The King's Hand (16 page)

Ashway stood in the courtyard, pacing ferociously around the flagstones. He might have been tracing patterns on them and avoiding the cracks while he muttered to himself. Eamon wondered what words the two Hands had exchanged.

Ashway looked up as they emerged. He was red, as though he might explode into a tirade, but on seeing Eamon, fell silent. Eamon feigned not to notice.

“Lord Goodman, please accompany Lord Ashway back to the East Quarter,” Cathair said. “He has copies of some notes which I need. Bring them to me.”

“Yes, Lord Cathair.”

“Do you think that I need to be – ?” Ashway began, but a look from Cathair silenced him. “I will send you the notes, Lord Cathair,” he hissed.

“Thank you, Lord Ashway.”

Tangible ire passed between the two. With a great sigh, Ashway turned on his heel and stalked off. Eamon bowed once to Cathair and then hurried after the Lord of the East Quarter.

Ashway did not wait for him. Keeping pace with the Hand was like chasing a wrathful beast as it darted and wheeled down the colonnade, through the Hands' Gate and onto the streets of Dunthruik. Eventually Eamon managed to set his step in time with Ashway's. He caught a glimpse of the man's face, its accustomed pallor disguised by rage.

Ashway walked in silence all the way to the Four Quarters and then strode abruptly down Coronet Rise towards the Ashen and his own Handquarters. Soldiers and Gauntlet and civilians froze before him and bowed as he passed, but Ashway scowled angrily at most of them. To the others he barked that they should remove their sodden carcasses from his path or join the next pyre wagon.

Eamon came after him as though in the wake of a devastating wind.

Ashway's Handquarters were an impressive set of buildings in the quarter's main square. A broad marble slab set into the wall announced that the square was known as the Ashen and a token collection of ash trees were growing in one of its corners. The buildings were tall and well kept, and the square was clean, crawling with Gauntlet soldiers who all looked busy. Just to the right of the Handquarters Eamon saw a low arch that bore the crown: the East Quarter Gauntlet College. Anderas would be there, performing the duties of his captaincy. Had the man really sent as many wayfarers to the pyres as Ladomer claimed?

Ashway marched to the Handquarter doors. His guards leapt aside with well-practised agility and bowed as Eamon passed, following ever in Ashway's steps. The Hand led him through the entrance hall, in which a tall statue of the throned gazed austerely over a red marble floor, down a corridor with several connecting stairs and passages to a large door. Ashway threw it open, revealing a long, grand study with an arched window overlooking a garden. Workers were out among the plants. As they saw Ashway enter his room, they fled from view of the window.

Ashway went straight to his desk, littered high with papers; there was a tall bookshelf to one side, also strewn with parchments. The Hand rifled through the sheets on his desk and then went to the case with a loud and angry sigh. Eamon stood awkwardly, feeling not unlike a boy summoned in ire to his schoolmaster's table, and tried to ignore Ashway's evident rage.

At last the Hand pulled down a slim collection of papers. These he folded in three before sealing them. He used the ring on his finger to put his mark into the wax: an owl. Eamon tried to catch sight of the writing as the Hand worked, but saw little of the narrow script.

Ashway rose and turned to him.

“These are the papers that Lord Cathair requires,” he said. “Take them and go.”

“Yes, Lord Ashway.” Eamon let the Hand slam the papers into his outstretched palm, trying not to flinch. Ashway's hand went back to his forehead. He drew a sharp, seething breath.

Eamon looked at him in alarm. “Lord Ashway, are you –?”

“I said
go
.”

Eamon bowed and left.

 

The papers seemed heavy to him as he made his way back through the streets to the palace. He wondered what they were, but knew that he could not remove the seal.

It was late afternoon when he came at last to Cathair's quarters in the Hands' Hall. In comparison to the dark wood and red marble in the East Quarter, Cathair's rooms were exotic. Eamon was admitted without hesitation, and when he knocked at Cathair's door he was summoned swiftly inside, to be greeted by his dogs. He restrained any sudden movements while they barked and snarled, daring him, as always, to defy them and merit a mauling.

“Lord Cathair, I have brought your papers,” he called.

Cathair appeared from one of the side chambers. He snatched the papers and looked carefully at the seal.

“I see that there is some shred of honesty in you, Lord Goodman,” he said, proceeding to tear it away.

“Lord Cathair –”

“You know well that there is work to do,” Cathair answered him. “Do not waste my time with your petty endearments.”

“Then do not you waste mine with your accusations of treachery,” Eamon retorted.

Cathair looked sharply at him.

“You are too bold, Goodman.” Something in his voice made Eamon fall very still. “Should your allegiance ever be shown to be against the Master, know that I will make you pay for every word that you have ever uttered. There are certain parts of my learning, Goodman, that cannot be understood unless you experience them for yourself,” he added with a long smile.

“Then I fear that I will always remain ignorant of the full extent of your greatness, Lord Cathair.”

Cathair did not answer him. His eyes ran hungrily over the paper, which he held in such a way that Eamon could never hope to see what was written there. As Cathair read, one of his dogs came to him. The Hand rested a palm on the beast's head.

“Lord Goodman, I have had a small office set up for you,” Cathair said at last, “and I have a matter of great importance for you to attend to.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“The port waterfront is a vital part of the West Quarter's jurisdiction,” Cathair told him. His eyes took on a melodramatic, sarcastic sheen. “The storehouses must be counted and the ships inspected before the start of the trading season reaches us in force. Most importantly of all, the main roads must be resurfaced, all according to regulation, of course. It is, as I am sure you will agree, a desperately important role, which can only be entrusted to a man of
quality
.”

Eamon matched his gaze. The overseeing of port and waterfront maintenance was a role normally given to lieutenants in the North and West Quarters. Eamon was fairly sure that Lieutenant Best had been in charge the previous year and seemed to recall the man giving account of how he had hated every minute of the assignment. His hatred had been alleviated only by knowledge of the fact that, in being assigned to the port, he had avoided being assigned to the sewers.

Lord Cathair intended to give him as crushing and humiliating a role as he could. Eamon refused to be deterred.

“It is an especially important task,” he agreed.

“I am
so
glad that you see it as I do,” Cathair answered. “I've had the regulations taken down to your study so that you can look at them before you begin work. I've taken the liberty of sending some notice to Captain Waite on your behalf, to put together a team of workers for you. You can collect them tomorrow and begin taking up the old stones.”

“Yes, Lord Cathair,” Eamon said. “Thank you.”

“No, no, Lord Goodman,” Cathair answered with a grand smile. “Thank
you
.”

 

One of Cathair's servants showed him to his “study”. Eamon was not surprised that the servant led him first into a hall and then to a small, dusty side corridor, then to a short, and not entirely stable, wooden staircase that led down into what seemed to be a small cellar. The air was dank and musty, and the stones crumbled underfoot. A large wooden door, such as might be found in a barn, was set in the wall and led outside – cracks of light passed through it. Mice scurried in the corners and, beyond the door, horses stamped. Eamon smelled their dung. He suspected he was in one of the series of servants' rooms below the main part of the Hands' Hall.

The room had a small table and chair, as well as a lopsided candle. There was a fireplace to one side, thickly blackened. When Eamon went to inspect it he wondered how many decades it had been since the place was last used. The table bore a thick volume, its edges frayed; he couldn't even make out a title on the dull cover.

The tattered state of the book's bindings spoke eloquently as to its age and the extent of its use. On looking at the first few pages he saw outlines of the rules and regulations to be followed in the setting down, and taking up, of roads in the city, with long sections of maps and illustrations.

He set the book down and looked around the room. Clearly Cathair had not taken well to the Right Hand's choice of his assistant.

“Is that all, Lord Goodman?” the servant's voice sounded in the empty room. Eamon drew his eyes from the tome.

“Thank you, yes.”

The servant nodded and hurried quickly away, his footsteps soon fading into silence.

Eamon surveyed the room again. The situation was a little ridiculous, but if it was how Cathair wanted to begin, then it was how they would begin. He had nothing to lose.

Slowly, he sat. The chair felt unstable, and was more than a little uncomfortable. Pulling his hood over his head in an attempt to block out the sound and smell of the horses and singing stablehands, he drew the lit candle closer to him and began studying the book.

C
HAPTER
IX

W
hen Eamon finally emerged from his new lair, stiff and bleary-eyed, he bumped into Ladomer. Amused by Eamon's apparent disorientation, his friend raised an eyebrow.

“Cathair?” Ladomer asked.

“Cathair,” Eamon answered, and they laughed. One word had been enough.

Eamon slept fitfully that night. Waking, the banner of the throned stared eerily back at him in the moonlight and, sleeping, it was Mathaiah's pale face. The young man's words went round his mind countless times – he could not comprehend the love and respect and joy that had been in them. He would take the message to Lillabeth – but would rather be present to see Mathaiah deliver it himself. He wrestled with how to free the young man, but no viable plan came to him.

The next morning was the first day of March and he rose early. Mindful of Cathair's instructions he made his way down to the West Quarter College, arriving just as Waite's morning parade was filing out of the yard to its duties. As Eamon entered, the captain greeted him.

“Lord Goodman.” He took Eamon's hand and clasped it warmly. “I heard all about it,” Waite added, smiling. “You've made us all very proud.”

“Thank you,” Eamon answered. He watched the last cadets leaving the courtyard, then looked back to Waite. “Lord Cathair told me that he had sent you a message –”

“Yes.” Waite's face seemed to darken a little, but the look passed. “I've gathered the men he asked for. They'll be in the entrance hall for you in a few minutes.”

“Thank you, captain.”

Waite offered him an apologetic smile.

Eamon was therefore not surprised to find his digging contingent composed of the Third Banner cadets. The young men waited merrily in the hall, chatting happily to one another. When they saw Eamon they broke into spontaneous applause.

“Lord Goodman!”

“Show a little restraint, gentlemen!” Waite called, though the attempt was half-hearted.

“I'm sure the work I have for them will restrain them well enough, captain,” Eamon answered.

“We'll be working for you?” A young face – Cadet Barde – spoke the common question.

“Yes, though I'm afraid you won't be needing your swords today. Please go and ransack the college tool store,” Eamon added loudly. “I want each of you back here in two minutes, armed with something fit to carve up a road.”

The cadets looked at him in surprise for a moment, but then Manners beamed.

“His glory, Lord Goodman!” he cried, and the others followed suit before the cadets filed out of the hall. Eamon watched them and laughed quietly.

“They're good lads,” Waite said. He looked at Eamon with a peculiarly paternal face. “They're glad you came back. So am I.”

Eamon didn't know how to answer, but nodded, accepting the compliment. As he did so a thought crossed his mind. “What became of the others?” he asked quietly.

“Others?”

“The ones… the ones who were killed in the line.” Eamon remembered the first man from the decimation line falling, his blood red at his breast beneath the dark swathe of the Hand's strike.

“Their bodies were thrown to the pyre.”

Eamon stared. The man's face was deliberately nondescript. “Pyre?” he repeated dumbly.

“Died in dishonour, Lord Goodman. No better than snakes.”

“What were their names?”

“Morell, Yarrow, and Doublen,” Waite answered. “Two were quarter militia. Mr Morell was a West Quarter cadet.”

“And they went to the pyre?”

Waite nodded.

Eamon gulped back nauseating anger as the Third Banner cadets poured back into the hall, carrying picks and shovels. Men of his had been sent to the pyre like criminals or the diseased, like the victims of the cull. He seethed with anger.

The cadets formed a neat line before him, giving him a formal salute. Driving down his ire, Eamon addressed them.

“Gentlemen, today you shall be having a little bit of sea air. They tell me that it's terribly good for the constitution.”

As the cadets grinned back at him Eamon felt a strange swell of emotion. These men did not seem to care what they did; their joy came from serving him, the man who had saved their lives. Their merry eagerness poured burning coals on Cathair and his petty strike at all their honours.