The Broken Blade (18 page)

“First and foremost, every man, woman, and child serving in this house will eat fresh bread every day, and will eat at least one substantial meal in the day apart from that. This directive will be funded by the house and my own purse.”

If the command surprised the servant, he kept it well hidden. “Yes, Lord Arlaith,” Slater said.

“Further to this, the servants of this house are free to move about as best serves their business,” Arlaith continued. “The preceding discretion directive is remanded. Servants will be disciplined for breaches in the rule of the house, and that rule will remain strict, but silence shall no longer form a part of it. Any servant who is maltreated is to bring their complaint to you, and you shall bring it to me.”

“As you command, Lord Arlaith.” Slater bowed deeply.

“Captain Anderas, these commands will likewise be used for the college servants. All are to be judged on the basis of their fidelity to myself and to the Master, as expressed in their conduct and discharge of their duties.”

Anderas nodded. “Yes, Lord Arlaith.” The familiar ring of the captain's voice was like dawn-songs.

There was a pause. After a moment Febian looked awkwardly about the room and then swallowed audibly. “Lord Arlaith?”

“Lord Febian?” Arlaith answered crisply.

“I was called away from urgent business to attend this meeting,” Febian began. His voice grew tetchy as he spoke. “You will forgive me, but I fail to see what concern all this is of mine.”

Like a master actor passing centre stage to his fellow, Arlaith looked across to Eamon. Every gaze in the room followed Arlaith's. Eamon rose.

“These matters concern you closely,” he said.

Febian almost glared at him. “How, my lord?”

A long silence fell. Febian stared, a strange mixture of elation and dread on his face. Eamon strode to him and took his hand. Memories of the dead after the retreat from Pinewood and of the Hand's fury in that battle flashed through Eamon's mind. The palm that lay open in his had shed needless blood.

Quietly he laid a ring on Febian's palm. Febian looked at it; a raven glinted back at him. Arlaith's gaze narrowed on the ring and he bit his lip.

“Your house is to be directed in the same way,” Eamon told him.

Febian gawked. “The Master is great and gracious.”

“You will come with me to the palace,” Eamon added. “The raven's hall will not lie empty long.”

Febian bowed. “My lord. To his glory.”

“One thing more,” Eamon said, turning back to the others in the room. “The Crown is to hold a commoner tonight, in my honour. I am sure that the invitations have already reached you, but I reiterate my desire that you each attend, and ask that the invitation also be extended to the house and college.”

“With pleasure, Lord Goodman,” Arlaith answered.

 

Febian matched Eamon's pace as they went back through the streets to the palace. A light rain blew in from the north and skirted the sky, patching the cobbles and grand paving stones. As they rode, Febian's eyes dropped now and then to the ring; his eyes grew wide with it. Then, as though aware of Eamon's gaze upon him, he looked up.

“Something troubles you, Lord Febian?” Eamon asked.

For a moment there was no sound but the horses' hooves on the Coll.

“I have never distinguished myself before the Master,” Febian answered at last. “Why, then, does he lay this honour upon me, when this city is full of his Hands?”

“You were not the Master's choice,” Eamon told him, “but you were mine.”

Febian grew pale. Fear appeared in his eyes.

“You are a fine Hand, Febian,” Eamon told him, “and I have seen the strength of your ardour for the Master. You know the West Quarter well and its workings better than others. And I know you.”

Febian's face set grimly. “You are a politic man, Lord Goodman.”

Eamon matched his gaze. “You misunderstand me,” he answered softly.

“I may not contradict you, my lord,” Febian said. “It is as you say.”

“A man contradicted me once, Lord Febian, and in so doing saved my life,” Eamon answered.

“Was he honoured as I am to be honoured?” Febian asked.

Eamon smiled, thinking of Anderas. “I gave him the greatest honour in my power,” he answered.

“Then, as I am sure he did, I shall thank you,” Febian said coldly.

They rode on in silence to the palace. Eamon conducted Febian deep into it and entrusted him to the keeping of some of the Master's servants. Febian looked at him.

“You will come for me, my lord?” he asked.

“Yes,” Eamon replied.

He went to wait for the other Hands in the Hands' waiting room. It was a small room but lavishly decorated with the emblems of the Quarter Hands on its four walls. These corresponded to the points of the compass, and on the ceiling a great, black eagle was painted for the Right Hand.

Eamon walked slowly round the room and the harrier, falcon, raven, and owl gazed back at him. He stopped before the owl in thought.

The doors to the room opened. Lord Dehelt entered.

“My lord,” Dehelt greeted him, bowing.

“Lord Dehelt,” Eamon answered warmly. “Good day.”

“And to you, Lord Goodman.” Dehelt rose and met his gaze.
“They call you the ‘Raven's Bane' in the streets, my lord,” he said quietly.

Eamon said nothing; his ears resounded with howls and Cathair's curses.

“You were injured?” Dehelt asked. Eamon nodded. “Cathair had long talons,” Dehelt replied, then shook his head and sighed. “For long years, he was ever the most loyal of all the Master's Hands. It seems that times change.” He looked up. “You are recovered from your hurts?”

“Some of them,” Eamon answered with a small smile.

“May none of Cathair's curses come to land on you, Lord Goodman,” Dehelt said.

Eamon looked up. Dehelt offered him a small smile.

“I am no seer, Lord Goodman,” the Hand added, “but you have done in this city things which have never been seen since the time of its founding. It rejoices in you. Your coming here was meant and I am glad to see it.”

Eamon was awed. “Thank you.”

He might have said more but at that moment the doors opened again, admitting Tramist, and mere paces behind him, Arlaith. Other Hands of the quarters followed behind them. All bowed towards Eamon. He had to lead them to the throne room, where the Master waited. He looked to the Hands. One face alone looked upon him with open hostility: Tramist's. Dehelt supported him after a fashion, and Arlaith's rancour dissolved more with each passing hour. The other Hands of the quarters looked on him in awe.

Did he dare to think that he might one day lead any one of them to the King?

“We will go in,” he said.

 

The ceremony was just as Eamon remembered it. He partook in it fluidly, finding the words in his mouth and the gestures in his hands as they were needed. The Quarter Hands each declared Febian's service as they had done for him, and Eamon ratified it. Cloak and
ring were bestowed. The new Lord of the West Quarter rose to his feet in the palace halls.

The throned commanded Dehelt to take Febian to the West Quarter to install him. It was a gesture for which Eamon was grateful; he was not sure Febian would take kindly to being installed by a man who might discredit him at a word. The other Hands were dismissed and the doors to the throne room closed behind them. Eamon was alone with the throned.

“Thus the Raven,” the Master said. There seemed to be a touch of nonchalance in his voice.

“He is not Lord Cathair,” Eamon agreed, “but he will serve you to the fullness of his strength, Master.”

“You shall know it if he does not,” the throned answered.

An icy chill bit through him. Eamon resisted the urge to shudder.

Suddenly the throned spoke again: “Son of Eben, follow me.”

They went into the corridors between the throne room and the throned's quarters. Eamon barely glanced at them as they passed – already they had become too familiar to him.

It was to the room where Eamon had first met the tailors that they went; the light fell once again from the windows, brilliantly illuminating the centre. The Master halted by the doorway and Eamon stopped behind him.

“Go in,” the Master told him, a strange smile on his face.

Eamon looked at him uncertainly for a moment but could not disobey. With the Master's eyes upon him he stepped into the room.

There was a stand at its very heart. A heavy cloth covered what it held. Eamon paused before the stand, taking in its height and width.

“Take down the cloth,” the throned told him, “and receive my gift.”

Eamon reached forward. The cloth was silken in his hand, and as he drew it away with a flick of his wrist it billowed out like smoke, then fell gently to the ground. What lay beneath stole his breath.

A tall suit of dark grey armour stood before him, glinting austerely in the half-light. Its smooth rounded lames, broad pauldrons,
curved greaves, its finely wrought vambraces, breast and back plate, gauntlet and helm… Each was solemnly faultless. Eamon's whole being yearned towards it. It conjured in his mind the clash of blade against blade and the look of fear on the stricken foe as the wearer of such plate as this bore down violently upon them, to deliver the killing blow.

He stood and stared at it. Behind him, he felt the Master's presence as a well of flame.

“Master,” Eamon breathed, “I have no words.”

“‘Then will I serve you, proving your glory on my body, by my blade and with my blood',” said the throned. His voice was quiet, and close by Eamon's ear. He smiled. “From your own tongue springs this art, son of Eben.”

“I have never seen its like,” Eamon breathed, and he had not. Only the Master himself could have a finer suit.

“Touch it,” the throned told him.

Eamon did not need encouraging. The plate was cool and thrilling beneath his hand.

“Surely this is too fine a thing for me,” he whispered.

“At the sight of it alone shall snakes flee in fear from you. Your blood is mine and it will be protected.”

Eamon looked slowly at the Master. “They will come?”

“They must come,” the throned replied, and Eamon saw anew the anticipation in the Master's eyes and tone. It was the same with which he had received the Nightholt, and it terrified him utterly. “They must.”

“This city is ready for that day, Master.”

“We await only the Serpent.” The Lord of Dunthruik surveyed him and smiled. “Let him come!”

Eamon quailed, but the Master reached out and touched his face.

“I am ready, Eben's son,” he said quietly. “And so are you.”

It was a long-awaited night. The music and festivity of voices and singing carried even to the high windows of Eamon's chambers. Eamon stood at his balcony and listened, forgetting all else.

“Can you hear them, Mr Cartwright?” he laughed.

“Most assuredly, Lord Goodman,” Iulus answered. “It has been many years since we had a commoner and never has one been the inaugural gesture of a Right Hand.”

“Did Lord Arlaith never hold one?”

“No, my lord.”

“How long did Lord Arlaith hold his position?”

Cartwright hesitated. “I am not sure, my lord. He took the office long before my time.”

“How old are you, Mr Cartwright?”

“Forty-five with the winter, Lord Goodman.”

Eamon knew that Cathair had been the last of the Hands who had been with Edelred at the beginning, but had somehow forgotten that Arlaith had been Right Hand for a long time. He could not guess how old Lord Arlaith was – the man barely looked Cartwright's age.

“My lord, you must dress.”

“Yes,” Eamon conceded. His formal attire for the evening lay on his bed. “It would not do to be late.”

He dressed swiftly and Cartwright assisted him, drawing the heavy cloak over him and settling it on his shoulders.

“Do you look forward to the commoner, Mr Cartwright?”

Cartwright did not answer immediately – he was too busy fixing Eamon's cloak in place with an elaborate eagle-shaped brooch.

“My duties preclude it, my lord.”

“Which duties are those?”

“The house must prepare for your return,” Cartwright told him.

“The house may leave the theatre as the performance ends, and I will dally at the Crown as long as the house would deem necessary to return before me,” Eamon replied. Cartwright stepped back from him, appraised the hang of the garment, and then met his gaze.

“It can be done, my lord,” he said.

“Yes it can,” Eamon answered with a smile, “and it will. I have already made Fletcher set aside passes for all of you.”

Cartwright smiled warmly. “Thank you, my lord.”

“Enjoy the evening, Mr Cartwright,” Eamon answered, dismissing him with a gesture.

Cartwright bowed and left the room. Eamon paused a moment to glance at himself in the mirror then went into his hallway. Fletcher stood there and bowed as he approached.

“My lord.”

“Mr Fletcher. All the invitations were delivered?”

“Exactly as you asked.”

“Good.”

“The Lords Arlaith, Dehelt, and Tramist exchange their greetings and will attend you.”

“And the Master?”

“Will not be in attendance. The commoner is for you. Your event has caused quite a stir in the city, my lord.”

“Indeed?”

“The general passes were gobbled up swifter than they might be handed out.”

“Is the play so spectacular?” Eamon laughed.

“The one it honours appears to be.”

Eamon smiled. “It will be a good evening, Mr Fletcher. Let us go down.”

Fletcher accompanied him to the Royal Plaza. A carriage stood
there. Its whole body was red and a great black eagle marked the doors. Eamon stared as the coachman descended and lowered the mounting step.

“I have a carriage?” Eamon asked, turning to Fletcher.

“Yes, my lord,” answered his lieutenant, bowing. “Lord Arlaith made little use of it. It has been re-upholstered and painted in your honour. It will bear you to the theatre.”

Eamon looked at it again; the black eagle had a scroll beneath its feet.
Goodman
was lettered in gilt across the door.

The coachman drew the door open with a bow. The coach's interior was draped with red and black, and golden crowns were etched boldly over the doorways, which themselves formed the fronts of painted golden eagles. The coach might be Eamon's, but it displayed the Master's colours.

Eamon climbed inside. The coachman closed the door and moved back to the driver's seat. Four enormous horses awaited his commands. Eamon sat back on the cushions, marvelling at the craft which covered every part of the carriage, wondering how long it had taken to paint each detail. The door had a window covered by a small set of curtains. He drew them aside and saw Fletcher through the window.

“I will also make my way to the theatre, my lord,” Fletcher told him with a bow.

“I will see you there, Mr Fletcher.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Then the coach lurched into motion.

They went smartly from the palace gates and down the Coll. Eamon gazed through the window with a child's delight, watching Dunthruik become a series of pictures framed between the red curtains. The city passed. Men and women in the lantern-lit streets cheered as he went by.

Soon he caught sight of the Four Quarters. Its eagles glistened in the night. The streets were thick with people who parted before his passage.

The coach drew up before the theatre and stopped. A rush of cool evening air penetrated the carriage's cushioned interior, carrying promise.

Eamon rose and alighted. As his foot touched the ground, he looked up and saw the theatre. The steps of its front gate were lined with row upon row of smartly uniformed Gauntlet and Hands. The square behind him was the throat of the city, a sea of faces that, at his appearance, crested in cheers and applause.

Drawing a deep breath, Eamon walked up the steps. As he climbed, the applause grew louder. Hundreds and hundreds of faces smiled at him, the words on their lips lost in the noise. They bowed and laughed as they waved their entrance passes in adoration.

Eamon reached the top of the stairs. The theatre's great, black eagle gazed down at him, lit by enormous braziers. Servants stood at the doors, formally attired and ready to check the passes for the evening; a task which Eamon did not envy. As he approached, they bowed. He recognized one of them as the woman to whom he had spoken when last he had visited.

“Am I to be first in?” he asked her.

“It is traditional, my lord,” the servant answered with a bright smile. “After you will go your guests, then the Hands, nobles, officers, Gauntlet, and people.”

“The seats and standing room are all arranged?”

“With numbers, my lord,” she told him. “You have no pass, but you would see the numbers if you had one.”

“If all have numbers then let the people go first,” Eamon said. The servants gaped at him.

“My lord?” asked one.

“Would that complicate things?”

The servants exchanged looks. “It might ruffle the feathers of a few birds, my lord,” the woman answered.

“I have a reputation of the like, I am told.” The servants smiled a little uncomfortably. Eamon laughed. “This is a commoner!” he cried. “Let the last go first.”

“And the first?” the woman asked uncertainly.

“Shall go last,” Eamon smiled.

The servants bowed. “It shall be done, my lord,” the woman told him. A couple of the other servants hurried off, no doubt to give notice of his directive.

Grinning from ear to ear, Eamon turned to look at the cascade of people that lined step and quarters.

“Welcome!” he called. “A commoner this is, and so shall the people, the very heart of the city, enter before me.”

There was a strange hush. The men along the steps – the nobles, Hands, and officers – fixed him with astonished, even outraged, glares. No man moved.

Eamon laughed. In a moment of exhilaration, he went lightly down the theatre's steps to its gates, where the men and women of Dunthruik stood and stared at him.

He came to a halt before the first man he saw. Aghast, the man fell into a bow.

“My lord,” he breathed. All the men and women by him bowed as he did so.

“Do you have a pass?” Eamon asked.

“Yes, my lord.” The man held up a small tile.

Eamon smiled. “Then go in.”

The man looked at him uncertainly. Eamon laughed, stepped forward, and gently tugged the man, and several of his fellows, through the gate.

“Go in,” he told them. Then, laughing once more, he turned to the astonished crowd. “Dunthruik,” he called, “go in!”

At last the people understood his sincerity. Nervously, they came forward through the gates and, with some encouragement from the Right Hand, climbed the steps.

“His glory,” breathed one man as he passed. It was not long before the whole crowd was awash with the cry:

“
His glory!
”

With a great smile, Eamon stood at the gate and watched while
the people of Dunthruik went up the steps and into the theatre. The Hands, the knights and nobles, and the Gauntlet followed in their wake.

Eamon stood and waited until every man had gone in before him. Then he too climbed the steps.

The hallway was bright and richly adorned. The buzz of excited men and women welcomed Eamon into the auditorium.

A servant approached him. “Your reception hall has been prepared. It is behind your box, my lord, so that you and your principal guests may enjoy some private company before the performance.”

“Thank you,” Eamon replied. Those principal guests would be the Quarter Hands and captains, and Fletcher. Had Eamon had full choice he might have included servants and ensigns from East and West in that number, but he could not yet be so bold. “I will go up.”

“Your guests felt that it would be inappropriate to go up before you,” the servant added. “They are waiting in another room. Now that you are here, shall I send them up?”

“Please do,” Eamon told him.

The servant bowed and Eamon passed from the hallway to the stairwell that led to his reception hall. The stair was grandly paved with marble in red and black, and a great set of dark wooden doors stood at its head. But Eamon passed rather into a side passage; his entrance to the hall was, he knew, from the other side of the corridor. Right Hands, he supposed, did not use the same doors as their guests, even when the hall was their own.

At last he came to his door and went into the reception hall. It was awash with dark wood, its seats were couched in red, and banners bearing the eagle of the Right Hand hung upon the walls. Before him was the room's main door, by which all guests were admitted. To his right Eamon saw a curtained doorway that led to the box.

He listened in delight to the sound of the people in the theatre below.

It was not long before the first of his guests arrived: Febian and Waite, the latter looking significantly more confident than the former. Fletcher was with them.

“Lord Febian, Captain Waite,” Eamon called cheerfully. “A pleasure to see you both. I trust that the wait did not tire you at all?” He turned to his lieutenant. “Welcome, Mr Fletcher,” he added.

“Thank you, my lord,” Fletcher answered.

“The wait was entirely endurable, Lord Goodman,” Waite said, bowing. A smile was on his face.

“Lord Goodman,” Febian greeted civilly.

“I have always wanted to see this part of the Crown,” Waite said as he rose. “Thank you kindly indeed for your invitation. May I be so bold as to offer the college's thanks also?”

“Of course,” Eamon replied, “and I receive them with pleasure.” He turned to Febian. The Hand fidgeted absently with the heavy ring on his finger. “How do you find yourself in the West, Lord Febian?”

“I find it well enough. As you are aware, I served many years under Lord Cathair, so I know well the duties required of the post.” For all the Hand's bravado, the way he bit his lip and twisted the ring on his finger belied his insecurity. His eyes flashed. “Not that Cathair made me privy to any of his private dealings. You did well to dispatch him. Had I any suspicion of his betrayal I should have attempted to deal with him myself –”

“Good,” Eamon answered, smiling. “I'm sure you would have.”

 

It was then that the doors opened again, admitting Dehelt, followed by Captain Longroad, Lord Tramist, and the captain of the South Quarter – a man whom Eamon had not previously encountered. Eamon welcomed them and they gave their thanks for his invitation. On the matter of who had entered the theatre first, they remained silent.

Arlaith arrived last of all, with Anderas following behind him. The Lord of the East Quarter had barely stepped through the door
before he tumbled into a bow. “Lord Goodman, my apologies for my tardiness,” he said.

“That's quite all right. All is well?”

Arlaith smiled. “You will not believe it, gentlemen. It but drizzled yesterday – barely enough to wet a whisker – and yet I manage to find a puddle big enough to ruin a very handsome cloak. I was obliged to change it,” he added, “thus waylaying me, and one or two servants.”

The room laughed generously. As the laughter died away Fletcher and the captains congregated together at one side of the room, the Hands on the other. Eamon surveyed them, the lords and captains of Dunthruik garbed in black and red. As he looked at them he longed to see them in other colours and their hands turned to other service.

It was then that his eyes fell on Tramist. The Hand watched him with a dark look that was quickly veiled. Eamon resolved to ignore it, but even so he wondered whether Tramist, or any of the Hands, could become King's men.

You are foolish to think it, Eben's son.

Eamon blinked. Tramist's hating gaze still rested on him. Was he the only one who could see it?

“My lords, good captains,” Eamon said. “Will you come with me to the box? I believe that the performance is soon to start.”

“What work is it?” Febian asked.

“It's called
The Thorn
,” Eamon answered. He was about to add that the work dated to a period after the founding of Dunthruik when another voice spoke before him.

“By Miller – a writer better known for his lively discussions on the period's law. The work is, however, a very fine piece indeed.” The voice was Arlaith's, and he smiled as he spoke.