The Traitor's Heir (27 page)

Lord Cathair was the Lord of the West Quarter.

Eamon breathed deep to steady his fraying nerves, then turned to fix his thought on the walls again. On the one nearest to him was a wooden panel that bore a list of the names of officers from the college who had gone on to become Hands. For a single college, it was an impressive list.

A small group of cadets came into the hall. They were sweating from training and eyed him discreetly from where they stood. Like Mathaiah the young men were probably in their last year of training. It spoke well of them; during the three years of training as a Gauntlet cadet, it was not uncommon to lose a high number of men to sickness, death, injury, or disqualifying behaviour.

Decisively, Eamon approached them.

“Gentlemen, I'm looking for Captain Waite.”

The young men exchanged glances. One of them looked him up and down with a raised eyebrow. It was then that Eamon realized that not only was he not wearing his uniform – that had been left in the Hidden Hall – but these cadets had not seen him escorted to the college by Lord Cathair. Their suspicion, if not their disparaging glances, was entirely justified: Gauntlet rules were severe when it came to civilians on college premises.

“You one of his spies?” one of the cadets asked. “Or one of theirs?” His companions snickered.

Eamon blinked in surprise. Was it common for wayfarers to infiltrate the Gauntlet, or merely a common fear?

He focused hard on the young man who had spoken to him. He was going to have to play the arrogant officer to them. He rolled his eyes and glared.

“Do you know what the penalties are for taking airs with an officer, cadet?” He didn't give the shocked young man time to respond. “Evidently not. Shall I remind you? They involve extra duties, incarceration, lashes, degrading, and a permanent mark on your record which, ultimately, translates into the worst posts and duties when they give you the privilege of a pin.” He smiled sweetly as the group exchanged astonished looks. “So, cadet, shall we try that again? If you can answer impeccably then perhaps I will let this little incident drop. Name and rank!” he barked.

The young man leapt to attention and gave a smart salute; he was perhaps a fraction less sharp than he should have been. “Third Banner Cadet Manners, sir!”

“Oh, Cadet Manners, is it?” Eamon asked snidely. “You have shown yourself lacking in any semblance of your namesake. Perhaps you have hopes of becoming an officer?” Manners grimaced but did not answer. “Then you'd better hope that I have a dull memory. You there,” he continued, pointing to the other cadets, “form a line; look sharp!”

The cadets leapt into line. Eamon felt sorry for them; he knew how terrifying it was to be berated by an officer, and if they had hopes of getting their names onto the board that shadowed the threshold a single blemish on their records would be a severe disadvantage to them.

“Sign!” he commanded.

The cadets gave their company and full names in turn, following each announcement with a crisply uttered “sir”. Smiling, Eamon walked up and down in front of them.

“Better,” he told them. “But you won't have a second chance to make such a mistake with me. I am Lieutenant Eamon Goodman, late of Edesfield, and was escorted here by the Lord Cathair to speak with Captain Waite.” The young men grew paler. What kind of Hand was Cathair that he inspired such fear? “When a stranger enters this hall you ask him for his name and rank. If he is Gauntlet you ask his business and escort him to an officer. If he is not, you give him one chance to leave and then take him to the brig. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir!” The cadets gave the answer in chorus. Satisfied, Eamon nodded to them.

“At ease.” The anxious line dropped their formal stances. “Now, Mr Manners, where shall I find Captain Waite?”

The cadet looked ashen. “Behind you, sir.”

Eamon turned and saw a man who might have been in his early fifties leaning against one wall. His Gauntlet uniform had five bright flames pinned at its collar. The captain began to applaud, slowly and with delight.

“Well done, lieutenant, well done!” He was a tall man and his hair had receded into shades of grey. His sleeves were rolled up and there were long scars along his arms, giving the impression of a captain who had not only seen service but who liked to train his cadets himself.

“Give these young bastards a taste of discipline,” the captain growled. “Hop to it, gentlemen! You'll very shortly be late for parade and I'm in a foul mood this morning.”

The cadets scarpered.

“Manners, I want to see your boots as black as coal!” the captain bellowed after them, his voice following the fleeing cadets down the corridors. With a small laugh the captain turned back to Eamon. “They're indolent pups, Mr Goodman, but good ones. Come with me to my office and we'll talk.”

Not sure whether or not to feel embarrassed, Eamon gave the captain a crisp salute (which made the man smile) and followed him to the officers' quarters.

The captain paused outside one door and opened it, revealing an office with a window that viewed a training yard. Through it Eamon could see a lieutenant drilling young men with bows. A long line of targets had been set up at the far end of the yard and the lieutenant was in the process of assisting a cadet with no strength in his arms to draw the bowstring fully.

The captain watched for a few moments, one hand resting pensively on his chin, then turned back to Eamon. Smiling once more, Waite moved to his desk and ran his hands through a pile of papers.

“That lordly rat Cathair just left you here, I take it?”

“Yes sir,” Eamon answered, then, “I mean, no sir.”

“I see,” Waite answered. “Now, would you mean by your beguiling statement that he didn't leave you here but is a rat, or that he left you here but you would refrain from calling him a rat? One should be more precise in one's responses, lieutenant.”

“Perhaps I meant neither, sir. Perhaps the question was indistinctly phrased.”

The smile on Waite's face grew into a broad grin. He pulled some papers from his pile and laughed loudly.

“Lord Cathair did say that you would introduce yourself,” Waite remarked, “though perhaps that is not what he had in mind.” Eamon saluted again and drew breath to announce name and rank, but Waite waved the gesture away. “No need, Mr Goodman. I think you introduced yourself well enough when you gave Manners and his motley collection a good seeing to in the hall. Typical third-year cadets: strutting about as if they own the place one moment, crawling about like the greenest recruit the next. Poor lads. They must have a fearful captain to instil such insecurities in them.” He shook his head sadly. Eamon smiled at the self-deprecating humour. “But they'll make Hands, Mr Goodman. All mine do, in the end. Your poor Captain Belaal hates that! He never wanted to be posted to a backwater like Edesfield.” He looked up thoughtfully. “Isn't it about as close to Backwater as you can get and still be in the River Realm?”

“Yes, sir,” Eamon answered. The town of Backwater, which had garnered a reputation for being more than extraordinarily dull, was about two days' ride from Edesfield.

“Well, it's Belaal's fault, really,” Waite mused. “Was terribly insulting to a senior officer just after he made first lieutenant; they sent him to serve in Edesfield where all his superiors – old, balding men – eventually died off, leaving him in charge. Poor Belaal always did have a temper. Always hated me for getting this post. I worked my way up, too – didn't start as a cadet – I was a militiaman-nobody before they put me to the Gauntlet. Let these be a lesson to you,” he added, gesturing to the five bright flames at his throat. “I distinguished myself, Mr Goodman; distinguished and made good.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The question, Mr Goodman,” Waite added, “is whether you will be a good man? Or not?” The captain smiled at his pun. “And, if you make good, will you go on Belaal's Hand-scoreboard, or mine?”

The thought of his name ranked on the board drew the breath from Eamon's lungs; he eagerly desired it! But then Hughan's face came before him, and the memory of the sword that had been bestowed on him. Was not First Knight a higher accolade?

Waite laughed. “It appeals to your pride, does it, being a pawn in a competition between old enemies? Well, you were to be assigned to me once your holk came in. So was the other idiot.”

Eamon started. The captain shook his head. “Meaning no offence to Mr Spencing, but I read his files; you were the only good thing on that rotten boat. I am very much looking forward to interviewing the cadet you rescued and hearing his account of what happened.”

“Sir, please do not speak ill of Spencing,” Eamon began. “He would have grown into a better man than he was.”

“Petty, snivelling, conniving, whining, overbearing guttersnipe? Maybe he would have done. One or two of Belaal's did.” He fixed Eamon with a firm gaze. “But you were never meant for Captain Belaal. You, Lieutenant Goodman, were meant to walk these halls a little while, and then to walk those.” The captain gestured in the direction of the palace. “And I mean to send you there.”

Eamon was overwhelmed. Did Waite really mean to make him a Hand? It would be the easiest way to get close to the throned and learn all he could – but there were ceremonies. If what had happened when he swore to the Gauntlet was any indication, then becoming a Hand would be perilous indeed.

“Thank you, sir,” he stammered.

“
Tsk!
” The captain pronounced the sound loudly, as though he were shooing away a large bee. “Lord Cathair has put you here to be babysat. But you will be weaned. Belaal made you a lieutenant for some good, if not outstanding, service, and perhaps he was right to do so – though his ornamental promotions have rarely turned out well. I think your actions in the days since your capture and escape qualify the promotion he so quickly gave you. You will join my officers, you will beat my men into shape, and you will learn, lieutenant, many things that Captain Belaal never had the wit to teach you. Then you will serve the Master. You look surprised?”

Eamon felt it.

Waite laughed again. “Do not be so. I have met from time to time with the Lord Ashway. He is the Lord of the East Quarter, and a seer. He has seen much of what you will become.” He lowered his voice, “Mr Goodman, Right Hand is not beyond you.”

Eamon gasped. Right Hand? The Right Hand was closest to the Master and lord over all things in the Master's name. The idea filled his veins with fire.

Eben Goodman had been Right Hand.

The fire of ambition turned to ashes and the gasp upon his lips to one of dread.

“Sir –”

“Lord Ashway also said you would make first lieutenant within two days of your arrival,” Waite added flippantly, “and get your name submitted for admission to the Hands within a week.” Eamon wondered if the captain was joking; perhaps he said the same things to all his new officers. “But let me be clear, lieutenant: there's going to be a lot of sweat, some definite blood, and perhaps a tear or two before then.”

“Yes, sir,” Eamon answered, smiling despite himself.

Waite laid the pile of papers on his desk. Eamon caught sight of his name. He presumed it to be his file and wondered what it read.

“Your room is the third down this passage on the right,” Waite continued. “You can go and array yourself there. Then you'll join the parade. There's a uniform on your bed that I hope will fit you; if it doesn't you can go and see the seamstress. Within the hour you will drill the Third Banner cadets through the course and then we might let you have lunch with the officers. This afternoon you will attend the Handbook, which is a set of drills and classes that I run to prepare my officers for getting on that list. It's a good name, isn't it? This evening you will be posted to gate duty with some of my ensigns at the palace. You'll be there until second watch before coming back here, smartening your uniform and sleeping to be up bright and early in the morning ready for a new day.”

Eamon saluted. The security of the routine relieved him – but being posted to the palace disturbed him. He would be more exposed there, but perhaps he would be able to hear some news of Mathaiah.

The captain looked at him. Eamon yearned to please him and rise to Right Hand as had been foreseen… But how could he be sworn to either throned or King when each cancelled the other out so entirely? Would it not be easier, simpler, to stay and obey this captain?

His eyes passed over the paper that bore his name. Anonymous was the one thing that he would never be.

With an order that Eamon barely heard, Waite dismissed him.

Eamon moved quietly down the corridor, counting the doors. His room was small, and furnished with a bed, a desk and chair, and a window through which spiralled the shadows of a distant arch.

A red uniform lay smartly on the bed, its collar marked with the two flames of his rank. Three flames would be first lieutenant, four draybant, and five a captain. Distinction at two or three flames could set him among the Hands. Beyond captains there were the Master's Gauntlet generals, but to Eamon's mind a captain's five pins were the ultimate mark of authority. He had never seen six.

Half in a dream he touched the flames. They were cool. The whole uniform seemed to call to him. His blood rushed in his veins and strange strength in his flesh; light touched his palm, answering the flames on the jacket.

He had almost forgotten the mark. The sight was like a stab to the heart. He remembered Jovan Clarence and his dead wife, her throat torn by Cathair's dogs.

He had been in Dunthruik all of two hours and he had already seen things that he could never condone. And yet by wearing that uniform… How could he carry flames at his throat and serve the King? Could the King really save any man from the power that sat in the palace, surrounded by Hands and defended by hundreds upon hundreds of young men who knew nothing but the prestige of donning red?