Let all taint of the enemy fall from their names. They are loyal to the Master and with joy is their service received, to his glory.”

“To his glory,” the yard echoed once again. The men bowed before Arlaith and he received them formally, clasping his hands about theirs before they went to rejoin their lines. As the last man did so, Eamon's heart eased.

The ceremony did not go on much longer; the folded banner was carried away across the yard and as it left, the trumpet sounded once more. The hanging hush lasted a little longer and then the ranks of Gauntlet filed out; the families of the men affected followed them. Soon the whole yard held little but the sound of marching feet.

It was then that Eamon found Arlaith beside him.

“The matter has been conducted to your satisfaction, Lord Goodman?” the Hand asked quietly. Eamon looked at him.

“My satisfaction is met,” he answered.

Arlaith paused for a moment and watched as more of the guests left. Anderas stopped by a group of people. Eamon wondered whose family they were.

“My lord.” Arlaith's voice called him from his thought. He looked back to the Hand. “I have arranged a meeting. Mr Slater and Captain Anderas are to attend; it would be of great pleasure to me if you were to attend also.”

“What is the purpose of this meeting?”

Arlaith smiled. “I hope to set your house in order, and to keep my promise to you.”

Eamon matched the man's gaze and a sudden smile came onto his face. He had never imagined that he and Arlaith would share a smile.

“My keeping of promises pleases you, Lord Goodman?”

“Yes,” Eamon answered, “immensely. I would have one more brought to this meeting,” he added.

“You need but name him,” Arlaith responded graciously.

“Lord Febian.”

Arlaith paused. “Febian?”

“I desire his presence.”

Arlaith nodded slowly. “Of course; I'll send for him at once.”

“Thank you, Lord Arlaith,” Eamon answered.

 

Arlaith sent a messenger for Febian then took Eamon back to the Handquarter. They made their way to Arlaith's office. Arlaith closed the door with all the gallantry of a nobleman and gestured to the room with a grandiose sweep of his hand.

“My house is your house, Lord Goodman. Would you like to sit?” Arlaith indicated a tall chair. Eamon set it into the corner of the room before sitting.

“I shall observe more than I partake,” he said.

“Very well. A drink, Lord Goodman?” Arlaith stepped across to a small cabinet bearing cups and bottles of dark liqueurs.

“I shall decline, thank you.”

“As you wish.”

Not long later, the door opened. Slater bowed.

“My lords,” he said, “Captain Anderas is here and Lord Febian has arrived.” Eamon caught a glimpse of the Hand; he looked flustered.

“Thank you, Slater,” Arlaith answered. “Bring everyone in and we can begin.”

Slater bowed, then held the door open before Febian and Anderas. The Hand looked pale and out of breath. Anderas glanced briefly across to Eamon; Eamon nodded in return.

Hand, captain, and servant bowed.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” Arlaith began. Slater shifted uneasily. Febian scowled, but the expression faded swiftly when he saw
Eamon sitting in the corner. Eamon realized that the man was terrified of him.

“Mr Slater,” Arlaith continued, “I have new directives for the running of this house.”

“My lord,” Slater acknowledged. A furtive glance to Eamon betrayed his wariness. “What would you?”