The Broken Blade (5 page)

The aproned man looked up and caught Eamon in his gaze. “Lord Goodman.”

Eamon started as though from a daze. “Yes,” he answered uncertainly.

The man gestured to the stool. “If you would step up, my lord.”

Bewildered, Eamon did as he was bidden. The light blinded him as he found his balance on the stool; even atop this perch he did not match Edelred's great height. The Master watched as a herd of men flooded forward with paper and quills. The men surrounded Eamon and, drawing out long measures, took the length of his limbs.

“What would you, Master?” asked the aproned man. He conferred quietly with the throned; every so often, the Master's eyes flicked towards Eamon as the tailors' hands covered Eamon with measures.

“Such garments as have never been seen on a Right Hand,” Edelred replied. “Fit for a majesty, fit to enthral both Dunthruik and myself. Fit for an heir.”

Eamon gasped; a tape was drawn constrictively about his breast, measuring his midriff. The Master smiled at him.

Moments later the flurry of tape-wielding hands about Eamon retreated to their papers. The master tailor lifted Eamon's arms up
and out to the sides, then paced about him, looking at him from various angles.

“To his advantage, Master, his form has no blemishes needing to be covered or compensated,” the tailor said. “However, he also has no especially notable features that I may enhance. A very average kind of man.” The tailor mused for a moment. “Nevertheless, he will not appear such, when I have done.”

The throned nodded appreciatively. The tailor made another onslaught, this time with a dozen subtly varying sable fabrics in his hands.

“Black, Master?”

“Of course,” Edelred replied. “And red.”

The tailor nodded and held a few of the fabrics up against Eamon's face; they felt smooth against his cheek, like the Master's hand…

Eamon forced his mind to the King. And yet while the Master stood before him, watching him and webbing him with smiles, Eamon found that he could not keep the King's face in his mind's eye.

Maybe half an hour later the tailor gave a final nod and stepped back. “You may step down, Lord Goodman.”

Doll-like, Eamon did so.

The tailor bowed towards the Master. “I will need some three days, Master, if you permit me leave to work on nothing else.”

“You will work on nothing else until I am satisfied with this.”

“Your glory, Master.”

The tailors bowed in unison, and left.

Eamon stood still on the rug, blinking the light from his eyes. A voice, and a touch upon his cheek, called him from his confused thoughts.

“You have glorified me this day, son of Eben.”

The touch of the hand was like that of the sumptuous fabrics with which the tailors had palled him. A small, but steadily growing, part of his heart urged him to surrender himself to both.

How could the indulgence of a single man so allure him from his resolve and King?

As Edelred smiled at him Eamon's tangled tongue suddenly loosed itself.

“I will not glorify you in such clothes as these will make me, Master!”

A chilling silence. Eamon knew in an instant that he had gone too far. He swallowed, not daring to meet Edelred's gaze.

“You refuse my gift?” the Master asked, coolly.

“No, Master,” Eamon whispered. “I will love your every gift as much as I do you yourself. But how can I serve you in such finery?”

“Those upon whom I bestow tokens of my love show my glory by their finery.”

“Then send these measurements after an armourer,” Eamon cried, “and have him make for me such plate as has never been seen in all the long years of Dunthruik's craft. Then will I serve you, Master, proving your glory on my body, by my blade and with my blood.”

“Both those things are already mine, son of Eben,” the throned replied. “As to your body, I shall dress it in whatever way seems best to me.”

Eamon faltered. Slowly, he sank down to one knee.

“Forgive me, Master,” he said. “I spoke in haste. I am ill at ease with fine things; my only thought is for your service.”

Though the Master smiled, there was dark thought behind his eyes. “Rise, son of Eben,” he said, “and go to your rest. You have done much this day. Tomorrow you will take breakfast with me.”

Eamon did not raise his head. “Yes, Master.”

 

As the evening gave way to the night Eamon climbed the stairs towards his eyrie, the heavy tread of his boots his only company. He felt as though he bore a hundred years of toil.

How long had it been since he arrived in Dunthruik? He paused on the stair, trying to count the months. But every day was a blur in his deadened mind and he could no longer see where his road had begun. Still less could he see where it would end.

Was it not a simple task – to hold firm to Hughan? It had seemed so that morning. Yet, in that single day he had wavered more times than he could number.

The Hands at either side of his door bowed as he approached and then opened the great portal before him. As he entered and the doors shut behind him, he thought he heard the sound of footsteps retreating down the servants' stair.

Eamon went to his bedroom; its balcony stood open to the air and the moon gleamed down through the tall aperture. Quietly Eamon stepped out, letting the still air enfold him. Though lights burned in the palace, piercing the growing gloom, Eamon turned his head up to the night sky, towards the dark. The stars, mirrored far away in the crests of the distant sea, glinted back at him.

Leaning against the cold stone, he breathed deeply. When he exhaled, it came out as a shuddering, exhausted breath.

Dunthruik. The city lived in his very veins and he was a lord over its men and women. Its defence was entrusted to him. Could he not still be the King's Hand, even as he had been in the East Quarter? With Edelred so close by him, it seemed a distant hope.

He sighed. The stars filled his sight and he drifted into silent thought.

He did not know how long he stood there, engulfed by the high and distant starlight. After a while he shivered and looked back at the palace. Its lights, drapes, music, and laughter seemed gaudily abhorrent. As his eyes adjusted to the changing light he saw a shadow on the balcony opposite his own.

The Master stood there, broad hands clasped on the stonework; he watched his Right Hand with keen eyes.

Eamon stepped away from the wall. Slowly, he bowed low before withdrawing into his bedchamber. The Master's eyes followed him.

He allowed the drapes to fall over the window and shied back from them, his heart pounding. He was watched. The bed loomed behind him, a pit in which he dared not lie.

He eschewed it. Returning to the entry chamber, where veined candles and burning lamps cast their glow, he took instead to one of the chaise longues. The play of light over the eagle on the mantelpiece made it seem to shiver.

Casting aside boots, sword, and dagger, he lay down stiffly in the long chair, threading his arms along its edge as though he laid himself deep in a tomb. The thick cushions and his cloak moulded around him, swallowing him. He closed his eyes.

As he fell into shifting sleep, he heard a pall-song carried on the breeze.

“Lord Goodman?”

He had not heard the opening of any door, nor the footsteps that approached him. He barely knew the voice through the dimness of his groggy sleep.

“Lord Goodman?” it spoke again. It seemed timid in the grey morning.

“What hour is it?” Eamon croaked at last.

“About the second, my lord,” his servant answered. Eamon remembered; it was Cartwright. “I am sorry to wake you,” the man added hesitantly, “but you are desired at breakfast.”

“Yes.”

Eamon forced his eyes open and Cartwright's face came into focus before him. His muscles felt stiff. He remembered that he was lying in his chair.

“Is there something the matter with your bed, my lord?”

“No.”

Eamon drew a deep breath to force the blood about his limbs, and looked at the servant again. The man carried a broad length of fabric that Eamon recognized to be a towel. He heard splashing nearby.

“Where is the water, Cartwright?” he asked blearily.

“Lieutenant Fletcher told me to see that you were properly refreshed before your breakfast. The maids are drawing a bath for you.”

Eamon's face reddened. He remembered the scars on his back. “I will not be attended by them.”

Cartwright's answer was pristine. “No, my lord. I shall attend you.”

Slowly, Eamon rose. He felt lightheaded and stiff-necked. He wondered if he had moved once during the night, and doubted it.

Cartwright fell back a pace from him as he stood. “Come, my lord,” he said. “I will help you undress.”

Memory of Alessia flew into Eamon's mind. Angry, he pushed aside his longing.

“I have not needed such assistance before,” he snapped.

“It is your due, my lord. Yet, as you will it.”

Cartwright duly dismissed the maids before leading Eamon into the bathing area. The chamber held an ornate bath hewn of black marble. Its feet were like eagle's talons and it was filled with steaming water. Eamon wondered how long it had taken the maids to heat the water, let alone bring it to the vessel. He regretted then that he had dismissed them so quickly and without a word of thanks.

Reluctantly, he permitted Cartwright to assist him in undressing. As the last layers of clothes fell from him, he drew a deep breath, knowing his scars were exposed.

Cartwright paused uncertainly.

“You must not speak of them, Cartwright.”

“I will not, my lord,” Cartwright answered. “And I will be gentle.”

Relief rushed through Eamon. “Thank you.”

He allowed Cartwright to bathe him. It was a lordly service and yet it felt invasive to him. That, he reminded himself, was not the fault of his servant. The man barely spoke as he worked, being especially gentle when washing and rinsing Eamon's back. When he had finished, Cartwright wrapped Eamon in the long towel and then brought him robes and cloak. Eamon numbly let the man dress him. As his servant's hands passed over him, his thought turned first to Alessia and then, with growing horror, to the throned.

“Does something trouble you, my lord?” Cartwright asked.

Eamon broke abruptly from his thought. “What concern is it of yours?” he asked.

Cartwright did not falter or pause like a man rebuked. He continued speaking as steadily as a man sure of his words, as though
unconcerned that his audience was the second most powerful man in Dunthruik. “You are a burdened man, my lord.”

Eamon looked at him in surprise. “You speak boldly. These are not the words of a servant. Do these words belong to you, or to another?” he asked.

The servant faltered. “They are not mine,” he said, lowering his gaze.

“Then whose words do you thus convey?” Eamon demanded.

Cartwright did not meet his gaze. “Forgive me, my lord. It was Lady Turnholt.”

Eamon glowered. “You will not mention her before me!”

Cartwright flinched. Eamon forced himself to draw a deep breath. “I will not have her named before me,” he said, more measuredly. “Do you understand?”

Cartwright bowed low. “Yes, Lord Goodman.”

After a long moment, Eamon sighed. “Thank you, Cartwright,” he said belatedly.

“You are summoned to breakfast, my lord,” came his servant's reply.

Eamon went back into his hall and took up his belt and dagger; he drew the latter from its sheath. The jagged writing on the blade grinned foully at him.

There was a knock at the door. Fletcher strode in.

“Good morning, my lord.”

“Lieutenant.”

“I am to advise you, my lord, that when you go to breakfast you are expected to attend by means of the south balcony,” Fletcher told him. “The Master's doorkeeper will be waiting for you there.”

“Very well,” Eamon nodded, standing still while Cartwright set his cloak over his shoulders.

“There was a small disturbance at the South Gate during the night,” Fletcher added, holding out a sheaf of paper. “This is Lord Tramist's report.”

“Am I to be troubled with every skirmish and dispute in the city?”

“No, my lord,” Fletcher answered. “This was not a skirmish.” With a sigh Eamon took the paper from him. “The disturbance occurred when two dozen stragglers came to the gate demanding entrance.”

“For what reason?” Eamon asked, whilst skimming the report.

“The stragglers had been in a column, my lord – one of the ones that was evacuated for the billeting of the regional units,” Fletcher told him. “They say that they came from the East Quarter. Initial checks seem to indicate that this is the case.”

Eamon's blood cooled. “The East?” he repeated. He had sent wayfarers from the city in such columns; what cause could they have to return to Dunthruik?

“Yes.” Fletcher looked down at some notes on a separate paper. “They're a splinter-segment from one of the first columns that you dispatched,” he added. “They say that they were viciously attacked by wayfarers up River and that they lost almost half the column near Hightown. They felt that the only thing they could do was return to the city. They were harried further on the way.”

Eamon looked at him. Why would wayfarers attack wayfarers? Could it be true? Why should he trust a report from Tramist? “Casualties?”

“Aplenty, I am given to understand.”

Eamon glared. “Their names, Fletcher!” he cried. Cartwright stepped back from him.

Fletcher looked at the papers and then shrugged. “I do not know them, my lord.”

“And the survivors?”

“In the report, my lord.”

Eamon scoured it. The name of Grennil – whom he had entrusted to deliver his message to the King – was not listed. He realized that he could not hope to know whether any of them lived, nor whether they had delivered his message.

Fletcher watched him. “Lord Tramist thought that you might wish to know of it.”

“Thank him,” Eamon managed. “Have him send the returnees to the Crown Office in the East Quarter; Mr Rose and Mr Lorentide will re-house them.”

“Such a measure will need Lord Arlaith's –”

“I command it, Fletcher,” Eamon growled. “Lord Arlaith
will
obey me.”

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

For a long moment there was silence. Eamon stood and stared at the papers.

“My lord?”

“Mr Fletcher?” Eamon snapped.

“Forgive me, my lord; you are awaited at breakfast.”

Eamon sighed angrily. “So I am told,” he retorted. Thrusting the papers across into Cartwright's astonished hands, he swept past Fletcher to the balcony.

 

Eamon shook as he stepped out. The sun struck him, blinding him for a moment. As he passed down the length of the balcony he could see down into the throne room. It looked like a chamber of fire.

He reached the far end of the balcony where it turned to follow the inner wall of the West Wing. The doorkeeper stood there beneath a curved archway. He bowed.

“Lord Goodman. I will lead you to breakfast.”

Terrified, Eamon responded with only a nod.

The doorkeeper led him through the archway. Eamon expected to follow into a corridor or a passageway, but instead found himself in a long, light room filled with beautiful trees. Their branches reached up to twine overhead like beams and each tree was planted in an enormous pot.

The doorkeeper moved through the room at speed, but the trees forced Eamon to a standstill. He recognized the fruits that they bore.

They were western stars. The same fruit Anderas had once told him grew all around the city. The same fruit that the Master had destroyed when he claimed Dunthruik.

“Lord Goodman?”

Eamon looked back to the doorkeeper. Seeing that he was not followed, the man paused in the long gallery.

“This way, my lord.”

Eamon followed him.

The chamber ended in another arch whose grand doors stood open so as to let in light. Eamon followed the doorkeeper to the threshold and the vast hall beyond.

“Lord Goodman,” the doorkeeper announced. He gestured for Eamon to enter and bowed as he passed.

An enormous oak table was the room's centrepiece. It was decked with red cloth and bowls and platters. Men and women dressed in the throne's colours moved silently about the room, setting dishes and pouring wine.

At one end of the table sat the Master. A tall black chair was set to his right. As Eamon bowed in the doorway, Edelred smiled.

“Your glory, Master.”

“Good morrow, son of Eben,” the Master replied. “Come and break your fast with me.”

Eamon walked the length of the room. The red-clad servants froze and bowed before him, all in absolute silence. One servant pulled the sable chair from the table.

At the Master's gesture, Eamon bowed once more and then sat; the servant set his chair closer to the table. Then another servant swiftly laid bread and cheese upon the plate before him whilst a third stepped forward and filled a chalice with wine, setting it by Eamon's hand.

Eamon watched them in astonishment, then managed to catch the gaze of the last.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

The young man froze and watched him for a moment with wide eyes. He said not a word. Eamon offered him a small smile.

“You serve well,” Eamon told him.

The air rent with laughter.

“You waste your thanks, Eben's son!”

Startled – for he had almost forgotten that Edelred sat by him – Eamon looked back at the Master in surprise.

“Master,” he began, “surely all service is worth some thanks –”

“Including ill service?” the throned asked, a baiting glint to his eye.

“Master,” Eamon answered quietly, “I was not ill-served by this man.”

“He cannot receive your thanks, Eben's son,” Edelred replied, gesturing once to the servant. The man merely stood by them, watching. It disconcerted Eamon utterly.

“Nor does he,” Edelred continued, “or any of these others, require it. You are so far above them as to be a flame at the mountaintop and they a carcass on the plain beneath. Even were that not so, still they would not receive your words.”

Eamon drew cautious breath to speak once more, but the look on the Master's face silenced him.

“These about you neither hear nor speak, my Right Hand,” the Master told him. “It was the first condition of their service.”

Eamon looked up at the man at his elbow. His stomach sank.

The Master gave a sharp gesture and the servant bowed low before stepping away. Eamon watched him go, mouth ajar, and stared at another as a plate of cold meat was laid down at his right.

“I see that you would join my servants' silence, son of Eben,” the throned laughed.

No words passed Eamon's mouth. Had all the men and women in that room been born unable to speak, or had they been made that way? His chilling heart told him that some would have chosen their silent world so that it might revolve around the man who sat at the head of the red-clothed table.

Edelred spoke again. “Your service is not so different to theirs, Eben's son, but you, a man worth many jesters, tend to ample use of your tongue.” The Lord of Dunthruik looked down at him with an indulgent smile. “Use it now.”

Eamon struggled to attend to Edelred's words. “What would you have me do this day, Master?”

“Always you turn your mind to my glory,” the throned said, and laughed. “You are a rare man, Eben's son! It is that which makes the others loathe you so. But they do not see what I have seen.” Suddenly the Master's hand was at his face, and the Lord of Dunthruik tilted Eamon's chin so that he might look into his eyes. Eamon quivered. The touch was liquid fire.

“Still I see it,” the Master breathed.

The hand moved away. Eamon tried to steady himself as the throned leaned back. The Master gestured to another servant. This one, who was dressed more finely than the others, tasted the wine from the decanter on the table before carefully pouring some into the Master's chalice.

Eamon watched in terrified fascination as the Lord of Dunthruik drank, lowered his cup, and smiled.

“Eat, son of Eben,” he said. “Eat, then speak out the whole thought of your arduous heart to me.”

“Master, I am overwhelmed –”

“Then you must content yourself with eating!” the Master answered him wryly. “There will yet be time to speak, Eben's son. Much time.”

Eamon bowed his head and gave his thanks. Then, under the Master's watchful eye, he ate. With every morsel or sip that he swallowed, Edelred observed him like a favoured child.

After Eamon had finished, a servant laid a dish of star fruit down beside them followed by a bowl of water.

The Master gestured to the dish.

“Is such fruit to your liking, son of Eben?”

Eamon's heart sank. “Yes, Master.”

“Then you shall take of these.”

He could not refuse. Eamon reached across to the bowl and chose the nearest fruit. It filled his palm. He placed it on his plate and took up his knife. Anderas had taught him what to do.