The Broken Blade (6 page)

Slowly, he cut down through the fruit. The segments split apart, revealing the fibrous shape at their heart. Beneath the incision, the star seemed to bleed.

Edelred smiled. “My trees bear good fruit,” he said. “You will do the same.”

Eamon looked at the fruit lying open before him. “Yes, Master.”

He ate in silence. The fruit cloyed in his throat as, engulfed by the Master's scrutiny, he swallowed. At his own table he might have taken wine to help him wash down the sickly mouthful, yet though his reddened cup glinted at him enticingly, he shunned it. He did not dare to take it. While he ate, Edelred did not; he only watched.

At last Eamon finished the fruit. He carefully dipped his fingers into the water and dried them. Not knowing what else to do, he lifted his head and met the Master's gaze.

“Thank you, Master.”

Edelred smiled. Suddenly he made a circling gesture towards the servants with one hand; several of them darted forwards. They cleared the table. As they whirled about him, Eamon felt tempest-tossed; his head spun with the deftness of their silent world.

“Son of Eben.”

The Master's voice was by his ear. Startled, he looked up.

“Master.”

At another gesture from Edelred, a servant laid his hands to the back of Eamon's chair so as to pull it back. A little clumsily, Eamon rose from it and was swallowed by the Master's grey gaze.

“Follow,” Edelred commanded.

Eamon bowed. “Your glory,” he answered.

As the Master turned to leave, the servants bowed and froze. Eamon moved in Edelred's wake through the swathe of bent men.

They stepped out of the dining room into a corridor. Eamon shivered as cooler air drove past him. The corridor was carpeted and great tapestries hung from the walls. He guessed that the Master's own chambers were to the right and for a terrible moment he feared that he would be led there. But Edelred turned rather to the left,
towards the deepest reaches of the West Wing. Eamon could not see where the corridor went, but he followed. They passed many windows and Eamon fancied that there might well be doorways hidden behind the tapestries. The windows to his left looked down over the palace gardens. He caught a glimpse of the Hands' Hall, a brooding edifice among a sward of green. Windows on the highest level of the East Wing looked back at them, and Eamon wondered whether he saw figures following in them, engaged in a ghostly mimicry of his onward step.

The corridor opened into a small antechamber. There were several chairs within, and at the far end, a monumental set of double doors boldly marked with red-eyed eagles. A sinister glint in the red stone indicated the passage was guarded by the mark of the throned; the doors were sealed. Eamon wondered whether only the Master could open them.

Edelred paused before the doors. The glint in the eagles' eyes grew stronger. Thrilling tension filled the air, throbbing and pulsing about the Lord of Dunthruik. The Master lifted one hand. The doors opened.

Eamon felt as though he watched the yawning aside of gates that guarded the cavernous lair of a hidden beast; the sight filled him with terror. Yet as the doors swung back his jaw fell in amazement, for all beyond the portal was drenched in a drowning wash of ruby and of gold.

Edelred crossed the threshold. Speechless, Eamon followed.

The rooms beyond were a realm of riches. Each part was filled with stands bearing every imaginable jewel or gem, some cast into settings more intricate than the filigree threads of fine laces. By these countless objects – necklaces, rings, medallions, clasps – were other stands displaying hosts of figurines, their faces a dazzling mosaic of precious stones. There were gowns tailored with golden threads and garments doused with jewels, each prominently displayed. In places tables held richly bound books and stands, which supported finely wrought lances, spears,
or swords. Enormous paintings with gilded frames covered the walls, each more exuberant than its fellow in its attempts to show the Master radiant with glory, and statues of marble or alabaster lined the length of the room. One showed a man with an eagle on one arm and a serpent crushed in his other hand. In each corner of each room stood enormous candelabra, their golden boughs littered with rubies. From marbled floor to towering roof above, the solemnly bejewelled chambers showcased the Master's glory with all conceivable opulence.

Eamon had never seen such riches; they staggered him. He faltered in the heart of the first hall, gawking and overwhelmed. The treasures of the West Wing gazed silently back at him. Edelred strode among them, more terrible in flesh than any likeness.

Eamon was not sure how many chambers there were. Each one held more than he could comprehend, and those things that he did see and understand were nothing but poorly grasped details of the whole.

Edelred led the way through each chamber, never pausing to look at what surrounded them. In one, Eamon saw a wall strung with banners. There were emblems and heralds there with designs that Eamon did not know, and there were banners from the merchant states; Eamon recognized those of Galithia, Lamiglia, and Breusklia. There were banners from the east, some known to him, and one, showing a purple and crimson sun against a yellow background, that he had never seen before. Beside these were the emblems of the River's provinces – Eamon's heart soared as he recognized the lions of his home, Edesfield, among them – and of Dunthruik and its quarters, some showing only the quarters' leaf motifs.

But it was the banner hanging at the heart of these that struck Eamon dumb, for its frayed edges and dulled threads wove the shape of an eight-pointed star. Beneath this, clasped between the talons of great golden eagles, was a tarnished sword.

Tearing his sight away, Eamon looked back to Edelred. The Master pressed onwards. Eamon followed.

The chamber into which they went was a glut of gold as all the others; the austere glint of precious stones and metals stung Eamon's eyes. But in this chamber Edelred stopped.

Eamon halted but a pace behind him. Choked by the wealth around him, he struggled to focus as the Master gestured to the wall.

“Look,” Edelred told him.

Eamon tried. His eyes sought the wall before him. It was different to the rest of the vault.

Although it was still richly hewn from marble and dark woods, the wall in front of him did not carry gold or gems. Rather, it showed an odd collection of objects: a leaf from a book, a great key, a curved sword, the torn fragment of a discoloured banner, a strangely shaped shield, a couple of small daggers, a ring, a cup, a small model of a holk, and three dark feathers pinned together by a clasp. Each object was carefully mounted and held in place by the talons of eagle-shaped clasps. But the eagles were not golden – they were black.

For a moment, Eamon simply stared. Though some of the objects were finely made they seemed utterly at odds with everything else that he had seen in the chambers. At a loss as to what to say or think, he looked up at Edelred.

The Master did not meet his gaze. Instead he stepped to the end of the line of objects. One additional set of eagle-clasps hung against the wall, empty. As Eamon looked at them, Edelred turned to him.

“This is my wall of Right Hands. Take this, son of Eben,” he said. The Master held a frame, such as might encase a painting.

Trying to settle growing unease, Eamon reached forward and received it. As he weighed it into his hands he saw that the frame held a piece of parchment. It was a finely scribed sheet bearing the Master's eagle at its head. Eamon looked at it, his eyes racing across the words before him but unable to take in the meaning of any of them.

“Set it in the clasps,” Edelred commanded.

Eamon stepped forward to the empty clasps. The back of the frame had hooks set into it, and these Eamon used to mount the whole into the eagles' claws. As he stepped back his mind at last caught up with his sight and he understood what the paper was: the writ – or perhaps a copy of it – by which the law of confession had been restricted to treason and the death penalty removed from property crimes.

“You glorified me on the day that this was writ, son of Eben,” the Master told him. “In glorifying me you earned my love.” With a laugh Edelred turned his grey eyes from the parchment to Eamon's face. He laid his hand on Eamon's cheek. “It is in your blood. More than any of them, son of Eben,” he said, his voice a fervent whisper, “you will glorify me.”

Eamon bowed down low. “Yes, Master.”

Edelred withdrew his touch and walked back through the vaults. Quivering, Eamon turned from the wall of the Right Hands and followed him.

He kept his gaze fixed on the floor – he could scarcely bear the rooms which, in their grim and golden expanses, crushed and swallowed him. They had almost reached the doors leading out of the pageant of chambers when Eamon half-tripped. As he recovered, something on a distant wall caught his attention.

A painting. It had faded and its frame was worn with time, but Eamon dimly made out its content: a river running through a quiet, green valley. The river sparked blue and the valley was detailed with exquisite flowers.

Amid the red and gold, the trophies and the jewels, the dulled painting seemed otherworldly. Eamon stared at it.

Edelred's voice broke him from his stupor. “That work strikes you, son of Eben?”

Eamon turned. The Master had looked back to him and watched him. Fearfully, Eamon bowed.

“Yes,” he answered.

“It was a gift.” Edelred's voice seemed strange as he spoke
– pained almost. Eamon rose. For the smallest of moments, the Master's face was marked with wistful remembrance.

The moment passed. “Come, son of Eben.”

Eamon obeyed.

Relieved to leave the choking vaults, Eamon staggered into the dining room, gulping air. The table in the room had been cleared and the servants were gone; the doorkeeper stood by the entrance to the gallery of trees.

Eamon bowed low to Edelred. “I do not deserve what you bestow upon me,” he said. “I thank you, Master.”

“And you delight me.” Edelred smiled at him. “You shall eat with me every morning, son of Eben.”

The words were crushing. Doubled over in his bow, Eamon forced speech to his trembling lips.

“To your glory.”

Eamon passed much of the rest of that day familiarizing himself with the palace, learning his way between the Master's rooms and his own, and where he might find his servants. He tried to keep himself from thinking about the vault that he had seen and the power that it held.

That afternoon he went to inspect the failing south wall and to give recommendation and authorization for its repair. He also spoke to the officers who had received the survivors of the East Quarter column, but they knew little. Eamon resolved to seek out the survivors themselves in the East Quarter if he could.

As he returned from the South Quarter, he met Cathair riding along the Coll. He would happily have avoided the man – but Cathair had never been one to afford his prey easy escape.

“Lord Goodman! Good day to you!”

“Welcome back, Lord Cathair,” Eamon answered. “All was well at Ravensill, I trust?”

“Indeed,” Cathair answered with a smile.

“I am glad. Forgive me,” Eamon began, “but I cannot stay. I have business to attend –”

Cathair pulled a disappointed face. “Such business that would keep you from riding with me on such a day?”

“Even so,” Eamon answered.

“Oh, but it cannot be!” came the melodramatic outcry.

“I fear it is.”

Cathair smiled sadly. “Well, my lord, I must then leave you to tend to your misfortunes, whilst I tend to mine.”

Eamon looked at him curiously. “Have you had misfortunes, Lord Cathair?”

“In part they are mine, in part Lord Dehelt's, I understand,” Cathair answered. “There was an accident at the port this morning. See what happens, Lord Goodman, when I leave this city for but a moment?” He shook his head. “I understand that there have been losses, and damages.”

It was the former word that caught Eamon's heart.

“Are you riding there?” he asked. Cathair nodded. “Then I will ride with you.”

“As I am sure you know, the port's state is not a pressing matter, my lord,” Cathair told him. “The Serpent may have allies, but they are Easters; such men will not come from over the sea.”

“No,” Eamon conceded, “but food for our garrisons will and that may yet be hindered by what you describe.” If such were the case then he would have to rearrange all the logistics for feeding the city. It was not a thought that he relished.

He rode reluctantly with Cathair up the Coll to the port. The Sea Gate was busy, and even before they came close to it, Eamon saw dust in the air. A number of Gauntlet surgeons moved through it. As Eamon and Cathair approached, a cart passed into the city from the gate. A dusty, bloodstained doctor perched inside the cart with injured men – all of them militia – gathered about him like fledglings in a nest.

They rode closer. A merchant ship docked in the nearest berth bobbed rhythmically against the quay – or what remained of it. The winches and pulleys next to the boat were severed and tattered. Only half the gangplank remained; it ended abruptly in a mess of splintered wood. Gaps in the stonework revealed where massive boulders had fallen loose from the shattered quay. A group of men gathered at the water's edge, but dared not venture too close.

Nearby, the merchant captain was engaged in animated conversation with a man Eamon recognized to be Captain Longroad
of the North Quarter. As Eamon arrived, both men stopped and greeted him.

“Lord Goodman, Lord Cathair,” Longroad said. The merchant bowed in silence.

“I see we have been the victim of quite some misfortune this morning,” Cathair mused.

“I fear so,” the captain replied. “I am very sorry for you, Lord Cathair.”

“What happened?” Eamon asked.

“The cargo ropes snapped,” the captain explained, pointing up to the frayed and broken ropes swaying freely in the wind. “They were loaded with cases of arms.”

“I had hoped to catch the fair tide.” The merchant shook his head sullenly, raised his fist to the sky, and uttered a curse in his curious tongue.

Captain Longroad continued, “And now your haste has cost you both wine and arms, and you will of course be expected to pay restitution to Dunthruik for the lives of the Gauntlet lost to your recklessness.”

Eamon looked up sharply. “Gauntlet? What were Gauntlet doing on this vessel?”

“With the increase in Etraian trade, and the reduction of portmen from the exodus, some Gauntlet have been assigned to loading and unloading the ships,” Captain Longroad answered.

“How many men were lost?” Eamon asked, choking back a sudden fear that grew in his heart.

“Half a dozen,” Longroad said, “perhaps more; the surgeons are still at work. Quite a few were on the gang when the casks fell; the ones that were hit by the falling cases were, I suspect, killed instantly. Others were drowned, at least one man in trying to pull others from the wreckage. There were injuries when the quay gave way.”

“Do we know the names of the victims?” Eamon asked.

“The men lost were ensigns and militia from the West Quarter. The surgeons have made a list of the dead ensigns, my lord,”
Longroad answered. He offered a crumpled scrap of parchment to Eamon. “We're still working on the names of the militia.”

Drawing a deep breath, Eamon took it and read. First horror, then grief, overcame him.

Ostler, Ford, Smith, Barde, Yarrow. He knew every one of the dead ensigns.

Eamon blinked hard. The names on the list didn't change.

“Has Captain Waite been advised of this?” he managed at last.

“Not yet, my lord,” Longroad answered.

“Then send word to him. The West has lost fine men this day.” Tears welled in his eyes as he said it.

Cathair peered over his shoulder at the names and clucked his tongue.

“I am quite in agreement, my lord,” he said. “They were all good men.” The Hand looked across at Longroad. “I am sure that you did your best, captain, to save them.”

Longroad nodded. “My men and I did everything that we could, Lord Cathair.”

“Good merchant, did your crew take any hurt?” Cathair asked.

“No, Lord Cathair,” the merchant answered.

“Well,” Cathair answered, offering Eamon a smile. “That, at least, is fortunate.”

Eamon scarcely heard him, for his sight was drawn by a pile of bodies growing at the quayside. He recognized Ostler's pale, broken face among them. At the quay's steps, men worked to bring another mangled body up from the water. Eamon dared not try to recognize it, for he felt sure that he would.

The men laid the body with the others.

Cadet Manners was among the men performing the grisly task of clearing the wreckage. The cadet's eyes were red; his arms bore cuts and scars, and he was drenched with foul water.

Manners bowed once to Eamon and went back to the murky waters.

“Good men,” Eamon whispered.

“I'm sorry, my lord,” Cathair's voice slithered into his ear. “I was being inattentive, for which I crave your pardon. Did you say something?”

Eamon looked once at him and then back to the list of the dead in his hands.

“No, Lord Cathair,” he answered. But as he read again, his heart grew cold.

“Good men”: it was the name by which his old cadets, and the many men whom he had saved from the Right Hand's decimation, had called themselves. They had taken that name because a “Goodman” had redeemed them.

As he looked at the list, Eamon realized that every man upon it had been one of them.

 

The following days passed as a torturous nightmare, one punctuated by breakfasts, papers, and visits to the four Handquarters. Eamon was never left alone and even when he slept – which became more and more infrequent – he felt as though the Master watched, and caressed, him.

The repairs of the port were an ongoing nuisance. Because governance of the port fell outside the jurisdiction of any one quarter, it fell to Eamon to oversee the repairs. Three days after the accident, when the repairs were well underway, Eamon made a visit to the East Quarter Crown Office. He sought news regarding the survivors of the families evicted from the East Quarter.

Rose was there. He greeted Eamon in the hall.

“My lord,” he said, bowing low. “It is good to see you once again. How fare you?”

“Well,” Eamon answered, though he felt shaken and hounded. “Yourself?”

“Well, my lord.” His pale face gainsaid him.

“I am pleased to hear it,” Eamon replied. “How is the quarter's reconstruction work proceeding?”

“Well, my lord, well, but…” He faltered and bit down hard on his lip.

Eamon frowned at him. “Is something the matter, Mr Rose?”

“Yes… No…” Rose wrung his hands in his ample sleeves. “Some adjustments have been made to your list,” he blurted.

“Adjustments?” Eamon repeated. “What kind of adjustments?”

“When I said ‘some', my lord… you must forgive me. I would have done better to say that your list has been
altered
… In truth,” Rose finished at last, “the priorities of the preceding list have been restored.”

“Who gave this command?” Eamon demanded.

Rose cowered. “Lord Arlaith,” he offered quickly. “I believe that he seeks the favour of the knights, my lord.”

Eamon fell wrathfully silent. He could not countermand an order given under such auspices, for he knew, as did Arlaith, that the knights would be needed in any forthcoming battle.

For a long time he stood, still and silent, forcing his anger away. Rose seemed distracted, his eyes flitting from side to side and his hands trembling like the branches of an elm in the wind.

“We did complete some of the projects on your own list, my lord,” Rose offered, his voice strained.

The words snapped Eamon from his mood. “I am sorry, Mr Rose,” Eamon said at last. “I understand that this is not your doing. Is Mr Lorentide here?” he added. “I would speak with him, about what was completed before the change in the list was effected.”

Rose's face grew paler. “Surely… you jest with me, my lord?”

“When have I jested with you, Mr Rose?”

“My lord, he…” Rose squirmed. “My lord,” he said, “Darren Lorentide is dead.”

Eamon stared at him. “Dead?”

“L-lieutenant Taine found him a night ago,” Rose stammered. “I didn't hear about it until the morning…”

“But what happened?”

“He was stabbed for his purse. What with the grain prices being as they are in the quarter…” He buried his face in his hands, then tore them away again. “For his purse, Lord Goodman! He only ever
carried less than a fifth of a crown! It was well known. His poor wife…” Rose bit back a melodramatic sob. “The Serpent's influence is growing, Lord Goodman, and it is everywhere!”

Swallowing back his own grief, Eamon set his hand on Rose's shoulder. “I am truly sorry for your loss, Mr Rose. Please… give my condolences to Mrs Lorentide, when you next see her.”

Rose mopped at his eyes. “I will, my lord.”

Eamon thanked him. Forgetting all else he left the office, lest he too should weep.

 

That evening Dunthruik was aflame with light, and the streets were filled with people. Swathes of them wore the Gauntlet's uniform, and they followed behind their officers and captains and Hands in a long and jubilant stream towards the Royal Plaza to stand beneath the Master's great balcony. Red cloth touched every post, and the light from the torches shook every shadow out of its solitary dark.

It was to be a majesty like no other.

Eamon stood in the throne room, his newly tailored robes gathered around him. The tailors' work made Eamon look like the Master's Right Hand and an embodiment of his glory. After helping Eamon dress that evening, Iulus Cartwright fell back in awe. Even Fletcher, who seemed imperturbable by nature, had genuflected to see the Master's favourite in such raiment.

Now the Master's favourite was little more than a lone figure huddled against a pillar just beyond the great balcony. Eamon listened to the crowds and music below and drew his arms tighter over his breast as he shook. Though he had been bathed and perfumed to perfection at the Master's command he felt haggard and harrowed. Each day brought new hurt and anguish. Each day, when he bowed, the touch of the Master's hand and voice threatened to draw him away from Hughan.

“Hold to the King.”

Eamon closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He was not holding; through grief and fear and rage, in the very depth of his being, he
clung to the King as though for life itself – yet his grip loosened daily. He feared that the adulation of the majesty would claim one more part of his faltering heart for the Master.

Footfalls sounded behind him. He turned and saw the Master's shadow approach across the gallery. The Master's servants attended him and bore his long cloak off the ground as he walked. Eamon shrank before him.

“My tailors tell me, son of Eben, that they have excelled themselves.” The Master's voice resonated through the air above all the cheering in the plaza below. “Show me.”

Closing his eyes, Eamon stepped into the light before Edelred. As the Master's appraising smile rained down on him, vomit pressed the back of his throat.

“Does it please you, Master?”

“You, Eben's son, please me more each day.” Then, leaning forward, he kissed Eamon's forehead with the peculiar tenderness of a cruel and fickle father. A sob escaped his lips as he received it.

Smiling, the Master gestured to the balcony door. “Glorify me,” he commanded.

Eamon strode onto the platform of light. The whole of Dunthruik lay before him, shown forth as a swelling ocean of faces in the teeming plaza below. His head spun as he looked down at them. He steadied himself on the balcony's edge. A great roar filled the air.

“Long live the Right Hand! Long live Lord Goodman!” The storm of voices erupted into applause. “Lord Goodman,
to his glory!
”