The King's Hand (61 page)

“You have seen me taking halting steps, and bold strides, along this path. I have been honoured by the companionship that you have offered me. I will not command you, Andreas, and I will not tell you what you must choose. That choice only you can make, and you must make it in your own heart, regardless of what regard you hold for me. But, as I have done, you must now make a choice.” He fell silent for a moment. “Andreas, will you fare along this way with me?”

Once again Anderas's hands tensed on the blade, steel crept from its sheath, tension creased the captain's brow.

“You speak much of grace, but say nothing of the atrocities committed by the Serpent and his allies,” Anderas rejoined. “Have you not heard what the men retreating into the city are saying? Devastation, blood, murder? Their lips are full of it. How can you forget the road to Pinewood? Bloated corpses of sworn men hanging from trees, food for carrion birds? How can you forget the way they murdered our men?”

“I do not forget the men we lost in that battle,” Eamon replied. “I do not claim that every wayfarer always does right. I speak about the King, the true King, whom the throned calls Serpent, about whom he lies and scaremongers to legitimize his stolen throne. The true King is the one by whose grace you were saved on the battlefield at Pinewood. This true King loves and serves his people. This true King desires to save his people from bloodshed and oppression. He does not work for it alone – I am but one of those who work with him. If I have been in any way better or truer than another man, it is only by the King's grace that I have done so.”

Anderas's eyes darted across his face. “My hands could never serve such a man as you describe,” he breathed. “What do you think a Gauntlet captain does in Dunthruik during a time of culling?
He culls
. How many men and women,
children
even, have gone to those pyres because of me? My hands sent them. The King cannot release me from that. I am his known enemy!”

“So was I when first I met him. Know this: the King is gracious and merciful. I have performed deeds far more vile than yours, Anderas – knowingly, despite my avowed fealty, I acted against the King's own people. Yet he did not despise me, imprison me, or take my life – though I deserved all these things. He forgave me.” Eamon looked at Anderas, filled anew with the wonder of Hughan's love. “His grace has sustained me. Andreas, what I ask, I do not ask lightly – I know what it is to be torn between two oaths. But I could not ask it of a truer man. Andreas Anderas, would you be a King's man?”

Anderas trembled. “I am a sworn man, Eamon Goodman. I would… but… but I can't.”

“I understand. I am a sworn man, too. That is how I can say to you that whatever you have done can be and is forgiven, even if it cannot be undone, and you can serve him.”

The dawn's chorus skittered through the trees around them. Anderas chewed at his lip, clenched and unclenched his hands about the sword they held.

“A man like me needs a lot of grace,” he whispered.

“So does a man like me,” Eamon returned. “I have not found it wanting.”

There was a hiss as the sword returned to its sheath. Anderas blinked tears fiercely from his eyes and looked up.

“I will follow the King,” the captain whispered.

A deep silence fell. Eamon gazed at the man before him with awe. Anderas breathed deeply, and choked back a sob, laughing as he did so. Somehow, in that moment when he was caught between strength and weakness, the captain seemed to be more than Eamon had ever seen in him.

“If the King is anything like you,” Anderas managed at the last, “then it is him whom I have sought to serve all my life.”

“Then a King's man you shall be.” Quietly, Eamon stepped forward and set his hand to the captain's shoulder. “Andreas Anderas, may the King's grace be with you and may you stay true to the King. May you find joy and life and good in his service.”

As Eamon spoke, a faint blue light flitted about his fingers. He realized with joy that it was not just about him but also in Anderas. He laughed with delight and stepped back as the light faded away.

His eyes met Anderas's. The captain's smile was broad and free.

“At last, Lord Goodman,” Anderas said, “I know you.”

“And I see that, in knowing you, I have much left to learn,” Eamon replied.

 

They rode back to the city together. Though their conversation turned to other things as soon as they left the woods, Eamon's nerves tingled, and every now and then as he watched Anderas, he felt a wave of delighted astonishment.

The captain had chosen the King. Eamon had scarcely dared to hope it, and had feared their meeting terribly. Inside he trembled, seeing clearly at last how perilous his decision to speak to Anderas had been, seeing that the motivations behind it would seem strange to perhaps any other man. He had wanted Anderas to understand him better. Now there were few others who did, and in many ways, the captain understood him best of all. How many other Gauntlet officers had pledged themselves to the King while still bearing the throned's mark?

They rode back into the Ashen and the stable yard. Servants came to take their horses. Eamon's heart sank as the weights of the world fell back upon him. He still had to speak to the servants, and he could not speak to them as he had to Anderas. What comfort could he offer them?

He dismounted and Anderas did the same. He turned to the captain. “I must speak to my household about the Master's decision,” he said.

“Of course, my lord.” Anderas nodded. The captain's first quiet sorrow returned to his eyes. “I am sure that you will find the best words to say.”

“Thank you.”

“Would you have me make an announcement of your impending departure to the college?” Anderas asked.

Eamon closed his eyes for a moment. “Yes,” he said, “I would.”

“Very well.”

Eamon looked at him, wondering how he should now bid the captain farewell. Everything had changed, and yet all that had been remained.

Seeing his indecision Anderas smiled, and laughed quietly. “Good day, my lord,” he said.

“And to you, captain,” Eamon replied.

C
HAPTER
XXXIII

H
e went slowly into the household, his mind agog with thoughts. He had to find Slater. It was already the second day; within five more he must set the whole household back into its old habits. He wondered if he had been a fool to leave it so long.

He summoned Slater to his office, and not long afterwards, the man appeared. He seemed calmer than when Eamon had last seen him, although still pale. His eyes were darkly rimmed.

“Good morning, my lord.”

“Good morning,” Eamon replied. “How are you faring?”

“Better, my lord,” Slater answered with a small nod.

“And the rest of the household?”

“Mr Bellis was with us but a short time, my lord, but well regarded nonetheless,” Slater answered. “He is missed.”

Eamon nodded. “Mr Slater, I must speak with the entire household,” he said. “I want to do it this morning.”

“I will arrange it, my lord,” Slater replied.

 

Slater was good to his word. Barely an hour had passed before Eamon was informed that the whole household was gathered in the dining room, the one place inside the Handquarters large enough to hold them all. Laying aside the quill with which he signed the very last exit orders, Eamon rose from his desk and made his way slowly through the corridors. His cloak seemed heavy to him, his ring cumbersome and clumsy on his hand.

He entered the dining room. Gathered there were stablehands and scullery servants, cooks, seamstresses, and laundry maids. They all bowed, almost as a unit. Eamon walked past them to climb the small dais where the high table was set. A great banner, bearing an owl and ash, hung on the wall behind him. As he turned to look out across the faces, his heart grew heavy.

He knew these men and women, and he loved them. Yet he had to deliver to them a blow that he could scarcely bear himself. Their upturned faces reminded him of how much he wanted to shun what he could not renounce.

“Good morning,” he said, and it sounded awkward on his lips. He swallowed. For a terrible moment he realized that he did not know what to say. The servants' eyes were fixed on him, though if they saw his hesitation, none of them minded it.

Drawing a deep breath, he looked up. He set his courage to his task and spoke again. “First of all, I wish to congratulate you all on the exceptionally fine service you have all rendered me since I came to this hall. I daresay that only the Master enjoys a household that is more dedicated than you are to me. For that I thank you.”

Some of them smiled. Some almost clapped. Eamon's courage nearly melted.

“It is not only to be thanked that you are here this morning,” he said. “In a few days, I will no longer have the honour of being served by you.”

The smiling faces quickly turned to alarm.

“The Master has reassigned me,” Eamon said heavily. “To his glory, and at his bidding, I must leave this quarter to become Right Hand.”

An audible gasp ran through the room, one as much riddled by awe as by horror. Eamon drew another breath, knowing that the worst blow was yet to come.

“Another comes to take my place,” he said. “In five days, you will serve Lord Arlaith.” He swallowed to keep his voice from catching. “You have seen what kind of a man Lord Arlaith is. He is strong, and bold, and faithful to the Master in every way. But you cannot serve him in the way that you serve me. This you all know. From this very day,” he continued, an odd fierceness in his voice, “you will serve me as though I were Lord Ashway, for that is how you must serve Lord Arlaith. You will be discreet in your service and you will keep from my path. I would have this be such a household that even Lord Arlaith shall find no fault with it; thus will none of you fall foul of him, or his zealous anger.” The words cut him as he spoke them, but not as much as the shocked faces tore at his heart.

“Return to your duties,” he finished quietly.

The household obeyed.

 

Over the course of that day Eamon saw none of the servants. His meals appeared, silently and mysteriously, at his table. When Eamon strolled that afternoon in the Handquarter gardens, he saw no man tending the trees and plants, and when he passed by the kitchens he heard no singing. All he saw were linens hung over a long cord by the scullery to dry.

The silence grieved him.

That evening there was a knock at his door. He called to grant admittance and saw Draybant Greenwood there.

“Good evening, my lord,” the man said, bowing smartly. “May I offer you my congratulations on your new appointment?”

“Very kind of you, Mr Greenwood,” Eamon answered. So Anderas had spoken to them.

“If I may be so bold, my lord,” Greenwood added, “I feel that no man would serve Dunthruik better as Right Hand than you.”

“Thank you.” Eamon smiled at him. It was then that he noted that the draybant carried the day's Gauntlet papers. “Is something the matter with the captain?” Eamon asked. The delivery of the papers, though not obliged to be Anderas's duty, was one that he had always performed.

“He was at the mess, my lord, but left without finishing his meal,” Greenwood answered. “He told me that he felt unwell, and asked me to cover his duties for this evening.” Greenwood set the papers gently and neatly down on the desk.

Eamon followed the draybant's words with mild unease, but set it gently aside. A Gauntlet captain had as much right as any man to feel unwell from time to time. “Thank you, Mr Greenwood.”

The draybant nodded and Eamon spoke again. “There is another grain shipment coming in tomorrow.”

“Yes, my lord. I shall take men to curtail the quarter's share, as you ordered.”

“Good.” Eamon paused, then looked up. “Mr Greenwood,” he said quietly, “Lord Arlaith does not know about the grain store in the college. I would not like him to be informed. Please leave it out of any official reports that you give to him.”

“Yes, Lord Goodman,” Greenwood answered faultlessly; the idea of deceiving Lord Arlaith did not seem to faze him. “Your command as Right Hand will be no less than when you served in this house. If your desire is to withhold this information from him, it will be done.”

“Once Lord Arlaith is here, I am afraid that you will no longer be able to take grain as you have. You may not be able to take any at all. That does not matter; the most important thing is that what has already been set aside remains safe.”

“Of course, my lord,” Greenwood nodded. “I will see to it.”

“Please advise your men accordingly,” Eamon added, “and I would be grateful if you would also give word of this to Captain Anderas.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Eamon looked at him. “Mr Greenwood?”

“My lord?”

“You are an exemplary officer. You serve an extraordinary captain and command excellent men. Be steadfast in your service, and you will go far.” He did not add that he hoped one day to see the man in a different uniform.

“Thank you, my lord,” Greenwood replied.

“Dismissed.”

The draybant bowed and left. Eamon's gaze fell on the papers Greenwood had brought. For a moment he wondered if he should go and visit Anderas, but if the captain was ill perhaps he needed rest. He would see him in the morning.

 

The lamps and fires were lit as though they had willed it themselves. Eamon went to bed, seeing none of the household either on the stair or in the corridor. He wondered where they could possibly hide if they happened to be present when he passed. It was a mark of their skill – and the Handquarters' hidden places – that he knew it not.

He lay for a long time in his bed, reading, though his thoughts followed the volume with difficulty. In the tangled noise of his mind the servants gasped and paled, footsteps receeded.