The Broken Blade (48 page)

“No.”

Eamon paused. “How may I thank him?”

“The Master did not thank us,” the servant explained slowly, “but we always touch our hearts – as you did, before.”

Eamon turned to the third servant. The man looked attentive, his eyes wide as they darted around the room. Eamon stepped towards him, touched his hand to his heart, and bowed low.

“Thank you,” he said.

The servant stood uncertainly for a moment. Then he echoed the gesture, and bowed. It filled Eamon's heart with joy.

As Eamon stepped back he looked to the first servant again. “Will you teach me to speak with him, and the others?”

The servant nodded. “I will,” he said. Then he stood for a moment, simply watching Eamon. When Eamon offered him a quizzical look, the servant smiled. “You have a wonderful voice,” the servant told him. “It is good to hear it.”

“It is better to hear yours,” Eamon answered, laughing.

Eamon proceeded to introduce each of the men in the room to all the others, and was pleased to see that there seemed to be no animosity between any of them. Giles was a little reserved but hid it well for a man of his bluntness. Eamon dared to hope that the formal show of reconciliation at the Four Quarters, the paying of blood money and renouncing of oaths, was already having some effect.

As the men gathered their things together and prepared to go with Eamon to the West Quarter, Eamon looked to Hughan again. The King had stood quietly to the side, a smile on his face. The King laughed.

“There is a lot of work to do,” Hughan replied. “You deserve to work with men you love.”

Eamon looked back at the men in the room and smiled. In that moment, the morning's pyre was forgotten.

 

The days that followed were perhaps the busiest of his life and Eamon was swiftly glad of the number of men Hughan had assigned to help him. The wayfarers were divided among the quarters, and Eamon oversaw repairs to the port, as well as the feeding and re-housing of many of Dunthruik's people, some of whom returned to the city from their places of exile as news of the throned's fall spread.

Eamon was glad that the work kept him occupied, for when the darker hours came, his thoughts grew dark with them. Working hard all day ensured that he fell asleep swiftly at night.

Having Manners and Anderas, even Doveton and Giles, with him was a constant joy, and he delighted in their company and passion for the work, even the most menial things, that needed to be done. Eamon slowly learned how to communicate with those who could not speak. Some of the wayfarers outside Eamon's immediate staff were suspicious of the former Gauntlet officers – and more so of Doveton – but most seemed content to let their suspicions be overridden by Eamon's own confidence in the men.

It was from the doctor that Eamon first learned that although the vast majority of the palace's servants had surrendered, the most senior had all been killed. The doorkeeper, as Eamon had seen himself, had died when the palace fell. He learned that the taster had been struck down shortly after Edelred's death by one of Hughan's own guard, and that the throned's secretary had been caught among fleeing Hands at the port.

Hughan sent messengers out to every part of the River Realm speaking of Edelred's fall. Word slowly trickled back from the provinces and regions of the land, from distant towns and Gauntlet divisions; each sent tokens of their surrender and gave their allegiance to the King. Most advised that they would send men to witness the forthcoming coronation, and as news of that event spread, work for the coronation quickened its pace.

Four days after Edelred's pyre, a group of men arrived at the palace, carrying a simple but broad casket. When he later spoke to Hughan on the matter, the King told Eamon that the men were the last of the bookkeepers. They had brought with them the surviving copy of the King's Covenant and were to preside over the coronation.

Though word of the surrender and disbanding of the Gauntlet arrived in a steady stream to the palace, news also reached the city of a particular Gauntlet captain in the northern borders. The man had not believed news of Edelred's fall, had refused to surrender, and having fought his way out of Galithia against enormous odds, had led his men to a fortress near Dunway, north of the city. The group held there.

“They're saying now that the captain won't give his surrender until he has seen the King himself,” Anderas told Eamon. They walked back to the palace together after a long afternoon at the port, and the story, as it grew day by day, was a welcome distraction. “He seems to be awaiting further instructions.”

“He certainly has courage,” Eamon granted.

“His name is Roe.”

Eamon looked across at him, startled. “Roe?” he repeated.

“Yes. By all accounts a most tenacious man,” Anderas said, smiling. He looked back to Eamon. “I think you'd like him, if you met him.”

“We've met his wife,” Eamon answered.

Anderas looked at him in surprise. “Oh?”

“The singer from the Crown.” As Eamon thought of Ilenia he wondered how she fared. He had not yet had the time to go and find her, or Shoreham, or any of his servants in the East Quarter. “Hughan will send someone to parley with Captain Roe. Probably someone formerly of the Gauntlet, whose word he may trust.”

“We must only hope it isn't me,” Anderas jibed.

“Because he'd shoot you?”

Anderas grinned. “Something like that,” he said.

 

That afternoon Eamon went to see Hughan. As he gave his report on the work at the port, the King followed him attentively.

“If the wind holds fair, the first grain ship should come tomorrow,” he finished at last.

“We shall have need of it,” Hughan answered.

“We still have quite a broad store of the Ravensill wines,” Eamon added. “Giles was taking stock of them this morning. They will set us in good stead for trade for a little while yet.” He flicked through his notes. “A few more former Gauntlet came in as well, about half a dozen of them, asking for service. Manners and Anderas are vetting them.” He looked up. “I heard that Leon had some news on Captain Roe?”

“Captain Roe,” Hughan said with a smile. “His is becoming a good story indeed. Leon tells me that the captain has sent a delegation – one in which he includes himself – to come and see if Edelred has fallen. They are likely to arrive in two days. When the hobilars advise that the delegation is close enough, I will send Anderas to meet it.”

“Not Waite?” It seemed to Eamon that Waite would be the obvious choice of ambassador.

“No. Waite did not feel ready to serve me in such a way.”

The news saddened Eamon.

“I know Roe's wife, sire,” Eamon added at last. “If we were to send for her when he comes, I think he may more swiftly give his surrender. It would also ease her heart.”

Hughan nodded. “Thank you for everything you're doing, Eamon.”

Eamon received the thanks with a tired smile. “Is there a date set for the coronation yet?”

“Oh that I might enact a tax upon every man who asks that question, the city's repairs would already be paid.” Hughan smiled. “Maybe when we have cleared this situation with Roe,” he answered at last.

“This city has awaited you for a long time,” Eamon told him. “It will wait a day or two more.”

“Waite has asked for leave to go from the city,” Hughan told him. Eamon looked up in surprise.

“He's leaving before the coronation?”

“I will not make him stay.”

Eamon pursed his lips together and looked up. “I will speak to him.”

“You may,” Hughan told him, “but I do not think that he will change his mind.”

“He's a good man, Hughan,” Eamon persisted.

“I know. But he is also a weary one, and he has borne much.” Hughan paused for a moment. “They've finished clearing much of the rubble from the palace corridors. I've been told that the way to
your old quarters is passable again. You may wish to go and recover some of your things when they clear the rooms.”

“When do they mean to do that?” Eamon asked.

“Tomorrow morning. The carpenters will probably go up very early, but I'll ask the men to wait for you in the Round Hall.”

“Thank you.” Eamon drew a deep breath. “Where is Febian being held?”

“When I was last informed, he was being held with the last of the belligerent knights, in the lower East Wing corridors.”

Eamon frowned. “But he surrendered,” he said. Following the dissolution of their oaths, many of the Gauntlet and infantry had been given leave to go. Some had returned to their own regions, though many waited in the city to see Hughan crowned before starting the long journey home. If Febian had surrendered, he was entitled to that. “Isn't he as free as any other man?”

“Yes,” Hughan replied, “but he has so far refused to come out of holding. He is one of the few Hands in the realm – and the only Hand in the entire city – that surrendered,” he added.

“He must be afraid. May I speak with him?”

“Whenever you wish,” Hughan answered.

That evening Eamon left the palace. He returned to the West Quarter College, where his officers were based, to brief them on the latest news from the other quarters. After dismissing them, he called for Manners.

“Mr Manners?”

“Sir,” Manners answered. The young man had proved himself a very able hand in the quarter's affairs, and had swiftly won the approval of the King's men with whom he worked.

“I understand from Giles that you are the fount of all West Quarter knowledge,” Eamon began.

Manners smiled. “So he calls me, sir, in moments of what I am sure are utmost sincerity.”

Eamon laughed. “Can you tell me where Waite resides?”

“With his sister, Lady Alben,” Manners answered. “She has a house not far from here – Caulders' Way, I think.” Manners looked at Eamon carefully. “You're going to see him, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Would you give him my best?”

“Of course.”

Eamon left the college and took himself out onto the Coll. The scent of high summer was all about him.

 

The house was down a quiet cobbled side street, which led south from the Coll. Grateful for the evening light, Eamon threaded his way past the doorways, and under the hanging balconies. He had done the same on that bright morning when he and the hobilars had come through the city, claiming the streets for the King.

Now he walked alone, and though he knew that many people still had much to mourn, the air about him seemed at peace. It was a feeling he had not often felt in Dunthruik, and for a long moment he stopped to let it fill his senses.

The Albens' house was well sized and well kept. A small flight of steps led from the street up to its door. Lights shone within. He knocked.

For a long moment there was no answer. Then he heard a voice on the other side of the door.

“Who is there?” it called.

“Eamon Goodman.”

The door drew open and the light fell on Eamon's face. Waite stood in the threshold, keeping the door only narrowly open. Lady Alben stood behind him, her face pale and worry-creased.

“What would you, First Knight?” Waite asked, his voice crushingly formal. His limp right arm was still bound in a sling.

“I have not come as the First Knight,” Eamon answered quietly. “I am sorry, Lady Alben, to intrude on your house. I hope you and your husband are well.”

“Her husband fell on the field,” Waite replied harshly.

Eamon looked at the frightened lady and his heart turned in remorse. “I am so sorry, Lady Alben.”

“It was not your doing, sir, any more than my son's death was,” the woman answered.

Waite looked at Eamon but Eamon did not meet the gaze.

Lady Alben drew a shuddering breath and looked at him again. “I thank you for your kind words,” she said, “but I am sure you did not come to speak with me.”

“In truth, I came to speak with your brother,” Eamon replied, then met her gaze again. “I am sorry, Lady Alben, for what you have suffered, and hope that you may find comfort and kindness in the days ahead.”

The lady watched him for a moment, then bowed her head. “Thank you,” she said, then looked at Waite. The man still held the door defensively in one hand. His gaze was filled with anger. “Let him in, Alduin,” Lady Alben said quietly.

Silently Waite drew back the door and stepped aside, leaving just enough room for Eamon to pass. Climbing the last of the steps, Eamon did so. The door closed heavily behind him.

Lady Alben led them both to a small side room. There were some chairs in it on a broad, faded carpet.

“You may speak in here. You will not be disturbed.”

“Thank you for your kindness, Lady Alben,” Eamon told her.

A faint smile passed over her face. She looked once to her brother and then withdrew, closing the door.

For a moment, Waite and Eamon stood and watched each other. The piercing quality of Waite's gaze pricked at Eamon, and in it he felt the hurt that the man bore.

“Mr Manners asked me to convey to you his best and warmest wishes.”

At last, the former general drew breath. “Please thank him.” He looked at Eamon with a guarded gaze. “You have come as a guest into my sister's house. Do sit, First Knight.”

Feeling awkward, Eamon took the chair offered to him. Waite sat heavily down across from him, and held his gaze in the long silence. Eamon found that he could not speak.

After a time Waite gave a snapping laugh. “Is it possible that the Star's First Knight has become dumb since he entered this room? You have been many things, Eamon Goodman, but you have never been dumb, nor have you yet borne the appearance of it.”

“The King told me that you mean to leave the city.”

Waite bitterly threw back his head. “I cannot believe that you would come here about that!”

“Of course you can.”

Waite stared at him. “My sister doesn't believe that you had any part in her husband's death,” he said, an unpleasant glint to his eye.

“I didn't,” Eamon answered levelly. “Lives slain on the battlefield cannot be counted in the same way as lives lost away from it. You know that.”

“And her son?” Waite countered viciously.

Eamon looked at him through pained eyes. “For that I have paid,” he replied. “His was not the only life I regret taking.”

Waite looked at him silently, then shook his head in disgust. “He was sent against you,” he said, the bitterness in his voice increasing. “For that – for you – he lost his life.”

“I know. I regret that many who were dear to you have died because of me,” Eamon told him.

Waite looked at him suspiciously for a moment. “My cadets.” Waite bore the look of an outraged father on his face. “Long before the battle many of my boys lost their lives because of you.”

“The deaths of ‘the good men' was Arlaith's doing.”

Waite stared at him. “You implied, after you killed him, that Lord Cathair was the author of those deaths.”

“I believe that he was,” Eamon answered, “and that he was working with Arlaith. Both of them hated me.”

“Why would Arlaith –?” Waite began.

“I had taken his place,” Eamon answered.

“They were not men as petty as that,” Waite answered, shaking his head.

“Not as petty?” Eamon had to take a moment to recover himself. “Don't you remember when they meant to decimate my men after Pinewood? They did that to strike at me. They would willingly have killed every single man.” Waite remained silent. “But they were not just petty. Though Cathair did not know it, Arlaith meant to challenge Edelred.”

Waite laughed. “Don't be absurd!”

“Arlaith took the Nightholt and withheld it from Edelred because he wanted it for himself,” Eamon told him. “Tramist was a conspirator with him, and Ashway, too. When I became Right Hand I became a threat to him and his plans.” Eamon paused. “It was not the only reason he had to revile me.”

“Knew about your Star, did he?” Waite griped angrily.

“Whether he knew or not, he killed your cadets to strike me.”

“He killed them?” Waite shook his head with a snarl. “No,
Goodman, you did. You betrayed the Gauntlet:
you
killed them.”

Eamon stared. “I never betrayed the Gauntlet.”

“How was it not betrayal,” Waite yelled, “to lead them onto the field and then leave them there?”

“I did not leave you,” Eamon answered. “I did everything that I could to save you.”

“Is that what Anderas thought he was doing?” Waite asked, his voice quieter but bitter still. “Is that why you've come now?” He laughed. “To save me?”

Eamon measured his gaze unhappily. “I came to ask you to change your mind, and stay.”

Waite gave a grunting, resentful laugh. “Stay? For what?” he asked. “To kneel before Hughan Brenuin?” He spat the name viciously.

“He is the King,” Eamon replied.

“And I am an old man,” Waite replied, his voice growing louder and more wrathful as he went on. “My years of service were spent beneath your King's enemy. Your Star has taken every badge of my honour and burnt it, on a pyre, as though it were testimony of felony and I were worth little more than a dog!”

Eamon stared at him. “The King has never treated you as less than the man of honour and worth that you are. The Gauntlet was never ignoble for serving Edelred. All the same, it is now that the Gauntlet has its nobility to win.”

“I heard you speak at the meeting,” Waite interrupted. Eamon fell silent and watched as the former general sat, touching at the palm of his limp right hand with his left. “I know your view. You spoke well.” He looked up suddenly, and laughed. “Since you first came to Dunthruik, Mr Goodman, you have spoken well, and men have spoken well of you. Sometimes I wondered why there were so many snakes in the West, in my quarter. There were many – Grahaven, Manners, probably half of the cadets who died were, too.”

“They were not,” Eamon answered, “but, whatever their colour, I loved each of them no less than you.”

Waite paused for a long moment, pressing at his mark-less hand. “On the battlefield I understood that the number of snakes was not my doing; it was yours. You were always a King's man, but I never saw it and I never stopped you. That shames me, Mr Goodman. Because had I seen and stopped you, this story would have been very different.”

“You would not have turned me,” Eamon told him quietly.

“Maybe not,” Waite answered ambivalently. “I always liked you and have been at times prouder of you than of any other man.” His gaze hardened. “But, for all my fondness, I would have struck you down had I known what you meant for this city. It is only my shame, and that old care, which keeps me from doing so even now.”

Eamon measured his gaze. “And your arm,” he said quietly.

Waite arranged how the limp limb hung in the bandage. “It might have been better if it had been amputated,” he mused. “I shall not use it again.”

“Will you…” Eamon faltered. “Would you let me heal it?”

Waite drew a deep breath and laughed bitterly. “No, Mr Goodman,” he said. “I shall bear this arm away with me and retire with my shame. Both shall be the prizes of my stupidity, the fruit of my service.”

“You bear no shame.”

There was a long silence. Waite held his gaze. “You would have me go and bend my knee to your King? You would have me add that to what already lies on me? I will not; I cannot. Do not look so alarmed,” he said, laughing at the expression on Eamon's face. “Be assured that I will do as I have promised and has been commanded of me. I will take up no arms against your Star and I will advise any who ask me that they would do well to pay their blood money and go free. These things I will do; but I will not humble or humiliate myself before your King. I did not turn you,” he said, “and you shall not turn me.”

Eamon watched him for a moment. Waite matched his gaze evenly, and Eamon understood at last that he could not be swayed.

Slowly he rose to his feet. “I am sorry to have troubled you, and your sister, with my coming,” he said. “I would say but one thing more.” Waite raised a derisive eyebrow at him. Eamon steeled himself against it. All the words that he had hoped he might say to the man before him – a man whom he had served and loved – he now knew would likely always go unsaid. But still, he spoke.

“It was an honour to serve under you, sir.”

Waite's gaze seemed to soften a little. “I mean you very little offence, Mr Goodman,” he said, “when I ask you to go.”

Eamon left.

 

Eamon lay awake for a long time that night. His dreams, when he slept, came upon him like blows. But he could not remember them when he started awake, searching for her hand; all he felt then was the moonlight streaming through the window onto his clammy face.

When the morning came at last he took himself down through the palace to the East Wing holding areas. They had been designated as detention rooms for some of the higher-ranking knights and officers. A series of storerooms had been converted for the purpose. In one such room Febian was kept.

The guards at the door bowed to Eamon.

“Good morning, First Knight,” one said as he rose.

“I've come to speak with Febian.”

The guard raised an eyebrow. “He is no longer here, sir.”

“Oh. Can you tell me where he is?”

“No, sir. When the duty went down to deliver him food this morning, they found him fled.”

Eamon couldn't mask his surprise. “I thought he was refusing to come out?”

“Yes, sir. He did leave a letter, sir; it's addressed to you.”

Astonished, Eamon took the guard's direction to Febian's former quarters. He found a small but reasonable room, well tended and lit.

The letter lay on the bed, its markings those of a man who had written in a hurry. As Eamon unfolded it, something chinked to
the ground. Light from the high windows helped him to locate its whereabouts: a small silver ring.

Eamon tightened his hand about it. He knew the ring. He had once taken it from under the eyes of the throned himself to return it to its keeper. He had last held it in the Pit. Had Febian come by it there?

He looked then to the letter. Its lines were rushed, but their fluidity marked a man of no little learning:

Eamon sighed. He had hoped to come to Febian and be reconciled, perhaps even to call the man who might be Dunthruik's last Hand to serve the King. He did not know what haven the man would find outside the city.