The King's Hand (57 page)

“I will do my utmost.”

“I am sure that you will.”

Grennil looked at the papers in his hands again, then back to Eamon with a confused glance. “What about the head over the Blind Gate?” he whispered. “Did you really…?”

Eamon smiled broadly. “If you encounter the King on your journey, Mr Grennil, give him my greetings and ask him to teach your son the real story. I am sure that young Neithan would tell it well.”

Grennil nodded with delight.

“I will.” There was another long pause, and he looked at Eamon with a deep respect. “You are a courageous man, Eamon Goodman,” he said. Eamon looked at him in surprise. “Perhaps you would say to me that we must each serve the King in different ways, and with that I would agree. Perhaps you would say that each man is fitted to the service that is asked of him.”

“The King asks no man for more than he can do,” Eamon replied.

“You have sacrificed much in your service, Eamon,” Grennil told him. “I can see it written on your face. And yet you serve still, and you serve in a way that I am not sure any other man could.”

“This was the service chosen for me,” Eamon answered. “It is the King's grace, and his faith in me, that has brought me here.”

“And you hold to that. Thus I say that you are a courageous man,” Grennil replied. “It is one thing being shown what service you can perform; it is another to choose to perform it.”

“Thank you,” Eamon breathed.

“No,” Grennil answered; “thank
you
.”

Eamon reached out and clasped Grennil's hand. “May the King's grace go with you.”

“And with you, First Knight.”

C
HAPTER
XXX

G
rennil was true to his word: a list of names, scribed in a variety of hands, discreetly arrived later in the day. Now being expert in handling the city's papers, Eamon was swiftly able to draw up the exit orders required.

Late that evening Eamon went across to the college to find Anderas. On the way he delivered the exit papers to Greenwood, asking for them to be dispatched as soon as possible. The draybant looked surprised, but nodded and took the stack away.

Eamon met the captain on the stairs into the college. Anderas was obviously deep in thought and had not seen him, for he made as though to hurry past the arches where Eamon waited. Eamon laughed and called out after him.

“I see my cloak is more effective than ever this evening, captain!” he said.

Anderas jumped, and came back to where Eamon stood.

“Good evening, Lord Goodman,” he said, bowing.

“Yes, captain,” Eamon answered, “it is.”

Anderas frowned at him. The frown quickly turned to a look of astonished surprise. “Your meeting with the Master –”

Eamon grinned from ear to ear. “My meeting with the Master was a great success, Anderas,” he said, and laughed again. “It was a triumph, for his glory and for the people of this city.”

“Nobody but you, my lord, could have concocted and conducted such a reckless scheme.” Anderas shook his head. “I don't believe it.”

“Perhaps once you have shared a glass of something with me to celebrate, you will find the believing of it a little easier,” Eamon replied. “As to the charge of recklessness: that, I fear, will remain untouched.”

“May I make rash comments about the particularity of your style?”

“I think you may just have done so,” Eamon replied.

“My lord, I fear that were I to live a thousand years I would never find another able to lay claim to such spectacular folly as yourself.”

“That, I am told, is all due to my particularity,” Eamon answered with a smile.

Eamon requested a fine bottle to be brought to his office. He and Anderas drank some of it together. The captain asked to hear the details of the meeting. Eamon was as honest in the telling of what had happened as he could be. Anderas was fascinated by his glimpse into the world of the Hands, and singularly delighted with the change in the law.

“It will save lives, my lord,” he said.

“I know,” Eamon answered. “And perhaps it might just result in more effort being spent on catching actual thieves rather than the easiest available culprit.”

After the captain had left, Eamon retired to bed. Again he took up the Edelred Cycle and tried reading another part of it, but his mind was restless, and it was difficult to concentrate.

He fell swiftly asleep, and awoke only briefly during the night at the sound of an owl screeching beyond his window. But in sleep, something just beyond hearing nagged at him, demanding his attention. His sleepy mind ignored it, but the premonition grew with the passing minutes till it filled his whole mind.

He opened his eyes. He heard nothing now, but the work was done: he was awake. As he gained consciousness, he realized that it was not yet fully light outside. The first birdsong cautiously touched the air, as though even the birds wondered if they woke too soon.

Eamon rose and drew on his breeches and boots, then crossed the floor to the wash basin. He cast his arms out wide, and stretched his back. His shirt and cloak were set carefully over a chair. He looked between them and the basin. He knew that he ought to throw some of the cold water over his face, knew it would help him wake up, but there was also the undeniable fact that it would be
cold
…

He heard a timid knock at his door. He paused, wondering if he had imagined it, but it was soon followed by a voice.

“Lord Goodman?”

“You can come in,” he called. He splashed some water on his face.

The door opened behind him.

“I'm so sorry to disturb you, Lord Goodman,” the voice continued. Cara's voice. A great smile broke across his face. “There is a…” Cara trailed off into a gasp.

Eamon rose, rubbing his face against a cloth to dry it, then turned towards her. “Good morning to you, Miss Tenent,” he said. “I'm glad to see you back on duty. How are you feeling?”

“Well, my lord,” Cara answered, though her face was pale and she clenched one of her hands. Concern washed over him. He furrowed his brow and walked over to her.

“Forgive me, but your words and manner do not match. Are you sure everything is well, Miss Cara?” he said.

“Yes, my lord,” Cara breathed. She looked at him with wide eyes. “Your back…”

Suddenly, Eamon understood.

“Is it the scars?” he asked, and slowly turned his back to her. She nodded. One of her hands reached towards the scars on his back as though to ward off the disbelief that consumed her. It sent a chill down his spine.

With a gasp she withdrew. “My lord, I'm sorry –”

“Be at peace,” Eamon answered, and turned to look at her again. The girl froze in terror. As he looked at her, he was overwhelmed by how young and fragile, and in her own way beautiful, she was. He stared at her.

In that one, terrifyingly vivid, moment he saw himself seize her and claim that hitherto unclaimed innocence for himself.

It is the work of but a moment, Eben's son, and your due. She cannot refuse you. She will subject herself to you, and count herself as honoured. How many others could lay claim to such an honour?

With a shudder, he tore himself away from his thoughts. The voice's suggestion revolted him. Not only would such a thing be an abuse of her, it would also be an abuse of him and a betrayal of them both. It would betray the King, and in betraying Hughan, Eamon would dishonour him.

It would betray Alessia.

That this last thought should enter his mind surprised him. For a moment he longed for her face and the touch of her hand in his own.

Answer her betrayal, Eben's son! It is widely thought that this wench is your whore. What shame is there in making her so?

Eamon repulsed the voice and turned his heart from it.

He realized that he had been quiet for a long time. Cara watched him with concern.

“Are you well, my lord?”

Take her now.

Eamon met her gaze. He felt deeply ashamed of his thoughts, but still he answered her.

“Yes,” he said at last. With a final effort he forced the last traces of the voice from his mind. When he looked at her again, he saw that he loved the servant because she, just like Slater and Marilio and Callum and Cook and so many others, served him. “Yes, I am well.”

“When were you flogged?” Cara asked quietly. She suddenly drew breath as though to apologize for her boldness. Eamon smiled and interrupted her.

“Seven months ago,” he answered. Tears welled in Cara's eyes.

“I never knew…”

“Not many people do,” Eamon answered gently. “I am not sure what people would think if they realized that the Lord of the East Quarter was once a lieutenant who was flogged for miscarrying his duty.”

Cara looked at him in surprise. “That cannot be true.”

“You're right,” Eamon answered. “I suppose it is only partially true.”

“What happened?”

“Three cadets under my command were guarding a prisoner we were transporting from Edesfield to Dunthruik.”

“Edesfield?” Cara repeated uncertainly.

“Not the province,” Eamon answered, “the town. It is some way from Dunthruik.” Cara nodded and he continued. “The prisoner was my charge. One day the cadets were careless and she attempted to escape. She was caught, but three of them were held responsible for her attempt to escape. They were young, Cara, as most cadets are. Younger than Cadet Bellis.” She blushed a little. “They were to be flogged.” It seemed so long ago. “I took the flogging in their place,” he finished simply.

There was a long silence. Cara watched him, as though unsure what to make of what she had heard.

“That is not a story that they tell about you.”

“Most of the men who would tell it are dead,” Eamon replied. “They were killed when the holk was boarded.”

“Even though you surrendered?”

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. Eamon offered her another smile.

“I'm not sorry for what I did,” he told her. “There is no shame in bearing scars like these, Cara. You took them well, and they are a testament to your courage.”

“And to yours, my lord,” Cara answered quietly. “You bore near to a flogging from Lord Arlaith for my sake.”

Eamon's face flooded with momentary embarrassment as he remembered how he had grovelled before the Right Hand.

“Slater told you?” he guessed.

“Please don't be angry with him,” Cara said anxiously.

“I'm not, Cara.”

“He felt that I should know what happened. When he explained to me what you had done I couldn't understand it,” Cara said quietly. “Now perhaps I do a little better.”

“Miss Tenent, I did not try to stop Arlaith because I was once flogged myself,” Eamon told her. “I tried to stop him because…” He faltered. He could not say it was because she did not deserve it; if he did, it would be to gainsay the Right Hand, and that was dangerous for them both. He looked up at her again. “I had to try.”

“Thank you.”

“You deserved nothing less, and much more, than what I was able to do.”

There was a long and slightly awkward silence. Quietly Eamon stepped away from her and went to the chair where his shirt and cloak lay. He drew them on. As he did so, Cara came forward to help him. He laughed quietly.

“I am sure that you often assisted Lord Ashway when he dressed,” he said, “but you need not do the same for me. I am well able to dress myself.”

Cara fell back a pace. “Yes, my lord.”

Eamon quickly settled his robes and cloak over his shoulders.

“My apologies, my lord, but I nearly forgot. A messenger came for you,” Cara said.

“From whom?”

“From the Master,” Cara replied quietly. “You're to go to him at once.”

Eamon frowned as he straightened the cloak on his shoulders, and at last pushed his ring onto his finger.

“Then to the Master I shall go,” he said.

C
HAPTER
XXXI

T
he doorkeeper awaited him. He lurked in the shadows that surrounded the door to the throne room. As Eamon approached, the man bowed deeply – far more deeply than Eamon had ever been bowed to before. It surprised and alarmed him.

“My lord,” the doorkeeper said. “You are expected.”

“Thank you, doorkeeper,” Eamon answered. The man remained folded before him. For a moment Eamon didn't know what to do.

“Rise,” he tried at last, and the man did so before slowly drawing open the doors. Eamon stared at him.

“My lord,” the doorkeeper said again.

Flummoxed, Eamon stepped into the throne room. The doors closed behind him.

The grey dawn's first touch loaned the grand hall a ghostly quality, almost as though the place were wreathed in mist.

Eamon stepped down from the door and crossed the hall. It was only as he reached the halfway point that he saw the throne. The Master stood before it, his eyes fixed on Eamon. The grey stare cut through the twilight shades, making a breach straight in his heart.

Eamon reached the foot of the dais and bowed down to one knee as he had done so many other times.

“Your glory, Master.” His voice came as a threadbare whisper.

“Rise, Eben's son,” the throned replied. Eamon did so and looked up at the Master's deep, dark eyes. The throned smiled. Eamon realized – with a mix of awe, delight, and utter dread – that it was a smile given to no other.

As the Master descended the steps of the throne and approached him, another realization dawned: he was alone with the Master.

The Master stood before him. His towering height made Eamon cower, and a searing thrill ran through his flesh as the Master reached down and touched his face. He could not move and could not breathe, even as his palm and forehead burned at the flare of the throned's mark.