The Broken Blade (4 page)

Eamon sat for a while in the saddle, watching the East Quarter's college and Handquarters.

Sahu shifted beneath him and tossed his head to dislodge a fly resting on his nose. The movement called Eamon back to the present. Patting the horse's neck fondly he turned and prepared to go into the West.

He passed once more through the Four Quarters and there, at the heart of the city, he stopped. Dunthruik pulsed all about him, its strength drawn up the Coll towards the walls of the palace. The movement was in every stone, in every gesture, and every gaze.

How could Hughan hope to stand against it?

As he paused there he heard the sound of many approaching feet. A large contingent rolled down Coronet Rise, flanked by men from the North Quarter. To judge, both from their bearing and the wagons and mules that bore them, the group was being evicted from the city to make room for Gauntlet reinforcements, the last of which arrived from the north. As they approached, the officer at the column's head noted Eamon and paled.

The officer brought the entire column to an uneasy halt, bowed, and stood still. Calls and cries from further back in the grinding mass demanded to know why it had stopped.

Eamon gently urged his horse to the column and the sweating officer. Eamon counted the flames at the man's collar.

“Is something the matter, lieutenant?”

“My lord,” the man stammered. “I had no wish to impede your crossing of the Quarters.”

By reflex, Eamon laughed; it did nothing to aid the pallor of the man's face.

“Crossing!” Eamon said good naturedly. “I agree, lieutenant, that my horse is more impatient than I, but I rather think that I was stationary at the time you arrived. You would not have impeded a thing.”

The lieutenant bowed again. “Yes, my lord.” His knees shook.

“At ease,” Eamon told him. “You may take your column on, lieutenant.”

The man rose uncertainly. “Thank you, my lord.” At a gesture he set the column moving again. It trundled back into motion like a weary ox at the ploughshare.

Eamon retreated back into the shadow of the Four Quarters and watched the column go. The pale faces in the line could not meet his gaze, though they knew he was there; murmurs of “
the Right Hand!”
ran through the line.

Manoeuvring the line through the Four Quarters was no easy business. Carriages and people had to hold back at each of the roads leading into it, which caused a great amount of confusion and an indeterminate number of bruised egos. Eamon watched as the Gauntlet herded the passing populace and drove back those waiting their turn to pass. Group after group went by.

Suddenly a face caught Eamon's attention; it belonged to a middle-aged man whose back was bent beneath a tattered wicker basket. His eyes watched Eamon. As soon as his gaze was met, he looked quickly away.

Eamon started. He knew the face. As the realization washed over him the man shuffled further into the belly of the line.

Eamon pressed his horse forward. He struggled to remember the man's name. He had served in Alessia's house. Eamon was sure of it. But what was his name?

“Mr Cartwright,” he called at last.

The hunched, half-hidden man fell still. At Eamon's gesture the man came forward. He bowed low.

“How may I serve you, my lord?”

“You may do just that,” Eamon replied.

The man looked confused. “My lord,” he said, “I was bidden to leave the city –”

“And I bid you to stay in it.” He was the Right Hand – he could do as he pleased; and here was a known face. His encounter with Tramist, Dehelt's words of warning, and the smile with which Arlaith had left him that morning had shaken him. “You served Lady Turnholt well,” he added gently. “Now you will serve me.”

Cartwright bowed. “As you wish, my lord.”

“Go to the palace and ask for Lieutenant Fletcher,” Eamon told him. “Tell him that I sent you and that you are to join my servants.”

“My lord.” The man hefted the basket onto his back and climbed the Coll. The line continued moving, and he was lost from view.

It was only then that Eamon realized he had not asked for service; he had commanded it.

 

He rode to the West Quarter and ascended the familiar steps into the college. He was told that Cathair had left the city early that morning for Ravensill on some business or other. Eamon was not sorry to learn that the West's reports had been left with Captain Waite.

The captain was in his office, crowded with perhaps the largest pile of papers that Eamon had yet seen. The reports that Waite gave him showed that the West's walls had been checked, the Gauntlet was prepared, the militia were ready, and Waite and Cathair had already appointed the thresholders, the units of citizens and militia who would form the last defence of the city in time of need.

“You'll find everything to your satisfaction, my lord,” Waite told him. “Lord Cathair sends his apologies for his absence.”

“I accept them,” Eamon answered. He continued to skim-read the papers, then looked up at the captain with a smile. “I see that the West has not been idle.”

“Today of all days, the West could not be idle,” Waite answered, taking in Eamon's face with joy. Eamon wondered if the captain might have embraced him, had decorum permitted such a thing. It touched him deeply. “How could the West be idle? Its favourite son has not been. Rather, he has today won an accolade that graces us all.”

Eamon swallowed, unsure of what to say. “Thank you for your work, captain,” he managed at last.

Waite smiled broadly. “It is a pleasure to serve you, Lord Goodman.”

 

Returning to the palace, Eamon sought out Fletcher. The man had been busily at work, and had made good progress on an initial report of the city's status. Eamon handed him the West's work and examined the draft of the report.

“This is good work, Mr Fletcher.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“How long will it take to complete?”

“The rest of the day,” Fletcher answered. “I will have copies drawn up for the Quarter Hands.”

“Do,” Eamon nodded. He knew that such copies would be made by the throned's own efficient scribes, word for word. “I will take some details from this draft to the Master this afternoon.”

“Of course.” Fletcher finished making a note on a piece of parchment and then looked up at him. “My lord, a man by the name of Iulus Cartwright reported to me not an hour ago.”

Eamon looked at him blankly for a moment. “Iulus Cartwright?”

“He says that you sent him, my lord,” Fletcher added.

“Yes,” Eamon answered. Was he so dull that he could already have forgotten? “I did. I would have him serve me personally.”

Fletcher's face coloured with disapproval. “With all due respect, my lord, you have a full complement of servants –”

“And I want this man, Mr Fletcher.”

“Of course, my lord,” he answered. “As you wish it. Perhaps, in future, you may wish to discuss such matters with me, prior to appointment? I must have the palace's permission to take on new servants.”

Eamon raised an eyebrow. “My command is not permission enough?”

“It is, lord,” Fletcher replied, and Eamon sensed reticence in his voice.

“Then do not dictate to me,” Eamon retorted. As Right Hand he could do as he wished, but it was his lieutenant who had to sort the details. Perhaps the thought should have humbled him. “You will do as I ask, when I ask it.”

“Yes, my lord, on those occasions when I do not foresee your desire,” Fletcher replied. “I will ensure that your new servant sees to you from the morning. He must first be suitably inducted.” He paused for a moment, gathering papers. “I will take these to the scribes,” he said. “These you may take with you to the Master, if you wish it.”

“Thank you, Mr Fletcher,” Eamon answered and dismissed him.

 

He went on to study the papers Fletcher had left him at some length. Dunthruik had been preparing for war for many months; the papers confirmed it. More than this, as he read Eamon saw that the city was fully garrisoned, in places distinctly over-garrisoned. The walls, bar a small section along the South, had been or were being reinforced, and the city's many forges rang to hammer and anvil as thousands of weapons were produced and armour was strengthened and made. All the iron that the River Realm could afford had been impounded for it. The knights were ready and provided with full retinues of squires and followers to assist them. Wall and gate defences were strong and the gate towers were ready to repel anyone with a mind to breaching them.

The reports reaffirmed the terrible truth: the city was more than ready for its foe. What could Hughan possibly drum out of the valleys and mountains that could take arms against the Master's stronghold?

Both doubt and despair lurked in Eamon's thought when, in the late afternoon, he turned his steps towards the throne room. Though he could have gone down directly from the great balcony he did not dare – he preferred to follow the long corridors through the East Wing. Thought of the Master's touch and voice and gaze returned to him, making his stride unsteady as he followed the bannered hall to the throne room.

The doorkeeper bowed immediately.

“Lord Goodman.”

The doors opened. Without a word, Eamon entered the throne room.

The Master was there. With a long smile upon his face he waited while Eamon crossed the length of the hall and then knelt in the stony lake of fire at his feet.

“Your glory, Master.”

“Rise, Eben's son. You have seen your quarters.”

“Yes, Master.”

The Master rose and approached him.

“Do they please you?”

Eamon did not dare meet his gaze. “How could they not, Master? I received them from your own hand.”

Edelred's fond touch alighted on him, pressing his face upwards. He could not refuse it; obediently, he subjected himself to the gesture that filled him with such yearning, disgust, and fear.

“You please me, son of Eben. Tell me of your doings this day.”

“I have done as you asked me, Master.”

He went on to speak at length on the state of the city, giving the relevant details from the reports that he and Fletcher had compiled. As he spoke the throned absorbed his every word, and every word increased his smile.

“The only difficulty the city has is in feeding these men and beasts,” Eamon concluded. “But the North is finalizing the details of increased trade with Etraia to see to that need; a dozen extra loads of grain are due to dock in the next week, to be exchanged for arms.”

Silence fell between them.

“Son of Eben, you have worked well today.”

Eamon bowed his head. “To your glory, Master.”

Edelred laughed. “Tell me, my Right Hand, how does my Left?”

Eamon blinked and looked up. “Forgive me, Master,” he said, “your ‘left'?”

The throned laughed again – a chilling, deafening sound – and he lifted both his hands before Eamon's face.

“You are my Right Hand,” he said, holding out his right. With it he smothered his left. “Lord Arlaith is my Left.”

Eamon started. “Lord Arlaith has been made Lord of the East Quarter, Master,” he said. “It is as you willed.”

“Does it grieve you, Eben's son?” The Master's voice plied him, seeking the intimacy of his deepest thought. “Seeing your pearls bestowed on swine?”

The freshness of Eamon's wound returned to him; the East was at Arlaith's mercy. How he feared for it! He checked himself in time. He could not allow the Master to draw that from him.

“Lord Arlaith is your chosen Hand over the quarter, Master,” he said at last. “What matters is not who holds it, but that it glorifies you.”

Edelred smiled. “Come, son of Eben. Follow me.”

Eamon followed him.

The throned drew him past the throne and out through a doorway at the rear of the dais. Eamon had never before stepped through the thick drapes that bedecked the darkest recesses of the throne room; they felt thick and stifling about him as he followed.

The door led to a corridor lined in red, and eagles dashed down its walls. Eamon caught sight of a garden through the windows and, above it, dark-hewn arches and balconies. One bore the black eagle on a red banner, and he realized with a start that he looked at his balcony. The Master led him through the corridors of the West Wing and eventually to the royal suites themselves. Eamon felt the colour draining from him.

But they did not go to those rooms; the throned soon halted before a wide set of doors that were cast open for him by two men dressed in gold, red, and black. Eamon recognized them as members of the Master's own private guard.

Behind the door was a long reception hall, lavishly decked in the Master's colours. A small number of men waited inside it. The leading of these four or five wore a red apron over his clothes. Eamon understood the man to be another of Edelred's own servants, but what he did was something that he could only guess at.

As the Master entered, the men bowed down low. Papers and cloth lay neatly on a table behind them, accompanied by wide-
eyed needles and crimson thread. There was also a cushioned stool, bearing the Master's eagle.

“Your glory, Master,” spoke the man in the apron. His eyes burnt with ardour as he looked upon the throned. “Whom are we to fit?”

“Here is the man,” the Master answered with a smile, and for a moment Eamon felt a pang of indescribable jealousy. The Master smiled at him alone!

With the thought he shuddered. He pressed his eyes shut, sending his thought back to Mathaiah, and to the Pit. He had to hold to the King.

The man with the apron bowed deeply. “We serve at your pleasure,” he said. At his gesture the others brought forward the stool and positioned it in the centre of the rug on the floor, in the midst of a flood of light from the windows.