The King's Hand (10 page)

The Hand hesitated at his boldness. He laughed.

“Lord Rendolet, have you heard nothing about me? Need I refresh your memory about the man who saved the life of Lord Cathair, or the man who obtained the location of the Serpent's lair and delivered it to the Master? Have you not been told,” he asked, “in what way I serve the Master?”

“The man who surrendered his sword? You do not serve him, Goodman!” Rendolet growled. “You think I have not seen you in these days, and not seen your true allegiance?”

Eamon pressed fear aside. He laughed scornfully. “You have seen nothing!” he countered. “And neither has the Serpent, which is
precisely
how it must be. But you give me great encouragement by your words: I fooled even you.” He looked at the stolen face, saw new doubt cross it, and an idea came to him.

He would wear his mask for the King.

“How I came to be here, I know,” he said. “But you?” He cocked his head curiously. “How came you here, Lord Rendolet? Were you sent by the Master, as I was?” The face before him faltered. “No,” Eamon discerned. “You were sent to Ashford Ridge.” The Hand froze. “And what failure you had there, Lord Rendolet. Why! All Dunthruik knows of it; of how you, and those with you, sullied the Master's glory in pitiful defeat.”

The Hand gaped. “How do you –?”

“All Dunthruik knows of your shameful, scattered retreat, of how the Serpent crushed you in his jaws,” Eamon told him. Barely hidden terror flashed across the man's face. “I am an eloquent man, but even I find myself at a loss for words enough to describe Lord Cathair's displeasure. You fear it,” he said, fixing a grinding glare on the Hand, “and you fear the ire that he, and the Master, will rightly pour on you for returning in disgrace. Perhaps that is why you attacked the Serpent's bridge – to allay their scorn? But you have not bettered your lot, Lord Rendolet: now I will tell them of how you interfered with my work.”

The face of Feltumadas grew pale.

Drawing all his wits about him, Eamon laughed and laid one hand across the man's shoulder. The Hand stiffened beneath his touch. “Come, Lord Rendolet!” Eamon said lightly. “I am a generous man. A great reward has been promised to me should I succeed in my task. Perhaps I may be persuaded to let you share a little of it, if you aid me.”

The Hand's blade-grip tensed angrily. “Why should I share any reward?”

“You are a witness of the terrible loss at Ashford Ridge,” Eamon told him simply. He smiled. “Make no mistake, Lord Rendolet; if you return to Dunthruik you will be breached.”

The words had the desired effect. The face looked at him, terrified.

Eamon allowed the anxiety to grow for a few moments before fortifying himself with further memories of Cathair – of which he had many – and speaking again. “You do not wish to be breached? It is true to say that it is painful. Perhaps you have seen it done? Perhaps there was some fault in your actions at Ashford Ridge that you would rather not be revealed?” The Hand did not answer him. Eamon looked at him with a smile. “Of course, I would not hurt you, Lord Rendolet, if I breached you. I might even assist you to cover any particularly embarrassing blemishes. Indeed, I will help you – if you will help me.”

Rendolet stared at him in silence. Eamon knew that the Hand was ambitious, and terrified, yet perhaps might not be moved to grant him his life unless the flames of that ambition were fanned further.

“Do you know how they speak of you at court, Lord Rendolet?” He lowered his tone and fixed pitifully on the Hand. “They speak of you as a Hand that won a woman's prize at the Master's masque.”

Rendolet cast him a withering look. “Speak for yourself, Lord Goodman,” he sneered. “You also won it.”

“I did,” Eamon acknowledged, “but they do not speak of that as my crowning achievement. The same cannot be said for you. It is such a pity – it is hardly the accolade that you deserve! Add to that your defeat at Ashford Ridge, and your hindrance to me, who does the Master's work, and what have you? Shame and dishonour. Lend me your help,” he said, “and you will receive the Master's praise. It will bring a rich harvest, blotting out all that has gone before.”

The Hand's grip on the weapon relaxed.

“Come,” Eamon told him, “and make a name for yourself with me. Come and be counted among the Master's nearest, as I shall be when my task is done.”

At last, a smile appeared before him. It seemed grotesquely out of place on Feltumadas's face. Eamon felt revulsion. He knew by the smile that, though outwardly acquiescing, Rendolet thought that he might yet gain the upper hand.

“Tell me, Lord Goodman, what is your task?” Rendolet's voice was thick with sudden eagerness.

“I was to savage this Serpent's alliance with the Suns by taking a life and a severed head back to the Master. It is to be a trophy to bathe him in splendour and glory.” The eyes before him went wide.

“Whose head, Lord Goodman?”

Eamon smiled, but he trembled within. This was the testing point.

“That of Feltumadas.” He paused. “You present yourself to me by some strange fortune, Lord Rendolet. For I feel that we may do even more for the Master. We shall kill Feltumadas now, together, and you will go in his stead. What havoc you shall wreck in this pitiable camp! Why, they shall make songs of it – how you brought the Serpent to his knees, to the Master's glory.”

The face before him broke into a long smile. Eamon breathed. The Hand had taken the bait.

“I knew that you had a certain style, Lord Goodman,” Rendolet said smoothly. “I tried to mimic that when I moved their little bridge. But I see that I was not nearly stylish enough!”

Nauseous unease coursed through him. He swallowed it down. The cries of the burned and drowning men, and the impaling glares of the Easters flew into his mind. His unease was unhorsed by rage. How he longed to strike the Hand!

Instead, he smiled.

“You compliment me well, Lord Rendolet, and I trust that you will complement me also. I have, as you might imagine,” he added, “no weapon to hand. May I take yours?”

“Of course, Lord Goodman,” Rendolet answered, freely rendering his blade into Eamon's hand. “I have others at my disposal.”

“Good.” Eamon felt a wave of relief as the dagger passed into his hand. “Where did you leave Feltumadas?” He had to hope that the Hand had not already killed the Easter lord.

“Resting in his tent,” Rendolet answered snidely, then laughed. “They would have charged him with your murder and he would have denied everything.”

Eamon saw at once how close to disaster they had come. After Hughan's firm defence of his First Knight the previous day, to have that knight killed by an Easter who then denied the murder could well have spelled the end of the King's alliance with the Land of the Seven Sons. Without them, Hughan could not have made a successful attempt on Dunthruik, nor kept up his skirmishes in the other regions and provinces of the River Realm. The broken alliance would, at best, have slowed the wayfarers to a near halt – allowing the throned to weed them out at greater leisure – and, at worst, have culminated in the elimination of the King's men.

Eamon looked at the Hand again. “A masterful stroke,” he cooed. “I see that you have a style of your own, Lord Rendolet.”

The Hand smiled. Biting down his anger and the fear that touched his limbs, Eamon bade the Hand lead the way and followed him from the tent.

There were no guards outside.

“My guardians, Lord Rendolet?” he asked, softly and innocently, as they left. “Another stroke of yours?”

“Sent away by the Serpent's sycophant,” the Hand answered. Eamon was chilled. Had Rendolet impersonated Leon, too?

They walked swiftly and silently across the camp, past the majority of wayfarer shelters, and on towards the large tents at the camp's centre where both the Easter and wayfarer lords had their resting places. Eamon caught sight of Hughan's tent to his left; Feltumadas's was ahead and to the right. If he could just get Rendolet to Feltumadas, the Easter would see the changer and be able to help him in containing the venomous Hand.

Suddenly, Rendolet stopped. Eamon's heart pounded as the sly face turned and smiled at him.

“I have heard it said, Lord Goodman, that the Serpent keeps some wench by him that he intends to make the fount of his bastard house,” he said. Eamon followed the Hand's glance towards Hughan's tent; Aeryn's had been placed next to it. He froze, but still he had to smile.

“I have seen her, Lord Rendolet,” he answered.

“Is she worth some sport, Lord Goodman?” There was a terrible glint to the Hand's eye.

“Perhaps to the Serpent,” Eamon answered with a forced snicker. The look in Rendolet's eye did not diminish, and, as Eamon tried to think, from the corner of his eye he saw something that terrified him more.

Men began to stir. Hughan, Leon, and Anastasius walked towards the King's tent. Any moment now they would see him. His opportunity would be lost, and this Hand could easily disappear to dispose of the Easter, or Aeryn, or perhaps even Hughan himself.

“Why strike just once, Lord Goodman?” Rendolet's voice dripped foully from the stolen mouth. “Why just once, when a second strike can be more pleasurable than the first?”

“You would rape his queen?” The words spilled indignantly from Eamon's lips.

Rendolet looked at him curiously. “You would not?”

Eamon did not answer.

A dark look passed over the face of Feltumadas and, as curiosity became suspicion, that same face turned vilely on him.

“Reluctance does not serve the Master, Goodman.” Eamon caught a glimpse of red in the man's palm.

The King's party could see him now, but he had no choice. He dropped all pretence and looked the Hand straight in the eye.

“No, Lord Rendolet,” he answered. “It does not; and neither do I.”

Rendolet's eyes flared with rage. Eamon saw the red light gathering in the Hand's palm. There was a frantic race of hands, Eamon's to his blade and Rendolet's to the foul red light.

With crushing force Eamon whipped the dagger round and drove it hard and deep into the Hand's chest. The false Feltumadas's lips opened in a horrendous, wrathful scream. Eamon persisted, drove the dagger down to the hilt, twisted sharply, then dragged it heavily out of the gushing flesh.

“Traitor!” The Hand's voice – Feltumadas's voice – screeched as reddened hands reached out for Eamon. Eamon dodged the clawing grasp, stepped to one side and then drove his knife down into the flailing man's undefended neck. The scream became a frothing gargle and the Hand crumpled to the ground.

“Eamon!” Hughan's cry coursed through him, the depth of its grief felling every sense. Eamon reeled.

Gasping and covered in blood, he held the dripping blade in his hand. All the eyes that watched saw that Feltumadas lay dead on the ground before him. As he turned, his gaze met that of his stricken King.

Suddenly the air erupted in shouts. He saw a man stringing a bow and seconds later an arrow struck the sodden ground by the corpse.

He hurled down the dagger and ran. Arrows hissed at him both from in front and behind. At the cries dozens of men emerged from their tents. Faced with a bloodied Hand careering towards them they fell back in fear. Eamon did not believe that he could clear the camp but he could not stop – he could not count on Hughan's name to protect him.

Men snatched at him as he hurtled past but they could not catch him. Still he ran.

His pulse pounded in his sutured throat. Gasps for breath unsettled his wound and it bled again. The cries were strong behind him and he could not stop.

“Stop him! Halt him!” yelled a voice, dangerously close. Eamon risked a glance over his shoulder and recoiled.

Leon tailed him, his face full of fury, his hands ready to exact vengeance.

Terrified, he tore through the camp, pressing on in a desperate pelt to the tributary. A group of soldiers leapt at him as he came to the banks, but he darted past them and hurled himself into the water. It was deep, and the shingle was treacherous. He stumbled on debris as he waded; the water behind him grew red as it drew the Hand's blood off him. He swam.

As he staggered out on the other bank, shivering, he heard sounds in the water behind him. Gasping, he saw Leon in the water, determination driving him ever closer.

Crossbowmen wearing Easter colours drew up on the opposite bank and set arrows to their strings. With a cry, Eamon turned and fled. He had to get away, but he could not outrun Leon. Surely they would see that he had not killed Feltumadas?

By the time they saw it, he would be a corpse.

An arrow struck at him, piercing a fold of his cloak and missing his flesh by little. He ran.

Woodland lay before him, the ground thick with hollows and bushes. He turned and looked over his shoulder again: Leon was there.

He plunged into the trees, looking wildly for cover. Suddenly he saw some thick bushes on his left, next to a small clearing. The plants were overgrown with barbed thistles, but he had no choice. He drove down into them, scrambled underneath the pronged leaves, and pressed his starved lungs deep against the forest floor.

He lay trembling in the dank tangle of leaves, forcing his ragged breath to silence. His soaking hair trailed over his face and he anxiously pushed it away.

Suddenly a shadow moved among the trees. He fell completely still: so much as a sound, and Leon would find him.

He peered between the leaves. Where was the shadow? He had seen someone, he knew he had, and yet now…

He froze. There, hidden in the thick maze of trees across the small clearing, he saw the shadow again. He
had
seen someone, but not Leon. For the shadow set among the trees wore black and beside it were three others, similarly clad.

Hands: four of them. Eamon repressed the urge to swear viciously. He could only guess that they had not seen him. Why were they there?