The King's Hand (41 page)

“My lord.” Wilson bowed low and left. Feeling confused by something that he felt to be just beyond his reach, Eamon returned to work.

 

Later that morning messages came to remind him of the swearing to which he was invited that afternoon. He was grateful for the reminder, but the thought of Manners kneeling and setting his hand to the Master's pommel chilled him.

Anderas came to him again before lunch. The captain walked swiftly, and his face bore a similar look to the one it had borne that morning.

“Do you, or do you not, have a lieutenant with the express task of running messages to me?” Eamon asked as the captain rose from his bow.

“I do,” Anderas replied. “‘Lieutenant Lackey', the college fondly calls him. A traditional name, handed down from man to man, whatever his own might be.”

Eamon laughed. All Gauntlet college captains were assisted by a lieutenant who was (after the captain) usually the next best source of college information. The man currently serving the East Quarter College in that capacity was called Lancer.

“Having such an aide, why didn't you send Mr Lancer to me?”

“Due to my perplexion,” the captain answered. “There is a man at the stables,” he continued, his brow increasingly furrowed. “Actually, there are two men. I left Mr Lancer with them. They say that they have asked all over the city for Lord Goodman, and that they were sent here. When they asked for you at the college they were sent to Lancer, and then to me.”

“That isn't perplexing in the slightest.”

“No,” Anderas agreed, “but they have brought a very fine horse with them.”

Eamon looked up in surprise, an enormous smile breaking on his face. “A horse?”

“They are asking to see you.”

“Then I think we should go to the stables.”

“Very good, Lord Goodman.”

They went to the stables. Eamon went as swiftly as he could, barely able to contain the grin on his face. He knew who would be waiting for him.

As he arrived he saw three men and a few stablehands. One of them was Lancer, and the lieutenant looked only a little less confused than his captain. The second man was younger than Eamon, and had a crop of thick, black hair. At his side was a man whom Eamon recognized, and by him stood a beautiful black charger with a small, white pattern on its nose.

Eamon stopped before the group, still smiling. Seeing the ring on Eamon's hand the man who led the horse paled.

“Lord… Lord Goodman?”

“The very same,” Eamon answered. “Perhaps I am difficult to recognize when I am not covered in rain and mud?”

“But you are a Quarter Hand –”

“I am one now, and a delighted one at that,” Eamon interrupted, and laughed. “You have brought back to me a sorely missed friend of long adventures!”

“That was my promise, my lord.”

“And you have kept it well, Mr Bellis.”

The man gasped, amazed that his name should be remembered. Eamon stepped forward and set his hands to the horse's muzzle in contentment. To his delight, the horse pressed against him fondly.

“You remember me, don't you?” he said. The horse responded with a soft neigh. Perhaps, even for the horse, he had been difficult to forget.

Eamon looked back to Marilio Bellis. “How is he?”

“Well healed, my lord,” Marilio answered, “for which my son is responsible. He has a doctor's skill in him.”

Eamon looked across at the younger man, who threw himself at once into a hasty bow. “What's your name, young man?” Eamon asked.

“Wilhelm Bellis, my lord.”

“Wilhelm, I am indebted to you,” Eamon told him, “for this creature is a steed indeed, far more witting, I fear, than its master.”

“Sahu is a bright one, my lord,” Wilhelm replied.

“Sahu?”

“That is the name my son gave him, my lord,” Marilio explained quickly. “If it does you offence –”

“It sounds a good name.”

“It is an old name out of the south,” Anderas mused with interest. “Something to do with the brightness of the stars, I believe. Or perhaps the Great Constellation?”

The captain's face creased with the effort of chasing after what eluded him, before the expression soon gave way to veiled annoyance. Eamon laughed heartily.

“A fine name indeed!” he cried, turning warmly to the father and son before him. “Wilhelm Bellis, you have succeeded in flummoxing a man who is both a recognized fount of knowledge and a very fine captain. It is a feat too little achieved, and I congratulate you!”

At his praise, a flash of delight lit Wilhelm's face. He bowed.

“Thank you, my lord.”

“Mr Bellis and Mr Bellis, you both have my thanks once again,” Eamon continued. Such men as these, he thought, were few. “Is there anything that I might offer you in return?”

“Serving you, Lord Goodman, is reward enough,” Marilio answered with a bow.

“Then that, if you wish it, is precisely what I shall grant you.”

Marilio looked up, startled. “You mean that, my lord?”

“Yes,” Eamon answered, and he looked at them both sincerely. “Marilio, if you wish it you may serve me in my household, and your son appears to have some skill in healing. If he desires it, he may join the Gauntlet.” Marilio's eyes went wide. “If these things do not accord with you both, then you shall rest here some days, and then I will send you both home to Eastport.”

He paused and looked at Anderas; the captain nodded to him. Eamon turned back to the two men before him. “What would you, Mr Bellis?”

Marilio and his son exchanged glances, and then the dark-haired man met Eamon's gaze. “There are many others who may see to the ferries, my lord,” he said, “and the East Road is not as safe as once it was. If it is to be my choice, then I would serve you.”

C
HAPTER
XXII

T
he afternoon came on swiftly, and Eamon felt as though no time at all had passed before another knock came at his door.

“You must find it very taxing, captain, coming through this office every few hours,” he told Anderas as the man entered.

“I can hardly avoid it, my lord. I wanted to catch you before you went to the swearing.”

“Yes.”

“Had you forgotten it?”

“No.” How could he?

“We received some entry papers that need signing,” Anderas continued, laying them on Eamon's desk.

“
Entry
papers?” Eamon was so accustomed to denying exit papers that he sat up in surprise.

“Yes, Lord Goodman,” Anderas answered. “I thought that you might enjoy the novelty. A few families from the South Quarter want permission to come into the East.”

“I'll sign them,” Eamon answered. “Have they got family here, or work?”

“I don't think so, my lord.”

“Then why come?”

“I believe it may have something to do with the latest story about the Lord of the East Quarter,” Anderas answered quietly.

Eamon looked up in astonishment. “Latest story?”

“My ensigns and patrols – who bring back to me the word from the city streets – have started reporting what is being told. They report it with pride. The people near Tailor's Turn have been speaking to their neighbours. It goes about that the man who put his life on the line for the Gauntlet set it into a pit for the people of his quarter.” Anderas met his gaze seriously. “They praise the Master in every part of this quarter, my lord, because he made you lord over it.”

Eamon was utterly stunned.

“What does Lord Tramist have to say about this?” he asked. He could not imagine the Lord of the South Quarter taking kindly to the family's movements.

“I am not sure,” Anderas replied. “The South is often hard pressed for space. Lord Tramist has granted the families permission to leave.”

Eamon set his quill to the papers and signed them. They were only two families, looking to go into one of the poorest parts of the East Quarter. He hoped that they would find themselves well there.

“Perhaps, as it is only two families, he will forgive me.” Eamon rose from his seat. “I suppose I shall have to dress very formally for this afternoon's ceremony.”

“I expect that Mr Slater has already laid out the appropriate attire for you,” Anderas answered. “He is very particular about such things. Marilio Bellis is being inducted into the household and Draybant Greenwood is testing his son for the cadets,” he added.

“Will he do?” Eamon asked.

“He is a little nervous, my lord – but that is not unusual.”

“Indeed.” Eamon smiled. “Thank you, captain.”

“Is there anything else, my lord?” Anderas gathered all the day's papers from Eamon's desk, ready to dispatch them to the appropriate quarters.

“One thing more,” Eamon told him. “When I interviewed Mr Fort this morning, he mentioned an incident with his cousin during the cull some fifteen years ago. Draybant Wilson advised me that you might know something about it.”

The captain paused pensively. “I was just shy of joining the Gauntlet during the cull,” he answered, “so know near nothing of the matter personally. Lord Ashway mentioned something of the case to me once, I believe, just after my appointment. Smuggling wayfarers from the city?”

“So Mr Fort said,” Eamon nodded. “Is the woman's name known to you at all?”

Anderas thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, my lord,” he said. “Her family name was Forthay but she is down in the official account by her husband's name, as Alleana Tiller.”

Eamon felt a terrible chill seize him. How could he not have guessed it sooner?

“Alleana Tiller?” he whispered.

“Yes. Distinctive names, both of them. As I recall, that was why Fort had to change his. Are you well, my lord?”

“Yes,” Eamon answered, though shaken.

 

Mr Fort maintained that Alleana, her husband, and her son had been killed by the Gauntlet. Perhaps he believed it. But Eamon knew Alleana had escaped the Gauntlet. He had seen her bloodied hands. He had sat with her through her gasps of pain and had been there to receive her final kiss on his forehead. He had been there when his father had knelt down and wept beside her cold, still body. He had been told that thieves, trying to take her purse, had attacked her. At last he knew the truth.

Alleana Forthay. How could he have forgotten that name? It had been so long since he had heard it; she had told it to him only once. In Dunthruik, she went by the name of Tiller – the name of her husband's mother, used because he had trade connections in the city by that name. But when they had travelled beyond Dunthruik and returned to Edesfield, his hometown, she was Alleana Goodman.

Fort's words ran through Eamon again: “
My family has no part with wayfarers…”

It was not true – there was at least one. Fort could never have known – and could not know – that the man who had granted him his freedom that morning was First Knight to the Serpent's heir. Nor could he know that the Lord of the East Quarter was the son of the woman who had smuggled wayfarers from the city at the cost of her own life.

 

“Lord Goodman?”

Eamon looked up. There was a thin veil of tears over his eyes. He blinked it back. “I, too, was a boy during the cull.”

“I understand,” Anderas said quietly.

They watched each other in silence for a moment.

“If I may, my lord,” Anderas said, “I have to inspect the new First Pennants this afternoon.”

“Of course,” Eamon replied – and he had to be witness to the swearing of the Third Banners.

C
HAPTER
XXIII

J
ubilant red and gold attired the West Quarter College courtyard. Banners bearing eagles, ravens, and crowns snapped over the doorposts and blazed in the sun. It was a beautiful morning, and far hotter than was normal for the time of year.

The courtyard was lined with seats, behind which was space for those visitors whose lot it was to stand. This space, as much as there was, was filled with people dressed in their finest: families and friends of the young men who were to swear that morning. Added to these witnesses were officers, ensigns, and cadets, resplendent in their uniforms, who alone among the observers stood in silence, their faces marked with smiles. It was to be a great day.

Eamon was seated apart from the other onlookers. A raised seating area had been prepared opposite the platform where Captain Waite was to conduct the swearing-in of the cadets. From where he sat, shaded by a long red awning, Eamon would have a clear view of the ceremony.

He restrained a sigh and shuffled his robes. Before leaving the Ashen he had donned the most formal of his rather large collection of Quarter Hand attire, and the owl and ash sat heavily on him. He fiddled with the ring on his finger. There was nothing he could do but wait.

Suddenly the two Gauntlet soldiers by the seating platform snapped sharply to attention. Eamon glanced up and saw Cathair stepping up the stairs to the platform. The Hand was thickly attired but bore it better than Eamon did. Approaching, he cast Eamon a smile so pleasant that Eamon had to suppress the urge to screw up his face in disgust.

“Lord Cathair.”

“Ah, Lord Goodman! Isn't it a fine day?” Cathair drew a deep breath of the still air as he took the seat next to Eamon's. The smile on the Hand's pale face terrified Eamon.

“It is.”

“You have never been in Dunthruik in high summer, I take it?” Cathair laughed. Eamon did not answer. He knew Dunthruik's summers from his childhood, and as Cathair continued, he distinctly remembered the choking humidity that would fall like a shroud on the worst days.

“Ah, Lord Goodman, the sea becomes as a balm to the city, and the sun! ‘Jewel of the sceptred skies'…” Eamon realized that Cathair was probably reciting poetry, though he did not know what. It was terrible evidence of how jovial a mood the Hand was in.