The King's Hand (55 page)

Eamon.

He closed his eyes. What he did, he did for Hughan. Though his own skills and wits had been used, he was proud that they had been tools for the King, and he did not want his pride to become arrogance. The humility and grace that he had seen in Hughan had to be like a cloak, one that he could draw about himself to become ever a truer servant of the King.

You cannot breach this man as a snake, Eben's son.
The voice was there and laughed at him.
There is no such thing! You breach, you breach for me. If you would save him, you should let him make his confession. Breach him and he will be destroyed; I will destroy him through you.

Doubt assailed him. For a moment, he staggered on the point of believing what he was told. His hand faltered short of touching the man's face.

You cannot withdraw now, Eben's son. Do so and they will know – both knight and your precious captain. They will see you for what you really are. You must breach. This man's blood is the coin with which you must pay for your own.

Was it true? Eamon searched his heart. He knew that the voice of Edelred had always been that of a liar…

He does not speak the truth to you, Eamon.
The other voice ran through him with a force that was both fierce and loving.
Have courage, and serve the King.

Eamon looked back to the man's eyes – they were wide with fear. He smiled gently at him.

“Courage,” he whispered, and laid his fingers against the man's brow.

It had been a long time since he had seen the plain, and the strangeness of it struck him again as it had done that first time, when he had breached Aeryn. He saw the strange half dark, heard the roaring of a distant wind as of a crashing sea, and saw before him the figure of the man who sat before him in the cell in Dunthruik. As he watched, the young man leapt up in alarm and stared, before giving a cry of terror.

“Where am I?” he shrieked.

Eamon reached out and touched his shoulder. “Do not be afraid,” he said. As he touched the man he felt the deep calm of the King's grace within him, just as he had felt it when he had healed by it. It was the light of the King's grace that he saw gently resting on Patagon's servant, though the servant seemed not to see it.

Slowly the howling winds resided, leaving calm. The young man looked at him in surprise. Eamon spoke again:

“Show me what happened.”

“How?” It was a fair question.

Eamon laughed good-naturedly. “Remember it!” he said, and laughed again. It could be done: the throned's mark and power had not made him a breacher, it had merely twisted a gift already in him. Now it was that gift that he would use to save one of the King's people. “Just remember.”

The man thought. Images and shapes – fragments of his memory – appeared about them. At first they shocked the servant, and became faint, but then the man concentrated and Eamon saw his memories of the last few hours of imprisonment in the college. Then the servant cast his mind back further, and Eamon saw what he presumed to be the sumptuous hall of the Patagon manor, decked in dark woods and furniture with gilded feet. Great banners hung from the walls, crowns woven into them.

The young man remembered going into the great hallway early that morning. He heard retreating feet. The sound of something falling. The servant followed the noise. He found another man – swarthy, broad, with weathered skin – in the hall, clutching a small wooden box. The servant gave a cry and leapt at the stranger. He wrenched the box away from the thief's hands; the thief struck him, hard, in the ribs. The servant crumpled. The box fell to the ground and cracked apart, scattering a necklace of gold and pearls across the floor. The servant tried to grab them but the thief kicked him, seized the jewels, and fled towards an open window. The servant staggered to his feet, pieces of the jewel box in his hand. A lady cried out. The servant turned, broken box in hand. Sir Patagon stared at him in a rage. He proclaimed his innocence. The Gauntlet was summoned. His mother begged clemency.

Eamon took his hand from the man's shoulders. Relief flooded through him.

“Thank you,” he said. The young man, still dazed by what he had seen, looked back at Eamon.

“I'd heard that being breached hurts; that it destroys parts of your mind.” He looked confused. “It doesn't seem to…”

“It depends very much on the talent and will of the breacher,” Eamon replied.

He opened his eyes. His fingers still rested against the man's face. As he withdrew them, he was aware of the stillness and calm in the cell. For a moment, the familiar panic that blue light might have been seen and betrayed him clamoured at him, but at the same moment he knew with certainty that it had not. It would not betray him. How could the King's grace betray him?

He stepped silently back from the man and turned to look at Patagon and Anderas. Both stared at him, the former with terror and the latter in awe. Eamon looked at Patagon.

“Your hall is finely decked, Sir Patagon,” he said. “I particularly like the gilt-footed table there.”

Patagon blinked in surprise. “Thank you, my lord,” he managed.

“Your wife lost a necklace made of pearls linked together with gold,” Eamon continued. “Is that correct?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And you found this man in your hall, with the shattered remains of the jewel case.”

“That is so,” Patagon answered.

“Does it not seem strange to you, Sir Patagon, that your servant would keep fervent hold of a broken case and not its contents?”

Patagon looked at him oddly. “Lord Goodman –”

“This man is innocent,” Eamon said, “and witnessed the flight of the thief – a man that was dark-haired and weather-beaten – whom he tried to stop. He garnered very sore ribs in the process,” Eamon added, reaching across to the servant's shirt. He lifted it up to show Patagon the enormous black bruise beneath.

Patagon looked stunned and turned an odd shade. “But I saw him –”

“I believe that your rage blinded you, Sir Patagon,” Eamon told him, “and I might have felt similarly had such a necklace been stolen from a wife of mine. I am sure that you hold her in high esteem.”

“Yes, my lord. I do.”

Eamon drew a deep breath. “Sir Patagon, I will happily lend you the Gauntlet's assistance in tracking down the man who took your wife's possession. The crime is not lessened by the fact that your servant did not commit it. We will have a sketch made of the thief, and post it around the quarter. But you will take this man back into your service, and leash your anger in future.”

“Of course, Lord Goodman.” The pale knight bowed to him.

“You will also apologize to him.”

Patagon stared uncomprehendingly at Eamon for a moment, then turned to his servant. He blinked hard a couple of times. “I apologize for rashly seeking your life.”

The servant bowed awkwardly to him. “Yes, sir.”

There was a moment of quiet. “Captain,” Eamon said, “release this man.”

Anderas moved forward at once. The servant stepped out of the cell as though in a daze.

“You truly show the Master's glory,” the servant said as he bowed. “Thank you, Lord Goodman.”

Eamon smiled. “May all your service to this noble man be to the Master's glory also,” he said.

He dismissed both knight and servant. The two men left together.

Feeling suddenly tired, Eamon leaned against the cell door. Anderas watched him.

“One of my men was breached by Lord Tramist once,” the captain murmured.

“I was breached by Lord Tramist once,” Eamon answered, with a small laugh.

The captain looked surprised. “What I mean to say, my lord, is that I have seen breaching done before.” Anderas paused uncertainly. “I have never seen it done like that.”

Eamon looked up. The captain met his gaze, a furrow on his brow. “The man whom I saw breached screamed in agony for every second that it was done. When Lord Tramist let him go he could not talk, and could scarcely breathe. He must have come within inches of his life.” Anderas looked back to the empty cell. “This man… This man did not make a sound.”

Bewilderment filled the captain's eyes. Eamon smiled and touched his shoulder.

“You'll forgive me if I am not there to ride in the morning,” he said. “I must go and see the Master.”

“Of course, my lord,” Anderas nodded. “Good luck.”

C
HAPTER
XXIX

T
he following morning dawned overcast and grim with a strong, chill wind that scythed through the city. Resolved not to take it as an omen, Eamon rose and dressed.

He took breakfast in his office while he glanced through the reports that had already come in, and was pleased to see a note from Greenwood about the latest grain shipment to have been divided. Eamon was surprised the ships had managed to dock in the wind, and marvelled at the skill that feat attributed to the merchant mariners.

He rode to the palace, Sahu tossing his mane gleefully in the wind. When Eamon steered him towards the Four Quarters rather than the North Gate, the horse initially resisted the tug on the reins.

“Not this morning, Sahu,” he told him. The creature snorted indignantly, though it seemed to allow itself to be consoled with kind words and the promise of a hearty breakfast on their return.

Eamon left the horse at the stables to one side of the Royal Plaza and made his way up the steps into the great edifice of the palace. He barely noticed the corridors as he strode down them. He came at last to the throne room.

The doorkeeper smiled as he bowed. “Lord Goodman,” he said. “I beg your patience.”

“Of course,” Eamon answered. He wondered whether the other Quarter Hands had already arrived.

His question was soon answered by the sound of footsteps echoing down the hallway. Cathair, his green eyes curiously lucid, soon followed. He did not acknowledge Eamon as he passed, but was immediately admitted into the room. Beyond the doorway Eamon caught a glimpse of the other Hands before the throne – they were all there. Only he was absent. He realized that the doorkeeper watched him. He drew breath to steel his nerve, and waited.

He did not know how long it was before they called him in. He was aware of the doorkeeper throwing back the door for him, of the other Hands gathered before the throned, and of his own thunderous footsteps sounding down the length of the room until he reached the dais, and knelt.

“Your glory, Master.”

“Welcome, son of Eben,” the throned answered, and at his command Eamon rose. He was grimly cogent of the other Hands watching him, the Right Hand chief among them. He dared not think what had been said in his absence.

“The ways to the city are being harrowed by the Serpent and his allies,” the throned said. A shudder ran through Eamon; the topic threw him. He struggled to stay calm. “Those Gauntlet already withdrawn to here have been adequately placed, but more come. Each of you will look to your quarters to find places to put these men.”

“Great Master, whose glory flames forever,” spoke Tramist, his voice slick and bitter in the stillness of the room, “it is not fitting that such men as those who serve you squat in the ditches and hollows afforded by so many of the remaining buildings in this city. I would suggest, Master, that these men be sent to the East. Its renovation programme has become renowned of late, and I am sure that it would please Lord Goodman no end to serve you in such a way.”

Eamon started, and stared at the Hand. The man's narrow eyes watched him balefully. Eamon knew that he was being baited.

“I would gladly offer the East for such a service,” Eamon said. “It is true that the renovation has been going well, but only the most urgent work has been done and it is not work that gives the East any significant extra capacity for holding men. I cannot hold men in the numbers –”

“But so many have been moving to your quarter, Lord Goodman!” Cathair interrupted. “Surely you cannot now say that you have not the space to house a handful of men? Such a response would seem unbecoming of you.” Eamon stared at him. It was not that simple, and Cathair knew it.

“Lord Cathair –”

“Some of the families in the quarter could be removed,” Dehelt suggested. “I am sure that any citizen of Dunthruik would gladly vacate their home for the city's good and the Master's glory. You may serve them with compulsory exit orders where necessary,” he added. “The city needs this service.”

“Then remove them,” Tramist pronounced with a dismissive wave of his hand. “If the Serpent's men glut themselves on their corpses, so be it.”

There was a brief silence. Eamon's mind whirled; he was sure that the whole affair had been engineered to his discomfort. The throned watched him.

At last he nodded. “Let it be to your glory, Master,” he said. “The East will serve.”

“So shall it be.” The throned smiled. “Lord Goodman, have you not a suit to play before us?” Those words chilled Eamon to his very core.

“Yes,” he answered. “Glorious Master and noble lords, I would have you consider the law of confession.”

“In what way would you have us consider it?” Cathair asked. Surprise was written on the Hand's face. He had not been told of Eamon's request. Eamon allowed himself some small satisfaction in knowing that it was not only him who knew not everything.

“Rather, I would have you reconsider it,” Eamon answered. The throned leaned in his seat, his fiery hair rimming his smiling face, as though to observe an enjoyable spectacle. Eamon felt the tension in the air. He realized too late he had become the beast to be torn by the Master's hounds.

He drew a deep breath and spoke again. “My lords, from my experience of this law in practice yesterday, I feel it my duty to express my heartfelt opinion that it is flawed.”