The King's Hand (17 page)

Eamon laughed, bade farewell to Waite, and led the cadets out through the Brand into the streets of Dunthruik.

People stopped and stared at them as they passed, for they made an unusual sight: a group of Gauntlet cadets led by a Hand, each carrying not sword or banner but pick and shovel. Eamon took them towards the harbour, which was set just beyond the city's west wall.

The Sea Gate was wider than the Blind Gate; through it peered curiously bobbing spires of ships which fretted at the moorings that had held them the whole winter long. The seafront was loaded with lodgings and storehouses and there was a highly visible Gauntlet presence. Many of the ships flew the colours of merchant states. Eamon wondered how such men had found the winter. Of the ships that bore the eagle and the crown, some were part of the throned's small fleet of warships. Those ships were laden with guards and militia. Eamon wondered if the holk that had once tried to bear him to Dunthruik had ever been moored there.

The waterfront road was in a poor state of repair. The winter winds, rains, and beating waves had driven potholes into much of it and had sunk large areas of the dock's paving.

As they spilled through the gate onto the waterfront Eamon saw a tall cart loaded with dirt. Lord Febian stood near it, a piece of paper in his hand and a bemused expression on his face. At that moment Febian noticed Eamon, looked at the paper, then came over.

“Lord Febian,” Eamon acknowledged civilly.

“Lord Cathair… sends his regards.” Febian gestured to a tall wagon filled with dirt and stones, and then noticed the group of cadets for the first time. Their gazes met again. “Surely, Lord Goodman, there's been some mistake –?”

“None whatsoever. Please thank Lord Cathair for his foresight and pass him my best wishes for the day.” Eamon looked down at the rugged, broken stones beneath his feet, then back at the cadets. So far as his reading the day before had indicated, the best way to start was in removing the stones and levelling the road surface, using the dirt to do so.

“Third Banners, to work!” he called.

“His glory, Lord Goodman!”

 

They worked at the port and dock roads for over a week and Eamon was pleased with how the cadets applied themselves. Their laughing and joking made light of any hardships, and when he doffed his cloak to help them they cheered and handed him what was universally considered to be the best shovel. Groups of militia from the West and North Quarters were also sent to the work. Eamon split the men into teams, assigning them to different parts of the waterfront.

On the second day, Eamon was sure he caught sight of Cathair watching them from the shadow of the gate. He had been tempted to offer the Hand a cheerful wave, but had decided against it.

The road grew steadily smoother. The sailors and captains, waiting in the waterfront inns for the first sailable weather, watched their work with tacit appreciation. Some of them, having nothing better to do, brought tools of their own and joined in. The cadets' favourite such worker was a heavily bearded man from one of the southern merchant states. The man was habitually drunk, but his swing was good, and he cheerfully yelled obscenities at the road when it refused to cooperate with him. He reminded Eamon of Giles.

On the fourth of March, as Eamon inspected the latest stretch of the road repairs, he heard singing among the cadets. This in itself was not unusual, and for a while he took no notice of it, but at last he caught some of the words:

“Tell, O tell! The Gauntlet cry,
Tell us of this man!
The surrendered sword, the fallen pine,
The noblest of the Hands!
”

 

Eamon went across to them. “What is that you're singing, gentlemen?”

The group of cadets, tools in their hands, fell silent. Manners looked up at him.

“It is something that Cadet Ostler made up, my lord.”

“Really?” Eamon looked along the dock – Ostler was in one of the other groups farther down, and was currently helping to set a great stone. The bearded merchant worked with him.

“Yes.” Manners looked a little sheepish. “It's about you, Lord Goodman.”

“So I hear.”

“That's not the best verse,” the cadet added apologetically.

Eamon looked carefully at the cadets. He was deeply touched by their show of respect for him, but surely it was a dangerous thing – what if the other Hands heard of it? They would not react well to such loyalty.

“Mr Manners,” he asked, “was Cadet Ostler drunk at that time?”

“No, Lord Goodman –”

“Drunken men aren't always well inspired,” Eamon told him firmly, and with a discreet nod. Manners met his gaze.

“Yes, Lord Goodman.”

The work continued well. Eamon found that after spending an hour or so helping with it each day he slept much better at night. But his sleep was still haunted by Mathaiah's plight. When he woke, he felt cracking pressure at his breast. He was running out of time: Mathaiah had to be freed. But how could he do it?

He tried to think about it while he worked, but the work drove thought from him, and when he lay down at night to rest, he slept before he could think. In those rare moments when he was able to consider the problem he would turn it back and forth a hundred times, seeking for a way to pass into the Pit and safely bring Mathaiah out of it. However much he wrestled, no answer came to him, and when no answer came, his thought drifted from Mathaiah to chilling visions of the Nightholt.

By the end of the eighth of March the majority of the work was done – and done well. The cadets knew it.

“It's been done by the book, my lord!” Manners laughed cheerily.

“Indeed it has, Mr Manners,” Eamon answered. Having finished most of their work for that day the cadets were on their way back to the West Quarter College. Eamon walked with them, meaning to speak briefly with Captain Waite.

“You've all worked exceptionally,” he told them.

Grinning, Manners turned to those nearest to him. “If only good road work counted towards Gauntlet records!”

Cadet Ford cast Manners a partially disgusted look. “I don't see why you're worrying about that. You're on the captain's list!”

“On the list?” The words tumbled out of Eamon's startled mouth.

“There are few Third Ravens who can say as much.” Ford offered Manners a broad smile.

“He'll be ‘Lieutenant Manners' before anyone can stop him, my lord,” Ostler added. “He says that he wants to follow the West's finest example.”

“Mr Manners has his eye on a captaincy?” Eamon asked.

“No, my lord.” Manners' face had grown red with embarrassment.

“He's looking to follow in your footsteps, my lord,” Ostler explained.

Manners flushed a deeper red, but did not deny it.

Eamon clenched his fist closed over the mark on his palm. “It is a noble goal, Mr Manners.”

“Th-thank you, my lord.”

It was then that the skies opened and rain began to pelt the stones of the Coll, making the road slippery and a little treacherous. They hurried back to the Brand and college. Once in the hall, Eamon dismissed the dripping cadets back to their other duties. He watched them going, laughing and talking among themselves. It was a strange sight. Soon, all of them would be marked men.

“Lord Goodman?”

Eamon looked up in surprise to see Manners. His drenched brow was knitted.

“Mr Manners?”

Manners looked at him uncertainly. “My lord, it might seem an odd question to ask…”

“I shall not know that, Mr Manners, until you ask it.”

“My lord.” Manners drew a deep breath. “Did you go straight to lieutenant?”

“Almost,” Eamon replied. “I was sworn in on the eighth of September and made a lieutenant on the ninth.”

Manners met his gaze. “Was it difficult, my lord?”

Eamon swallowed. What should he say? He did not for a moment hope to see Cadet Manners put forward for a lieutenantship and he did not want to see the man kneel to receive the eagle's burning mark upon his hand.

Flexing his own hand quietly, he looked at Manners. “Even as a cadet you've had some officer training,” he said. “They give you more when you are sworn in, because they know that men like you make good officers.” He faltered. Manners watched him intently. “Mr Manners,” Eamon said gently, “being a lieutenant isn't difficult – and I am sure that you would make a fine one. What is difficult is being a good man.”

“What makes you a good man?” Manners watched him still, with an intense, piercing curiosity.

“Duty,” Eamon answered. “Honour. The Master's –”

“No,” Manners interrupted. “I'm sorry, Lord Goodman. I know that all those things are important. What I wanted to know was what makes
you
a good man.”

“Apart from my name, you intend?” Eamon asked with a smile. Manners laughed and Eamon looked at him seriously. “Apart from my name, Mr Manners, it is the one I serve who makes me a good man. In fact,” he added, “my name has little meaning without him.”

Manners watched him in silence for a moment and Eamon matched that gaze. Had he gone too far? He bit the inside of his lip.

At last, Manners smiled and nodded. “Yes, my lord… Lord Goodman, do you –”

A howl rent the air.

They froze. Nothing could be heard except the rain. Eamon shook his head. Was he going insane?

The shrieking cry repeated, clearer and more terrible.

Waite appeared in the hall. His face showed that he had heard it too.

“Captain?” Eamon asked.

“It's coming from the Brand, Lord Goodman.”

Another long cry shattered the air. Wordlessly, they rushed down the college steps and out into the pelting rain.

In the square, a fearsome sight met their eyes. The Brand was crowded at its edges with people, their eyes fixed on the figures on the raised platform of stones at the square's centre. Eamon recognized the men immediately. He saw Anderas being cast violently from the plinth by the other man. This same man then tore away, to roam ferally between the plinth's statues. As Eamon, Waite, and Manners halted breathlessly at the edge of the Brand the man came forward among the statues. His black cloak rode wildly about him as he hurled back his head.

“Woe, woe!” he yelled. His voice carried inhumanly far. “Woe to you, Dunthruik, city of open graves and whitewashed faces! Woe to you who bow before a painted, bloodied throne!” The man flung his arms wide. “There is blood on the streets, and fire in the air! The Blind Gate sees – it opens to him! The house that was fallen takes back its own.

“The King is come! The King is come and his man rides before him, clothed in stars…” The figure covered his eyes with a miserable cry. Streams of sorrow ran freely down his face. “Woe to you, Dunthruik, unless you heed him!”

Waves of chill terror buffeted Eamon. For there on the platform, his robes dishevelled where frenzied hands had torn them, his hair undone and wild in the heavy rain, his pale face grizzled with bitter weeping, his eyes thrown back to the open heavens, and his voice raised with the roar of thunder, was Lord Ashway. And the seer saw.

“Master, save us,” Waite whispered.

None could move as Ashway continued howling. The people stared at him, petrified. They called to each other, aghast.

At the foot of the stone plinth, Anderas climbed to his feet and tried to bring the Hand to reason – but Ashway would not be calmed.

The seer lowered his head and surveyed the crowd. He looked straight at Eamon.

“See, the Sword and Star are coming! The one is here, and the other close behind.” Ashway whirled where he stood among the stones, and laughed. He cast his hands out and spun so that all could hear him.

“The city rises!” he called. “The city rises, with a new name!” His voice, touched with fear and awe, rose as he trembled, calling out the words again and again: “
A new name!
”

There was a flurry of movement in a corner of the square. People were thrust aside as a group of Hands rushed into its centre. Cathair was among their number, his face a picture of rage and horror. The Hands hurled themselves at Ashway, trying to bring him down from the stones or somehow restrain him. But the Hand threw them off with ease.

“The one is here! He opens the gate!”

Horror coursed through Eamon. His legs propelled him forward. The crowd parted before him.

He joined with the Hands in moments – indeed, was there to catch one as Ashway hurled the man from the platform. Eamon saw Anderas climbing up from the drenched stones where he had again been hurled.

Eamon reached the steps to the platform as Cathair climbed up onto it. The Hand took hold of Ashway's arm.

“Ashway!” Cathair cried.

Suddenly the Hand turned and seized him. “Your ways will come on your head, Cathair. The blade will break and turn true – and it will fall on you.”

Cathair stared. Eamon had never seen such fear in a man's eyes, but he did not have long to watch it. The next moment Ashway struck Cathair aside and leapt from the plinth.

“Hold him!”

Eamon recognized the Right Hand's voice. Anderas tried desperately to stop Ashway as he careered away, but Hand brushed captain aside with a wrathful cry.

The next thing Eamon knew was that Ashway stood before him. The Hand surged at him, an odd light in his eyes.

Time froze. The rain thudded into them like drums. Ashway's sight pierced him.

“I know who you are,” he whispered. The Hand began to tremble with indescribable emotion. “I know who you are and what you will become!”

Eamon felt the world watching him. Terror was in the air. Malice and awe waxed in Ashway's face.

“I know.”

Eamon looked straight into Ashway's eyes. The world fell away.

“Be silent,” he commanded.

The Hand fell still and his lips, parted to speak, hung open. Trembling, Ashway closed his mouth and sank slowly to his knees. With a sob he pressed his head deep into his hands.