The King's Hand (34 page)

Anderas told him that this was indeed the case, and Eamon tried to get hold of one of the segments. Anderas made it look easy, but Eamon's half was uncooperative. Eventually he managed to extract a half-mauled segment. The juice was sticky and sweet.

“I trust that you find this amusing, captain,” he said, glancing at the man's face.

“Not at all, my lord.”

“You are a very poor liar,” Eamon retorted.

Anderas gestured at another part of the fruit. “You can eat that part, my lord.”

“Yes.” Eamon looked at the partially mashed segment for a moment then eventually put the thing in his mouth. He had expected the fruit to be slimy and tasteless but it was sweet and succulent, full of vigour and flavour. Eamon looked up at Anderas with renewed surprise.

“Do you like it?”

“Who would burn orchards of these?” Eamon asked incredulously.

“Not I, lord.”

“Nor I.” Eamon ate another segment contentedly, then looked down at his sticky hands.

“That's what the water is for,” Anderas told him.

 

It was about the second hour when they left the Handquarters. Eamon advised Slater that he hoped to return in time for supper and was pleased when the housekeeper told him that preparations for the following evening's meal were all well in hand.

“My lord, the master cook advises that you should seek a strong-bodied red wine,” Slater told him, “especially one with fruity undertones.”

“Thank you, Mr Slater,” Eamon answered lightly. He went to the Ashen.

Anderas was as good as his word. Two saddled horses waited patiently with two servants. Nearby stood a broad cart, and a man sat at its front ready to drive it. All present bowed deeply as Eamon and Anderas approached.

Eamon bade them all a good morning, then turned to the servant standing by his horse. He could tell that the beast was to be ridden by him, for it had a black saddle showing an owl.

“Please would you stow this securely in the saddlebag,” he said, handing the young man a parcel of books. Eamon had chosen them before retiring to bed the previous night, and hoped that they would go some way towards mollifying Cathair.

“Yes, Lord Goodman.”

Eamon mounted. As he took the saddle he was suddenly in the abandoned dell, calling for Hughan's men to show themselves.

He laid his hand on the horse's neck.

Anderas mounted the second horse and brought it to his side.

“Where to, my lord?” he asked cheerfully. The captain was completely at home in the saddle. Eamon suspected that the man had not had a proper chance to ride since they had been to Pinewood.

“To Ravensill,” Eamon answered, “and to Lord Cathair.”

 

The land to the north-west of Dunthruik ran in long hills from the distant mountains to the sea. The hills – known as Ravensill – had for centuries been home to tall vines from which most of the city's wines were pressed. As they rode up through the North Gate and out onto the road, the hills sloped up and sunlight touched the long fields at their feet. Over to the east the trails led to the pyre; from that Eamon quickly drove his sight away.

The pace of the cart slowed them, but Eamon didn't mind. He and Anderas rode ahead, and as the city fell back behind them Eamon's heart grew lighter. He breathed deeply. It was a beautiful morning. Even the thought of mollifying Cathair did not trouble him.

“I assume that purchasing wine is not your only goal, my lord?” Anderas asked.

“No,” Eamon answered. “Did I call you away from important work to do so?”

“I was only going to be drilling the new recruits today, lord. Mr Greenwood is perfectly capable of that. He's perfectly capable of everything,” Anderas added, and his voice grew more serious. “I know that he was selected, both by your predecessor and by mine, but I would humbly recommend, my lord, that you not send Mr Greenwood forward for the Hand list.”

“Not send him forward?” Eamon had seen the paperwork that morning, straight from the Right Hand's offices, advising that any man to be recommended by a quarter for Handing should have their name submitted – or withdrawn if such was felt necessary – by the end of the month. Eamon had been taken aback to see Ladomer's signature at the foot of that paper.

“On what grounds would you have me withhold him?”

“He's a good man,” Anderas answered. “He will make a fine college draybant.”

Eamon smiled. “So, you have finally decided on your draybant?” he said, delighted.

“Though you may have been speaking in jest at the time, my lord,” Anderas answered, “it was none other than yourself who suggested Mr Greenwood. His promotion would, of course, bring another problem.”

“You will need to choose another first lieutenant.”

“Yes.” Anderas paused a moment. “I am glad that choosing cadets and officers is the greater part of my lot,” he added. “Black is a colour suited to too few men.”

“Indeed it is!”

“It suits you well enough,” Anderas told him, measuring his gaze. “In fact, it suits you more than any other man I have seen wearing it. And yet… it also doesn't.” He shook his head with a small laugh. “Lord Goodman, I am forced to the conclusion that you are a living paradox, one beyond mere mortal comprehension.”

Anderas could not know how near his words struck to the truth.

“You seem to understand me well, captain,” Eamon replied. In that moment he wondered if the captain of the East Quarter would ever truly understand him.

It was not far to Ravensill, but the slopes slowed their approach. The road wound between the low hills, and Eamon marvelled at the vines that he saw. Servants were out among them, checking them and steadying them against wooden trellises. Up out of the city, the day was cooler. Eamon turned to look west to the sea. The waves reached far to the horizon, and on them ships and smaller craft readied for the time when the sea would fully relent its winter grief.

Cathair had a large residence nestled in the heart of the hills, protected from the wind. Eamon saw some Gauntlet soldiers about – but many more militiamen – and wondered how many men were detailed to protect the vineyards. It would certainly be a tempting target for thieves or bandits – or wayfarers. As they passed, servants bowed low and Gauntlet and militia paused to salute them.

They went up the road to the imposing building. It was framed by the hills and had a wide courtyard, stacked high with large barrels and busy with carts. Eamon saw a line of servants bringing a steady stream of casks up to them from a doorway. There were half a dozen tall wagons there also, and a group of men loading the casks and barrels onto them.

It was not until the last that Eamon caught sight of Cathair. The Hand stood on the steps of his immense estate, speaking to another Hand over a long list. Eamon imagined that these wines – and there were many of them – were destined to go back over the sea to the south or west, in exchange for western stars and sorely needed grain.

He told the driver to draw the cart to one side of the broad courtyard while he and Anderas halted. The captain dismounted easily, but Eamon managed to catch his cloak in the reins as he tried to descend and nearly crashed face first to the ground. Luckily Anderas was able to steady him, and with such grace that none apart from the captain noticed either his near error or his face burning red with embarrassment.

“It may seem uncouth of me, my lord,” Anderas murmured, “but I do sometimes ask myself how you made it back with that head.”

“You may recall that I wasn't on a horse when I came back.”

“Some of the officers are beginning their riding practices next week.” A smile filled Anderas's face. “Would you like to join us, my lord?”

“You wouldn't find it amusing if I did.”

“The morning is a good time to ride, Lord Goodman. I can easily take you tomorrow. A few miles before breakfast every day and you'll soon find it much simpler.”

“You're a cruel man, captain.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Eamon drew himself up and looked towards the steps. The courtyard was filled with dust from the rolling casks. He did not think that Cathair could have seen him through the swathes of people. He neatened his cloak.

“I'll have the servants see to the horses,” Anderas told him. Eamon thanked him and made his way across the courtyard to the steps of Cathair's estate.

The servants nearly didn't see him through the dust. The men and women breathed harshly with their fatigue and called to each other as they set the casks in place on the giant wagons. But as he drew closer, they fell back and bowed.

Cathair still stood on the steps, giving directions to the Hand with him. Eamon realized suddenly that the other Hand was Lord Febian. At about that moment Febian looked up. Their eyes met, and a look of surprise passed over Febian's face. Nearly at the foot of the steps, Eamon raised his voice.

“Good day, Lord Cathair!” He called it cheerfully. “I am not disturbing you, I trust?”

Cathair looked up as though thoroughly disturbed, then settled quickly into a long smile.

“Lord Goodman.” Eamon remembered how much he hated the man's smooth, goading voice. “How good it is to see you. I've been hearing so much about your work in the East Quarter this last week.” The green eyes flashed slyly. “How are you finding yourself there?”

“Well, thank you,” Eamon answered. “The library is particularly rewarding.”

An almost imperceptible sour look brushed Cathair's face.

“Lord Ashway was a great collector of books,” the Hand answered. Eamon feigned surprise.

“Surely he was not better read than you, Lord Cathair?”

Febian shuffled uncomfortably. Eamon pitied him; he had done nothing to deserve being caught in the crossfire of civility.

“He was a great
collector
, Lord Goodman,” Cathair repeated with a smile. “I hear that you also collect papers, after your own fashion?”

Eamon resisted the urge to cringe. “A long-held passion,” he answered self-deprecatingly.

“Ah! The passions of a man! ‘They drive unto sorrow and unto joy, until the senses that they serve do cloy.'” The verse poured slickly from Cathair's lips. “I am so sorry that I could not attend your official dinner. I hear from Waite that it was a crowning success to your first days in office.”

Eamon matched his gaze boldly. “To my good fortune, the Master held a more temperate view of the matter.”

Cathair faltered.

“The Master?”

“I went to him yesterday.” Eamon offered Cathair an innocent smile. “He spoke very highly of you, Lord Cathair, and of the other lords of the city. I have much to attain if I wish to match you, but the Master gives me cause to hope that I may one day reach even your lofty height of service.”

Febian broke into the long silence that ensued. “My lords, if you would excuse me, I must see to the wagons.”

“Of course, Lord Febian,” Cathair answered, his eyes fixed on Eamon. Febian descended the steps and walked away.

“You went to the Master?” Cathair's voice as he spoke was low and dangerous.

“Yes,” Eamon replied, and he dropped a little of his pretence. “I went to excuse my folly. The Master was gracious to me.”

“Of that I am glad, Lord Goodman,” Cathair answered. “And were you able to discern the roots of your recent lapse?”

“Yes, Lord Cathair,” Eamon answered, wondering at the smile that suddenly touched the Hand's face. “The Master was gracious to me in that also.”

“Then tell me, Lord Goodman, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” Cathair stepped down towards him and laid a welcoming hand on his shoulder. Eamon drove back a shiver. “I cannot think that you came to the Raven's Hill simply to speak to me!”

“For that alone, the journey would have been well made, but I have come with another purpose also. I wish,” Eamon continued, meeting Cathair's gaze, “to buy some wine for a dinner being held tomorrow night in the East Quarter – to which you are most cordially invited.”

“Most kind of you. I shall ruminate upon it,” Cathair answered him. “Have you a scantling notion of the kind of wine that you would like?” he asked, his gaze patronizing. “Wines, like words, and more than deeds, are not a simple matter.”

“My household advises me that a strong red with touches of fruit would be right,” Eamon answered. “Some dessert wines are also required – sweet rather than dry.”

The Hand smiled again. “Both fine choices.”

“I have also brought a gift for you.”

“A gift?” Cathair's brow furrowed with suspicion.

“Lord Cathair, you have been a mentor to me since before I entered this city. All that I do reflects that Hand who guided and guarded me in those early days, and to whom, even now, I come for counsel and for company.” Eamon laughed. “My lord, if I hold the East Quarter then it is measure not just of my worth, but of yours also.” He held out the package of books. “That is why I have brought these for you.”

For a moment Cathair did nothing. At last he reached out and took the bound parcel, then slowly unwrapped it. Eamon watched the pale face as the hands moved. As the paper came away, the green eyes lit in surprise.

Eamon's time binding books had been enough to tell him that Lord Ashway's library was formidable indeed. Among the tall collections of tomes and dust-encrusted volumes, he had found three that he felt might be of interest to Cathair. One had been a beautifully bound, golden-leafed edition of the collected works of the River playwright, renowned for his great tragedies. The second was a slim collection of notes on the terrain around Dunthruik and its suitability for growing various crops. The third – of which he had chosen the finer of the two copies in the library – bore no title. As Cathair's eyes scanned the dark cover, Eamon spoke.

“‘And in the tide of later days these words shall live, and rend him praise',” he recited. Cathair looked up, stunned, and Eamon smiled. “Alas, Lord Cathair! My taste for poetry is not of your doing, but my discovery of this poem is.” He did not feel it necessary to mention that he had only read the opening page, or that he had made a special effort to memorize the couplet for Cathair's sake. “I thank you for that also.”