The Traitor's Heir (26 page)

Though Dunthruik was a place of terror to him, it had once been his home. As they came closer to the city he began to be able to pick out the details of the stones and timbers. Memories flashed back at him – of early morning strolls with his mother to buy bread in the crowded market streets, of the sound of Gauntlet patrols marching by. Sometimes his father had taken him to the port to watch the merchant ships, laden with grain, as they docked; sometimes they had passed near the theatre to admire it. He remembered the chill, wet squalls that blasted the city in the winter, the rains that swept down from the mountains and washed the thick-paved streets to muddy grey, and the sweltering grip of the summer sun. He remembered the well-sized house, buried in the North Quarter, where his father had plied and been lauded in his trade. It was the same house where, one dark autumn evening, his mother had died.

He had fled Dunthruik in grief and darkness. Now he returned to it, in the blinding light of day, with a double heart.

“This road takes the smoothest route across the plain to the Blind Gate.” He was drawn from his thoughts by the green-eyed Hand beside him. The man led the horse that carried Mathaiah. The cadet leaned hard against the beast's neck and bobbed up and down as they went. “It runs east through the regions of Eastport, Wakebairn, and Sablemar, and eventually on to the Algorras. Thus is it called the East Road; a fair name.”

“A logical one, my lord.”

“As far as names go, Mr Goodman, it lacks poetic adroitness,” the Hand said ruefully. “But such is its name. Of course,” he added, “it does afford one of the best views of the River's most prized jewel.” He threw his arm out towards Dunthruik. The rising sun burnished it, driving morning mist to sea.

“It does, my lord,” Eamon agreed.

They continued their approach to the Blind Gate. Eamon remembered his father had once told him that the Master had taken the city by the east gate. The gate's name recalled the ill-kept watch when the throned had breached the city's threshold.

“The Blind Gate falls under the jurisdiction of the East Quarter,” said the Hand. “When Dunthruik holds its majesties the processions start there. The Hands lead the Gauntlet in through the Blind Gate, along the Coll, and into the Royal Plaza. The Right Hand leads a service of thanksgiving to the Master for his dominion and glory; often the Master himself appears on the balcony.”

“That must be a wondrous sight, my lord.” Eamon had attended majesties in his childhood but had never stood in the Royal Plaza or been privy to a sight of the Master – he and his family had always been in the crowds lining the Coll, the city's main road.

“It is,” the Hand continued with a smile, “as you shall no doubt soon see for yourself, Mr Goodman. There's to be a majesty before the new moon.”

Eamon resisted the urge to try to catch sight of the moon, lying stone-like, frozen between the clouds, as it faded. He guessed that the new moon – and the majesty – was about a week away.

The East Road was wide and as it wound to the city its flattened earth became a broad, shining mass of different coloured stones paved together into a way of soaring eagles. Eamon walked uncomfortably, trying to avoid stepping on the birds, and looked instead at the gate ahead. The great edifice of stone, bearing crowned eagles of its own, cocooned the city's enormous doors. Eamon knew that the doors were braced and reinforced within by iron bars and that each wall tower had dozens of arrow slits facing both out towards the plain and in towards the open spaces behind the gate.

The gate's postern doors stood wide open and Gauntlet men checked those who passed in and out of them. Not every group was checked; some of those passing into the city with their carts or wagons were familiar faces that brought supplies and wares. Groups of Gauntlet and militiamen also passed, as did the occasional mounted courier – their colours granted them swift passage. Individuals passing the gate on their own business were required to have passage papers if they meant to go beyond the first stretch of the East Road. Men passing on such business waited in a small line at the gate while Gauntlet officers assiduously checked their papers and recorded their departures and re-entries.

The officers were clearly a little behind in their checking that morning as the line of those waiting was long. None would have dared to complain. Most of them appeared to be tradesmen. Some, with carts, would be going just beyond the first stretch of the road to the nearby towns. Among the tradesmen were others, presumably leaving on private errands.

As Eamon and his escort of Hands approached he saw that the officers at the line were poring over a passage paper with unconvinced looks. While the two lieutenants discussed the parchment Eamon looked back to the waiting line. An old man and his wife stood at its head, patiently waiting to pass.

With a decisive nod the lieutenants turned to the couple.

“These aren't legitimate.”

The old man looked surprised. “Of course they are,” he answered. “They were authorized by the Crown Office yesterday.” He pointed to a red seal on the paper. “Mr Rose sealed it himself.”

The officer seemed mollified by the seal but his fellow still looked doubtful. He was taking the parchment from his colleague, meaning to study it again, when he caught sight of Eamon's entourage of Hands. At once he, his fellow, and the whole line of waiting men dropped into deep bows.

“Lord Cathair.” The lieutenant primly greeted the Hand. “His glory!”

“Lieutenant,” the green-eyed Hand, Cathair, answered. The lieutenant rose smartly and the others round him gingerly followed suit. Eamon caught sight of a tremor running through the woman at the old man's arm.

“You have the look of a man perplexed, lieutenant,” Cathair spoke with mocking eloquence. “What is it that ails you?”

The lieutenant held out the papers. “My lord, this man gives his business as a journey south to visit his son. The papers are signed and sealed by the East Crown Office, but I query them, my lord.”

Cathair looked piercingly at the waiting couple and then gestured sharply. Taking his meaning the lieutenant passed the papers up to the Hand. A small smile spread over his face.

“You are right, lieutenant, that everything seems very much in order,” he said. “But a querying never goes amiss. Mr Goodman?”

Eamon stepped to the Hand's side. Cathair held the papers before him. “Your opinion, Mr Goodman?”

Eamon saw the official rigmarole authorizing travel, written in a short hand. The names of the travelling pair, Jovan and Mrs Clarence, headed the note. At the bottom was an elaborate signature, underscored with the emblem of the Crown Office. A red seal, bearing a crown, was next to it. Eamon wet his lips. The seal was smudged, as though it had been done too quickly. It was not the kind of residue he would expect from a Crown Office.

Clarence was watching him carefully.

Eamon looked up at Cathair. “I am but lately arrived, my lord,” he said at last. “I am afraid I know little how to judge such matters.”

“I will show you how to judge.” Cathair raised his gloved hand over the seal. A deep red light formed about the palm. It proceeded to search both paper and seal. The seal gave a ruddy glow, but this neither waned nor increased as the light on the Hand's palm intensified. It was a simple wax mark.

The Hand lowered the parchment and turned to the old man.

“Mr Clarence, are you aware of the process by which passage papers are ratified?” His voice was pleasant enough but Eamon already knew that such a tone from this man could not be trusted.

Jovan Clarence nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

“Then you know that ratification by Mr Rose is accompanied by ratification by a Hand serving in his office. Papers ratified in this fashion, Mr Clarence, answer, light to light, to others in the Master's service. It is a simple but effective means of validation.”

The old man had fallen silent. Men behind him in the waiting line fiddled nervously with their own documents.

“As has been clearly demonstrated, this paper has not been authorized. Gentlemen, detain Mr and Mrs Clarence for questioning.”

“No!”

With a cry Mrs Clarence broke away from her husband's arm and ran as fast as she could out of the gate and onto the East Road. The old man tried to race after her but the Gauntlet caught him and dragged him backwards.

With an indolent smile Lord Cathair raised his arm and a sphere of light, red like the one he had cast at the Hidden Hall, sprang from it towards the fleeing woman. Eamon bit his lip.

“Maddy!” The old man screeched but was powerless to help her. The scarlet orb struck the woman full in the back, sending her to the ground in a torrent of flailing limbs. At a sharp whistle from their master, Cathair's dogs charged the collapsed woman. As the red light faded the howling dogs fell upon their prey; gargled cries came from her. Eamon saw the reddened flash of tooth and claw, and looked away.

Cathair had turned coldly back to the lieutenants. “Mr Clarence will be detained and will reveal what nest of snakes supplied him with these papers.”

“Yes, my lord.” The lieutenant had to raise his voice to be heard over the insensate sobbing of the man he restrained. Ensigns were called from the gatehouse and the old man was handed over to them. Those waiting in the line lowered their eyes as he was taken away.

With another whistle Cathair called back his hounds. The beasts bounded happily to him, blood and spittle on their muzzles. Cathair urged his horse onwards.

“Get the snake off the road, gentlemen.”

“His glory, my lord.”

Lord Cathair nodded to them. Eamon passed through the Blind Gate in his wake.

The streets of Dunthruik were crowded with buildings that rose so tall in places that they kept the sun from reaching the streets below. In the early light many men were leaving home and making either for the port or for the North Gate to go on to the vineyards or the distant quarry. In places the Coll was marked with grand buildings, the reserves of the city's noblest families. These had gardens that stretched behind them and open squares that lay before. The Coll ran to the Four Quarters, the heart of the city. From the centre of the crossroads a man could see to each of the other city gates. The theatre stood nearby and, as Cathair continued up the Coll towards the west and the Sea Gate, Eamon saw the palace itself. Its roofs and arches were worked from bold stones, and banners snapped above them.

The Coll led to the palace but they did not go that far. Cathair took them off the road to the left into a well-sized square. A broad plinth, supporting a statue, was at its centre. The Hand advised him that the square was called the Brand.

At the square's far side stood a large building. The flag over it showed an arched crown. Ensigns stood on guard at the steps that led to the doors and, as they approached, Eamon saw the shapes of corridors, offices, dormitories, and courtyards stretching back beyond the doorway and entry hall.

Relief ran through him; the Gauntlet college was achingly familiar. He smiled, remembering the gruel of the early morning runs, the sweat and the confusion, hours upon hours of weapons practice and law and geography, the endless parades and rush to have the uniform spotless before them. His thought wandered back to Edesfield.

“This is the West Quarter Gauntlet College,” Cathair told him. “It is where you and Mr Spencing were to be stationed.” The mention of Spencing's name chilled him. “As the largest college in Dunthruik, the West is well equipped and impeccably run. You will serve here, under Captain Waite.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I will send for you when the Master wishes to see you,” the Hand continued, his green eyes gleaming. “Captain Waite will see that you settle in. He has a small room set aside for you.”

“That is kind of him, my lord.” The privilege of a private room was normally the reserve of first lieutenants and their betters.

Lord Cathair smiled. “I thought that you might appreciate the gesture, Mr Goodman, and arranged it with him.”

How could the Hand possibly have arranged it? They had only met the previous day.

“Forgive me, Lord Cathair, I did not mean to offend you by attributing your generosity to –”

“‘Redoubled is a small offence made in officious temperament'.” Eamon fairly gaped; the Hand was reciting poetry. “You are forgiven, Mr Goodman,” Cathair added grandly.

“You are most gracious, my lord.”

“I am afraid that I must leave you to present yourself, Mr Goodman. I will send for you.”

Cathair gestured for his fellows to carry on to the palace. With shock, Eamon realized the Hands were taking Mathaiah with them.

“My lord –”

“The Master's best physicians keep turn at the palace, Mr Goodman,” the Hand answered, offering him a consoling smile. “He will be entrusted to the best care.”

“Again, my lord, you are kind.” Eamon hoped desperately that Mathaiah would withstand whatever was held in store for him.

“Tell Captain Waite who you are, and that I sent you. We shall speak soon, Mr Goodman.”

Eamon's stomach churned as they went – Mathaiah's form, prostrate still in sleep or by Handcraft, and Cathair's hounds, blood on their jowls.

The walls of the college towering over him, Eamon recalled his task. He yearned for the Dunthruik of his boyhood, the books of his father, the comfort of his mother…

But he was no longer a child. And he had much to do.

He walked up the college steps. The two ensigns on guard did not hinder him.

The doorway led to an open hall where the Gauntlet's golden crown hung on each wall. Through the far archway and across an open courtyard Eamon saw another building on which hung a banner showing a raven. Eamon stopped; it was the same emblem that he had seen on Cathair. He remembered then that the raven was the emblem of the Hand who held that quarter of the city.