The Traitor's Heir (36 page)

“Of course,” the lady answered, half-rising. Mathaiah stopped her with a gesture of his hand.

“Forgive me, my lady – I intend you no disruption. Perhaps a servant of yours would be so good as to show me?”

Eamon marvelled at Mathaiah's smooth handling – he was delighted when their calculated risk paid off.

“That is a wonderful idea, Mr Grahaven.” Lady Turnholt rose and pulled a cord. Far away a bell rang. A few moments later Lillabeth entered. She curtseyed impeccably.

“My lady?”

“Lilly, would you be so kind as to show Mr Grahaven the collection in the West Wing? He is a great appreciator of art and I think that he will enjoy them.”

“Of course, my lady.”

“And do ask Mr Cartwright to have the house retire for the night – they worked finely this evening. You may help yourselves to a small cask of Ravensill Avola, as a congratulation.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Lillabeth answered with a smile. “Your house will appreciate it. If you would follow me, Mr Grahaven.”

Mathaiah rose from the table and thanked Alessia again before leaving. Eamon found himself alone with Alessia.

The lady went to open the balcony doors. A cool breeze blew in from them but Eamon felt hot. Alessia set two small glasses on a side table then turned to smile at him.

“Would you pour me a drink, Mr Goodman?” she asked. “It is always a pleasure to share a closing drink in good company.”

Eamon rose and came to her side. She raised her glass and he tilted the bottle so that a deep, red wine came running out of it. It was the same colour as her dress. As he poured, her hand shook a little and Eamon reached out instinctively to steady it. Their hands touched.

“My apologies, my lady,” Eamon said, turning as red as the wine.

The lady laughed. “That's quite all right.” Slowly, Eamon set the bottle down. She watched him. “Won't you join me in a drink, Mr Goodman?”

“I'm sorry, my lady,” he answered, and he was. “My duty precludes it.”

“I understand, lieutenant.” She set her glass down and cocked her head at him. “Would your duty preclude a stroll on the balcony?”

“No, my lady.”

She moved across to the balcony and looked back at him, her dark hair cascading like a cape about her shoulders. “Then perhaps you would accompany me?”

Eamon gazed at her. “With pleasure, my lady.”

She stepped onto the balcony, a nymph slipping into moon-struck darkness. Bewitched, Eamon followed her.

The balcony overlooked the garden. What seemed miles away Eamon could hear the sounds of the city. The dome of the Crown, the tall shape of the palace, and the harbour lights all met his eyes. But they did not hold him.

Alessia gestured to one side of the house. “That is the West Wing,” she said, “where your young friend will be enjoying a fine collection.”

“It was kind of you to let him see them, my lady.”

Alessia smiled. “A love of art marks a man of good repute.” She laid a playful hand on his arm. “And you, Mr Goodman?” she asked, her eyes twinkling. “Are you a man of good repute?”

Eamon swallowed. His whole being was on fire and in that moment, with the lady's welcoming smile and her fingers dancing delicately on his pulse, with the moonlight shining enticingly on her pale flesh… in that moment he wished very much that he was a man of bad repute.

With great effort he turned his gaze away from the sweet invitation of the dress's low neckline. “I strive to be one, my lady,” he murmured. “Only a good man may keep his honour. If I have not honour then I cannot serve or glorify the Master.”

Alessia laughed, delighted with his answer. “You speak well, lieutenant!” She strolled across to the balcony rail and leaned against it, facing him. “There are rumours about you at court, Lieutenant Goodman. You so intrigued me with your gallantry last night that I decided to see if they were true. I hope you do not think that rude of me?” she added with a sincere look.

How could he think of her as anything but entrancing? “No, my lady.”

“I am glad!” Alessia laughed, seemingly relieved. “Would you object to my seeking answers to some of those matters that most intrigue me?”

Eamon gazed at her, astounded by her interest in him. “I would answer you willingly, my lady.”

“They say that you surrendered your sword,” she told him, turning so as to look up into his eyes. The turn was enough to set his heart racing, let alone the glimpse of her beautiful neck. “They say,” Alessia continued, “that you were taken prisoner by wayfarers and that they tortured you, yet you revealed nothing. They say that you stole precious information, risking your life to bring back the last man of your crew, and that you brought things of great value back to this city and to the Master. Quieter voices, more wary of being heard, say that you breached a man that Lord Tramist, Lord of the South Quarter and finest breacher of this city and the River, could not. They say you are the only man who stands up to First Lieutenant Alben in matters of decency.”

He did not care how she had heard such things. Eamon half-heartedly tried to offer her compliments some resistance. “You flatter me, my lady.”

“I do not,” she told him. Suddenly she shivered. At once, Eamon removed his jacket and eased it over her bare shoulders. She smiled. When she looked at him again he found that she was impossibly close to him. His heart pounded so loudly that he was sure the whole world could hear it.

“They say,” she whispered, “that in one meeting you conquered the heart of Alessia Turnholt, and that she seeks to reward you in full for your gallantry.” Her eyes filled his sight and heart, forming the circles of his whole world.

Suddenly there was a hoarse, piercing scream – a girl's. It was followed seconds later by a yell. Eamon recognized the second voice: Mathaiah's. The cries came from the side of the house.

There could be no hesitation. Eamon tore himself away from Alessia and hurtled back inside. Flinging open the dining room doors he raced down the stairs, into the hall, through the doors. He heard sounds of a struggle near the stables, where the West Wing opened on the garden. Alessia was running close behind him.

“Stay inside!” he commanded. He did not wait to see if she obeyed. He bolted across the yard.

Lillabeth was pressed against the wall of the house. She sobbed and clutched at torn clothes with bloodied hands. In front of her was a man in a state of half-undress. His breathing was ragged and he was wild with rage, for between him and his weeping prey stood Mathaiah.

“Out of my way, bastard!” the man yelled. “Or I'll have you, too! Go back to your precious warder and leave me to my business!”

The wild man heard Eamon's approach and turned. With a rush of hatred Eamon recognized him: Alben.

With a screech the first lieutenant hurled himself at the cadet. The next moment Mathaiah and Alben were struggling hand to hand in the moonlight, the first lieutenant towering wrathfully over his foe. Alben drew a long dagger and thrust it at Mathaiah's chest. But the cadet was quick and with a feat of strength blocked the man's blow. Mathaiah twisted Alben's arm impossibly at the wrist and Alben was forced to tear away with a scream. He slashed across Mathaiah's arm and the cadet gave a cry of his own.

All this happened in moments. First lieutenant and cadet fell apart and Mathaiah moved back to stand protectively by Lillabeth, drawing his sword with his bleeding arm. His breath was pained.

“Sir!” he warned.

Eamon turned in time to see another man bearing down on him, dagger drawn. He blocked the blow and then drew his blade ferociously across the man's neck. There was no time to think about what he had done.

The corpse fell away from him and he rounded on Alben. The first lieutenant was laughing.

“Beginner's luck, Goodman!” he sneered. “That one was supposed to have garrotted you on your way home. Now I can kill you and your ward myself, a solution that I like much better.”

Howling like a devil Alben slashed again at Mathaiah. The cadet blocked the blow but its force was enormous – he staggered down to his knees beneath it, his sword clanging away from his hand.

“Stop!” Eamon yelled, lunging at him.

With a bloodthirsty smile Alben parried the blow. Content that he had drawn the man's ire, Eamon fell back a pace.

“Let me tell you how this evening is going to go, Mr Goodman,” Alben said. “First, I'm going to nearly kill you. Then I will kill him, and I will take her, and then I will finish you slowly. You don't object, I hope?”

“They have nothing to do with us, Alben!” Eamon told him. “They are in my way – much like you.” Hurling his dagger into his other hand Alben drew his sword. Terror flashed through Eamon's flesh. He did not know how skilled a swordsman Alben was.

“You want murder?” he cried. “For what, Alben? For Manners?” Alben erupted. “You expect me to think that you're blind, Goodman? I'm not. Since you came Waite has thought of nobody but you. How do I become a Hand if my captain is dallying with lieutenants? He can dally all he pleases, of course, but not when my promotion is on the line. The incidents at the course are amusements, Goodman, much like you are, and I intended to duel you to teach you your place, like all those other newcomer bastards.” Alben's face was hollow and crazed; Eamon fell back before it. “But then, Goodman, you dare to court Lady Turnholt, brazenly, in my face. Sleep with as many whores as you want, Goodman – but not with mine.”

Eamon gaped, but had no time to answer and barely the time to think. Alben launched himself, foul blades grinning in the light. Eamon met the oncoming blow and jerked to one side to avoid the slashing dagger strike that followed it.

Their swords jarred and Eamon struggled to hold his own. His stomach cramped as he and Alben tore apart and then exchanged a furious match of thrusts and parries. Fire burnt on Alben's palm: a red light like that in the man's eyes.

Suddenly Alben threw a strike that brought Eamon's sword out of his hand. The pommel-blow that followed struck Eamon hard in the jaw and he was sent, head swimming, to the ground. With a blood-curdling scream Alben threw down his blades and hurled himself on top of him. He clenched his sweating hands about Eamon's throat. Eamon cried out as the palm-fire burnt him.

“I'm going to choke you like a dog, Goodman!” Alben hissed, driving his thumbs down. Choking and gasping, Eamon tried desperately to pull Alben's hands away, but his strength was waning.

Only one defence was left to him. He rammed his hand into Alben's face.

The plain was dark and when Eamon looked with his other eyes Alben stood like a tower before him. The man laughed derisively.

“This will solve nothing, Goodman!”

Eamon staggered. His vision was still blurred; he could do nothing while he was being choked. He could not control it. Alben knew it. The first lieutenant approached him with a grotesque smile.

“So, you're a breacher,” he snarled. “Would you like to know what I am? A breaker.” Alben thrust his hand into Eamon's face. The hand upon him became a fistful of knives.

He screamed.

In agony Eamon fell fitfully between the plain and the real world. In one he could see Mathaiah trying to tear Alben off of him while in the other were the knives and looming presence. There was nothing he could do. Nothing.

Courage, Eamon!

Suddenly there was strength in him again and he saw the plain. The knives ceased to strike. Alben gaped in horror. Eamon looked at himself and understood that help had come: he was arrayed from head to foot in an armour of bright light.

He opened his eyes to the courtyard. There was strength in his hands and light at his throat where the heart of the King lay. He tore Alben's hands from his neck. Breath returned to his starved lungs and he hurled Alben from him.

Both men staggered to their feet. Eamon was aware of blue light shimmering by his hands, of Mathaiah and Lillabeth watching in astonishment, and of the cries of approaching soldiers. It was then that he realized what was plain for all to see: that he was a King's man. Alben had seen it. If he didn't act quickly then the approaching soldiers would see it, too.

“You treacherous, wayfaring bastard!” Alben cursed, and drew breath to yell it out loud.

The breath never reached his lips. Eamon snatched up the fallen dagger and hurled himself at the first lieutenant. He had no choice.

The blade went deep. Alben collapsed against the wall of the house. Eamon stepped back, hating himself and hating Alben for forcing him to do what he had done.

Suddenly Alben spoke again. His voice was small, different. As he spluttered blood into the darkness his eyes searched frantically this way and that.

“Eamon!” he pleaded. “Eamon, it wasn't me, he…” The man gave a gasp of pain. “Eamon, please! Save me!”

Eamon felt the ebbing light of the King's grace in him. He knew he could do it. He had done it before. But the soldiers were coming…

The light faded away. Alben's mouth twisted into a sob. Gripping its hilt, Eamon twisted the dagger.

“Lieutenant!”

Eamon saw Waite, Cathair, and a hoard of Gauntlet soldiers. Behind them came Alessia, her running much hampered by her long dress. Eamon understood at once that she had raised the alarm – he did not have time to wonder how she had found Cathair and Waite. With a cry the lady ran to Lillabeth and gathered her into her arms. The maid was weeping.

Waite's face paled as he surveyed the scene. He met Eamon's gaze in a fury.

“You had better have a damn good explanation for this, lieutenant!”

“Sir, I…” Eamon faltered. There was blood on his hands. The first lieutenant was stone still, his wretched face growing cold. He choked back an angry cry.

“What happened here?” Waite demanded, rushing to Alben's side.

“I can explain, sir,” Mathaiah said, clutching at his wound. “Alben… he was in a kind of fit… He attacked this serving lady… I tried to help her, and he was upon me… He meant to kill us… Lieutenant Goodman had no choice – he had to kill him.”