The Traitor's Heir (14 page)

Where the bar and the cat had been the previous day the captain ordered the setting up of a series of misfit tables. The holk was not really a place for a sit-down banquet but they would do their best.

Anchorage found, the tables were set and the smell of cooking wafted in the rigging. Eamon's stomach rumbled appreciatively.

Eamon had been asked not to help with the meal's preparations and the captain asked whether he would join him at his table when the meal began. Eamon accepted, partially to spite Spencing. He was very much looking forward to not sharing a room with the arrogant prig when they arrived at their harbour the next day. A cautionary voice reminded him that in all likelihood they would be stationed together in Dunthruik, possibly in the same group, but he tried not to think of that. If he performed well, after all, he could be transferred elsewhere, and there would be others to whom he could report the scheming man.

As the preparations continued Eamon discreetly inquired of the captain whether a portion of the doctor's culinary masterpiece might be taken to the prisoner. The captain's nod spoke enough. Eamon hoped that Aeryn would be able to eat at least some of it.

As he stood surveying the logistical nightmare that half a dozen teenage cadets were able to make of setting up some simple tables, he felt Mathaiah Grahaven watching him. When he looked up to meet the by now familiar gaze he found it lowered in shame.

Stretching his sore shoulders with a wince, Eamon walked across to the young man. The cadet shuffled uncomfortably.

“Is everything all right, Mr Grahaven?” Eamon asked, and found that he spoke to the boy as a friend. He smiled sadly, knowing that their paths would part the next day.

“No sir… I mean, yes, sir.” The boy faltered. “You shouldn't have done it, sir!” he burst out angrily.

Eamon laughed. “It was my duty,” he answered. “And even a Gauntlet cadet is deserving of kindness,” he added.

Grahaven looked aghast. Then, recognizing the irony and seeing the smile on Eamon's face, he laughed. Soon both of them were laughing so hard that it hurt the lashes on Eamon's back.

When at last they managed to contain themselves, the cadet gestured to the hazy silhouette that showed on the most distant horizon.

“Is that Dunthruik, sir?”

Eamon looked at the shadowed shape. It was not growing any closer now because the holk had harboured in a sheltered northern bend of the River. The main sway ran past them, swelling and churning around the deep rocks in its bed. Eamon realized that he preferred the water to the impending city.

“That's Dunthruik.”

“I wish I was going there, not back to Edesfield,” Grahaven sighed, and drummed his fingers on the side. “Maybe in a few years I will. How long did you train, sir, to get this posting?”

Eamon didn't answer. His heart was suddenly heavier, perhaps heavier still because he had found how precious the boy's kindness was. He saw how it would be in but a few months: Mathaiah Grahaven would kneel before Belaal, put his hand to the awful sceptre, writhe with pain that only he could feel, and then languish in the uncertainty of what had happened to him.

The pain in Eamon's hand grew acute and he felt a battle of wills in his own head. He saw the brave and noble officer that the cadet would become: head and shoulders above all other men, feared and obeyed, Hand to the Master himself, stalking the halls of the palace and leaving swathes of wretched obeisance in his wake.

His vision clearing, Eamon turned back to Cadet Grahaven. He looked at the kind face, already imbued with nobility. But it was not the nobility that Dunthruik desired. Grahaven was kind and true – like Telo.

Telo had believed in kings.

His hands began to shake. Whatever Aeryn had told him, he did not and could not believe in kings… could he?

The cadet watched him expectantly. The boy had noticed the way that he held his palm; Eamon had clasped it to dull the pain. He yearned to speak of it.

“Are you well, sir?”

Eamon looked about him. The other ensigns, and Spencing, were far away. Most were distracted by the hilarity dogging every step of the table setting, or busy preparing the holk for the night. His betrayal would not be seen.

It is treachery against your oath. It will be seen.

He shuddered. It was reckless. It was treachery. The Master's revenge would be terrible. But Grahaven had to be warned.

So slowly that he wondered if he moved at all, he held his palm out towards the cadet. He did not even know whether the boy would be able to see what he saw, what he
knew
to be there, but he had to try.

“Do you see my palm, cadet?” he asked. Grahaven frowned, seeking guidance as to the relevance of the question, then looked carefully down at Eamon's hand.

“Yes?” he offered.

“What do you see?”

The cadet searched for a horridly long moment, and Eamon suddenly worried that he would be seen. He was leading a cadet astray and if Spencing saw… Every noise became a threat to him and he struggled to remain calm.

What seemed like years later, Grahaven looked up. “There's a mark. Did the cat miss?”

Eamon guiltily snatched his hand away, as anxious now to hide it as he had been to show it. Thinking his guess correct, the cadet spoke again.

“I am sorry, sir, and a good hand, too. I should never have let you –”

“This is the mark of the throned, cadet,” Eamon whispered. Dunthruik loomed in his sight as though to stop his very voice. He swallowed. “This is what they give you, when you swear.”

A disconcerted look passed over the boy's face. Steeling his nerves, Eamon spoke again. “This mark is a violation, Mr Grahaven. You will be commanded to do things in the name of the Master – and you will do them, because you bear this mark…” Seeing the boy's clouded face, Eamon faltered. “It is infinitely noble of you to want to honour your brother by following him in his service. I do not and will not ask you to promise anything to me, cadet, because that would be to set myself on a throne before you, just as he seeks to do.” Eamon wondered where his words sprung from. “But please… consider not swearing. Drop out of the college when they take you back.” Eamon's voice grew urgent. “Do anything but don't… Don't swear.”

Grahaven gaped silently. It looked as though the walls of his world were crashing about his ears and the noise was too much for him to bear.

“That's… that's snake talk…”

Eamon was startled. Snake talk? He supposed it was. “Just… please, just think about it.”

Weakly and with odd politeness, Grahaven smiled. “I should go and help the others,” he said. He turned, returned as he remembered to salute, and then hurried away.

Eamon nervously chewed the inside of his cheek. He didn't know if his words would have any effect but at least he had spoken. He gave one last look at the brooding city then made his way below deck. He felt weak and tired. He decided to take advantage of the preparations, and rest.

It seemed only moments later that disjointed noises shuffled in and out of his sleep: howling, spectral cries, manic footfalls, the clash of steel. He could hear Spencing roaring with a voice like thunder. Was he dreaming?

His eyes snapped open, but rather than disappearing the sounds from his dream grew louder, more real. Stiff from lying down, Eamon lowered himself from his hammock and hurriedly strapped scabbard and sword to his belt. His shoulders were in agony but he choked back the pain and slipped into the passageway.

In the hatchway above him pink and gold laced the clouded twilight; the ship's lanterns were already lit and the smell of cooking had grown even stronger. In the shifting light he saw shouting shadows moving quickly to and fro on the deck above him. The sounds of the struggle were getting louder and more frenzied.

He edged his way up the stairwell and peered up. Then he froze in horror. Many of the ensigns and cadets were being bound and herded into a corner where they were made to kneel. The sailors were in the opposite corner of the broad deck sitting sullenly. The captain brooded at their head with all the defensiveness of a mother hen. Their silence implied that it was not the first time in their careers they had been boarded.

Creeping up a couple more steps Eamon saw bodies strewn across the bloody decks. Ilwaine was one of them; the ensign's eyes stared vacantly out of his face. Spencing and a couple of others were fighting still, swords flashing in furious flurries, but they were swiftly being overcome. Their opponents were masked men, dressed in dark greens and browns. The boarders were about twenty-five in number, almost as many men as there had been on the holk, but evidently skilled in their trade and favoured in their enterprise. Eamon suspected that the holk had been taken just as supper was beginning; spilled gravy lay mixed with blood. Ensign Hill slipped in a puddle of it, fell, and was impaled by his attacker as he went down.

Eamon stared, incapacitated by anger and fear. He could not challenge two dozen men on his own, but what other choice did he have?

Drawing his sword he leapt up the steps onto the deck with a loud cry. His first opponent fell.

“Sir!” called a voice. Though wounded in his left arm, Mathaiah Grahaven was one of the cadets still free and fiercely fighting. Eamon took his bearings; then he clearly saw the face of the man he had killed. The mask had been dragged askance. It was a harsh face, though not unkind. Its lines and shapes reminded him of Telo.

Enraged, Eamon yelled across the deck: “Stay this madness! There is no need for killing here!”

As if by some miracle, everyone stopped. One of the boarders, a giant, muscular man, gestured to his fellows. The men quickly secured those still standing free, all except Eamon. With bloodied sword in hand and chest heaving, Eamon tried to assess the situation. Spencing shot him a look that might have skewered a charging beast but the lieutenant was manhandled aside before he could do more; he was beaten to his knees.

There was no protocol that could have prepared Eamon for that moment, staring over the bloody deck at men who could kill him at a breath. They were overcome, out-manned, and all of them in danger of their lives.

Eamon stepped boldly towards the one he assumed to be the leading man – only boldness could hide the way he trembled. He cleaned his blade on the side of his jacket and offered the pommel to the stranger.

“In return for the lives of every man on this vessel,” he said steadily, “accept my surrender.”

A broad smile formed underneath the giant's mask. The stranger snatched Eamon's sword away. Two men stepped up to Eamon's sides and pinioned his arms. He grimaced as pain arched up and down his back like lightning.

“Who, pray, are you?” the stranger asked. His voice was rounded with an odd accent, and he pronounced his vowels with an according and peculiar accuracy. Eamon decided he was from the northern provinces or maybe from Galithia, a merchant state just over the border.

Taking a breath, he tried to pronounce his name in a dignified fashion. “Lieutenant Eamon Goodman.”

“Lieutenant Goodman.” The stranger repeated the name thoughtfully. “Lieutenant Goodman. Tell me, Lieutenant Goodman – where is your cargo?”

Eamon wondered if the men were pirates. He had heard that some still operated on the River, but for the most part the Gauntlet had driven such ruffians to remote coasts and headlands.

“We have no cargo but ourselves,” Eamon answered, truthfully enough. “We are bound for Dunthruik.”

“Where is your prisoner, Lieutenant Goodman?” the stranger demanded, his tone vengeful. Eamon glanced discreetly at the others. Grahaven, restrained a few feet away, looked grim but determined. Eamon tried to draw assurance from that look. What should he do? While on active service at the borders his orders had somehow always kept him from the worst parts of skirmishes and battle. He had, more often than not, acted as a courier, and his experience in real fights had never involved surrender. Now, he wished they had.

“Will you guarantee me the life of every man on this ship?” He tried to remain confident but the stranger's answering roar of laughter shattered any pretence he might have maintained.

“It seems to me that you have nothing to bargain with!” The man fixed Eamon with a steely glare. “Search below deck,” he said. Several of his followers immediately moved away. Eamon tried to contain his nerves for the eternity it took the men to return. The masked face watched him the whole time, enjoying his discomfort.

Suddenly the men were back, with Aeryn walking freely between them. The keys for some of her bindings had been kept below deck but her hands were still in heavy manacles. She took in the situation at a glance.

“Giles,” she breathed. Eamon saw that she addressed the burly stranger in front of him. Wisely, he held his tongue. “Giles,” Aeryn continued, “what are you –?”

“The key, if you please, lieutenant,” Giles intoned, holding out his hand and addressing Eamon as though he were a child.

“I shall need the use of my arms for that, sir,” Eamon replied hotly. That Aeryn knew the man deeply angered him.

The men at his sides gave him a little leeway to move; he wrenched his arms free. Withdrawing the keys for Aeryn's cuffs he tossed them to the strange man. Giles passed them straight to somebody else who released her. She rubbed at her wrists, sore and chafed from her confinement.

“You keep poor hospitality on board your ship, Lieutenant Goodman,” Giles said with a solemn shake of his head.

“It is all a snake deserves!” Spencing spat. The lieutenant fell silent as a boarder dealt him a crushing blow to the stomach.

“Giles, stop it!” Aeryn cried. But the big man ignored her. He turned back to Eamon with a terrifying glint to his eye. Before such a look Eamon found it hard to hold his ground.

“I am afraid that we have outstayed our welcome, lieutenant,” Giles said. “Your young lady will be coming with us.”