The King's Hand (43 page)

“Of course.”

There was a brief silence. “I must speak with Captain Waite,” Cathair told him, and smiled. “Good day to you, Lord Goodman.”

“And to you, Lord Cathair.”

Eamon watched the Hand as he left the hall and made his way towards the captain. With Cathair no longer at his side, his breath returned to him and his mind churned through what he had heard.

The place where Ede had fallen had been reclaimed for the house of Brenuin. Surely the throned, and his Hands, had been shaken by the symbolic significance of that loss? Surely they could not overlook the strategic loss that the fall of Edesfield signalled for Dunthruik? Hughan would, even now, be making his final plans to come against the city. Eamon shivered. When the Master made his plans against the King, Eamon would be present to hear them.

When the King came, and the Master met him with the Nightholt…

Eamon realized with a horrifying lurch that he had never once mentioned the book to Hughan. He had held it in his own hands, he had delivered it to the throned's closest… and, when speaking to Hughan at his camp, he had never once thought to speak of it. Perhaps he had been too ashamed.

Mathaiah spoke of it, Eamon.

The thought ran through him and calmed him. Of course Mathaiah had sent word of the book. But Mathaiah had known no more about it than Eamon, and the King had no way of knowing that Mathaiah had lost his life because of the Master's book. If he was to send news to Hughan, Eamon realized, then he had to send word of the Nightholt. And yet, what good would it be for him to send word, if he had no word other than “Nightholt” to send?

He looked up and saw Cathair finishing his conversation with Waite. The captain bowed and Cathair turned to move away. As he strode on, Cathair sang. The tune was that of a popular ballad, but Eamon did not recognize the words. He imagined at once that they were some extracts from one of Cathair's favourite, and long-studied, volumes of poetry.

With the force of lightning the thought pierced him.
Poetry
. Eamon had an entire library – and one that Cathair envied – at his disposal. Surely he could find something, one single thing, in that library that would help him to understand the book that so emboldened the throned and threatened the King?

It was then that he heard footsteps approach.

“Ratbag!”

The name forced all thoughts of King, Nightholt, and library from his mind.

Ladomer stood by him, a thick collection of papers in his hands. His friend smiled broadly and Eamon wondered from where he had come.

“It was a great ceremony, wasn't it?” Ladomer enthused, laughing, then lowered his voice somewhat conspiratorially and continued: “I was checking the list of markees against the list of expected cadets. Did you know that two of them didn't get sworn in? Apparently the bloody idiots got themselves into a fight last night after your do.” Eamon's blood chilled. He stared at Ladomer. “Quite your style, you'll be pleased to hear; I'm told it was over some woman. Didn't even manage to leave the East Quarter! Must have been the wine – evidently it was too good for their kind.” Ladomer shook his head as though he found the whole thing deeply amusing. “Anyway, they made absolute idiots of themselves and Waite has remanded them. They've been thrown into the college brig and had black marks set against their records. There'll be no swearing-in for either of them until they're old and grey, unless they break the Serpent's neck themselves!” Ladomer laughed again. “Can you imagine it, Ratbag? Over a woman! Glad you weren't privy to such fits of hot-blooded rage when you were a cadet, otherwise where would we be now? Slaving in Backwater. As it stands, your own womanizing streak seems to have served you well enough.”

“Mr Kentigern.”

Ladomer looked up in surprise. Eamon surprised himself, for his tone was impeccably formal. As Ladomer met his gaze, his eyes narrowed. Eamon drew a deep breath.

“When you address me, Mr Kentigern, you will remember that I am the Lord of the East Quarter, and favoured by the Master. You will remember that this station is above your own. There is no glory for the Master in the despicable behaviour of cadets and there is nothing amusing in bandying round stories of their dishonour. If you wish to speak to me frankly you will do so in private, and even there you will treat me with deference befitting the position that I, by the Master's grace and glory, have attained.”

Ladomer gaped. It grieved Eamon to speak such words: Ladomer was, first and foremost, his friend. But Dunthruik was too dangerous a place for Ladomer to speak as he did. Surely his friend knew that?

The Right Hand's lieutenant rounded on him balefully.

“I understand,” he snapped, his voice thick with injury and betrayal. “You're the Hand, and I'm the worm unworthy of you. Give me a moment to hurl myself down in the mud so that I can writhe and grovel before you, since that's what you want.”

“It's not what I want.”

Ladomer laughed bitterly. “That's right, take the moral high ground. You're better than me, after all – we've established that. And our years together in Edesfield – well, they can just be brushed away, can't they?”

“Ladomer,” Eamon breathed, “this isn't Edesfield. And we've changed.”

“Maybe you have, Goodman.”

Eamon regained himself. “You will henceforth be mindful to address me by my title, Mr Kentigern,” he said firmly, “and you will not speak of these cadets as you have done. Their dishonour brings dishonour to Captain Waite, Lord Cathair, and to the Master.”

Ladomer bowed low, his hands shaking slightly. “Yes, Lord Goodman.”

“Convey my warmest regards to Lord Arlaith,” Eamon said.

“I will do so,
Lord Goodman
,” Ladomer answered stiffly. Rising, but not once meeting Eamon's gaze, he left the hall.

When Eamon returned to the East Quarter it was to find a pale-faced Anderas, a collection of dispatches clutched in his hand. They were from Lord Cathair.

 

Eamon ate little and alone that evening, making his study his dining room and the sound of the trees beyond his window his company.

Once he had finished he went through the papers on his desk, sorting them into small piles to wait for him in the morning. The rustling of the parchment filled his hearing, though not his thought. That was filled, over and again, with the fall of Edesfield, the faces of the cadets who had sworn, the bitter look on Ladomer's face – the look of a wounded heart. Eamon rued what he had had to do. For years uncounted, Ladomer had been a man with whom Eamon had divided his hopes and fears. Now, Dunthruik had divided them. Ladomer was wrong: the city had changed them both.

Tears stung his eyes and he tried to press them away. He had lost Mathaiah. Was he to lose Ladomer, too?

He looked up, forcing his eyes to focus instead on the dimmed forms in his study. The long bookshelves, filled with parchment and closely bound volumes, looked back at him. The flicker of the lamplight made him remember the tracts of darkness in the tunnels of Ellenswell.

Startled by the memory, he reached to where he had once borne the heart of the King, but it resided there no longer. Instead he touched the clasp of his cloak. It was cold.

He remembered the feeling of the papers in his hands the last time he saw Mathaiah. Some of them had borne the same writing as marked the Hands' Hall and the Nightholt itself. He felt sure that Mathaiah had been kept to read and interpret those symbols. But why should the Hands force him to do such? Why should they need to make Mathaiah read it?

Was it possible that they – Cathair and Ashway, Dehelt and Tramist, Lord Arlaith and the Master himself – could
not
read it? Why would the Hands have needed Mathaiah if they could read the Nightholt? What could be written in that book that they could not read and yet desired so ardently to know? What power would the throned have once he gained what he desired?

But the throned already had the Nightholt. Eamon had himself delivered it to Cathair and Ashway's hands. The Nightholt had gone to the Master. Surely that was why Hughan's increasing strength did not concern him.

But what
was
the Nightholt?

Shaking, Eamon looked back to the shelves, to the spines and scrolls. Each intimidated him in the odd light. At least one of them had to hold something about the Nightholt – some reference, however veiled. He swallowed as he stared at the volumes. The tomes would hold their secrets, and would hold them well. Even a bookbinder's son would struggle to go through as many books as were there – especially when that same man was also the Lord of the East Quarter, weighed down with the duties of his office.

Where could he begin? Eamon knew that several years would not suffice to read every book – but he also knew that he likely did not need to read every book – one well-placed one would do. But which one? Perhaps, if he had thought to ask it, Lord Ashway might have answered him his question. But he could not turn to Ashway. The best-read man in Dunthruik appeared to be Lord Cathair – and Eamon could not go to him.

Thought of the Lord of the West Quarter brought to Eamon's mind a memory of one of the many occasions on which Cathair had spoken in verse. He had challenged Eamon to place the citation, and Eamon had been unable to. He remembered the amused and mocking expression that had passed over the Hand's face:

“
You are a man of little learning, Mr Goodman! Perhaps you should ask Cadet Overbrook; he has the look of a scholar to him.
”

Eamon drew a deep breath. He had asked Overbrook. He had given the quotation to the young man – ill with the winter fever – hoping that the search for the words would help to stave off his grim illness. It had done so – and Overbrook had found the quotation's source.

Suddenly, Eamon laughed. Cathair would never know it, but by his baiting of so long ago, Dunthruik's Raven had inadvertently brought to Eamon the answer to a question that he could never have dared to ask.

Eamon set down his papers and approached Ashway's shelves. Slowly, he scanned the titles, looking for one in particular. He knew that it was there; in fact, he had seen several copies in varying editions when he had scoured the shelves, seeking gifts to mollify his erstwhile mentor. Finding the shelves dim he brought his lamp across, setting it on a nearby stool as he continued in his search. He pulled one or two books out to glance through their dusty pages before setting them back and gazing back up at the numerous shelves. Where had he seen it? He sighed with frustration.

He knew nothing that the other Hands knew, and he knew nothing of what had driven Edelred to take the throne from Ede. He knew nothing of the fall of the city that had become Dunthruik except those things that the strange, unpredictable – and uncontrollable – visions had sometimes shown him.

His eyes fell on several thick, frailly bound volumes. He drew the most sturdy-looking one out and flicked through its pages.

It was what he sought.

Relieved, he tucked the book under his arm and settled matters at his desk before leaving his office and climbing the lit stairwell to his room. A small fire had been set for him and there was a lamp at his bedside. The lamp was already lit, and Eamon set the book down on his bed while he changed, putting aside the trappings of his office and drawing on a comfortable night-shirt. Climbing carefully between his covers, he settled back on the cushions and drew up his knees. Against them he rested the back of the book. As he opened it, the book's bindings cracked ominously. He persevered. After all, if the bindings broke he could mend them. He turned to the first page.

If there was any book in the whole of Dunthruik's canon that would speak of the Nightholt, then it had to be this one.

Setting his head comfortably on the pillows and arranging the lamp so that it shed as much light as was possible over the delicate pages, Eamon drew a deep breath and read:

And in the tide of later days
These words shall live, and rend him praise.

 

The book he had taken from Ashway's library was a copy of the Edelred Cycle.

 

Two weeks passed. As March closed and April began, the very last heavy rains pelted across the city from the coast, moving north and inland. Eamon wondered whether the same dark clouds and rains would cover the towers of Istanaria, far away in the Land of the Seven Sons, or wash over the men who served the King in Edesfield, or in whatever hidden valley Hughan now made his home. The thought was a strange one. The city became fretted with incoming Gauntlet groups, each one looking harried, and regional Hands came with them. The war was worsening.

As Eamon's reputation in the East Quarter grew and grew, he found that his own love for the place did also. He was greeted with smiles wherever he went, and, as with the servants in his own household, the smiles of the people in the streets where he walked grew less fearful. Perhaps the people were growing to love him, too.

He inspected the work done by the architects on the most derelict buildings and watched proudly as the families from Tailor's Turn were put into new homes. The little girl, Ellen, had thanked him, almost flinging her arms about him as she bubbled about what it had been like to live in the caves and how delighted she was with where she was going to live. Where once Eamon imagined that the onlookers would have feared for her safety, now, as he crouched down to speak to her, they smiled.

The little girl at last paused to draw breath.

“So, you like your new home?” Eamon asked her.

The little girl laughed. “Yes! The caves were comfortable, but there were some really
horrid
spiders in the dark corner.”

“You don't like spiders?”

“No, but it was all right – Strong-arm scared them all away.”

“I am glad of it,” Eamon answered with a smile. He had learned that, since the collapse of the building in Tailor's Turn, the young man who had helped him to cross the fallen stones had kept the name that Eamon had given him. It touched him deeply.