The Traitor's Heir (48 page)

Eamon came in and sat down. Waite closed the door before going heavily back to his desk. “Lord Cathair requires your services this evening, Mr Goodman.”

Eamon's heart leapt. If he could distinguish himself before Lord Cathair he might at last clinch his Handing.

Waite steepled his fingers and sighed. After a reflective pause he lifted his eyes. Eamon realized that the captain was treating him to his confidence.

“There's serious business afoot, Mr Goodman,” he said. Eamon imagined so; only very serious business would call the captains and Hands away to the palace as regularly as they had been of late. “Some deadly rumours have been circling all winter. Perhaps you have heard some of them. Harryings on the north bank; incursions into the east; rumours of an army, gathering in Southdael province.”

Eamon froze. Of course he had heard of increased wayfaring activity – he had often helped to extract the information regarding their hiding places. But he had heard nothing about an army – least of all in Southdael! The province was on the West Bank, just on the other side of the River mouth from the city.

“The last few wayfarers that we've pressed about the matter have only verified these persistent voices. It is disturbing news. Most disturbing…” Waite trailed off, and seemed suddenly to come to his senses. “Take Overbrook with you when you go,” he added. “There's map-drawing to be done.”

Later that evening Eamon tore Overbrook away from his painstaking study; only the promise of further map-drawing really convinced the cadet to join him. Eamon didn't mind; he was fond of all his cadets. When the others caught wind that Overbrook was to go on a special mission with their first lieutenant, they appeared in the hall to jealously watch Eamon and Overbrook's departure. Overbrook, his arms laden with paper and bearing a satchel of equipment at his side, beamed at them.

“Where are we going, sir?” he asked as they followed the Coll together.

“I'm not entirely sure,” Eamon confessed. “Some work for Lord Cathair.” Overbrook looked disconcerted. “Does that bother you, Mr Overbrook?”

“No,” Overbrook replied quickly. “That is to say, the work doesn't bother me. But Lord Cathair…”

“Looks like death warmed up?”

Overbrook grinned, relieved. “That's one way of putting it, sir!”

They continued to the Hands' Hall. Overbrook chatted the whole way, waxing lyrical about the map of Dunthruik that he had been drawing. It was the work into which he had put the most effort, and of which he was most proud.

“It's nearly finished.” he said. “I just can't get the scale of the distance between the Blind Gate and the River quite right…”

Eamon laughed. He was sure that the map was a work of art.

Cathair was waiting for them at the hall. He stretched out his hands in welcome.

“Ah, Mr Goodman, perfect timing!” Four other Hands were with him, each carrying a bow. “I'm glad to see that you have Mr Overbrook with you.” The cadet clutched nervously at his papers. Eamon offered him an encouraging smile. Cathair also bestowed a broad smile on the cadet. “We shall have need of your expertise, Mr Overbrook.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Cathair led them into the Hands' Hall. By now Eamon was familiar with almost every door – down to the peculiar patterns in each stone block – but as they went he noticed Cathair's pallor with renewed eyes. It filled him with long-forgotten misgiving. Passing the angular writing in the hall, Eamon remembered Mathaiah's assertion that he could read it.

The first stars peeped through the cloud cover. At the heart of the central courtyard, Cathair called them to a halt. The Hands pressed round. Eamon was glad of Overbrook at his side.

One of the Hands raised his arms. Eamon felt a strange drowsiness grip him as ruddy flames rose up. He did not know if they were real or imagined. There was a lurch; his senses reeled. The ground seemed stolen from beneath his feet.

Suddenly the wind was blowing into his face and he could no longer smell the sea. When he opened his eyes he was not in the city. He stood on a plateau. To his left was a wooded decline. Beyond that was a ridge and, away beyond the trees, light.

When he looked he saw that Overbrook appeared as astonished as he felt. Only the Hands seemed unperturbed. As the mover lowered his arms, Cathair spoke:

“I would say that we are in the right place.” His face was luminous in the moonlight. “Come, gentlemen.”

Cathair led them to the edge of the ridge. Feeling less confident than the striding Hand, Eamon crept after him. Overbrook followed uncertainly and they looked down together. What they saw astonished them.

The valley below was filled from crest to dell with an encampment. In the distance, from which Eamon imagined that he was looking north, the bright moon lit coils of the River. The camp was filled with lights, horses, and weapons: spears, bills, lances, swords. Armoured figures moved between the tents. Dozens of fires burned and shapes were huddled about them, cooking or laughing. Voices carried on the chilly air, some of them singing.

It was an army. Not enormous – perhaps a couple of thousand, with more filing through the southern gorge as they watched – but well equipped. Eamon knew there would be pickets, scouts, and guards on the nearby ridges.

But what struck him most was a single pennon flying high, glimmering in the steady moonlight. There, worked in blue and silver, was the sword and star. His heart rose into his throat.

Was Hughan there?

“Rumour's voice runs true,” Cathair murmured. “Mr Overbrook.”

“My lord?” He sounded stunned.

“Take your papers along the rim. Lord Oldgrove will go with you. Make your sketch accurate. Mind the Serpent's pickets.”

“Yes, my lord.” Overbrook and Oldgrove slipped off in silence.

Eamon gaped at the army. How had Hughan managed to amass such numbers during the winter? He was shocked to realize that he had been so absorbed with his own lusts that he barely remembered the King's face. But now it came back to him, as clear as he had so often seen his own in Alessia's glass.

Hughan had entrusted him with a task. Eamon recoiled. All winter long he had spared neither thought, help, nor duty to the King. His shame and grief came suddenly to life, howling to be heard. No longer could he ignore its powerful voice.

He swayed, nauseated and faint.

“It was Lorentide who first led us to this,” Cathair murmured, breaking Eamon's thought. “He had been forging papers for months to get snakes out of the city. Of course if we had caught him sooner we might have been better served, but we must shed no tears for that; most of the vermin were heading for this wretched army, so we shall kill them in the end. They've been gathering strength all winter. Since they came over the mountains just before the press of winter the Easters have started joining them, too,” he added, gesturing along the flank of the camp to a deep emerald and orange banner, bearing a sun. “Doubtless the Serpent has convinced them to aid him. Who knows how? Bartering promises he can never repay and telling them that they have some part in all of this, I imagine.” Lord Cathair shook his head and sighed.

Eamon stared at the foreign banner. For months there had been rumours of trouble in the east, and Eamon had himself seen Easters at the Hidden Hall. If Hughan had been gathering support from beyond the mountains, then it was little wonder that things in the east-bordering provinces had grown grim.

“We'll crush these snakes,” Cathair growled. “Dust to dust.”

Eamon settled back in silence, his head spinning. He had never heard of Hughan's army until that day, yet he was sure that his hands had been instrumental in revealing it. The throned had to crush it before it reached its potential.

Could he let that happen to Hughan?

What will it serve to help him now, son of Eben? You are mine.

Surely the voice was right. He tried to placate himself: there was nothing he could do.

But the voice lied. Hughan had told him so. And, whatever else, Hughan was his friend – they had grown up together. Would he let Ladomer die, if he could prevent it?

But Ladomer wasn't the Serpent.

He wiped cold sweat from his brow. He was more a servant of the Master than he had ever been, but he had to send a warning: the King's encampment had to move before the Hands destroyed it.

A sudden cry rent the air – agonized and swiftly silenced. Cathair stiffened and the other Hands, dotted along the course of the ridge, fell still.

Eamon knew the voice. Not stopping to think, he leapt to his feet and tore across the hilltop, not doubting that his figure was perfectly obvious to any picket or sentry who watched, but he didn't care: let them see. He hurtled towards the ridge.

Seconds later he stopped, appalled. A wrathful cry erupted from his throat.

Oldgrove was dead on the ground. Cadet Overbrook lay beside him, a pool of blood widening from his punctured gut. His papers were strewn around him – he clawed at them.

“Sir!” he gasped – and gasped no more.

Over the cadet's bleeding body stood a familiar man. His hands held a dripping sword.

“You bastard!” Eamon yelled.

It was Giles.

C
HAPTER
XX

B
lood soaked the ground and the grisly moon glared back at him in the gore. Eamon stared balefully at Giles, his mind reeling madly between the carnage that lay at his feet and his grief. The cries of the holk's cadets and the smell of blood on weathered wood poured back into his mind; his stomach lurched as the first bodies hit the water. Now Overbrook was among them, another pale and bloated face. And Giles laughed.

His hands shook with anger. “
Bastard!
”

Giles shook the term away. Eamon's hand flew to his sword in fury. This time he would not meekly surrender it. Giles would pay for what he had done!

“I wouldn't advise that, Goodman.” Giles's voice broke dangerously through the dark.

“I'm not in the habit of taking advice from bastards!” Eamon spat.

“I have half a dozen archers in these trees. At my command they will shoot you.”

“And I have Hands,” Eamon retorted, too angry to think. Overbrook had been a young man with a future. Now mud swallowed his corpse.

Giles fixed him with a condemning stare. “For what good that will do you,” he hissed, gesturing to Oldgrove. He surged forward. “And we're high on that Hand list now, aren't we, Mr Goodman? Yes, very high on that list, because we've been very cosy and very busy, nestled in Dunthruik, haven't we?”

Eamon didn't answer. The pins at his collar clenched his throat.

Giles was almost within cutting distance now but Eamon still had not drawn his sword. He couldn't: words, more perilous than arrows, pinioned him.

“You've always been one of theirs, ready to grovel and fawn as they desire,” Giles sneered. “I should have killed you when I first had the chance, Mr Goodman. Yes, I would have been the object of Hughan's scorn for a while, but what have I achieved in letting you live? I've allowed you to hunt wayfarers, to breach them, to hand them over to my enemies, to betray and murder my allies.” He gave a clipped laugh. “I suppose it just goes to show that even a would-be king makes mistakes. How many wayfarers do you think I would have saved, Mr Goodman, if I had struck you dead like the pathetic traitor that you are? How many will I save if I do it now?”

Eamon's pulse quickened. A thousand faces were suddenly in his mind's eye: the people of Dunthruik, cowed by his shadow. He remembered cries, pleas for mercy, as he pressed still harder upon the heads of countless wayfarers, wresting words from anguished lips. He had offered up each bloodied utterance to the Hand as though on an exquisite, golden platter, receiving in turn a nod, a smile, and the longed-for promise of black. He saw the Pit, smelled its vile stench, felt a numbness where once he felt revulsion at what was exhumed from the cavernous welt. Eamon's eyes no longer stung when he went to the Pit and he no longer flinched from the sight of the red light drawing bleeding prisoners out of the depths with as little effort as he had drawn a hundred confessions.

With a cry he tore his mind away from his guilty recollections. He rounded violently on Giles.

“You will not lay a hand on me,” he cried. In the eaves around him he could hear sounds of a struggle; the Hands had engaged King's men in the woods. It would not take them long to dispatch them and come to him; all he had to do was endure this madman a little longer…

“Why not?” Giles roared. “Why should I pity you? What pity have you shown? Every child you've breached, every step you've taken in that accursed city, you've taken for the throned, and he has taken to you quite warmly.” Giles pressed furiously towards him until their faces nearly touched. His voice dropped to a growl. The words that he then uttered were between them and the night alone.

“Do you think that I don't know what you have done, First Lieutenant Goodman?” he hissed. “That nobody knows what you do? Do you think that Hughan doesn't know each excruciating detail of every treachery you've committed? Let me disabuse you of that notion, Mr Goodman: the King knows. The whole bloody wayfaring world knows, and I'm sure they weep themselves to sleep with it at night! Because they trusted you, and you are false.”

Eamon's heart stopped. It lay stone cold in his breast. “No!”

“No?” Giles mimicked his voice ruthlessly. “It's too late for your pitiable ‘no', Goodman! There was never any hope in you. Tell me how you have ever served Hughan? You're the throned's whore as much as that Turnholt bitch is yours.”

It was a step too far. Eamon's hands clenched hard and the prick of the mark burned on them. What right had Giles to speak to him of Alessia! He knew nothing! He was a worthless lackey and Eamon had always hated him.

Strike him! Strike him now.