The Broken Blade (44 page)

He found the captain away to one side of the room. Though pale, he was standing and speaking to an Easter, perhaps one of Feltumadas's staff. A doctor was by him, wrapping a great swathe of bandage tightly about his shoulder and chest. Anderas winced as the material was drawn together. The doctor stepped aside and moved on.

Anderas, as though aware that someone watched him, looked up. His eyes searched the room for a moment and then alighted on Eamon. Anderas fell still and his jaw fell open.

With a great laugh, Eamon left Hughan's side. The hall was long, and he had to pick and weave his way around the men within it. He pressed onward, laughing still.

Anderas only closed his jaw after Eamon reached him.

“First Knight,” he said, and moved to bow.

“Oh no you don't, Andreas!” Eamon cried, joyfully but gently embracing him.

“They said that the Right Hand was dead,” Andreas whispered. His voice quivered.

“I was told the same about the captain of the East,” Eamon replied. He laughed, and stepped back to look at his friend's face. “Do you like getting shot?” he added.

Anderas paused for a moment as though the matter necessitated some thought. “No.”

“You seem to make rather a habit of it nonetheless!”

“And you seemed to make rather a good rider for someone who claims that he can't.”

Eamon beamed. “Were you impressed?”

“I was,” Anderas answered with a knowing smile. “Very.”

They watched each other for a moment. Aware of the men about them, Eamon lowered his voice and drew the captain to a slightly quieter part of the room.

“Why did Arlaith have you shot?”

Anderas's face grew darker. “So they were Arlaith's orders,” he murmured.

“They were.” Eamon could not bring himself to say how he knew.

“I had been encouraging the men to fight bravely but surrender rather than throw away their lives,” Anderas told him, pressing uncomfortably at the arrow wound on his shoulder. Though the bandage was fresh, traces of blood stained the fabric. “Not all the men were happy with my directive. Word must have reached Arlaith.”

“What happened?” Eamon said quietly.

The captain looked up, his face both anxious and determined.

“That night before the battle, Arlaith asked me to take some papers to the South Quarter,” he said. Eamon nodded; he remembered. “I was to meet one of the quarter officers. But it wasn't a Gauntlet officer who waited for me. It was Lord Tramist.”

Eamon's blood curdled.

“He cornered me,” Anderas continued somewhat haltingly. “He knew – about you. I think he was acting under Arlaith's orders…”

Arlaith's memory raced across Eamon's mind:
“I am sending him to you with papers tonight. Find out what he knows – and then take care of him…”

“Tramist said that he knew whom you served, and he demanded to know what you meant to do under those colours. He intended to kill you.”

Eamon stared at the captain in horror. “And you!”

Anderas blinked as though the thought had not really crossed his mind. He flexed his hand.

“It was a small room. He pinned me against the wall. He was going to breach me. I couldn't draw my sword. I…” He drew a deep breath. “My hands were all the weapon that I had. I killed him.” He shuddered once and then, shaking, met Eamon's gaze again. “I'm a Gauntlet captain, and I have killed men before. But never like this. Never with such fear, or determination. Because I knew that he could not leave that room, or you would die.”

Eamon looked at him with grief. While he delivered Edelred's terms to the King, Anderas had faced Tramist – alone and unaided – in the cramped dark of the South Quarter College. He shuddered.

“I had to hide the body,” Anderas told him. “Fortunately, the South Quarter has a warren of rooms that I could use, and most men were occupied – or had gone to the walls to watch for your return from the parley. I was not discovered, but perhaps Lord Arlaith suspected what I had done.” He paused for a moment. “I told the King's men where to find Lord Tramist's body as soon as I could. It was taken to the pyres, along with those of other Hands.”

Eamon met the captain's gaze again. “I'm so sorry.”

Anderas shook his head. “I do not regret killing Tramist, though it is true that I was, and am, afraid of what I did. But I have never felt more certain that the taking of a life was necessary than I did in that moment.”

“You have done much, Andreas,” Eamon breathed. Overcome with grief by what the captain had borne, and relief that he still lived, Eamon simply gazed at him. “Thank you.”

“Lord Good…” Anderas stopped uncertainly. “I don't suppose they call you that much any more,” he said with a quiet laugh. “What should I call you now?”

Eamon laughed. “You should call me as a friend would, Andreas – by my
name
.”

“Eamon,” Anderas said. As he spoke the name a smile broke on the captain's troubled face. “We said we would hold fast.”

“And we did.”

They clasped hands in a moment of silence.

“So, when they said that the Right Hand was dead…?”

“They were right:
Arlaith
is dead.”

Anderas carefully surveyed his face. “Something tells me that there's a little more to it than that.”

“There is,” Eamon replied heavily. “And I will tell it to you, in every detail.” He looked up at the injured and recovering men and the doctors that moved between them. “But not here,” he added. “It is a tale that will take some telling. When the time for it comes, we will sit somewhere warm together and talk until long after the last star disappears.”

“Yes…” The smile on Anderas's face became a look of awe.

Hughan approached them, and then Eamon understood the captain's expression. As Hughan walked across the hall, the glint of the silver coronet caught in his hair like starlight. The air of a King followed him.

As Hughan came to Eamon's side, he smiled at them both. “Captain Anderas?”

Anderas seemed unable to answer. With a look of utter amazement he sank down to one knee before the King. “Sire,” he breathed.

Hughan smiled at him and gently touched his shoulder. “Rise, captain,” he said, and Anderas rose. “I hear that you have charge of the negotiations for the Gauntlet surrender.”

“Yes, sire,” Anderas answered.

“I know that the surrender of so many is due, in no small part, to your great courage,” Hughan told him. “It is a brave man who, for love of another, will go against the wisdom of the colours he wears. You have done me – and this city – great service. I thank you for it.”

“Thank you, sire.” For a long moment Anderas stood speechlessly before him. Then he found courage to speak again. “May I make a bold request?”

“You seem like a bold man,” Hughan answered. “Could I gainsay you, if your request was good and you had set your heart on it?”

“You could not,” Eamon told him.

Anderas looked up at them both. “It is my place, sire, to stay with the Gauntlet, and with the men from the East, until such a time as the Gauntlet is disbanded. It is not only my place; it is my duty and my choice. But if after that there is a chance,” he whispered, “I would like to wear your colours openly, and serve you still.”

Hughan pressed his shoulder once again. “At that time, captain, your service would honour me greatly. I would welcome you to it with open arms.”

Anderas's eyes filled with tears. “Thank you, sire,” he said.

As Hughan withdrew his hand, the captain winced and moved his injured shoulder.

“It hurts you?” Eamon asked.

“An arrow strike doesn't just disappear,” Anderas answered.

“But it could,” Eamon returned.

Anderas looked at him strangely. “You would heal me? Like you did at Pinewood?”

“Yes,” Eamon answered, “but not I: the King's grace.” He reached out with one hand but Anderas stopped him.

“Eamon,” he said gently. “My arm will heal of its own accord, given time. Despite a raging battle and a plot against my life, I was brought alive from the field. Is that not also a grace?”

Eamon paused. “Yes.”

“Then let us let the King's grace be a grace, and not a tool.”

Slowly Eamon withdrew his hand, looked up, and smiled. “As is so very often the case, Andreas,” he said, “I think you're right.”

Anderas smiled wryly. “The question is: will you ever learn it?”

“Perhaps I never will,” Eamon confessed with a grin.

With a laugh Anderas looked to Hughan again. “Sire,” he said, “it is a rare man that serves as your First Knight.”

“I know it well,” Hughan replied.

Eamon turned to Hughan. “There is someone else you have to see,” he said.

Hughan looked enquiringly at him. Eamon scanned the hall for a moment and then, unable to see the man he looked for, turned back to Anderas. “Is there a Lieutenant Manners here?”

Anderas looked blankly at him. “West Quarter?” he guessed.

“He was already in the infirmary before the battle,” Eamon answered.

“Then you'd best ask the doctors.”

Eamon turned and called to the nearest doctor. The man moved across to them and bowed deeply to Hughan as Eamon spoke. “I'm looking for a Gauntlet lieutenant,” Eamon began. “He was here before.”

The doctor, an Easter, paused thoughtfully for a moment. “Do you mean the ‘sleeping one'?” he asked.

“‘Sleeping one'?”

“He was in the infirmary already when we arrived. He has not once awakened in the time since – and it has not been for want of trying to wake him on our part.”

Eamon nodded. “That's probably him.”

“He is being kept separately from the wounded, in the third side room just off the corridor.”

Eamon thanked him and turned to Hughan. The King watched him with a curious smile. “Will you come?” Eamon asked.

“I will.”

Eamon looked back to Anderas. “You won't get shot again while I'm not looking, will you?”

Anderas rolled his eyes. “This is an infirmary, Eamon.”

“Ah, but if anyone can get shot in an infirmary then I suspect that it is you.”

A warm smile crept onto his friend's face. “Then I shall endeavour to be careful.”

Eamon embraced Anderas once more. Parting from him, he went with Hughan into the corridor that led out of the hall.

 

They followed the corridor to the small room that the Easter doctor had spoken of. The room was unattended. Inside it was a small bed.

Manners lay on it, his still face peaceful in the light from the window. His chest steadily rose and fell to the pattern of his breathing and no noise or light seemed able to stir him. His wounds had been bound but his lieutenant's jacket, which was laid over him like a small blanket, was still marked with blood.

Hughan followed Eamon into the room and looked at Manners.

“This is Rory Manners. He was badly hurt when the port was attacked,” Eamon explained, “and I could not heal him then. He also serves you.”

“You won the hearts of many men for me,” Hughan said, a proud smile on his face.

Eamon lowered his gaze, a little embarrassed. “Will you wake him?”

“Would you not do it?” Hughan asked him.

Eamon looked once at Manners' face, then slowly shook his head. “I am but the First Knight. He waits for you.”

Hughan held his gaze a moment more, and Eamon nodded to him. Then the King stepped forward to the bed and knelt down by the low frame. He reached out and lightly touched Manners' brow. Light stirred between the King's fingers, and it threaded itself about the young man's face.

After what was both forever and no time at all, Hughan spoke.

“Rory.”

The lieutenant's eyes came slowly open. They rested on the King.
For a moment the young man simply watched him, a look of deep peace on his face.

Manners smiled a great smile. “You came.”

“Yes,” Hughan answered, “and so did my First Knight.” As he spoke he turned a little so that the lieutenant could see Eamon. Manners beamed.

“Hello, sir,” he said. His voice croaked from lack of use.

Eamon gazed at him speechlessly. “Hello, Rory,” he answered at last. “It's good to see you.”

“And you, sir,” Manners replied. He looked back to Hughan. “You won?”

Hughan laughed gently. “Yes,” he said. “But there is still much to do.”

Manners nodded. “Yes, sire.”

A moment later one of the doctors entered the room. The doctor took one look at Manners, awake and with the King kneeling next to him, and nearly fainted.

“Sire,” the doctor said, bowing.

“Please make sure that good care is taken of this man,” Hughan told him. “I suspect that something to eat and drink may be in order.”

“Yes, sire,” the doctor answered. He vanished from the room with a bow.

Hughan rose from the lieutenant's side. Eamon pressed Manners' hand.

“You're all right, sir?” Manners asked.

Eamon breathed deeply. “For the most part,” he answered. “Yes.”

Manners smiled.

A moment later the doctor returned with a bowl of soup. Eamon nodded encouragement to Manners before he and Hughan left the room, leaving the lieutenant in the doctor's care.

 

Hughan and Eamon passed together into the college corridors. The sun was strong on Eamon's face as they returned to the hall.

“Thank you for going to him,” he said quietly. “He is a good man, and will serve you heartily.”

Hughan smiled at him. “Mathaiah always sent good words about Rory Manners,” he said.

Eamon looked at him in surprise. “He did?”

“Always,” Hughan repeated with a kind laugh. “I am glad to have met him at last.”