The King's Hand (49 page)

“You cannot be defending –”

“Jehim,” Mr Grennil said firmly.

His brother-in-law shrugged his shoulders. “We suffered under Lord Ashway, and we'll suffer under this one just the same,” he said viciously. “They don't care at all for the likes of us.”

“What do you think, Mr Tiller?” It was Neithan who asked it, and as he did, all eyes turned to Eamon. He set aside his bowl of soup, and looked carefully at those who watched him.

“Of the Lord of the East Quarter?” he asked.

“Yes,” Neithan nodded.

There was no way of avoiding the subject. Eamon paused for a moment, measuring his words carefully. “I think he's young,” he said.

A stunned silence fell on the room. Jehim and Mr Grennil stared openly at him.

“What do you mean?” Neithan asked.

“Just what I say,” Eamon replied.

“H-h-how old is he?” Neithan stammered.

“About my age,” Eamon answered him, “and so about ten years older than you. Not only is he young, but he has been promoted very swiftly indeed. That's to his credit, I'm sure,” he added, “just as I am sure that he would not have gone so far so fast if he were not skilled. But with that promotion goes responsibility that his shoulders are perhaps too young to fully bear.”

Neithan frowned and leaned forward as Eamon spoke.

“Your father, Neithan, is responsible for the safety of this family, for its care and well-being, for getting food to your table every night.” He paused and his voice grew passionate as he went on. “Lord Goodman is responsible for the entire East Quarter and a college full of cadets about your cousin's age. He is also responsible for many other ensigns, lieutenants, militia, and the Hands of the Quarter.

“Suppose for a moment that this city is attacked by the Serpent. What will happen then? The people of the East Quarter will go to Lord Goodman for leadership and support. But what if he has not made adequate preparations for the safety of this quarter?”

“People will die.”

“Yes,” Eamon answered. “People will die, and if he has not carried out his responsibilities as he must, Lord Goodman will bear their innocent blood on his hands.”

“Innocent blood never seemed to bother Lord Ashway,” Jehim sniffed. Eamon looked firmly at him.

“Lord Goodman is not like Lord Ashway.”

There was an odd, shocked silence.

Jehim looked at him strangely. His son leaned across the table.

“Do you know Lord Goodman?” Joel asked.

“I do,” Eamon replied.

“You are very bold, Mr Tiller,” Mrs Grennil said at last.

“You're not the first to tell me so,” Eamon answered. Seeing their shocked faces, he laughed and tried to relax a little. “I am sorry – I have worried you by speaking frankly,” he said. “I have said nothing to you that I have not said to Lord Goodman himself. He knows what I think of him, and he is content.”

“Well, all things considered,” Jehim said at last, “things are better under Lord Goodman than they were under Lord Ashway.” Eamon wondered if the man didn't look at him oddly as he spoke.

“So, he's a good man!” Neithan grinned at his joke, but Joel rolled his eyes.

“Well then, tell us a little about yourself, Mr Tiller,” Mrs Grennil added with a smile.

Eamon paused. “I am afraid there is little to tell, Mrs Grennil, but that I serve in this city and in this quarter. I count myself very fortunate in that.”

“Were you at Tailor's Turn when it collapsed?” Mr Grennil added.

“Yes, I was.”

“The Gauntlet did a fine job in rescuing the survivors.”

“My friend Ellen was there,” Damien said, “and she says that Lord Goodman was there, and she said that he rescued her!”

Mrs Grennil offered Eamon an apologetic smile. “Ellen is a very sweet girl,” she said. “She has a bit of an imagination.”

“We play together,” Damien added, “when Neithan doesn't get in the way.”

“I make them study,” Neithan interrupted, eager to rescue his sullied reputation. “They'd never do it otherwise.”

“They spend a lot of time building small shelters for the cats that live round here,” Joel added.

“Yesterday Joel helped us build a new one!” Damien enthused, his little eyes shining brightly. “He found some old wood and we fixed it all together and the cat even went in!”

“An aspiring carpenter, perhaps?” Eamon said with a smile.

“Like his father,” said Jehim's wife.

“Don't know if I want to be a carpenter,” Joel added. “Uncle has a better job, I think.”

“I work at the port,” Mr Grennil explained. “A big merchant ship came in two days ago, carrying a lot of grain, and wood too. Both bought up pretty quick. Loaded the same ship full of wines from the Raven estate. The captain was a strange man!” he laughed. “All dressed in these ridiculous purple breeches and in a shirt that was so thick you might think he'd come to port in December. Had a very self-important air – was from Calatia,” he added, as though that explained everything. “All a bit theatrical.”

“Do you like the theatre, Mr Tiller?” Mrs Grennil asked.

“My father took me sometimes, when I was about Damien's age,” Eamon answered. “I always enjoyed it very much.”

“You must go to the Crown Theatre,” said Mr Grennil. “It's an absolute masterpiece. Sometimes the Right Hand lets the theatre give performances for free. They're called ‘commoners' – I imagine because folk like us can go.”

“They're not a common occurrence,” his brother-in-law added wryly.

“It has been a while since we've had one,” Mr Grennil agreed.

Mrs Grennil had the two older boys collect up the empty bowls and brought a dish of fruit in their place, while the little girls and Damien fought over the last scraps of bread. In the end Neithan gathered all the remains together and divided them equally between the three. When the fruit was brought, the smallest girl sat back and declared that there was no room for it in her stomach. She was granted permission to leave the table and scurried off to the floor where the wooden toys – a collection of horses, dogs, and bears – lay discarded. Her sister and Damien soon followed her.

“I must congratulate you both on very lovely children,” Eamon said, looking to the two mothers at the table. Both women blushed a little, and thanked him.

Suddenly there was a knock on the door. Mrs Grennil rose to answer it.

“G-good evening,” she stammered with the breathless air of one startled and struggling to regain her composure.

“I'm terribly sorry to disturb you, madam,” said a voice. Eamon recognized it at once. Everyone in the room stood as the newcomer spoke again. “I understand that one Mr Tiller is your guest this evening?”

“Mr Tiller?” the woman offered. “He is here, sir.”

Eamon looked up as Anderas stepped across the threshold. Eamon detected traces of anxiety beneath Anderas's polite exterior.

“Is something the matter, captain?” he asked.

“You are required at the Ashen, Mr Tiller. It is a matter of some urgency.”

“I shall come at once.”

Eamon turned to his hosts. “I'm sorry I can't stay,” he said. “You've been most gracious.”

A sudden draught pushed into the house through the open door. Damien shivered, then looked at Eamon with eyes wide with concern. “You'll want your cloak!” he cried. “Mother always says that if you don't wear your cloak when it's cold then you'll catch your death.”

“Mothers are very wise things,” Eamon returned. “But my mother would be most displeased, as I did not think to bring mine this evening. But it isn't far to the Ashen – I am sure I will be all right.”

Mrs Grennil smiled. “We can easily lend you one.”

“That's very kind –”

“But he has one,” Damien interrupted. “A great big black one! He was wearing it when he brought me home.”

Confusion and then alarm passed over Mrs Grennil's face.

Anderas raised his hand to his mouth and cleared his throat. “We should be on our way, Tiller.”

“Yes, captain.” Eamon bowed to his hosts. “Thank you for a splendid evening. I bid you farewell.”

“The pleasure was ours,” Jehim replied curtly. His eyes narrowed as he studied Eamon intently. “Think nothing of it.”

At that moment Eamon and Anderas would have made good their parting but for the impetuousness of a small boy. Without warning, Damien ran across the floor and threw his arms around Eamon in a hearty embrace.

“Goodbye, Mr Tiller. I hope your hand feels better, and – Oh! What happened to your ring?”

“I left it at the college,” Eamon said quickly. He glanced towards Anderas.

“Let us go, Mr Tiller,” said Anderas.

But Damien was not so easily distracted. “Ma, you should have seen it! It had an owl on it!”

This time the boy's mother paled visibly. “An owl…?” she whispered.

Damien beamed. “That's right, an owl!”

The silence that followed was stunned and terrified. Only the little boy seemed not to notice it. The men and women with whom Eamon had been eating and drinking only moments earlier lowered their gazes and bowed their heads. “Please, do not be so before me,” Eamon said quietly.

“My lord, if any of us have spoken rashly in your presence, I beg you, have mercy. We are poor folk with coarse tongues, who give little thought to our words,” Mrs Grennil began, her voice trembling.

Eamon laughed gently. He stepped forward to press her hands between his own.

“My dear, foolish woman!” he told her, surprised by the passion in his own voice. He tempered it, and smiled at them. “You have been the best of company to me this evening,” he continued. “Forgive me my deception, for I only meant to spare you from undue distress. You have my thanks, both for your ‘coarse words' and your wonderful meal.”

“But it was nothing!” Mrs Grennil quaked – she seemed close to tears. “It was but dust and mildew! We laid insult to you by daring to host you at this table –”

“There are few honours in the world so great,” Eamon replied. He pressed her cold hands again and looked at the gathered family. They stared at him. “There are things more wholesome in this city than fine meat and wine, or bright clothes. There are many honourable and whole things in this house, and at this table. You have delighted me and honoured me in every way, and in that you have glorified the Master also.” He looked at Mrs Grennil and smiled again. “Thank you.”

“I am very sorry, my lord,” said Anderas. “This matter at the Ashen will not wait.”

Eamon looked back at the family. “I must take my leave. But before I do so, there is one thing more I wish to say.” He looked at Jehim Grennil. The man stood awkwardly at one side of the room, a worried look on his gruff face.

“I apologize for my harsh words, Lord Goodman,” he said, bowing.

“Some of what you spoke was based on truth,” Eamon told him. “I will not hold you at fault for it. I accept your apology, and would have you know that you need not fear me. I hope,” he said, more quietly, “that you will be able to believe me when I say that my heart is for the people of this quarter. I hope also that, as I serve the quarter, I will be able to give you reason to believe me.”

Jehim nodded, and bowed again. “Thank you, Lord Goodman,” he said.

“You will always be welcome at this table, Lord Goodman.” Mrs Grennil curtsied as she spoke.

Tears welled in Eamon's eyes. “Thank you,” he answered.

He left with Anderas at once. When they were out of earshot of the Grennil household, Eamon asked, “What has happened?”

“But little – yet,” Anderas replied, but his face was grim. “Lord Arlaith waits for you.”

The words brought crushing dread to Eamon's stomach. Why should the Right Hand be waiting for him, and at that time of night?

Anderas spoke again: “I took the liberty of arranging for Mr Slater to wait for you in the hall with your formal attire so you will be able to present yourself properly to Lord Arlaith.”

Eamon nodded, grateful again for the captain's provision. “Thank you.”

 

In the halls of the Ashen, Slater waited nervously in the shadows. As Eamon entered through the doors, the servant crossed the floor to greet him. Eamon felt absurdly conscious of his own portrait gazing down at him.

“Please come with me, my lord,” Slater said, leading Eamon into one of the small reception rooms off the main hall. One of Eamon's cloaks was laid carefully on a chair inside. Slater picked it up and laid it across Eamon's shoulders.

“Thank you, Slater,” Eamon said. As his servant fiddled to do up the brooch, his hands shook.

“I am sorry, my lord. I'll have this done in a moment,” Slater told him. Carefully Eamon eased the brooch from Slater's hands, fastened it, then turned to look at him. In the scant light he saw that the servant's face was pale.

“Mr Slater,” he said quietly, “what is the matter?”

The servant did not reply, but lowered his eyes. “I apologize for my manner,” he murmured, folding his trembling hands together.

“Yet you do not answer my question.”

“Lord Arlaith waits for you, my lord.” Slater paused and then looked up. “My lord, the Right Hand went first to your quarters seeking you, and then to your rooms… He asked Cara regarding your whereabouts.”

Eamon's blood ran cold.

“He…” Slater's voice broke and he struggled to bring it back under control. “My lord, he struck her –”

“He did what?”

“ – and breached her.”

Eamon stared at him. He knew that the Right Hand would have found nothing in Cara's mind, but that did not matter. What mattered to him was that Arlaith had breached her and wronged his household.

Anger filled Eamon's veins. “Where is he?” he demanded.