The Traitor's Heir (10 page)

At last Ladomer finished his telling of the morning's exploits and then fixed critically on his friend. “Mean you to make some contribution to this monologue, Mr Goodman, or would you prefer to persist in impersonating a mouldy lemon?”

Caught off-guard, Eamon stared at him. “What?”

“‘I beg your pardon for my inattentiveness, Mr Kentigern' might be a more fitting reply, don't you think?” Eamon opened his mouth but his friend waved his apology aside. “You're somewhat dull this afternoon,” Ladomer told him, setting his blade down so as to look at Eamon more closely. “Not that you're ever especially sharp…” Ladomer hung back, awaiting a counter to the insult. Receiving none he proceeded to pierce Eamon with a keen gaze. “What's the matter?” he asked impatiently.

“It's been a… a strange morning, Ladomer.”

“It seems to have filled you with undue modesty,” Ladomer retorted, laughing. “When are you going to talk about this, lieutenant?” he asked, tapping the pins at Eamon's throat.

Eamon looked at him for a moment, startled. “I…”

“Lieutenant Goodman!” Ladomer laughed. “Master knows how you managed it! It chimes well, you know.”

“You knew?” Eamon asked quietly.

“I told you: officers hear things,” Ladomer answered. “I was overjoyed for you, Eamon! And I am proud of you.”

“They're sending me down River tonight,” Eamon told him.

Ladomer laughed. “They didn't waste any time with that!”

A sudden sadness washed over him. “It could be a long time before I see you again,” he said quietly. “I don't know if I'll be able to say goodbye later, and so I thought –”

Ladomer had a look of mock-suffering on his face. “Eamon Goodman, as you are a man I charge you: spare me your insatiable sentimentality!”

“I'm not being sentimental but I…” Eamon shook his head. “Things aren't turning out quite as I expected and I'll miss you, Ladomer. You're a good friend. You've always been a good friend to me.”

Ladomer smiled. “I will do my utmost, dear Ratbag, to get myself transferred to Dunthruik – and to stay there! I heard from one of the messengers that there are a couple of openings in the West Quarter, and that the captain wants a cross-posting from outside the city. He wants someone with an impeccable record.” He smiled wryly. “Mine isn't quite impeccable, but maybe I'll try anyway.”

“Try,” Eamon told him. “Now that Aeryn's… I'll be a bit lost without you,” he finished.

“Two days and you'll have forgotten all about me!” Ladomer chided.

“I couldn't forget you.”

They watched each other for a moment. Ladomer's smile grew softer, and, in a rare moment of open affection, the lieutenant embraced him.

“I wish I was coming with you, Eamon.”

For a moment, Eamon clung to his friend's strong embrace. “So do I.”

The afternoon wore on and soon they reached the hour of parade, a daily occurrence in Gauntlet life. Eamon sensed men marvelling at his new pin; Barns had fairly fallen over when he had seen it.

Along with all the others in the college Eamon joined in the march, sword drawn high in salute, before Belaal's elevated figure. The captain raised himself up to speak.

“As many of you will already have seen, two ensigns, Mr Spencing and Mr Goodman, have been granted lieutenantships due to exceptional performance,” he announced.

“His glory!” the college answered, followed by a brief round of applause. Eamon felt himself turning red. He didn't feel in the least bit exceptional. From the corner of his eye he saw Spencing watching him spitefully.

The parade continued as normal. As it concluded and the cadets began filing out, Belaal gestured to Eamon and then to Spencing. Both men went up to him and saluted formally.

“Sir,” they said.

“Along with yourselves and some other ensigns who are being assigned to Dunthruik, there'll be a group of cadets with you,” he said. “They've been lax in their training and are an embarrassment to Lord Penrith and to this college. I want them beaten into shape. If they aren't corrected by the time they return to me they will be an embarrassment to both of you as well, gentlemen.”

“They won't be a problem, sir,” Spencing answered.

“I'm also sending one of the snake prisoners up,” Belaal said. “She is to go to Lord Tramist.”

Amid the bustle and chatter of the busy college, for a second Eamon was transported back to that terrible plain of fire.

“I'll take charge of her, sir,” he volunteered boldly.

Spencing glared, but Belaal smiled. “Very well, lieutenant,” he said. “She is in your charge. You may appropriate some of the cadets going with you to form a guard detail that will answer to you. It will be on your head, and your record, if you do not discharge her – and them – well.”

Lead settled in Eamon's stomach. “Yes, sir.”

Evening drew relentlessly on, the sky drowning in the River's purple pall.

Eamon sat at the head of a small cart that ambled past the bridge and on up to the westernmost docks. The wooden frame rattled from side to side as the driver prodded the mules. In the back of the cart sat Aeryn, surrounded by armed guards. It must have looked ridiculous to the passers-by, Eamon supposed, but how could they know the power the girl possessed? If what he had seen was the protection of the King, it was powerful indeed.

Eamon wondered suddenly why that same power hadn't saved Telo. Hadn't he been a King's man, too?

The cobbles wound to the River. The western docks were restricted almost entirely to Gauntlet use. Several river vessels were moored there and bobbed gently in the broad water, sails hanging loose in the dead wind like drooping leaves. Men on the runners called to one another; behind them other craft passed. The water mostly carried barges and small fishing boats heading out for a catch in the River's even wider stretches. These craft bore lanterns on their prows, and traces of net hung over their sides. Small boys battled with their oars, trying to learn their fathers' trade.

The ship bound for Dunthruik was mid-sized and intended for a small but able crew. Including the Gauntlet cadets, ensigns, and officers, there were to be perhaps thirty men on board. Like most of the River's holks, the ship had a below deck. Traders generally used this lower deck to store their goods, but the holks that served the Gauntlet usually adapted much of the space into low-ceilinged sleeping quarters. Shipwrights in the Dunway and Eastport regions had first pioneered such holks, but hostility on the northern borders had seriously impeded the shipyards there – much to the delight of their competitors in the southern regions.

As the cart drew near to the ship's sides Eamon saw barrels and sacks being taken on board, the gangplank bowing a little under the weight. A flag crowned the mast. It needed none to tell what emblem flew there.

Eamon thanked the cart driver for his services and paid him a small coin. The other ensigns climbed down, jostling Aeryn between them as they marched her up the gangplank and into the belly of the ship.

As Eamon boarded the vessel he heard a voice along the deck laugh sharply.

“I didn't know that we were taking rats on board!” it said.

“Good evening, Mr Spencing,” he answered.

“There is a notion that one can have too much of a good thing on board, Goodman.”

Eamon glared. “I'd be obliged if you'd address me as Mr Goodman, Mr Spencing.”

“I'd be obliged if you would cast yourself off the side, preferably the starboard one, and drown,” Spencing retorted, and smiled archly. “Perhaps we should each oblige the other, Mr Goodman?”

Eamon didn't answer him; a call from the ship's captain drew him away from Spencing's baiting.

“Lieutenant Goodman?”

“Yes?”

The man smiled warmly at him. “I'm Captain Farlewe. Welcome aboard.”

Eamon thanked him. “Is she a good ship?” he asked. He couldn't help but cast an uncertain look across the deck.

Farlewe smiled. “You don't like River travel, Mr Goodman?”

“My experience with it is rather limited,” Eamon confessed.

“You may set your mind at ease,” the captain laughed. “My
Lark
's a good one; she's been sailing the River for fifteen years, and I've been her captain for ten of those. She was made by the Dunway wrights – none of this Okeford nonsense. They couldn't caulk or pitch if their lives depended on it!”

“I should avoid Okeford holks?” Eamon asked.

“You should – troublesome affairs,” the captain added ominously. He paused for a moment, and Eamon wondered what terrible things Okeford holks had done to merit the man's professional cynicism.

“I've already spoken with Mr Spencing,” Farlewe told him. “There are quarters below. Ensigns and cadets go in the iron hold.” Eamon looked at him in confusion. “We used to do the iron runs from Escherbruck to Dunthruik,” the captain explained. “That's where we stored it. It's the biggest quarter. It's tight, but that doesn't bother a sleeping man too much.”

“No.”

“There's a smaller quarter next to it which you and Mr Spencing can use,” Farlewe continued, “and the ship's doctor has a quarter by that. Prisoners are stowed in the narrow hold, so that's where yours is now.”

Mention of prisoners made Eamon uncomfortable. “How long will it take us to reach Dunthruik?”

“My
Lark
can do the run from Edesfield in just under four days, on a light load and a good wind,” Farlewe told him. “So, with the training stops for your cadets, I imagine we'll make the city in five. Almost a relaxing voyage,” he smiled.

Eamon grimaced. He was to spend five days as Aeryn's jailer.

“We'll be leaving just as soon as your cadets are all on board,” Farlewe added.

“I had best not detain you from your work. Thank you, Captain Farlewe.”

“Mr Goodman.”

Aeryn had been stowed in a narrow storage hold among various casks, barrels, and crates which were travelling to the city, and would be kept there for the duration of their journey. Trying to get a sense of his river legs Eamon went down to the hold to check that she had been properly bound and to finish organizing the groups of cadets who would watch her. Parts of the below deck were so low Eamon had to duck, and he found the sound of water moving against the ship's boards all around him disconcerting. The whole lower deck was dark and cold; he was glad that he would only need to sleep there.

When he reached the narrow hold he found that Aeryn sat among the ship's stores and had been clapped hand and foot in irons. Her gaze met his; he was not sure whether disgust, hatred, or ire made up the greatest part of it.

“Rest yourself,” he said, gesturing to the sacking provided for her. She remained obstinately upright.

Sighing inwardly, Eamon turned his attention to the first of the groups of cadets that were to watch her in shifts. “She is to be guarded at all times.”

A smirk crossed one of the soldier's faces. Eamon rounded on him.

“Do you have a problem, cadet?”

The cadet paled. “No, sir,” he began.

Eamon stared grimly at them. “No liberties will be taken,” he growled. “If so much as one man among you touches her without my leave, two of you will be flogged. Is that understood?”

The cadets affirmed his order. Eamon saw a strange look pass over Aeryn's face but shut it from his mind. “In all matters regarding the prisoner, you answer to me. To your posts, gentlemen.”

It was with a heavy heart that Eamon returned above deck. He heard the crew calling to each other and tacking the sails to make best use of the paltry wind. The ship's captain was up on the deck, speaking cheerfully with his boatswain.

Eamon found himself a spot at the stern and listened to the whistles and odd language of the sailors as they worked; he envied them their evident pride. Currents swirled like strange fish about the ship's frame.

Soon the mooring ropes were drawn in and Farlewe's
Lark
left the docks.

As Eamon watched Edesfield slipping away he saw a faint black figure on the dockside. Wondering if it was Lord Penrith, he shivered.

Aeryn had to be delivered to Dunthruik. He could not help her. How could she ever trust him again after what he'd done? She probably hated him – a thought that chilled him.

As the breeze picked up and filled the sails, he drove his hands into his jacket. His fingers felt the shape of the keys to his prisoner's chains in his pouch; it did nothing to improve his spirits.

Later that night he passed below deck to check on his charge. A couple of cadets were there, alert and ready. Aeryn lay curled tightly on the sacking, shivering but asleep. The guards spoke softly among themselves and Eamon watched them for a moment, wondering if any of them asked the questions that he asked. Did they think about the Master, about snakes and wayfarers? Or was it he alone, just as it seemed to be he alone who questioned swearing his service to an eagle?

One of the cadets came quietly to him.

“Trouble finding your river legs, sir?” he asked.

It was the young man whom he had met in Belaal's office earlier that day. Eamon wondered what the boy had done to be labelled an ill-performing cadet, and whether a quick trip down the River and back would really solve the problem.

Nonetheless, the boy's concern brought a small smile to his face. “Only a little, cadet,” he said. “I am well.”

“Worried about your prisoner, sir?”

“She must go to Lord Tramist,” Eamon answered, not because he actually knew who Lord Tramist was, but because he had heard Belaal say it.

The boy smiled. “She's in good hands with us, sir!”

Eamon wanted to tell the rash young fool that he could not possibly be expected to answer for a snake as dangerous as Aeryn. Instead he held his tongue and looked at her. She had begun shaking violently in the cold.