The King's Hand (28 page)

“The cull,” Anderas answered. “Wayfarers were working for the keeper. They did not take kindly to arrest.”

“And the keeper?”

The captain's eyes took in the reduced shell of the inn. “He will have to join the list awaiting building works.”

“How long is the list?”

Anderas shook his head. “I am afraid that I couldn't rightly tell you, my lord. That would be a question for the Crown Office.”

Eamon looked back at the building. As he watched it he felt other, hidden, eyes stare back at him.

“Then let us go to the Crown Office.”

They returned through the quarter's streets to the small square that held the Crown Office – a broad building filled with diligently working men. They were received warmly and it wasn't long at all before Eamon met with the Crown official. It was as they went into the man's office that Eamon recognized him as the man who had spoken on the day of Lorentide's arrest. As they sat, they were brought drinks by a serving girl. Eamon wondered whether the official remembered him.

“May I say again what a pleasure it is to have you here, my lord,” the man said. “How may we serve you?”

“I am, as you may imagine,” Eamon told him, “still orienting myself in the quarter. I have come to see what work you do here, and how we may make best use of this office for the Master's glory.”

The official – one Mr Rose – smiled ingratiatingly. “This office is a vital part in the mechanism of the quarter, my lord. We are responsible for a very wide spectrum of things,” he continued, flicking through some of the papers on his desk, “such as exit and entry papers, a portion of which also go to yourself.”

“Yes,” Eamon nodded.

“We also keep records of quarter property; we are responsible for collecting taxes and for arbitrating in more petty matters of law – say, disputes between neighbours.”

“And the office sees to the architectural upkeep of the quarter?”

“Indeed we do,” Rose nodded. “We have a number of architects here in the office, and we deal directly with the guilds of workmen – masons, thatchers, carpenters, and the like – who work on the quarter's buildings.”

“And how do you decide where and when to work?”

The official smiled. “There is a list, my lord.”

“On average, how long would you say it takes this office to process the buildings on the list?”

The official pulled a pensive face. “Certainly no longer than any other quarter, my lord.”

“For example,” Eamon told him, “I passed a dilapidated inn this morning. I understand that it was only recently that it was reduced to its current state. How long will it be before the inn receives repairs?”

“That would depend. First, the work has to be requested,” Rose answered.

“Who requests the work?”

“Usually a nominated representative from the place's inhabitants, or the proprietors.” As Rose spoke, the serving girl passed through the office to offer them more wine to drink. With a slight shake of his head, Eamon declined. “Office architects then go to the site and make an initial assessment of the repairs required. A charge is levied for this, and an estimate given of the time and cost needed to effect the repairs. The proprietors pay both the assessment charge and a proportion of the estimated repair cost. Once these have been paid, the building is added to the list. Repairs are then carried out in proper course.”

“And for those who cannot afford or fall short on payments?”

“This office is always willing to come to mutually beneficial agreements with such individuals,” Rose answered. As he spoke his gaze flicked to the serving girl. His face swelled lecherously.

Eamon followed the man's gaze and reddened with the anger of sudden realization.

“It is a very efficient system, my lord.”

“So I see.”

They stayed a little longer in the office and Eamon was introduced to some of the staff and principal architects. The desks in that office were mostly covered with drawings of an expansive house belonging to one of the knights – Rose explained that a lot of restoration work was currently being carried out for the family in question. The Crown Office official saw them back to the square and bowed low as they left.

As they walked back along Coronet Rise towards the Ashen, Eamon felt heavy of heart.

“How many slaves are there in this quarter, captain?” he asked. He saw the logic of the system being run by the Crown Office, and hated it. He wondered if any of the servants in his own house had fallen foul of it.

The captain had remained silent while they were in the offices. His answer was restrained. “I do not know, my lord. Dunthruik has no law against forced labour.”

Eamon nodded. He knew it – he had always known it – and yet now the idea disgusted him. He did not know if he could – or whether he dared – strike against it.

“What of the servants in the Handquarters?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“They have their food and lodging, Lord Goodman,” Anderas replied. “Nothing more.”

“Slaves in all but name.”

“Yes, Lord Goodman. But they are fed and housed, at least.”

They continued walking and Eamon's thoughts wandered. Dunthruik was full of slaves, prostitutes, beggars, prisoners, and families so poor and weak that they could barely raise the stolen food in their hands to their mouths. All the while, the Gauntlet and city militia ate and drank freely, and had sturdy roofs over their heads. He understood why there had been so many men waiting by the college that morning.

C
HAPTER
XV

T
hey returned to the Ashen at about midday. Anderas had to prepare for his afternoon dealing with the Gauntlet admittance, and took his leave. Eamon stood for a while in the Ashen, watching the normal life of the quarter pass by him. He reflected on what he had seen that morning – broken buildings, moulding grains, starving mouths, staring faces. He had seen such things before but never had they beaten against his heart with their present force.

Dunthruik had once been a great city. The palace was great still, as was the noble West Quarter where theatre and palace stood and high-born dwelt. But in the deepest, darkest parts of the East Quarter, Dunthruik showed the dry veins of a destitute, crippled city, a city lacking hope and crushed by fear.

The East Quarter did not need a Hand; it needed a king.

Eamon drew breath and shivered. The King had not yet come.

The corruptive burdens and machinations of the city weighed on him. They were systems by which the Master was served and glorified – systems enshrined in his law and upheld by his Gauntlet. Eamon hated what he had seen – how it grieved him to see a place that he loved so trammelled by despair! As he gazed at the Ashen he was sickened by the thought that a Quarter Hand could never dare to strive against those parts of the city that grieved him – to do as much would be to strive against the throned.

He swallowed, feeling his hope of that morning becoming faint. If he was bound, if he could not do right in the city, if he could not challenge the wrong that he saw…

He remembered the Hidden Hall. He remembered Hughan's face and heard in his heart the King's words: “
Draw your sword to defend the helpless, lift your hands to raise up the needy, use your heart to love the people of the River and call your mind to challenge evil where you find it…
”

He breathed deep. He was the First Knight. Had it not always been a question of how much he dared to do?

He walked again into the college, the line of young men along its wall still anxiously waiting to be seen by the captain. None could join the Gauntlet unless they passed Anderas's inspection. As Eamon passed, the young men stared in awe.

Did they know that he had once stood in just such a line?

 

He remembered it well. After his father's death he had continued bookbinding for a number of years. Edesfield was not the best place to ply that trade, but Eamon managed to keep the business going.

He might have continued bookbinding all his days had it not been for the fire.

He had lost both home and trade that night. He remembered his despair when he saw the flames, and how Aeryn and Telo took him in and comforted him before he took lodgings with the smith. While he pumped the bellows and stoked the fires, he wondered whether he should try the Gauntlet, and watched the admittance lines outside the college. But he never had the courage to join them.

It was Ladomer who at last convinced him to try. In the evenings after his work for the smith, Eamon often went to Telo's inn and sat with his friends. One cold evening the inn was busy, and Aeryn was helping Telo, so Ladomer kept Eamon company, and they spoke of joining the Gauntlet. Eamon wanted to serve the people of Edesfield, the people who had looked after him ever since he and his father had arrived. He wanted to wear that red uniform, to be loved and respected – yet he feared to take the first step.

“Eamon,” Ladomer admonished, “what have you to fear? The Gauntlet needs men just like you. There is surely no finer man in all of Edesfield!”

“But I'm not like you, Ladomer,” Eamon answered. His friend already wore the red coat of a Gauntlet ensign, and was drawing great praise from the men he worked with. “I'm not strong, or skilled. I can't even ride a horse!”

“They
teach
you to do that, Eamon. That's why it's called a college.”

“I don't think I would even pass the first inspection –”

“You won't unless you try.” Ladomer pressed his arm in encouragement. “Come on, Eamon! You've always wanted this! I know you could do it. Why don't you prove me right?”

He joined the line the next day. Eamon stood in the grey cold of the chill, bitter, wintry Edesfield morning until Captain Belaal had seen him. The captain smiled and welcomed him. The following day Ladomer had welcomed him with jubilant and open arms into the college at Edesfield…

 

Eamon walked swiftly up the college steps and across the entry hall. He went through the shadowed corridors towards the officers' mess. He knew that most of them would be there at this hour, but even as he walked, he did not clearly know what he meant to do.

The hall bustled. Servants worked around the tables, bringing food to the officers and lieutenants. Eamon might have expected to hear laughter, but the atmosphere in the room was serious and reflective. Pausing just outside the door, he heard voices speaking at the nearest table.

“I didn't understand it,” one said.

“I don't think anyone did.”

“It was so at odds with what he was like at the dinner –”

“That's certain,” agreed a third.

“Maybe Anderas drugged him with something,” snorted a fourth, and Eamon recognized the voice: Mers, the man from the dinner who looked somewhat inebriated at the morning parade. Lieutenant Mers.

“That will do, lieutenant.”

“You don't agree, sir?” Mers asked. Eamon guessed that he spoke to First Lieutenant Greenwood.

“With you speaking of the captain in such a way? No, I don't.”

“Lord Ashway was bad enough,” interrupted the first voice, adamant in its confusion, “but this Lord Goodman? I don't understand him.”

“Has it occurred to any of you that he might just have been telling the truth this morning?” It was Greenwood who spoke now.

“Are you serious, sir?”

“Or is that what Anderas
told
you to say?”

“You feel me incapable of making up my own mind, Mr Mers?”

“No, sir,” Mers retorted. “I think you want to make college draybant, and you'll do whatever sits well with the captain to do it.”

“You would do well to mind your tongue, Mers,” Greenwood told him.

“He's still drunk, sir,” said the second voice. “From the dinner last night.”

“It was the only good thing about the dinner.
Two crowns
, sir!” The first voice spun pitiably back into its tirade, and Eamon's heart fell deathly still. Had every man in the city realized his folly but him?

“But Lord Goodman was so different this morning.”

“You're speaking in circles, both of you,” the first lieutenant told them. “If this morning is any measure, we shall soon see what kind of a man Lord Goodman truly is.”

“He's a contradiction!” Mers snorted.

“It would be interesting to ask him,” the first voice observed.

“What?” The third voice laughed. “You? Scott! Talk about setting the snake among ravens! Are you insane? What exactly would you ask?”

“I don't know,” Lieutenant Scott mused. Eamon imagined him tracing patterns on the table with an idle finger.

“Maybe he'd say you could ask three questions,” the third voice said. “A friend of mine in the West Quarter told me that he likes literature.”

“A true raven protégé, then,” murmured Mers.

“Can't be,” the second voice interrupted. “He doesn't have any dogs.”

“Apart from the capt –”

“You will be held responsible for everything that you say, Mr Mers.” Greenwood's voice cut firmly across the conversation, silencing it. “The more so,” he added, “because you are drunk. Is that clear?”

There was no audible answer.

Eamon's heart pounded. He had wondered what men said about him; now he had heard it for himself. He was the lunatic who had served two crowns, the protégé of Lord Cathair who treated his captain like a dog… If that was what the officers in his own quarter said about him…

What would
the Master
say?

After a pause, the second voice piped up again. “So, Scott, suppose that things turn out as Taine suggested, and you have three questions for Lord Gooseman –”

“His name is Lord Goodman, lieutenant.”

“
Goodman
,” the voice corrected, recovering from a hiccup. “Sorry, sir. Your three questions?”