The King's Hand (46 page)

 

It was dark. Eamon felt sweat on his hands and brow and he clutched at the covers, searching for proof that he was awake. The Edelred Cycle lay at his side, its pages crumpled where he had crushed them in his sleep. His heart pounded in his breast as he struggled to bring his mind back to the bed, the window, the evening breeze, the shape of the book by him – to anything but the nightmarish plain.

It had not been Hughan. He repeated it to himself again and again. It had not been Hughan.

Hunger before the sword, Eben's son.
The voice was there and his pulse quickened in panic.
Hunger before the sword
.
It is no less than they deserve, and when they die their blood will be on you, their beloved Hand. For when the Serpent comes and takes their wretched lives, they will see that you betrayed them to him.

Eamon sat upright on the bed and shook his head. His stomach was knotted. It was not true.

And yet there was truth to it. Hughan would come soon. The King would have little choice but to lay siege to the city, and then the people of the East Quarter would starve and die. Then the ensigns and cadets, his own men, would be sent out of the city gates to face the claws of the King's men.

Eamon.
The terrible vision faded away as the gentle word touched his heart.
Eamon, your heart is for the people of this city. So is the King's. Keep hold of your heart and use your courage, First Knight.

He breathed deeply. He would only have betrayed the people he loved if he did nothing. He had done much in the quarter – but not yet enough.

A short while later, as he set his cloak about his shoulders once more, there was a knock at the door.

“Come,” he called. The door opened and Eamon looked up to see Slater. “Mr Slater.”

“I am very sorry to disturb you, Lord Goodman. Cara told me that you were resting. I would not have come if it had not been important.”

“I know. Thank you, Mr Slater.”

“A messenger has come for you, Lord Goodman,” Slater continued. “He comes from the Right Hand.”

Eamon looked at him for a moment in surprise. “Please let him know that I shall be there directly,” he answered. Slater bowed in acknowledgment and quietly left the room. After taking a few moments more to compose himself, Eamon followed him.

A pale-faced messenger waited for him in his hall. Eamon was not surprised to learn that the Quarter Hands had been summoned to see the Master.

 

The palace seemed strange to him as he followed through its halls, walking ever towards the throne room. His mind whirled.

He met Dehelt in the corridor. The Lord of the North Quarter greeted him cordially.

“Lord Goodman.”

“Lord Dehelt,” Eamon replied, and took a moment to take the man in a little better. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man who reminded Eamon a little of Giles. His hair was tawny and he wore his black robes with an easy grace. It occurred to Eamon that he knew surprisingly little about the two Hands who had charge of the quarters bordering his own, and even less about what they knew or thought of him.

“You are well?” he asked.

“Thank you, yes,” Dehelt replied. He seemed a quiet man, but it was a daunting kind of quiet. “Your riding improves, I trust?”

“Yes,” Eamon replied, feeling a little discomfort. Though he had not realized it, it now seemed perfectly logical to him that he would be visible to the Lord of the North Quarter when he rode out of the North Gate. He would be sure to remember it. “Considerably.”

“I am pleased to hear it.”

They reached the passage near the throne room, where Cathair and Tramist already waited. They spoke quietly together, and as they approached, Tramist shot Eamon a scathing look. He steeled himself against it, and instead presented both Hands with a warm smile.

“My lords,” he said, though he did not bow.

“Ah, Lord Goodman! I am so glad to see that your habit of appearing without your due attire is dispensed with for such occasions,” Cathair said jovially, though Eamon detected stark disapproval.

“I am Lord of the East Quarter, Lord Cathair,” Eamon replied, “and I retain that position whether I am recognizable by robe or not.”

“It seems
Ensign
Curtis learned that to his own cost this afternoon,” Dehelt commented.

“Gentlemen,” said a voice: the Right Hand's. They had not seen him approach. Eamon at once joined the other Hands in bowing before him. “Let us go in.”

The Master waited for them – no less resplendent or imposing in his robes than ever – and Eamon at once felt the power of the grey stare on him. He matched pace with the other Hands and bowed low with them before the Master.

“Your glory, Master,” the Right Hand said.

“Rise,” the throned commanded. They did so, and the Master spoke.

“The Serpent has taken much of the River Realm,” he said, “and he comes here.” The grey gaze followed Eamon. “But we will be ready. His house will be crushed, and you, my Hands, will be there to see me put it to the sword.”

A horrified shiver ran down Eamon's spine as he thought of Hughan coming within this man's grasp. Surely the King would be torn, disembowelled, and set in grisly triumph upon the Blind Gate, where his broken body would be exulted over by these men…

Eamon met the Master's gaze, and saw him smile. What other outcome could there be? He was foolish to question the matter. What was the house of Brenuin before the Lord of Dunthruik?

Courage, Eamon.

The other Hands watched him from the corners of their eyes. His vivid thoughts faded and he drew his mind back to the Master's words.

As he had thought, the presence of more and more Gauntlet in the city was preparative against an expected strike. The throned knew that Hughan would come and knew that Dunthruik would be the place where the last battle was fought. The quarter colleges were to be set to harsher drills and the thresholders were to be named so that, should a final defence of the city become necessary, they would know their places. Any man suspected of aiding, abetting, or sympathizing with the Serpent was to be sent to the pyre without question.

The Master looked at Eamon with peculiar emphasis. “There will be no more acquittals.”

Eamon felt the eyes heavy on him. The Master knew about Fort: the words were for him. He bowed his head, giving his assent to the command along with the other Hands.

“This is my will,” the throned said at last. “See it done.”

“To your glory,” the Hands answered, and rose to their feet. Eamon rose with them and bowed, preparing to leave with the others. Then he heard the terrifying voice speak his name.

“Son of Eben, you will stay.”

Eamon looked up, then almost laughed to see that the other Hands seemed more alarmed by this prospect than he was. The Right Hand drew breath as though to speak, but the Master smiled and stole it from him.

“You will go, Lord Arlaith.”

“Your will and glory, Master,” the Right Hand answered, and bowed.

Eamon stood before the throned, matching his gaze as the sound of the other Hands receded behind them. The Master smiled at him wryly, as though enjoying the awkwardness of the situation he had created – perhaps, Eamon mused, because he had created it and he would undo it, or not, as it suited him.

He swallowed in a dry throat, heard the throne room's doors closing behind him, and bowed down to one knee before the Master.

“How may I serve you, Master?”

“You serve me, Eben's son, with a boldness that my Hands envy,” the throned answered. An indulgent smile played about his lips.

“Is it to your glory and pleasure?” Eamon dared.

“Yes, Eben's son. It is.”

It was terrifying praise to receive.

“Then until you deem otherwise, I shall continue as I have begun, Master. My quarter sings your praise and that is how I would have it.”

“Continue as you do, Eben's son,” the throned told him, “and the East Quarter shall not be all that you will hold for me.”

Eamon looked up agog. The Master's face seemed immense before him, and his eyes held him with inescapable intimacy. It chilled him to his core, diminishing him to a vulnerable child to be praised or beaten as his deeds dictated. He was subjected to the whim of those terrible eyes…

“
To your awesome King alone
.” Memory of Mathaiah's song washed through him.

Drawing a deep breath he bowed his head down to his breast. “May I serve your glory, Master,” he said.

 

The following dawn he rode with Anderas as was routine. He had spent much of the night awake, unable to shake a deep sense of unease. He feared that Dunthruik would be besieged and that people who did not serve the throned, people who served the throned through fear, even those who served by choice, would never know the King because they would not live to see him come.

A siege would kill many, but as he lay gathered in his sheets he thought of a way that he could lessen what was to come to the people of the East Quarter.

As they went along the road that led back into the city, Eamon turned to his captain. He wondered how he might speak without arousing suspicion. And yet, was he not simply taking the simplest of precautions? Were they not the sort of precautions that only a lord of Dunthruik could lay in place?

“How many caves are there beneath the quarter?” he asked.

Anderas looked at him and was silent for a moment. Eamon marvelled that the man rarely seemed surprised by anything he said.

“Maybe a dozen,” the captain answered.

“Is there one near the Handquarters?”

“There is one beneath one of the college outbuildings,” Anderas told him.

“Is it large?”

“Reasonably so.”

“Is it well known?”

“Not beyond the officers of the quarter, though wild rumours of lost treasure in hidden caves predictably abound among the cadets from time to time.”

“The next grain ship comes in tomorrow.” Eamon knew he was thinking out loud, but in part he wanted Anderas to hear it.

“Yes. From the state of Etraia, I believe.”

Eamon nodded. It was one of the merchant states most loyal to the throned. A portion of the grain that the ship bore would already have been allocated by palace officials to go to the East Quarter, to be sold at the grain market.

“Mr Greenwood is on logistics duty tomorrow?” he asked. The quarter's logistics draybant had been having difficulty in keeping the college and quarter in order that week, and Greenwood had offered to assist by organizing the groups of ensigns that would collect the grain from the port when it came in.

“Mr Greenwood shall be marshalling our granarians, yes.”

“Captain,” Eamon said quietly, “have him acquire as close to all of it as he can for my private use.”

Anderas glanced at him and Eamon saw the reservation on the man's face. It would drive up the cost of grain in the quarter, and it would be known that Eamon had bought it. Eamon swallowed. The throned had congratulated him because the quarter praised him. Would they praise the work of Lord Goodman when it took food from their plates and money from their purses? Would the Master cast scorn on him? Would the people jeer and scowl…?

“Lord Goodman?”

“Have Draybant Greenwood go across to the port early tomorrow,” Eamon answered. “Let him take some trusted men. I want as much of the quarter's portion as can be feasibly taken removed and stored securely in the college cavern. I want the cavern guarded.”

Eamon matched Anderas's gaze. He saw the captain assess what he had said, piecing it together, and almost wanted Anderas to ask him why he commanded such things, so that he could explain it.

But Captain Anderas was no fool, and as the captain nodded Eamon knew that the man understood. “Yes, Lord Goodman.”

So it was that Eamon met Anderas, Greenwood, and several other ensigns and officers in the college grounds early the following morning. Greenwood and Anderas chose a small contingent of men to guard the cavern in watches. When Eamon arrived it was to find the last few sacks of grain being moved from a large wagon down into the cavern. The entrance lay behind a normal-looking door in what was the college storehouse.

Eamon gestured to Anderas, and the captain called a brief halt in the unloading, gathering the draybant, a lieutenant, and a unit of ensigns. As they assembled, Eamon turned quietly to Anderas.

“Did Mr Greenwood encounter any trouble?”

“No, my lord,” Anderas answered. “He took two-fifths of the quarter's allotment. The rest he sent on to logistics, as normal. This is the last of it.”

“Thank you.” Eamon waited for the men to be gathered before him. Some panted from the exertion of heaving the sacks, but the men were alert and attentive as he spoke.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “the first thing I must make absolutely clear to you all is how vital it is that this store is kept secret and safe. I want no word of it to be passed to your colleagues or families. It will go out, I am sure, that Lord Goodman is taking what is not his to take.”

He looked at them each in turn. He had thought very carefully about what he needed to say. “I asked Captain Anderas and Draybant Greenwood to choose the most trustworthy men in this college for this task. You are those men, and so I want you to know why this is being done. Not so that you can speak it out, nor so that you can indulge in fears and gossips that have no place in the Gauntlet, but so that you may perform your duties with stronger hearts.”

He surveyed the men before him and saw a row of faces that followed him utterly. He imagined that few of them would have dared to question him, and knew that the bond of silence he was asking them to keep would be kept.

“Gentlemen, a time may be coming when this city is besieged by the Serpent.” He saw a couple of the ensigns look at him uneasily and he understood why. The Gauntlet had always been taught that the Serpent was a scattered enemy, but recent news had given the whole city reason to believe otherwise. “If that day comes, the Gauntlet will be provisioned but the people of this quarter will not. If that day comes, I want the people of this quarter to live.