The King's Hand (44 page)

Ellen paused thoughtfully, then looked up. “Now that we have somewhere to live, do you want me to bring your cloak back?”

“Has it been put to good use?”

“Mrs Turrell used it as a blanket most nights. It was cold in the caves, but she said it kept her warm!”

“Well then, tell Mrs Turrell that she may keep it, and I hope that it will keep her warm for many a night to come. When it gets too threadbare for that, it will make fine curtain patches.”

Ellen grinned. “I'll tell her, sir!”

As the days went by, Eamon grew increasingly accustomed to his duties. In the evenings he made slow progress with his reading. Often he fell asleep before he could read more than two or three pages, but each night, despite the heaviness of his eyes, he pressed himself to read on.

Despite Cathair's jibes he continued to ride early every morning with Anderas. The captain assured him that the sore muscles that burned the length of his entire legs were sure evidence that the extended practice was doing him good. Indeed, Eamon soon found that his legs stopped aching quite so much, and he was occasionally able to match his captain's speed – though never his grace – as they rode on the city plains. When he had a spare hour in the afternoons he often practised swordplay with the Hands of the Quarter, and was pleased to see them improving. He was especially pleased when Heathlode was able to parry several quick blows in succession.

“Your hand is improving, Lord Heathlode,” Eamon told him.

“Thanks no doubt only to your own patience, Lord Goodman,” a panting Heathlode replied.

“I am sure you are a skilled man of your own accord.”

“Not really, Lord Goodman.”

“Lord Heathlode is incurably modest, Lord Goodman,” Lord Brettal interjected. “What he hasn't told you is that he is a fearsome dreamer, and Lord Ashway thought that he might have traces of a seer in him.”

“Skills of great importance, Lord Heathlode,” Eamon said. The Hand beamed to receive his praise while Eamon buried the wince of a burdened heart.

Eamon came to see more of the servants in his household. Even Slater grew more open with him. The man was sometimes drawn into conversation, and when Eamon had to be consulted on household matters Slater no longer looked terrified to discuss them with him. After hearing that several of the younger servants, Callum included, longed to see the stables, Eamon arranged for them to spend a few days with the stablehands, learning their trades. He often saw Cara in the evenings, for she had charge of his room, clothes, and linens. He made sure to thank her for that, for they were all in excellent condition.

Marilio Bellis was assigned to the kitchens, and Slater, when asked, reported that the chief cook came from a village very near to Marilio's own. The two men often spent whole days discussing the best way of preparing various dishes and, in the days after Marilio's arrival, Eamon found that his meals became steadily more varied and adventurous. Sometimes he went down to the kitchens himself to ask a few questions as to how the food was prepared. Though both Cook and Marilio were nervous to start, they soon warmed to the idea, and Eamon was able to spend some time hearing the two men trade ideas on the best ways to balance flavours and prepare different dishes. He especially enjoyed learning how to fillet fish and cook snails, and was ridiculously pleased when the two cooks encouraged him to try his hand at the preparations for both. He discovered then that he was far better at eating food than cooking it.

Wilhelm Bellis proved a very able cadet and integrated swiftly into life with the other new recruits. According to Greenwood, the young man expressed an interest in being considered for transfer to one of the surgeon-training units after he completed his cadet training. Sometimes Eamon caught the cadets drilling or studying at the college; when he did, he often made the time to encourage them as they ran the course.

As far as Eamon could tell, the East Quarter was quietly flourishing. Eamon saw people with bread on their tables and roofs under which to set them. There was still crime and corruption, and every night the Gauntlet brought in more suspected wayfarers, and every morning heavily laden carts ran along the stony road to the North Gate and the steady pyres. But the requests for exit papers from the quarter shrank and Eamon found himself with several entry papers from other quarters during the course of a week. He could not sanction them all – the city was filling with captains, officers, and men from other regions, and the East was housing its fair share of them.

One evening Eamon watched the latest column of arriving soldiers pass down Coronet Rise. Anderas was with him. The captain shook his head.

“The war does not go well, Lord Goodman.”

“Such is indeed the case, if we can judge it by the men,” Eamon told him. News of the loss of Edesfield had gone out, and Eamon had seen some of the ensigns and officers who came from more distant regions. Many bore grim or haunted looks, and tales of bitter skirmishes and battles were to be heard, whispered in the quarter colleges.

“I do not judge it from the men, my lord,” Anderas answered. “I judge it from their colours.”

Eamon looked at him curiously. “Their colours?”

“Apart from the men withdrawing here because they must, during the last two weeks, the city has received additional men from only twenty-five regions,” Anderas explained.

Eamon raised an eyebrow. “You've counted?” he asked incredulously. The River Realm had thirty-one provinces, in which number the city of Dunthruik was counted as one.

“Yes. Even
Larkbury
Province managed to send one hundred men. But from the Tallendor, Tungol, Escherbruck, Waldeburg, and Arudia regions?” He shook his head as he numbered the provinces off on his hand. “From them we have not received a man.”

Eamon breathed deeply and looked back to the lines. Most of the men arriving in the city had, notwithstanding the loss of Edesfield, managed to reach it by River. It had kept them more or less out of the clutches of the wayfarer and Easter forces, all of which still seemed land-bound. The five missing provinces were the southernmost regions of the River Realm, with little or difficult access to the River and its tributaries. Eamon suspected that, if the regions had not sent men, it was because Hughan and his allies had impeded them.

“Things would be bad enough if our losses were restricted to the south. But it isn't just the southern regions. Since the Easter incursion over the borders before the winter, the east has been hard-pressed, and the provinces of the West Bank fare little better. The north has been ill-secured for some time – we saw that at Pinewood. I fear, my lord,” he added quietly, “that, for all our valour, Dunthruik is swift becoming our last outpost. Trouble has been brewing all the winter long – now, it nears our gates.”

Eamon agreed. But if the city of Dunthruik knew how near to its own walls danger pressed, such knowledge did not dampen the mood of the majesty celebration which was held that week. The Master appeared at the balcony and the crowds hailed him uproariously, ravenously.

He could not read that night.

 

After the incident which led to Cadet Manners missing his swearing, he was sentenced to fifteen days in the West Quarter brig. Upon conclusion of this punishment he was assigned, at Cathair's insistence, to heavy manual labour in the port. So as not to draw undue attention to himself, Eamon waited until Manners' release to have Greenwood arrange a meeting with Manners for him. This request was still somewhat unconventional, but not entirely without precedent, for though Manners no longer served under Eamon's authority, the incident in question occurred in the East Quarter under Eamon's jurisdiction. Eamon therefore held the legal right to question Manners on his conduct.

Greenwood arranged for Manners to be brought to the East Quarter to give account. Eamon noted that the cadet's arms and face looked red from the sun, while his arms seemed more muscular than before. But he looked content.

“I know that you have told your story before, Mr Manners, but I would hear it for my own quarter's records,” Eamon told him. A scribe sat with them to make notes of the interview.

“There is little to tell, Lord Goodman. My judgment was somewhat impeded by the excellent wine in which I had overindulged that evening. When Cadet Plier and I passed the Crown Inn, we became involved in a brawl over a woman.”

Eamon found that difficult to believe. “You did not seem terribly drunken when I spoke with you.”

“I fear that I hid it well enough from you, my lord,” Manners answered. “Beyond your presence, I lost any restraining sense. I understand that when I was arrested in my altered state, I spoke in a shameful and disrespecting manner of the Gauntlet, struck the lieutenant who sought to restrain me, and spoke exceedingly ill, I believe, of Lord Cathair.” Manners kept his face quite calm as he spoke. Eamon wondered at it.

“What exactly did you say, Mr Manners?” he pressed.

“I am afraid I have very little memory of that, Lord Goodman.”

Eamon thought this a touch too convenient. “Speaking ill of a Hand carries hefty penalties. It seems that you were fortunate to be assigned to the port.”

“Work on the sewers finished early this year,” Manners answered, with the slightest trace of a smile.

Their gazes met. “I am very sorry that you were not sworn in, Mr Manners,” Eamon said quietly, “and will not hide from you that you are unlikely to receive that honour for the foreseeable future, unless you distinguish yourself.”

Manners nodded. “Yes, Lord Goodman,” he replied steadily.

Eamon thanked him for the interview and then dismissed him back to his work.

 

During the second week of April, Slater bustled busily into his office. Eamon was surprised by the man's unwonted forwardness.

“Mr Slater?” he asked.

“My lord,” Slater answered, bowing low, “Mr Montano is here.”

“Mr Montano?” Eamon repeated the name, feeling sure that he had heard it before, and that he should show some familiarity with it. At a loss, he met the servant's gaze. “I am sorry, Mr Slater, this is an appointment which I appear to have forgotten…”

“We spoke of him yesterday, my lord,” Slater answered. Eamon shook his head blankly. “The Master's painter. He has come for your inaugural
portrait
, my lord.”

“Oh.”

Eamon proceeded to spend much of that morning (and of several other mornings that week) sitting in an august chair in front of a deep red curtain, dressed in his finest robes and doing his best to hold still while the greatest painter in Dunthruik took his details and set them on canvas. It was an agonizing experience, and Eamon felt uncomfortable beneath the painter's scrutinizing gaze, which drilled into every part of him. As the brush and oils moved on the thick material, Eamon's skin tingled.

Slater often popped in to judge the progress, and Eamon was able to chart the success of the painting in the servant's face as it lit and fell during Montano's work.

“Are you fond of art, Mr Slater?” Eamon asked.

“Yes, my lord.” The man's enthusiasm was wonderful to hear, and though Eamon was forbidden to see the painting between sittings, Slater assured him that it would be worth the wait.

One morning Anderas came by to update Eamon on a couple of developments in the college. His report was crisply delivered, and once he had finished, he stayed for a few moments to watch the artist work. Eamon caught the occasional glimpse of him as he stood, just beyond the easel, with a broad smile on his face.

“It's a good likeness, my lord,” he said. “He has your eyes just right.”

Eamon would have answered, but felt that too much movement would not be helpful. He could not even frown. Anderas noted his expression and grinned. “Would you like me to go and smirk elsewhere, my lord?”

“If you wouldn't mind, captain.”

“You must be
still
, Lord Goodman!” cried the paint-smeared artist in frustration.

Eamon apologized, but it made the situation worse. Laughing, Anderas absented himself.

It took some time before the painting was done, though even Eamon had to agree with Anderas's assessment when he finally saw it officially hung in his hall. It seemed strange to him, to see himself robed in black and bearing the marks of the throned's favour. It seemed strangest of all because it no longer frightened him: the Hand in the painting was not the Master's, but the King's.

C
HAPTER
XXIV

I
t was mid-April. Having finished his morning's work, Eamon decided to leave the Handquarters behind him and take a stroll through the quarter. It was a habit to which he was more and more accustomed, and the people of the East Quarter no longer looked at him in surprise or alarm when they saw him in the streets.

He took one of the smaller roads that ran parallel with Coronet Rise. At one end it curved and struck across to the North Quarter, but Eamon did not follow it that far. Instead, he followed it round into some of the quieter roads, pausing every now and then to look at the wares that were on sale. He never lingered too long, for it made some shopkeepers uncomfortable. When he paused to look at the rich fabrics on display in Draper's Way, he remembered the small shop where he and Mathaiah had bought the colours of the King. He looked again at the myriad colours that decked the whole road. Blue cloth could be found almost nowhere in the streets of Dunthruik.

“Does it please you, my lord?”

Eamon looked up to see a seamstress watching him as he held a fabric pensively in his hand.

“It is beautiful,” he answered truthfully.

“Please do take it,” she told him, beginning to unwind the fabric from its reel. “A gift for you, my lord –”

“No, good lady,” Eamon replied with a laugh. “I need no gifts. This quarter's livelihood depends on the services of those who work in it. Sell this fine cloth, and feed your family.”