The Traitor's Heir (12 page)

With the sudden drop in the breeze during the morning, the captain thought that they were going to have to resort to oar-work to keep up a good pace. Eamon welcomed the change. It would be good to do something that might later encourage sleep, even if his mind was not at rest.

As he watched the shining, skipping fish that followed his bread-trail he became aware of someone standing at his elbow – the cadet, Mathaiah Grahaven. The afternoon sun burnished the boy's uniform, reminding Eamon of the wretched state of his own.

“Cadet,” he acknowledged. He felt sulky and, much as he liked the young man, had no desire for human contact. He wanted to be left alone to gulp down the dregs of his burdened thoughts. For the first time in the two days since they had left Edesfield he became aware of a dull pain in his hand.

He folded the remains of the loaf into his fist, crushing them.

“Are you well, sir?”

“No.” Eamon struggled to keep control of himself. The cadet was not the cause of his anger.

“Do you want me to fetch the doctor, sir?”

“No!” Eamon snapped. “I'm tired, Mr Grahaven, that's all.”

“I'm sorry, sir. I'll go, sir.”

As the cadet turned to leave, Spencing's jibes burned in Eamon's ears. A thought slyly suggested that the young cadet could easily be a plant sent by Belaal to monitor him.

“Why do you follow me, Mr Grahaven?” Eamon demanded.

The boy halted. “Sir?”

“What kindness have I done you that warrants your constant preoccupation with my welfare?”

Mathaiah Grahaven looked down at his feet, and Eamon wondered again how young the man – boy – was. He guessed that nineteen would be a generous estimate.

The cadet still did not answer. Eamon fixed firmly on him. “I asked you a question, cadet.”

“I'm sorry, sir.” The young man still did not raise his eyes. “I… you offered to help me up, that day outside the captain's office. It was a small thing, but… and I saw you, at the burning, before we left. At least I think it was you.” He looked up plaintively. “In the crowd… you stopped someone from rushing at the pyre.”

The memory caught at him unbidden. Eamon stared at the cadet. “I did,” he said quietly.

“There is something different – something fearless but kind – about you, sir. At least,” the boy added apologetically, “that's how it seems to me. I don't know better words to put to it.”

Eamon churned inside. He did not feel either fearless or kind. “They are good words,” he managed, “although I am not sure they can be applied to me.”

Grahaven smiled. “You remind me of my brother, sir. He was sworn in a long time ago. They sent him north, against Galithia. His unit was lost, two years ago at Tenfell.”

“The merchant borders are a dangerous place,” Eamon told him. He had been stationed there himself during the previous year. He had returned home, but a good number of the cadets training with him had not.

“We never found out for certain what happened.”

“You're joining the Gauntlet to find your brother?”

The young man smiled sadly. “I can't pretend that my brother is still alive, sir. I joined to remember him and to honour what he likely died for.”

There was a pause. Eamon cast his eyes over the River, now wider than he had ever seen it, and sighed. He wondered whether there would be space in the cadet's life for two men's hopes.

“I appreciate your honesty, cadet,” Eamon said, “and thank you for your kindness. But you do not need to honour me for my resemblance to a dead man. Save your kindness for those who need it. There is little enough of your like in this land without you spending what you have on men like me… Save your kindness for those who need it,” he repeated, lamely.

“The people?” Grahaven supplied. Eamon saw in the cadet's eyes the same desire to serve that had once burned in his own. Then he felt the mark on his hand. He dug his nails into his palm.

“Yes,” he grimaced.

“If I may, sir?” Eamon nodded. “A Gauntlet officer is also deserving of kindness. You remind me of that.”

Eamon blinked hard and stared at him. The boy smiled back.

“Permission to go to guard duty, sir?”

“Permission granted, cadet.”

Mathaiah Grahaven saluted smartly, turned, and left.

At that moment the captain's voice bawled across the deck in search of oarsmen; the sails had fallen limp against the dark mast. Eamon tipped the rest of the bread from his hands into the water and went to offer his arms.

Men gathered quickly to lend their strength to the oars; it took another quarter of an hour to assign benches and rowing partners. Captain Farlewe oversaw the binding of the sails while the last ensigns and cadets took their places, the latter's faces round with the jolly idea of rowing to the city. Eamon mused that, for many of them, the trip down the River was like some kind of schoolhouse jaunt.

At the captain's order the oars began beating a steady drive into the river currents. It wasn't long before the cadets were singing as they pulled.

Eamon took a place on a bench next to Ilwaine. They rowed together in silence.

“It will take us less than three days to reach Dunthruik, even if we row,” Ilwaine murmured in between heaves. “Thank the Master!” The voyage had not been kind to him.

“And with the wind?” Eamon asked.

“Less than two days, Mr Goodman,” the passing captain answered. “Mind port side!” he called, moving down the lines.

Less than two days? The thought terrified Eamon as much as it pleased him. He firmed his hands to the oars.

He was just getting into the full swing of the rhythm when Cadet Grahaven dashed wildly onto the deck. Turning this way and that, he met gazes with Eamon and ran full tilt towards him. The boy had the build of a sprinter and was at his officer's side in seconds.

“Problem, Mr Grahaven?” asked Spencing savagely. The lieutenant was in the opposite row.

Ignoring Spencing and all addresses of rank, Grahaven turned to Eamon: “She's gone!”

Everything stopped. They stood in the eye of the storm. Then it was a whirlwind as at Eamon's command a dozen cadets leapt to their feet, leaving oars hanging lamely in the air.

“Search over the sides!” he called. “Look for signs of descent, scan the water and banks.” He turned to Grahaven.

The cadet answered his question before he asked it: “She was there just after I left you, sir. I left the hold for a few moments –”

“Where was Stonebrake?”

“He wasn't there yet,” the cadet answered after only the slightest possible hesitation.

“And the man he should have relieved?”

“He was tired. I told him that he could go on, then when Stonebrake didn't come…” He bit his lip. “I stepped out for a moment to look for him. I'm sorry, sir.”

Eamon gripped his shoulder then rushed to the nearest side, managing to trip a grey-looking Spencing in his haste. Craning his neck over, Eamon began searching the water for signs of Aeryn. She was good at hiding, something he knew far too well from years of children's games, and he found it more likely that she would have gone cautiously and concealed herself than recklessly and run. He peered farther over, turning his attention to the rope-work that hung down the sides of the holk.

He could not see far but he knew that she was there. For a second his vision changed and he saw as though he clung to the hull. The eyes that were not his looked up in terror and then down again at the water.

Grahaven had just reached his side when Eamon dashed towards the prow as suggested to him by his strange intelligence. There he once again threw his head over the side.

Aeryn was there, her eyes on the water, as though judging whether or not to risk the drop yet. Suddenly she looked up and their eyes met. He froze.

A chilling voice was suddenly in his mind.

Coward! What are you waiting for?

He could not answer it.

Grahaven was coming rapidly up behind him. Eamon hesitated. Aeryn's look grew dark. It was the last stroke.

“On the hull!” Eamon yelled.

There was a splash below him. When he next looked Aeryn was gone.

“In the water!” he cried.

Three ensigns dived off the side of the holk. Aeryn was making boldly for the bank. A good swimmer, she might have beaten the soldiers and made her escape, but, fatigued from days of depriving herself of food, she lagged and floundered. The ensigns caught up with her in a dozen strokes and after a brief struggle brought her back to the ship.

Bedraggled, Aeryn was hauled back on board. The ensigns brought her before the ship's captain and the Gauntlet officers, who had gathered on the deck as the outcome of the attempted escape grew clear. Eamon's chest heaved with anger as he glared at her.

“A guarded prisoner escape, in broad daylight?” Spencing sneered.

Eamon did not like his tone.

“Whose fault is this outrage?” Spencing demanded.

There was a pause. “Cadet Grahaven was taking turn, sir,” a cadet supplied.

Eamon looked at Grahaven; the boy came formally to attention as Spencing spoke again.

“Was it your turn, Cadet Grahaven?”

“Yes, sir.” The boy answered as firmly as he could.

“The prisoner has been watched in pairs – is that not so, Mr Goodman?”

Eamon felt Spencing's stare running over him. “Yes, Mr Spencing.”

Spencing turned back to the pallid cadet. “And who was with you, Mr Grahaven?”

“No one, sir.”

“No one?” Spencing repeated, flashing a calculating glance at Eamon. “No one, Cadet Grahaven?”

“Stonebrake was to be with me, sir,” the cadet faltered. “He wasn't there.”

“So Stonebrake was late.” Spencing's eyes swept over the deck until they found Stonebrake. “Cadet Stonebrake!”

“I was late, sir,” Stonebrake agreed haltingly.

“You were late.” Spencing cast a disparaging glance at Eamon. “Stonebrake was late and you, Cadet Grahaven, sent on his predecessor and left your post without leave?”

Grahaven grew paler.

“Who was Stonebrake to relieve, cadet?”

“Cadet Whitbread,” he answered slowly.

“You allowed this man to dismiss you, Whitbread?” Spencing demanded, turning furiously on him.

“Yes, sir.” The cadet looked terrified.

Spencing turned balefully on Grahaven. “Cadet,” he growled, “your insolent carelessness is a disgrace and sullies every man here, not least Mr Goodman.”

Grahaven glanced worriedly at Eamon before forcing himself to speak. “I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again, sir.”

Eamon nodded. The boy was clearly sincere; he was willing to accept the apology. But Spencing was not satisfied.

“Apologies do not repair or redeem tarnished men,” he snapped. “What is the punishment for carelessness on the River, captain?”

Eamon suppressed a gasp, understanding at last what was coming. The scene was fast becoming a spectacle.

“A word, Mr Spencing?” he barked.

Spencing seemed startled. Eamon turned a little so that none could read his lips as he hissed into the lieutenant's ear: “He has apologized, Mr Spencing, and no harm has been done; call off this nonsense.”

Spencing received and held his glare. For a moment Eamon believed the man would see reason.

“The punishment, captain?” Spencing repeated loudly.

“A flogging.” Farlewe's answer came through pursed, disapproving lips.

“Cadet Grahaven, you will take twenty lashes.” The cadet's face grew ashen and Eamon saw him tremble.

“Cadets Stonebrake and Whitbread will each take ten.” Stonebrake, ghostly in his pallor, swallowed; Whitbread began to shake. “Captain, the cat and the bar,” Spencing called.

The captain gestured to two sailors. A murmur ran through the gathered men. It was difficult to tell whether the ensigns and cadets on the ship – who had to that point considered the voyage as somewhat of an excursion – approved of or were terrified by the sudden turn of the proceedings.

“You there!” None could gainsay Spencing as he pointed at those standing by the guilty cadets. “Relieve Cadets Grahaven, Stonebrake, and Whitbread of their jackets and shirts.”

Two cadets, clearly companions of the humiliated Grahaven, stepped forward to him with hesitant hands, two others to Stonebrake, and two more to Whitbread. Whitbread crumpled, Stonebrake began breathing hard, while Grahaven kept a tightly controlled face. Eamon stared.

The Gauntlet's blood must be honed and shed before it serves.

As the strange thought waxed in him Eamon shuddered. Red jackets were taken and cast to the deck. The watching faces of the frightened cadets filled his eyes.

It is the punishment that they richly deserve.

He shook himself free of the taunting voice. Eamon stepped forward.

“The fault is mine, Mr Spencing.” He was surprised to hear no fleck of fear in his own voice, no shake and no anger, just the courage of his conviction that a boy should not suffer the punishment of a man, and certainly should not suffer it at Spencing's whim.

The lieutenant turned to him with surprise. “Yours, Mr Goodman?”

Yours?
The strange voice in his mind jeered.
Fool! Take back your childish words.

Eamon steadied his gaze and matched Spencing's unflinchingly. “These cadets were explicitly under my command,” he said, “and it is my duty to see that they perform theirs to a standard that will glorify the Master. If they have not done so then the fault is with my command. I will take the lashes.”

Gasps stole the breath of every man, cadet, ensign, and sailor. A quick smile worked across Spencing's face.

“Then we shall relieve you of your shirt, Mr Goodman,” he said, so kindly that it could not be kind.

“No.” Eamon shook his head. “I will do it myself.”