The Traitor's Heir (55 page)

They had scarcely reached the last step when a familiar, but unexpected, voice reached them.

“Ah! The love birds. Good morning, Lord Goodman; Lady Turnholt.”

Alessia went quite still at his side. Ladomer appeared at the foot of the stair. Lillabeth followed him; she had obviously let him in.

“I'm sorry, my lady,” she began.

“It's all right, Lilly,” Alessia answered. Was her voice shaking? Why?

“What are you doing here, Ladomer?” Eamon asked.

“My apologies, Lord Goodman,” Ladomer answered, bowing. “Lord Cathair sent me to find you. There's work to be done.”

It sounded ominous. “What kind of work?”

“There's a supply convoy to upset. You've been chosen to lead the endeavour.”

Eamon's heart sank. It would be one of Hughan's; one he had learned about from Giles. Why was he being sent to destroy it?

They were testing him. They had to be.

“Cathair is dispatching a team tonight. You'd best make your farewells,” Ladomer added, seeing Alessia's face. Eamon looked to her, standing stiff beside him as though struck dumb.

“Eamon,” she whispered, fearfully and urgently.

He laid a finger to her lips and hushed her. “I'll be all right. I'll come back,” he promised, and kissed her. She clung to his hand, and as he pulled away he felt her fingers trembling. “Alessia?”

What she would have answered he never knew, for Ladomer laughed. “Don't worry, Lord Goodman!” he put in cheerfully. “I'll keep an eye on her for you!”

“Not too close of an eye, if you please,” Eamon replied firmly. He looked back to her. “What is it?” he whispered.

She held his gaze and almost imperceptibly shook her head. Her fingers pressed his hard.

“I love you,” she breathed.

Eamon touched her face one last time, seeing emotion written there that he did not understand. “I'll come back to you,” he told her.

“Come on, Lord Goodman!” Ladomer called, chivvying him towards the door. “Lord Cathair is waiting. I'd put on your cloak,” he added. “It's cold out there!”

“Thank you, Mr Kentigern,” Eamon answered. He threw the cloak over his shoulders and fastened it. Before he knew it he was beyond the door and in the chilly grip of the February morning. He glanced back over his shoulder.

Alessia stood, pale and beautiful, in the doorway. Lillabeth was at her side and, as he stepped from the Turnholt gates, he saw Alessia reaching out to take Lillabeth's hand.

Ladomer guided him to the Hands' Hall, chatting incessantly about the amount of work there was to be done. He did not ask about Eamon's ceremony – in fact, he made no comment on the promotion at all. This Eamon found somewhat odd but he did not comment. Perhaps Ladomer was jealous.

The hall had a large meeting room, protected by red stones and marked with the same writing which Eamon noticed more and more wherever he went. There was a table inside and dozens of chairs, all empty. Cathair and Ashway stood by the table, speaking quietly together; a couple of maps were unfurled before them. There were several others in the room, Waite among them, as well as a couple of other Hands who served in the West Quarter. Although he had seen them a few times and drunk with them the previous night, Eamon did not know their names. They looked young men and were most likely recently promoted, as he was.

The other man present in the room was a welcome sight. As he saw Eamon he grinned broadly.

“Lord Goodman,” he said, coming across and bowing. “Congratulations on your appointment!”

“And you on yours,” Eamon replied, noting an extra flame at the man's collar, “Captain Anderas!”

“Yes, the weather and the wayfarers served me well in that,” Anderas told him. It was Gauntlet practice to cross-post captaincies, promoting men from other areas so as to avoid favouritism; but the East Quarter had been in need of a captain and Eamon imagined that Draybant Anderas had been the best of the men that the quarter had to offer.

“Good fortune indeed,” Eamon told him warmly as they clasped hands.

“Gentlemen, your attention.” Cathair seemed in no mood for his accustomed pleasantries. He summoned them sharply to the map. “Business is of an urgent nature today. This shows the area near Stonemead, by the eastern mountains. Stonemead is here and this is the length of the East Road, picking up from the pass here and running to the River here.” He traced the directions. The road had been the main route over the Algorras to the Easter cities long years before. It was broad, in places still well maintained. Old women told stories of the days when the Easters came along the road from Istanaria, the great eastern capital, bearing fine goods.

“The Serpent has a convoy of supplies coming down the road from the Easters. How they made it across the mountains so early in the year we don't know – we shall have to ask anyone who survives. The convoy is travelling the road with a view to joining the main forces when it can.” Cathair shook his head, muttering something to the effect of wishing a gory death on each one of them down to the hundredth generation, should it be reached. He was in a foul mood. “Bloody snakes took the fortress at Greypass just before the winter set in, and with Easters pouring over the border there we weren't able to take it back. Logistical nightmare,” he offered with a faint smile. “Otherwise we would have nipped this little expedition in the bud.

“But, gentlemen, that's where you come in. Local Gauntlet units have been pinned down and reduced by skirmishes and a harsh winter. They are thus incapable of taking on this task alone. Dunthruik blood is needed to complete this mission, encourage those units and show that we have not ceded the area to the Serpent.” The Hand's voice was bitter.

“You want us to take the convoy, my lord?” Eamon guessed. It seemed logical. He looked at the map. Differing levels of terrain were indicated in sweeping contours. It was hilly and wooded to one side and flat on the other. He realized that the map was Overbrook's.

“The convoy is of a reasonable size, likely escorted by Easter archers.” Cathair pulled a face as he mentioned them, uttered horrific expletives directed towards the archers' mothers, then regained himself. “We're sending a reasonable force to deal with it. The men will be East Quarter ensigns and officers, a group of the city's knights, and a joint group of East and West Quarter Hands. It is a force over which you, Lord Goodman, will have charge.”

Eamon stared. Shouldn't an East Quarter Hand have charge? Ashway scowled as the pronouncement was made. It unnerved him. Eamon imagined that as Cathair was the Hand over the West Quarter – the most important and demonstrably most prestigious of the four parts of the city – he likely outranked Lord Ashway. Whatever Ashway's own view on how the mission ought to be ordered, Cathair was in command. It renewed Eamon's fear of the Hand that bore the raven.

“Thank you, Lord Cathair,” he managed.

“Road block to force the convoy to stop,” Anderas murmured, thinking aloud. He ran a hand through his hair as he pondered the best place. “About here. Pinewood village. Probably deserted these days. The convoy will have no choice but to clear it, and, unable to go round it, they'll be encumbered with what they're carrying and by the ditches.”

“Then we ambush them,” Eamon continued. He had always enjoyed tactics in his Gauntlet training, and there was something soothing about pointing at a map and making plans. “We put part of the force behind these hills, and the rest in this hollow here – just behind your village, captain. We draw and hold off the escort,” he added, gesturing in an arch over the curved lines, “then come at them taking the front, rear, and flank of the column.”

“We kill the guards and any who give us trouble, but keep the drivers to bring home whatever portion of the bounty needs to come to the city; the rest we leave with the regional units,” Anderas finished, and smiled broadly. “A fine plan, Lord Goodman!”

“Thank you, Captain Anderas.”

Cathair had watched them both with interest. He smiled. “I seem to have chosen capable hands for the matter, gentlemen,” he said. “You'll be a large group of men, one hundred or so, including logistical support. I will send a few surgeons with you, too. The movers will take you on to your meeting point with the local units, whence you shall proceed to Pinewood. Clearly bring back some of the wagons. Dependent upon your losses and situation, leave some ensigns and a couple of officers there to bolster the local units. The rest of you must return to the city to maintain quarter capacity. There won't be any movers on the way back.”

The room echoed in assent to Cathair's commands.

“Very good, gentlemen,” Cathair concluded. “Logistics for you will soon be in place. You leave at midday.”

They were near one hundred and fifty men that marched through the streets of Dunthruik that afternoon, each accoutred with the tools of their trade. Hands and Gauntlet ensigns, militia and knights, all gathered with a common cause. Morale was high.

Eamon rode at their head. He neither was nor ever hoped to be a skilled rider, but trotting the beast down the Coll and being marvelled at by all was not beyond his ability. Indeed he enjoyed it.

Captain Anderas rode near him, his steed a rich gift from Lord Ashway on his promotion. The captain was content to speak either to the animal or to Eamon, as the moment took him. He laughed much, which cheered Eamon immensely.

Lord Dehelt, the Lord of the North Quarter, rode with them. He was chief of the Master's movers. A small group of Hands was with him. He spoke very little.

Though he scoured the streets for her as he rode out, Eamon did not see Alessia.

When the procession passed the Brand and the West Quarter College, he was touched to see many of the cadets crowded on the steps. The Third Banners cheered him.

But he did not see Mathaiah, and that he rued. He had somehow hoped that one more exchanged glance would soothe all the ill will which ran between them. The Blind Gate loomed before him, its stony height ornately fashioned with the eagles of Dunthruik.

Suddenly he was through the gates. Open fields, farms, groves, and the River lay before him. The land was beautiful but his thoughts were not on it; he turned in his saddle to look back at the city gates.

“It will be nice to get out for a while, won't it, Lord Goodman?” Anderas commented.

“Yes,” Eamon answered uncertainly.

Anderas laughed. “I don't think I've been out on proper active service since I became a first lieutenant.”

“When was that?”

The captain pulled a face. “Too long ago, my lord, to be mentioned in civilized company!”

Eamon laughed with him, but he felt faint. He had come to Dunthruik, months ago, with a heavy heart. Now, he was loath to leave it.

C
HAPTER
XXII

T
hey were a large group and the movers strained to perform their task. They could not move men more than a certain distance. Even the Hands, too, had their limits.

They were moved in groups of thirty and deposited about twenty miles from Pinewood. Eamon commanded that pickets be set around the area. He then watched in fascination as the second, third, and fourth group of men came. One moment there was nothing but the empty field, and the next it was filled with knights and infantry from Dunthruik. The other Hands from the East and West Quarters came on horseback in the last group, riding with enviable elegance.

Not long after they arrived, the pickets reported the approach of the local units who were to join them. Eamon watched as groups of ensigns and officers came from the north, uniforms ragged and breath clearly visible in the cold air.

“There aren't many,” Lord Dehelt murmured. He and the movers had orders to wait with them until the local units arrived. Watching the slither of red coming towards them, the Lord of the North Quarter shook his head. “Not many at all.”

Eamon tried to tally the arriving men; there seemed to be about seventy of them. “Every man who can be added to our number will be of help to us, my lord.”

“That is true,” Dehelt nodded. He seemed much younger than the other Quarter Hands. “Though your task may be easy, Lord Goodman,” he added, “the force that you command might not be.”

Eamon glanced at the Hands, knights, and Gauntlet, each from different quarters and regions. “They will recognize my command,” he said, more confidently than he felt.

“You are young, Lord Goodman,” Dehelt answered. “You must hold your authority. Lord Cathair has, in public and in private, put much stock in you. Do not disappoint him.”

A chill ran through him. “I will not, my lord.”

“I wish you good work, Lord Goodman. His glory.”

“His glory,” Eamon replied, bowing.

Dehelt and the movers withdrew, leaving Eamon feeling shaken.

“Lord Goodman.” Anderas bowed. Another man was with him – one of the local arrivals.

Eamon took hold of himself. He would not be spooked like a horse. “Captain.”

“This is Lieutenant Walden, the ranking officer from the Greypass groups.”

“Good to have you with us, Mr Walden,” Eamon said, turning to the first lieutenant. “I understand that you and your men know this area well.”

“Yes, my lord,” Walden answered. His scarred face was grim. “The snakes have been exercising against the Gauntlet here since the end of August, and kept it up even in the depths of the winter. They cut our garrison off from the other units in this area and took the town from us. First Lieutenant Bailiff gave the surrender,” he added bitterly. “My men and I were outside at the time, my lord – we made it to Stonemead. The snakes had taken that, too, and the stragglers who had escaped joined our company. We've been in the wild since then. We lost men to the cold, and in skirmishes. It has been a long, hard winter.” He looked up with a grizzled glint to his eye. “We will glorify the Master with our vengeance.”