The Traitor's Heir (41 page)

“Silence!”

As willingly and immediately as soldiers, they obeyed. A stunned hush descended upon them, like a wave rolling to the shore. Out of the corner of his eye Eamon became aware of Lord Cathair. The Hand looked shaken and was watching Eamon with new wariness.

“Lords, ladies, and gentlemen: Mr Goodman is, as you have seen, a man worthy of praise,” the Right Hand said. “Let us thank him for his timely intervention.”

The Right Hand began to applaud, and what the Right Hand did the people followed. Soon the whole hall was alive with clapping. Eamon was awed by the power of the man beside him. Would he one day stand in that place, reaping multitudinous and compliant adoration? He smiled.

How could he want to become Right Hand?

The Right Hand clasped his hand again. “A most timely intervention, Mr Goodman,” he repeated, before adding meaningfully: “It will not go unnoticed. You have my thanks, and Lord Cathair's, I do not doubt.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Eamon could not hear himself think over the raging applause. Alessia's face beamed at him.

How could he not love this? How could he not seek it for his own? What could Hughan offer him that could outshine what the Master lavished on him daily?

He breathed deeply, trying to clear his head. The Right Hand's warm, strong grip clasped his arm, urging him to cast all notion of the King from him; with his left hand he clutched the tattered remains of the sword and star.

C
HAPTER
XVII

“Y
ou still seem incapable of telling me whether or not you enjoyed yourself at the masque, sir,” Mathaiah said.

“Perhaps I still am.”

They were sitting together in one of the inns near the college, taking comfort in a drink of mulled spices. Over the last few days the weather had grown much colder and news of snow had come from the northern reaches. The passages to the north and east would soon begin to block, rendering trade more difficult, and the port would drop to minimal functioning as the ships took to wintering instead of trading. It was a time when the city became more insular and, with it, more superstitious. Over the winter months the dead were rounded up from street corners and burnt in the pyres. Such burnings had already begun, and Eamon had seen great billows of smoke on the city's plain. The price of bread had increased as grain became more tightly rationed with the closing of many trade routes. Yet while the poor starved and dreaded the coming icy blasts, the lords and ladies of Dunthruik feasted on venison and gorged on honeyed cakes until their stomachs could hold no more. Eamon had seen first hand what gifts were lavished on those who glorified the Master.

“It's been three days since the masque, sir,” Mathaiah persisted. He had listened with great interest to Eamon's account of the hall and the throne – details that Eamon, in his embarrassment over Alessia, was all too eager to relate. She served the throned – what could he possibly say to defend her to as staunch a King's man as his ward? He could not justify what he felt for her, not to Mathaiah.

“I know,” Eamon answered at length. But his memories of the masque still troubled him. He would not have exchanged the time he had shared with Alessia for any price, but that joy was overshadowed by the snakes, by the Right Hand's dark mask, by Cathair's eyes and the howling assassin. The gruelling nature of the work he had done at the college since had driven none of it from his mind. Besides all of this was the memory of his return to the West Quarter College on the night of the masque. He had found Captain Waite waiting for him. What the captain had meant to say he did not know; when the man had seen Eamon's torn uniform and heard his account of what happened, he had fallen silent. Thoughtfully pursing his lips, the captain had patted him amicably on the shoulder and bid him goodnight.

Eamon took a long sip of his drink. He was accustomed to ale but his stomach, having been given nothing but wine to drink since he had become an officer, was weary of alcohol. Even in the mulled drink he was privileged: upon hearing his name the bartender had insisted on brewing for him the most expensive leaves in the house, brought long ago from Istanaria, the pinnacled city east of the mountains, in the land of the Seven Sons. Eamon hardly believed that he deserved to drink it.

“Hughan should know about what I saw,” he said quietly. It had taken him some time to tell Mathaiah about the old man in his vision. But his ward had not batted an eyelid at the revelation: he had nodded sagely, as though the whole affair was the most logical thing in the world. Eamon admired the cadet's calm and reassuring manner.

“You'll tell Lillabeth?”

“Yes, sir.”

Eamon thanked him. Mathaiah was a dear friend – he could never have foreseen how dear. The young man was faithful and trustworthy, and Eamon was glad to have him by his side. The cadet also seemed to have grown his own attachment to Alessia's maid: he often spent his free hours visiting her and some of that time, Eamon knew, was used to pass on messages for the King. There had not yet been any news from Hughan. The silence played on his troubled mind, but he had to trust himself to the King's judgment.

He rubbed tired eyes, then looked at Mathaiah over his drink. It was the day of the majesty, and the whole city had sprung into life. As first lieutenant of the West Quarter College, his own task that evening was to lead the quarter's ensigns, cadets, and officers in the procession from the Blind Gate to the Royal Plaza. Eamon had spent the morning going through the ceremony's protocol with his own cadets until they knew every moment wherein it was permitted for them to breathe. Though he was confident that his men would cut a very impressive figure in the Royal Plaza, he knew that he would be watched from every quarter; his name had spread like wildfire since he had saved Cathair's life at the masque. He still kept the heart of the King beneath his shirt, but the three pins of his first lieutenancy weighed against his throat. He fiddled anxiously with one as he thought.

What kind of First Knight was he, who so willingly served – and saved – the King's enemies?

Mathaiah seemed to read his mind. He chinked his mug against Eamon's, rousing him from his reverie.

“It'll be all right, sir,” he encouraged. “You're doing all right.”

Eamon laughed gently. “What would I do without you, Mathaiah?”

“Goes both ways, sir.”

They took a little while to finish their drinks, watching people going about their business. Upon seeing a three-flamed uniform most men gave them a wide berth, but some came and stared at them. Mathaiah found this amusing, but Eamon hated feeling that each man was impressing the details of First Lieutenant Eamon Goodman's face into their minds. Those moments when none watched him were moments that he indeed relished. The irony of this did not escape him.

As they drank, Eamon became aware of a young woman watching him particularly intensely. Huddled in a far corner of the inn, away from the light of the window, she had a tiny child cradled in one arm, which she rocked from time to time. Her dirty hair was tied back and her eyes were sunken with fatigue. The longer she watched him the more disconcerted he became.

“Do you see her, Mathaiah? The one staring at me.”

Mathaiah glanced up, then took another drink. “I don't think there's any harm in her, sir.”

“It's as though… as though she expects me to do something.” He felt irritated by the attention of the stark eyes. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that the woman's gaze was still resolutely on him. “What could she possibly want?”

“Perhaps you could ask her, sir.”

It seemed a mad suggestion. Eamon stared at the herbs in the bottom of his mug, listening to the murmur of nearby voices. The others in the inn were cadets, ensigns, merchants, and all of them had looked at him from time to time, but none had stared as this woman did. Eamon tried to shut out the sense of the piercing gaze upon him. The baby began to cry. The girl tried to quieten it, her voice trembling.

Suddenly he rose. His chair scraped back across the floorboards; everybody looked at him before swiftly pretending to look away.

Eamon turned angrily to the young woman. She watched him warily as he approached, but made no move to leave. The baby whimpered. The young mother rocked it and watched him.

The cry grated. “Is there something the matter, Miss?” Eamon asked roughly.

The young woman started. “N-no sir.”

Eamon looked at the child. Its face was deathly pale and the tiny fingers were blistered and yellow with cold. The sight filled him with pity.

“Is something the matter with your child?” he asked, more gently this time.

“Please, sir,” the woman whispered, “are you First Lieutenant Goodman?”

Eamon did not see how her question answered his own, but he nodded.

Her face lit like sun over a winter sea. “Sir, my boy is sick. Snakes cursed him, so my husband says – they have terrible power! I want my boy to live. They say that you are favoured by the Master, and that you have power in you; that the snakes can neither harm nor stand against you.” She brushed a tear from her lowered eyes. “They say that you can undo what the snakes do.”

Eamon stared. How had he gained so fearsome a reputation – he, work against Hughan? His heart sickened at the thought.

The woman's voice was desperate: “Sir, I beg of you – take the curse off my boy.”

Eamon gaped at her. Remove a curse? He could not – there was no curse. The baby was unwell and likely to die swiftly in the coming cold. Many lost children to the combination of the winter's cold and the fevers that frequently accompanied it. It was not an unusual occurrence – yet the mother had not resigned herself to it. She held Eamon in a plaintive gaze, moving the babe in her arms as it cried. Eamon felt a desire growing in his heart: he wanted to see the baby well.

Slowly he reached out and laid his finger by the baby's hand. After a few moments the tiny fist latched on to him and the child grew quiet. Eamon looked down kindly at the boy and felt warmth welling inside him. He remembered how, on the deck of the cold holk, he had pressed his hands hard against Mathaiah's wound and called for help he had known could never come. He tucked the tiny palm that he held between his own. Now he knew differently.

Eamon felt the King's grace at work. He thought that maybe, just maybe, he caught a momentary glimpse of blue light passing from his fingers into the tiny hand that he held. He knew then that the boy would live.

The child smiled at him. With a yawn and a stretch, he fell asleep.

Eamon loosed his finger from the child's grasp and looked back to its mother. She gazed at her child, and him, in amazement.

“He's sleeping,” she whispered. Tears came to her eyes. “He's…
sleeping
…”

“He is not cursed,” Eamon told her, wondering at his own confidence, “nor has he been cursed. There are snakes and wayfarers about, Miss; that much is certain. But keep your sight clear and you will distinguish snake from man and true man from false.” He paused, the heart of the King burning at his breast. “As for your boy, he will be safe all winter long.”

Tears ran down the woman's cheeks. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “His glory!”

Curtseying awkwardly she ran from the inn. As she hurtled past the window and disappeared into the labyrinthine streets Eamon heard her joyously squealing her husband's name.

Then he became aware of the others in the inn. The barman stared at him openly.

“Well,” he exclaimed, “who would have thought it! And in my inn, too.” He raised the glass he had been cleaning. “His glory!”

The other men in the inn took up the bartender's call. How Eamon wished that he could tell them how the child had truly been saved! Swallowing the desire, he strolled to the bar and laid a handful of coins on the table.

“Some drinks for these fine gentlemen, innkeeper,” he said, hoping it would help witnesses forget what they had seen.

The bar resounded with a cheer.

Eamon returned to Mathaiah. While all in the inn were otherwise occupied, they left in silence.

They walked quietly through the street, the sun barely warming their faces. Eamon's mind raced. He was plagued by Alben's death and distraught at saving Cathair's life. Now he had used the King's grace to heal a child. What kind of man was he? He could not be indistinct in his loyalty. He had to choose – why did he delay?

“Are you all right, sir?”

Explaining his turmoil to Mathaiah would help. Eamon drew breath, but the thoughts never left his mouth.

“Well I never!” cried a sudden voice behind them. “Well I never! Can it be? Is that Eamon Goodman, the fearsome Ratbag of Edesfield?”

Eamon halted mid-pace. He knew the voice – knew that its owner was miles away. But there was only one person in the whole of River Realm who would call him “Ratbag”.

With bated breath, he turned. On the street corner stood his old lieutenant and dear friend.

“Ladomer!” Eamon cried. Filled with laughter, he raced forward and heartily embraced his friend. “You're a sight for sore eyes!”

“You didn't expect to see me here, did you?” Ladomer grinned.

“No indeed! You must tell me everything!” Stepping back, Eamon remembered Mathaiah. The cadet hung a few paces behind them. “Oh, this is Cadet Mathaiah Grahaven, my ward.”

“From Edesfield College?” Ladomer said, eyes narrowed in recollection.

Mathaiah nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Ah, that's right! The banner-renderer.” Mathaiah pursed his lips uncomfortably but Ladomer only laughed. “Fear not, Mr Grahaven! It had been mended when last I checked.”

“That's good to know, sir.”

Ladomer turned back to Eamon. “And you – you're a warder already?”

Eamon beamed. “Have you counted the shirt burns?”

Ladomer gazed at him, making a show of looking to Eamon's throat. His dark eyes widened in astonishment.