The Traitor's Heir (25 page)

“Grahaven, my lord, and thank you,” Eamon answered, bowing as much as he could while supporting the greater part of Mathaiah's weight.

“Where did you find him? We also searched the woods here about, on the off-chance that we should discover him in your stead.” The Hand spoke jovially but Eamon realized that his wit was already being tested.

“In the copses a few miles from here.”

“He was put under the poisons of which you spoke?”

“Yes –” Eamon was thrown as the Hand threw back his hood, revealing a long face. It was handsome enough and well proportioned, but there was a glassy tint to the green eyes and a pallid sheen to the middle-aged skin. His dark hair was thickly braided. The man had a golden insignia marked on his cloak showing a raven, and he alone of the other Hands bore a curved sword – the blades borne by the others were all as straight as any in the River Realm. Above all else it was the Hand's eyes that held Eamon's attention. Behind the glassy look a deep green fire moved with a flicker that went beyond the jealous execution of duty.

Eamon took all of this in at a moment. He watched as the pale face peered closely at Mathaiah, inspecting for signs of illness. The Hand touched the young man's forehead with a curious air. Eamon waited with bated breath.

Suddenly the cadet began to twist and jerk. After a few seconds he cried out, babbling incoherently before turning his face towards Eamon as though in severe distress. The young man proceeded to swat at unseen things in the air, occasionally yelping as though struck.

His pulse racing, Eamon tried to grip Mathaiah more firmly. He didn't trust himself to speak. Was Mathaiah pretending? Or had the Hand done something to the boy?

“Hmmm,” the pallid face crooned, nodding as though sage to the condition. “It would seem that your captors chose a potent blend of shadeweed. Very unpleasant.” He looked back to Eamon. “And you are quite recovered from your own treatment?”

Eamon took his courage with both hands. “I must confess, my lord, that I was not entirely frank with you yestereve.”

“Oh?” The pale face raised an eyebrow. Eamon became highly aware of the other Hands, who had formed a partial circle around him. Although their green-eyed leader had an attitude of nonchalance, he understood that there was a system of signals, unseen by him, by which the Hands took the orders of their fellow. He could be cut down at a gesture should the leading Hand desire it.

“My lord, there were snakes nearby last night.”

The pale face showed no flicker of emotion, as though it was accustomed to receiving the confessions of inept soldiers and lieutenants. Eamon resolved to persevere.

“These snakes were mere couriers, of little import. I would have revealed them to you and had you wipe them out in a second, but they held this boy. They would have killed him and he is the only one who can prove what happened when my holk was taken. I would not face rumour that would restrict my service. In that, I must be charged with arrogance as well as falsehood.” He lowered his head. “I can only beg for your clemency.”

“You were under considerable duress,” the Hand answered him, in a tone that seemed kindly and comforting, and yet not quite mocking. “These snakes will not long escape the Master, Mr Goodman, whatever the conspiracies of your arrogance.”

“I did speak truly when I said that the great mockery of our Master, the Serpent, was not there,” Eamon continued, glancing up defensively. “But while I was there they received dispatches from him. These dispatches I obtained in secrecy this morning, before engineering my escape and the liberation of this cadet.” The Hand's face broadened in a smile. “The letters contain details of what these vermin call ‘hidden halls', places of treachery sown throughout the River Realm.”

“Good,” the Hand told him. “The Master will be pleased.”

“I did have one other opportunity in my flight,” Eamon continued, a little more reluctantly. “That is to say, one of the men in the group that took us was what they called a ‘bookkeeper'.”

Even the Hand could not conceal the surprise in his voice. “Indeed!” It was plain that the Hand knew of the bookkeepers. Maybe he had searched for them himself.

“This one carried something that he was delivering to the Serpent, something I understood to be of great importance,” Eamon told his foe. “A stone.”

“A stone?” The Hand watched him with astonishment.

“Indeed, my lord. I carry it now.” With his free hand he raised the heart of the King from his travelling pouch and held it in the light.

The Hand erupted into long laughter. “For that alone, the lives and livelihoods of a hundred holks and the arrogance of ten hundred officers would have been traded!” he exclaimed. “Ah, Lieutenant Goodman, you will be rewarded well for your initiative!” He looked at the stone with gleaming eyes then gestured for Eamon to put it away.

“Will you not take it, my lord?” Eamon asked, surprised.

“No indeed!” the Hand answered. “You shall bear it and your papers to Dunthruik. They are marks of your endeavour and you will deliver them to the Master. He will be eager to meet with you.”

Eamon bowed. “Such grace, my lord –”

“Maybe not,” the Hand replied. “All the other officers vying for the Master's attention will despise you for your mark of passage.”

At his gesture the other Hands began to gather the horses and hounds together. A horse was brought to the leading Hand. Eamon watched in surprise as the pale-faced servant of the throned leaned his head close to the beast's, speaking to it affectionately – behaviour wholly at odds with a man who bore the mark of the eagle on his hand and was robed in the Master's black. Eamon wondered what the raven emblem on the man's breast signified. The answer fretted at the edge of his memory but he could not grasp it. It had been long since he had been in the city of Dunthruik.

“Your young cadet shall ride,” the Hand said. “He is in no fit state to walk the distance to the city.”

Between them, Hand and lieutenant manoeuvred the senseless cadet onto the steed. One of the other Hands mounted behind him as a safeguard. Eamon briefly searched Mathaiah's eyes, looking for assurance, but there was none. He could not tell whether Mathaiah acted or was genuinely hurt.

“Come!” the Hand's voice drew him from one worry to another. “Walk with me, lieutenant, and we shall speak further!”

They walked long into the darkening night. The Hand talked the whole way as though they were intimate friends. He discussed the frivolities of court life in Dunthruik, the details of the latest training course for the officers in the city (which sounded gruelling), and the state of security in the provinces – especially on the northern borders. Spurred by the antics of the north many other merchant states were growing restless and pushing for unreasonable terms of trade, while in the east tension grew between the throned and those who lived near the passes; Dunthruik had been fortifying the cities there. Snakes had been found even in the capital, and had proved most resilient to interrogation; rumours of a snake cull, on a scale greater even than the Great Cull of 508, were gathering strength and support. He was a little less talkative on the doings of the Hands but did hint at the additional perks the Hands enjoyed in regards to the favours of ladies. The topic pushed the bounds of modesty.

It was late that night when they stopped, probably much closer to the third watch than to the second. The Hands quickly built and lit a fire. The dogs settled down near it, their limbs akimbo in the dust. Eamon helped to lower a somnambulant Mathaiah down from the horse before the beasts were tethered. He offered to take watch but, much like a dinner host refusing assistance in clearing the table, the Hand instructed him to rest; they would see to watches.

Eamon sat by Mathaiah, shivering. Two of their escort settled to watch and the other three to sleep. Noticing his reluctance to rest, the leading Hand doffed his cloak and offered it to him. The night was, he explained, only to grow colder. Eamon could only watch the man in surprise as he then moved off, humming, to rub down the horses.

So it was that Eamon settled himself down to rest wrapped in the cloak of a Hand. There was a time when such things would have been inconceivable to him. The blood in his palm stirred and in the dark he felt the mark of the eagle on his hand. He curled his fingers shut and clung with his mind to the silver sword given to him by the King.

The Hand's singing filled his thought for a long time.

When he was certain that the Hands were engaged either in sleeping or discussing things among themselves, he turned discreetly to Mathaiah. The cadet was pale and Eamon tried to tell himself it was the pallor of fatigue. He would not have been able to speak to his companion even had the cadet possessed his right mind, but what he would have given for an exchange of intelligent glances! This too was denied him; the cadet breathed the short, shallow breaths of one who walked in dreams.

Eamon turned his face towards the fire and listened to it crack. After a while he too must have passed into realms of sleep, for he saw shadows in the flames that raised their arms and danced a slow and secret dance, summoning ancient words from a place occult for years unnumbered. As he watched he felt himself fall and become entangled in the fires.

He woke too warm. His clothes stuck to him with cooled sweat and his fingers seemed swollen to twice their size. Light shined on him, the grey herald of the coming dawn.

Slowly he examined what lay about him, hoping that he might gain some intelligence before the Hand again set upon him with talk and incisive green eyes. He watched and listened for a few moments and then sat up, alarmed.

The trees were wrong. To begin with they stood in a small copse and not a nearly rigid line. Secondly, the leaves that lay prone to the pre-dawn breeze were thin, threaded leaves, like those of olives. They had been sturdy pines the night before; he had known them from their smell. The sun rose before him where it should have been behind and the River was behind him, to the south. He had lain the night before on ground composed mostly of moss and stone but now grass and wet earth pushed against his hands outside the warm cocoon of the cloak.

He looked this way and that for an explanation but there was none to be had. The fire in the centre of the camp still burned and two Hands paced in a circle about it, masters of the dismal grey. The sight chilled him.

For what felt like hours he wrestled with the bewilderment that had filled him on waking. He watched as the other Hands slowly rose from their rest and waked both dogs and horses. With his enemies intent on their occupations Eamon tried again to reach Mathaiah. But the pale face still slept, as though it had not moved from one stiff posture for the whole night.

The lurid face of the leading Hand dropped down, beaming, before him. “Good morning, lieutenant. You slept well?”

Eamon couldn't bring himself to answer the question. He could only stare. The Hand laughed.

“Ah!” he said. “You are, of course, bemused. Let me try and explain. You are a breacher, yes? That involves the breaking of the boundaries of thought and the defences of the mind.”

Eamon nodded dumbly.

“Well,” the Hand continued jovially, “there are those who can change the rules which apply to moving long distances.” He left it at that, as though it explained everything, and moved off to set a pack on one of the horses. Eamon felt the air about him beginning to move, bringing with it a tang of the sea.

“Breakfast will be a frugal affair, consumed whilst walking,” the Hand advised. Behind him the others were gathering their things. “Wake your cadet; he will ride, of course.” The gallantry of this statement made Eamon press hard at his temples.

Waking Mathaiah was a lengthy process. Eamon shook him, hard, several times to little avail. Finally, he combined the shaking with a firm utterance of the young man's name, and two groggy eyes came half-open.

“Come on, cadet,” Eamon told him. “Time to be moving on.” He didn't dare speak other.

The Hands put Mathaiah on one of the horses. The grey hung all about them like a shroud. Warming only a little as they walked, Eamon longed for the shroud to be torn in two and for the sun to soar up victorious from the veiled horizon.

In silence the Hands led the way along the River. Suddenly the plain dropped down to swoop forward and Eamon saw a great city standing tall against the plain and the sea behind it. To his left, in the south, ran the wide expanse of the River that churned on to the sea mouth where the city sat. From his elevated vantage Eamon could see the far side of the city and the walls of a well-defended port. To the east were the distant mountains and, near the city's northern walls, hills filled with vines. Below them, between the hills and the plain, were masses of woodland and farmsteads that trickled into plain grassland as it drew near the road. The eastern edge of the plain also had a large, burning pyre.

A road led down from where Eamon stood to the city gates. On it, and through them, he could already see the ant-like forms of men and women going about their business and he wondered if he caught voices in the air. Thick walls gloved the city. They were dotted with rounded watchtowers attended by dozens of men in red uniforms. He saw the whole spread of it, saw its heart and the shape of the four quarters marked out before him by the casting shadows of the rising sun. Deep in the West Quarter he saw the gilded pinnacle of the Crown theatre and, beyond it, the grand wings of the palace itself spreading out in shadow and stone. There were sails in the port and pennants shaking in the wind, impaling the sky over every gate and tower with crowns and eagles.

The Hand smiled.

“Welcome to Dunthruik, Mr Goodman,” he said.

C
HAPTER
XI

T
he Hands led the way to the waking city. As the sun rose higher, shadows shifted and waned, his own growing longer along the road before him. Eamon felt as though the city watched him, hawked him. He wondered if he might bolt – but he also felt an inexorable pull towards something in the heart of the city's towering arches and spires.