The Broken Blade (11 page)

He stood still for a moment, drinking in their heady scent, then looked about himself again. In the centre of the rose garden was a small pedestal. Quietly he walked to it. The stone was an object of great craft, solemn and tranquil amid the hanging roses that inclined towards it. At the top of the pedestal was a broad basin, engraved with a motif of running plants. Eamon stepped up and peered down into it. Then his breath was stolen away.

In the still water he saw the high arches of the blue sky. Birds moved across it and there, above the reflection of his astonished face and hidden in a corner of the growing light, stood a shining star. It was faint, but he saw it.

“
Hold to the King.”

Eamon rested his hand on the pedestal and turned his head up to the sky. The light grew, and as he watched, the star faded from his sight; its final rays filled his eyes.

When he looked back to the basin, the water moved as wind breathed across it. The roses whispered to him. Feeling a strange peace, Eamon left the garden.

 

He rode to the port that morning to inspect the final stages of the quay repair and meet with one of the throned's merchant allies. He brought valuable Gauntlet men from their postings in Etraia. Fletcher rode with him, maintaining a stony silence, but Eamon did not mind it. He listened to the horses as they clattered across the cobbles and the stones, then watched as the gates opened out onto the sheltered harbour. The waterfront was broad and encircled by a wide breaker that gave only a narrow, west-facing entrance and exit to the port. The throned's own fleet, a small affair, was decked in red and stood in the shallows to the southern end of the harbour, while those craft docking or awaiting entrance or exit moved through the waters by virtue of oars and sails. Beyond the circle of the breakers, a line of craft moved on the swaying waters, taking turns to make use of the port-mouth.

“There is no need for you to trouble yourself overly with this meeting, my lord,” Fletcher told him as they rode. “It is, however, important that Etraia sees we hold them in high enough regard to send you to meet a captain.”

Eamon nodded. Etraia was the staunchest of the Master's merchant allies and the supplier of the vast quantities of grain that Dunthruik needed after the winter. In exchange, Dunthruik supplied arms, cloths, and wines from Ravensill.

Fletcher looked up to the harbour, then back to Eamon. “The most important part in dealing with the Etraian seamen, my lord, is never to ask them how their journey was, unless it is absolutely necessary.”

“Oh?” Eamon asked, surprised. It was not a warning he had been given before. “I would have thought it the very first question to ask a man of the sea. It is brave work that they do, even in the summer months.”

Fletcher leaned towards him and lowered his voice a little. “These ships cross the Straits of Etraia, my lord. It is a narrow and dangerous sea path between the western-most point of the River Realm and the eastern-most part of Etraia. Making use of it greatly shortens the journey between the northern and eastern regions of Etraia and Dunthruik. But these captains…” he paused. “They enjoy spinning a story from such things.”

“And this is a problem?”

“It is invariably a
long
story, Lord Goodman.” Fletcher's eyes glazed over slightly and Eamon wondered how many of these stories his lieutenant had endured.

They reined in their steeds at the quayside and waited while a great ship docked. The port-hands called to one another as they tied down ropes and secured the moorings. The ropes strained as the ship moved with the tide, but this did not impede the docking and the lowering of the gang.

After a time, the vessel's captain sauntered down. He was broad-shouldered and tanned. But for his colourings, he reminded Eamon of Giles. The captain's step was heavy as he came aground.

Fletcher dismounted at once and greeted the captain. The captain smiled and bowed warmly.

“Mr Fletcher!” he called. “A pleasure to see you! What a crossing I have had!”

The lieutenant drew a deep breath of resignation, and asked about the captain's journey. The sailor launched into his tale with great gusto, while the lieutenant forced a grin and nodded sporadically throughout the telling.

As the tale continued, Eamon took pity on his lieutenant. He dismounted and approached the captain.

The captain halted. “My lord,” he acknowledged with a deep bow.

“A fair tide, I trust?” Eamon asked. Fletcher shot him a pained look of warning.

“Indeed,” the captain answered, drawing breath, “though at the straits –”

“I have come to express to you the Lord of Dunthruik's personal pleasure with the service and fealty which Etraia brings to us at this time,” Eamon interrupted. “Mr Fletcher is well acquainted with the form that this thanks will take and will discuss it with you on my behalf.” On this occasion, it was to take the form of a vast number of Ravensill's finest wines – which were highly valued in the merchant state – as well as timber and stone from Dunthruik's ample supplies.

The captain inclined his head grandly. “The Master's thanks mean much to us, my lord Right Hand.”

“I leave you to Mr Fletcher, captain,” Eamon said.

“Of course, lord.”

Eamon mounted his horse again and turned back for the port gate, leaving Fletcher and the captain to make the requisite arrangements.

As he urged Sahu on to the gate, he caught sight of a group of Gauntlet working at the quayside to bring grain down off a merchant galley. This had become a frequent sight at the port in recent weeks, but Eamon paused as he heard a familiar voice calling orders for the workers.

“The next load to the West house!” the voice called. The men hauled the grain across to a storehouse on the waterfront, from which men from each quarter would collect it.

The man giving orders was Manners. The cadet wore full Gauntlet uniform once again and bore two flames at his collar. He was cadet no longer.

Manners looked up and saw Eamon staring. The lieutenant gave a few more orders to the men at work and then approached Eamon.

“Lord Goodman,” he said and bowed.

“Lieutenant,” Eamon answered. The word was cumbersome on his tongue.

Manners had been sworn.

“Can I be of any assistance to you, my lord?” Manners asked.

“No,” Eamon breathed. He stared for a moment at the tall ship and its workers.

“There were new orders for the grain this morning,” Manners said quietly, following Eamon's gaze to the ship. “They have taken everyone by surprise. We have been told that every quarter is to hoard grain, against a siege.”

It took a long time for Eamon to understand what he said. Suddenly he gaped. “Every quarter?”

“We are to set it aside now, much as I am told Draybant Greenwood used to do on your behalf,” Manners continued, “but, to make the storage quota commanded by the palace, much is being withdrawn from circulation in the city as well. Lord Arlaith was here earlier this morning,” Manners added, “proclaiming that this command came from the palace on your initiative.”

Eamon felt as though a blow took him from behind. He would be held to blame for the soaring grain prices once more, only this time not simply in the East Quarter, but in the whole city.

“Do they speak ill of me?”

“Mine do not,” Manners answered firmly. “Not every man will understand this command, my lord, nor that it came from the Master and not yourself.”

“They will curse me for taking the food from their plates, and be justified,” Eamon answered quietly. The grain would go from the people to the Gauntlet. He could imagine Arlaith, riding through the East Quarter, tearing grain from those who sold or prepared their bread, and saying in a high and commiserating tone that the command had come from the Right Hand…

Eamon pressed his eyes closed a moment. He should rejoice that the reserves would go back, that the whole city, not the East alone,
would now be prepared against a siege. It was more than he had dreamed when he had first begun the hoard… But he felt no joy; he felt sick. The hoarded grain would feed the Gauntlet. His service to the people of Dunthruik would be as a blow to Hughan, when he came.

He was silent for a long time.

“Do not take it to heart, my lord,” Manners told him gently. “Rumour has trammelled many names, even your own, before, and no harm has come of it.”

“This time she does rightly,” Eamon answered miserably. Manners frowned at him. “The Master gave this order for my sake, cadet…” He paused and shook his head. “Lieutenant,” he corrected himself bitterly.

Manners saw the look on his face and bowed again. “My lord, might I speak frankly for a moment?”

“Yes,” Eamon replied dully.

Silently he dismounted. The quay was busy and Eamon felt as though every man stared at him, the hated grain-hoarder of Dunthruik; but as he looked about himself he saw that none watched the Right Hand as he held conference with a lowly lieutenant of the West Quarter.

“My lord, I know what you see,” Manners began, “and I know why it should render you grief.” He gestured discreetly to the flames on his uniform.

Eamon looked at him carefully. He remembered Manners' promise of long ago, to serve whom he served… Did Manners now speak truly?

He matched the lieutenant's gaze. Could he risk believing what he had said? What if Manners was simply another piece designed to hedge him round with treachery? He had to hold to the King…

Should that mean no more than static clinging? He had taken great risks every day since he had arrived in Dunthruik and yet, since he had become Right Hand, his courage had dwindled to near nothing.

Did he dare risk it all on Manners?

“Why should I be grieved at your appointment?” he asked at last.

“It is not yet a formal appointment,” Manners replied quietly. “Captain Waite lost so many men at the quay, and in the collapse at college –”

“Collapse?” Eamon asked, aghast.

“Yes, my lord,” Manners answered grimly. “One of the walls in the ensigns' dormitories collapsed early this morning.” Eamon stiffened, knowing that was where newly sworn Banners had habitually been stationed for rest.

“You were there?” he asked.

“No,” Manners replied. “My watch duties were changed late last night. Fielder was taken ill; Waite asked me to cover him.” Manners paused heavily and Eamon watched as he brushed a wisp of hair away from his face where it struck at his eye. “Fielder is dead,” he said bravely.

Eamon was crushed. Was there nothing but death in the city of Dunthruik?

“How could this happen?” he whispered.

Manners had no answer for him. “I do not know, my lord,” he said. He drew a deep breath. “Captain Waite is looking into the matter, as is Lord Cathair, I believe. The architects maintain that there was no fault with the lodgings…” He trailed off, then looked up again. “Captain Waite needs to maintain college numbers and could not siphon any other man from any of the regional units stationed in the West. He asked me to assume lieutenant duties. He has no one else, my lord.”

Eamon stared at him. If Manners had “assumed”…

“Then…” he paused. “You're not sworn?”

“No,” Manners answered and a small smile touched his face. “My record still precludes that, I fear.”

Relief flooded through Eamon. “I am glad, Lieutenant Manners,” he whispered. He could have embraced the lieutenant with joy but
had the sense to restrain himself. “I cannot tell you how glad.” He drew a deep breath. “Mr Manners…” he began.

Manners cast a glance across to the workers. Following his glance, Eamon saw Lord Dehelt on the quay. The North Quarter Hand saw them and approached.

“Lord Goodman,” he said, bowing.

Eamon swallowed down the words that he had meant to speak to Manners. “Lord Dehelt.”

“The new grain edict comes at your insistence?” Dehelt asked quietly.

Eamon met his gaze. “Yes,” he answered. There was no use in denying it.

“The city shall tighten its belt,” Dehelt mused. Suddenly he looked at Eamon and smiled. “This edict was long overdue, Lord Goodman,” Dehelt said and bowed his head. “The North thanks you for it.”

Eamon stared at him, bereft of words. Bowing once more, Dehelt excused himself and moved along the quay. He soon joined a group of merchants at the waterfront and began to speak with them.

Eamon watched him go, feeling fear and joy clashing in him. Manners turned to him. When Eamon met the lieutenant's gaze he saw fire in the young man's eyes.

“Courage, Lord Goodman,” he said. Then Manners bowed and returned to his work.

 

Returning along the Coll towards the palace, Eamon felt strangely lightheaded. His grief at the news of the college collapse was immense; he could only imagine how Waite was handling the matter. To keep the West encouraged in the face of such a bizarre disaster would be no easy task. But in the great bustle of men in Dunthruik, he supposed the city would count them only as numbers that could not be fielded at battle. What mattered to the quarter was maintaining its parade strength.

Against all odds Manners was safe – and he was not sworn. And Dehelt… he raised one hand to his head as he thought once again
of the Hand's words. Dehelt had confidence in him. Both were sparks of hope, small glimmers as of the spring sun rising against the dark wall of the world. They spoke quietly to him of things he had forgotten.

Holding to the King was not simply about maintaining a grip, as a quarter sought to maintain its numbers, nor maintaining it so harshly that soon what was sought diminished and slipped from the man who grasped it. Holding fast to the King was about fearless, just, and loving service. They were things that Edelred could never command from him.

As he rode he caught sight of the high roof of the Crown Theatre, closed like the petals of a flower. With a start he remembered that he was its patron and had not yet appeared there, though the Master had encouraged him to. To know of his authority over the place and look at the tall walls, the eagled gates, and the splendid doors… was an odd feeling.