The Traitor's Heir (28 page)

He snatched his hand from the uniform. He could not wear it. He would not. It would devour him; it would force him to betray himself.

It had seemed so simple in the Hidden Hall: go to Dunthruik, pretend to be the lieutenant that the throned wanted him to be, and learn all he could. Stay hidden, like the hall. But how could he?

They would know – of course they would know. Did he really think that he could keep his purpose from the throned?

He felt on the edge of a precipice. He knew the path to escape – the inn on Serpentine Avenue. His limbs tensed, ready to flee.

He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, forcing it through his body to calm his heart. Then, so quickly that he wondered if he saw it at all, he saw with other eyes.

He saw what seemed to be a man riding on a field of battle before broad city walls. Rain poured down around him, clattering on helm and armour as he raised a shattered standard over his head.

“King's men!” he cried, his voice so strange and loud that it seemed the whole earth should wake and rally to that call. “The West Bank for the King!”

An answering roar rose up; Eamon realized that the calling rider was a woman. More than that: it was Elaina.

The vision was gone. Eamon opened his eyes. His heart still pounded with the clamour of battle but his hand now lay dull before him.

He picked up the uniform. Hating himself, he drew the thing on and gathered his oath to the King about his unsteady heart.

Outside he heard a trumpet call: parade was about to begin. Tucking the papers and the heart of the King safely away, he quickly put on the red jacket, buckled on sword and dagger, and hurried out into the morning light.

C
HAPTER
XII

P
arade was something that Eamon had always enjoyed, for it showed the companies of the Gauntlet at their very best: prim, smart, a moving block of colour and strength. But as he made his way into the courtyard, still tugging at his jacket (which was slightly too big) and straightening his collar, Eamon saw that Edesfield's parades had been a paltry affair where peasants and rogues played the roles of soldiers and gentlemen. In Waite's yard the men, whatever their rank, were as crisp as dew-dotted blades of grass and stood in line just as silently. Swords were slung at their sides and the emblem of the crown blazed on every breast. No muddy boots, no tousled heads, no bleary eyes. It was an awesome sight.

Quickly Eamon identified the column where the officers stood. A first lieutenant was at its head and many lieutenants stood behind him, each the master of a row of men. There was a gap near the front, next to Cadet Manners. Guessing this to be his place Eamon marched neatly over and took it. A worried look passed over the young man's face. Eamon mostly succeeded in not laughing. He had not been in Dunthruik a day and he was already feared!

“Present!” barked a voice. Like an ocean wave the whole body of men drew their swords and held them upright, cross-guards before their faces, in salute. The iron crop glistened.

Captain Waite came down from a platform at the head of the courtyard and began inspecting each man, his years of experience allowing him to move quickly along the lines. He did this mostly in silence; there was little for him to complain about.

Eamon watched the captain, thinking how much more a man he was than Belaal. Waite's face was sincere and his manner, though impeccable, was not uncaring. The men in the yard were testament to the captain's will and skill, and every one of them that went on to become more than a simple ensign would be an extra feather to his cap. There was more than pride and ambition to Waite's careful inspection: it was a labour of love.

The process took only a few minutes. Satisfied, the captain returned to his platform, thanked the men for their impressive turnout, and gave orders for the companies to file out, each to their designated tasks.

As the first lieutenant led his row away it occurred to Eamon that he did not know where the course was. He felt the threat of panic, for the line in front of him was now moving away. With sudden inspiration, he turned to Cadet Manners.

“Lead on, cadet.”

The young man gaped, astounded, as though to question this apparent madness: it was a lieutenant's job to lead the line. But an order was an order, and he had received one.

Saluting, the cadet led the line away. Eamon took a step back and looked at each man – the Third Banner Cadets, Captain Waite had called them – as they passed.

Edesfield had been a small college, with only one group of cadets taken in each year, and so the groups had been known by their year: first, second, or third cadets. But in Dunthruik each college would have scores of cadets in each year, and those cadets would have to be grouped together into smaller units for training. The Third Banner cadets would be one of many other college groups, each marked by their year and their own names.

The cadets were all about the same age, fine young men who aspired to the captain's enticing Hand-board. Their faces remained neutral, but he was sure that they all either wondered about their new lieutenant or had already heard wildly inaccurate tales about him. News about new officers spread quickly, especially among cadets.

He joined the end of the line and marched along with it, turning his gaze smartly towards the captain in an honorary salute. A smile crossed Waite's face. He suspected that the captain had been waiting to see how he would deal with the gap in his information. Part of him was amused by Waite's small test; the rest worried what consequence would follow the failing of any of them.

The course was set in a muddy field at the back of the college and made up of a selection of obstacles: deep ditches and tunnels and a wooden frame hung with ropes to climb. There were potholes to avoid, a length of variable terrain to run at speed, and, at the far end of the miserable concoction, another group of cadets to beat in swordplay. The Banner cadets would have to do the course with a heavy pack (weighted, in Eamon's own experience, with bricks). Only the best (or the luckiest) could stay the course and win the challenge that awaited them on the other side of “the river” – the wide, sodden ditch through which they would have to wade to reach their opponents.

Eamon had always hated the course with an undignified and unbelievable passion, mostly because he had only once made it through and then only by the skin of his teeth. While he had been training he and Ladomer had often run it together, and though Ladomer had never failed it Eamon had ended up face down in the mud (usually from the crippling height of the frame) more often than he cared to remember. The frame in the West Quarter College brought to mind the many, many times that Ladomer had come, fairly doubled with mirth, to haul him out of the mud.

The cadets had formed neat ranks at the beginning of the course. At the other side of the long field beyond “the river”, another group of cadets was lining up. They seemed a merry company – unsurprising, given that they had the morning's easier task. Eamon wondered which group they were. Being riverside had always been his preferred place. He mused that he wasn't going to have to crawl through the mud on this occasion. No, his task was to make fifteen young men crawl through it.

Eamon strode to the front of the ranks and looked at the young men in his charge. Officer training was given to cadets during their preparation, but such training in Edesfield had been lax and he was not as prepared as he might have liked. Most officer training was done as an ensign. Eamon had admittedly spent his own years as a cadet watching how dozens of officers, Ladomer not least among them, handled their men, through fear or honest enough affection. But to be suddenly faced with a group of young men whose obedience he had to win was daunting. It had been easier on the holk; the cadets there had seemed but boys, and they had known him. These cadets were more like men – well settled in their opinions, competent, capable, close to swearing to the Master – and he was a stranger on their turf.

“Sign!” he barked.

Beginning at one end of the line the cadets gave their surnames. Most of them would be local to the West Quarter. They answered crisply and, when the last man was reached, the cadet added:

“Third Banners all present and correct, sir!”

A bead of sweat trickled down his neck. “I am Lieutenant Goodman. Captain Waite has put you in my charge to make you more than cadets; he wants you to be officers and lauded Hands.” He changed his tone. “You had better be swift in demonstrating your capacities, gentlemen, because I can't see why the captain has such faith in you. Packs!”

At his command the cadets picked up the heavy loads that they had to carry round the course. Wooden practice blades, used in training, awaited them at the far end of the course. Some of the cadets disposed of their red jackets, unwilling to get them muddy. Eamon watched the cadets adjusting the straps about their shoulders. He picked one of them at random.

“Mr Ostler.”

“Sir?” the young man answered swiftly – and with the slightest trace of insolence.

Eamon chose to ignore it. “Whom are you facing this morning?”

There was a pause. Eamon waited.

Ostler glanced quietly at his fellows, seeking reassurance. Eamon cocked a quizzical eyebrow at him. He was strangely aware of the cadets at the far end of the field and the first lieutenant who strutted among them. But he waited.

“They're the Third Ravens, sir,” Ostler answered at last. “The West Quarter's finest.”

“Does that worry you, Mr Ostler?”

“We never beat them, sir,” Ostler answered grimly.

“On a field of battle, Mr Ostler,” Eamon told him, “banners fly courageously in the thickest press. On such a field, a raven is no more than a latecomer and a carrion bird.” He matched the cadet's gaze, and smiled. “What you mean to say is that you haven't beaten them
yet
.”

The cadets exchanged brief, unsure looks.

“Are you ready, gentlemen?”

“Sir!” At his command they charged the course.

Eamon followed them round it, berating them and encouraging them to remember the beating they had to give the Third Ravens at the other end. His own arms felt the strain as they tackled the frame and slid down the ropes into the mud. As he harried them Ladomer's voice was in his mind, harrying him. He soon found his friend's remembered words on his lips.

“Come on, Ford!” he shouted. The young man had climbed the frame and slowed considerably, almost to a walk. “Run as though the Serpent himself were before you!”

Most of the cadets neared the river at about the same time; they were energetic young men and handling the course well. Eamon followed them, realizing that his status was no protection against mud; it spattered him regardless. He yelled at the stragglers, forcing them to press on to the river.

It wasn't long before the Banners, led by a determined Cadet Manners, were forging a path through the river, up to their thighs in mud. Eamon exhorted them to pull themselves through it and out to the other side.

Manners escaped the river first and grabbed one of the swords on the far side of the ditch. The cadet charged the Ravens, yelling. A few feet behind him the first of his fellows were also emerging. The Ravens, most of them smug, stepped forward one at a time to tackle their filth-ridden foes. Behind them Eamon saw the first lieutenant, a thin man with tawny hair, inciting his cadets.

“Give the third bastards a beating!” he yelled.

Eamon took an immediate dislike to him. He called encouragement to his cadets and to Manners in particular. The young man was making a valiant attempt at his foe but he would be bested, his sword heavy in his weary hands. The cadet he fought answered his thrusts with mischievous parries. Manners tripped, fell, and his opponent declared victory. The next Banner went down seconds later.

“On!” Eamon yelled, but he knew as mud-man after man emerged that the Ravens were simply going to pick the tired cadets off one by one. He sighed inwardly, watching as the defeated hauled themselves off to one side, the victors to another. Both groups cheered their own comrades. The Banners had done the course swiftly and efficiently but only in beating an opponent at the far side could a man be said to have completed it. Ladomer had never failed. “Move your feet, Smith!”

His encouragement made little difference. None of the Banners would finish. But he kept calling them on, rallying them to fight to the last.

“It looks as though I whipped your B-hinds,” said a sudden voice by him. The first lieutenant wore the kind of superior smile that Eamon hated.

With effort he forced his tongue to civility. “With respect, sir, I didn't see you fighting any of them,” he replied curtly.

“No.” The first lieutenant favoured Eamon with a piteous look. “Normally the officer of the winning party duels the losing one, to give him one last chance to redeem his company's honour. But I fear, Mr Goodman, that there's nothing left to save. And,” he added, with the singsong intonation of insincere platitudes, “I think you would merely make the predicament worse. Such a pity.”

Eamon's blood boiled; it was Spencing all over again. He wanted to challenge the man but such behaviour was not condoned among officers. Every eye was on him. It was his first day in Dunthruik, his first morning as a West Quarter officer. He could not make a spectacle of himself. Responding to the first lieutenant's baiting would only mark him out as an easy victim in the future.

He looked with forced calm at the first lieutenant. “I could hardly duel you, sir. I am, as you see, somewhat muddy, and I fear that you might find your pins tarnished if I answered you.”

So saying, he turned his back and strode to his muddy cadets. “Third Banner Cadets, fall in!” It was time for them to get cleaned up.

The cadets lined up in all their muddied glory. They were exhausted, but even in the face of their unilateral defeat they found it in themselves to cheer. Cadets on both sides jeered their opponents while others offered congratulations and praise: their positions would soon be reversed.