The Traitor's Heir (29 page)

But as Eamon led the Banners from the field he felt the first lieutenant's eyes pinned to his back.

A system of water troughs was arranged in one of the college yards and it was to them that Eamon and his company went. Eamon gave the cadets free rein to clean up while he brushed the drying mud from his trousers and jacket. The stuff adhered to the fabric as though to tempest-tossed driftwood. There was mud stuck to his face and hands.

“Good work, gentlemen,” he told the cadets. The sun was rising higher; he loosened his tight collar. “You came very close to teaching those pomposities a lesson they deserve.”

“Is ‘pomposities' a word, sir?” piped up Overbrook. He had a scholarly look and had been among those lagging in the course. The cadet's query elicited snickers and groans, as though only Overbrook would ask such a question.

“It isn't a word!” Overbrook insisted, exasperated. His tenacity was met with more groans and attempts to cover him in water.

“Ignore him, sir!” called Ostler.

“A question often deserves an answer, Cadet Ostler,” Eamon replied with a small smile. “Mr Overbrook, you will find that ‘pomposities' is indeed a word. Even were it not, I would say to you that the distinguishing mark of our greatest playwrights is their brazen invention of words each time they set their tremulous quills to paper. I would in the latter case, therefore,” he continued, “be not only an officer of the Gauntlet, but also a fine playwright in the making.”

There was a moment of silence that suddenly filled with noise as the cadets jibed their bested company scholar. Overbrook stared at Eamon for a moment. Then the cadet's face broke into a grin.

“A good answer, sir,” he said, and returned to his washing.

They spent what was left of the morning engaged in the weapons drills and practices that were the quotidian affairs of Gauntlet colleges: weapons and swordplay, tactics, River Realm law and geography. Eamon turned his hand to each of them. He was sure that many of the cadets viewed him with suspicion but at least none of them was willing to challenge him openly. They might grumble behind his back (all cadets did), but they would do as they were told, which was as good a place to start as any. Even Manners seemed to be getting over the morning's ungainly introduction.

When lunchtime finally came, Eamon felt exhausted. He dismissed the cadets to their own mess to eat and made his way slowly to the main courtyard. He saw another building, fashioned from dark stones, across the way, and paused. A black banner showing the raven marked the threshold. The building had to be one of Cathair's haunts. It made sense that a Quarter Hand would have offices in his quarter's college. He peered up at the windows but was relieved to see no shapes behind them.

He obtained directions to the officers' mess from a passing servant. His uniform, still patched with dry mud about the ankles, pulled awkwardly at him.

He reached the mess doors and went inside as nonchalantly as he could. Despite his effort every eye from every table turned to him as he went up to the hatch serving food. Lunch appeared to consist of thick soup and some bread. He obtained both from the old woman serving and made his way to one of the tables that was still empty. Sitting down was more pleasurable than it had been for a long time, and as he began to eat – and it became clear that he meant to do nothing more – the curious gazes fell from him.

He didn't stay sitting alone for long. A group of officers approached him, jibing among themselves. One of them was the first lieutenant.

Eamon made an effort to look more involved with his food in the hope that they would leave him alone, but his effort was in vain. The party came to an expectant halt before him; he was obliged to give the odious first lieutenant some mark of respect.

Silently, he rose and saluted.

“Sir,” he said, formally. His eyes met the first lieutenant's own. The man looked him up and down, his gaze lingering with withering criticism on the mud stains.

“Might we join you, Lieutenant Goodman?”

Eamon didn't see that he could refuse and so, like a welcoming host, gestured to the table.

“Of course.”

The officers sat and Eamon regained his seat. Quietly he looked askance at each of them. Two other lieutenants accompanied the first lieutenant. One of these was tall and lank, pale-skinned and dark-haired, while the other seemed of a slightly more than average build and had an ostensibly friendly face.

“I don't believe we've been introduced?” Eamon began. The friendly looking lieutenant smiled.

“I'm Lieutenant Best,” he volunteered. “I command the First Crimsons.” He gestured to the lanky man beside him. “This is Lieutenant Fields. He has the Second Arrows. You've already met First Lieutenant Alben.”

“Yes, we had an altercation this morning,” Alben said with a smile.

Cordially, Eamon shook hands with each of them over the table. “A pleasure, gentlemen,” he said, turning his attention firmly back to his food. His new companions failed to take the hint.

Alben took up his mug. “You must tell them, Eamon – may I call you Eamon?” Eamon nodded reluctantly. “How kind – how badly yours did against the Third Ravens today. Well and truly slaughtered.” He took a delicate sip of his drink. Eamon supposed that he was probably born of a reasonably well-off family, and liked to show it. “Then again,” Alben added, “cadets are young things. They can hardly be held responsible for being set under poor leadership.”

“I'm sure Captain Waite wouldn't –” Best began and then, seeing the look on the first lieutenant's face, he reddened and muttered: “Of course, poor leadership, very poor.”

Eamon grimaced, trying not to rise to the bait.

Alben ate a while, and then leaned across the table to him again. “Mr Goodman, they say that you were captured by wayfarers and that you surrendered your sword. Is that so?”

Eamon was stunned. How could that be known already?

Taking his silence as confirmation, the first lieutenant tutted his tongue between impeccable teeth. “Surrendered his sword!” Alben raised his voice such that most of the mess could hear. “Would you believe that, gentlemen? To snakes! Foolishness, trite foolishness, and quite unforgivable. A Gauntlet officer should have died rather.” He turned to Eamon again. “I hear you came up from Edesfield, one of Captain Belaal's boys?” Alben smiled with empty comfort. “Well, that's nothing to be ashamed of, even if you were given a commission when he was drunk. Or maybe you were given it in return for something else?”

“Backwater folk,” Fields added, laughing with force at odds with his slim frame. Best looked momentarily tempted to contradict this searing generalization, but instead chuckled uncomfortably.

Eamon fought still harder to keep back the retorts and impulse to strike Alben. Why was he being so purposefully baited, and how did the first lieutenant already know about the holk? He was sure that Cathair would not have made it public information.

The laughter continued.

“Have you nothing to say, Mr Goodman?” Alben persisted. “Or have we hit so close to the mark that you are robbed of speech?”

Eamon finished a piece of bread and looked the first lieutenant straight in the eye.

“I am sure that the Third Banners will give your company a good lesson tomorrow, Mr Alben,” he said. “Should they not, I would be more than happy to answer your curiosity as to my commission at a time and place of your convenience.” The words had slipped out before he could stop them.

The laughter stopped abruptly. There was no hiding what Eamon had proposed.

“I hope you're not suggesting a duel, Mr Goodman,” Alben said. Officers were not forbidden to duel – indeed, sometimes it was the only way to reconcile differences between conflicting men – but the Gauntlet did not endorse it. Duelling could lead to black marks on personal reports.

Inwardly cursing his lack of restraint, Eamon offered the man a smile of his own. “Quite the contrary,” he answered civilly. “I am merely suggesting that you might like me to assist you in making a thorough, practical inspection of your sword; it seemed to me today that it had rusted to your scabbard.”

For a moment Alben looked as though he might retaliate. But then he laughed.

“I should be only too glad to, Mr Goodman,” he said. “I am sure there will be time for us to settle the matter. Shall we say tomorrow evening?” Eamon nodded silently.

With another laugh, Alben rose and strode away. Fields immediately followed him. Best rose more slowly. He leaned across the table, his large face genuinely perplexed.

“You need to be careful, Mr Goodman,” he said. “The Third Banners needed a new lieutenant because Mr Basildon…” The lieutenant fumbled for words and his face grew red. “He was incapacitated in an accident,” he finished, as tactfully as he could. “A great loss.”

“Thank you, Mr Best,” Eamon answered.

With a half smile and a mournful shake of his head, Best left the table.

Eamon breathed deeply, as though the air had cleared at the lieutenants' departure. But as he thought about what had happened he felt his uniform tight and sticky about him.

Already sworn to a duel? He was a fool. If he carried on at this rate the only reputation he would garner would be that of never having lived long enough to learn anything for Hughan.

Sighing, he stood, dry mud falling from his trousers and boots. He left his plate unfinished. None of the other officers watched him as he went. They were, he mused, probably well accustomed to the first lieutenant picking on new arrivals, and had probably all been subjected to it themselves. They had seen what interested them.

He ducked out of the mess hall. The courtyard was now in the full light of the midday sun and it was hot, especially for September. It was a day for swimming, not soldiering. But he had the Handbook to attend and then duty at the palace. Somehow, he needed to find a way to reach Mathaiah. The thought of the cadet remaining in Cathair's charge was not a comforting one.

Eamon reminded himself that Mathaiah Grahaven was a resourceful young man, and that Hughan had faith in him.

Hughan. The name brought him up short.

Rubbing at his palm, Eamon stepped out across the courtyard. He saw Best and Fields moving towards the Long Room where most officer classes were held. Doubtless they were also going to the Handbook; the thought of spending the whole afternoon in their company did not improve Eamon's mood.

His boots crunched the gravel as he walked sullenly after them. Suddenly he heard a woman's laugh.

Alben stood in the shadow of one of the arches of the entrance hall. Beside him was a woman, nobly dressed. The airy laugh was hers.

Eamon looked away. Alben's private affairs were no concern of his, however public they were.

The afternoon passed slowly and Eamon, stuck behind a desk like a schoolboy, followed Waite's Handbook in distraction. The Hand who led the class was one of the West Quarter's own and spoke clearly and convincingly on duties, capacities, and passage papers in particular. But Alben had taken the desk behind and Eamon's skin crawled throughout the afternoon with the sense of being watched and ridiculed. The scent of the woman's perfume – floral, intoxicating – clung to the first lieutenant's clothes and seemed unbearably impudent to him.

When the afternoon drew to a close and the Hand had left, Eamon rose stiffly from his chair. Captain Waite ambled over, shuffling papers under his arm.

“Mr Goodman,” he said, jovially. “How have you enjoyed today so far?”

“Well, sir.” It was almost true.

“Good man!” the captain smiled. Eamon suspected that his name would be a source of endless amusement for his captain. He resigned himself to it. “I'm going over to the palace to interview this young cadet of yours. Lord Cathair likes to keep me informed as to such matters, which is very helpful of him, don't you find?”

“Indeed, sir.”

“As you're to be on duty there, you'll come up with me – your cadets will follow later. I'm told that your Mr Grahaven is a bit… confused; Lord Cathair mentioned shadeweed – nasty, effective stuff. They do say that a familiar face can help to break the after-effects.”

“Sir,” Eamon saluted.

“Best find yourself another pair of trousers first, lieutenant!” Waite laughed, gesturing to the mud. “I'll meet you in the hall. The seamstress will be able to find you something.”

The seamstress did find him another pair of trousers, though they were too tight, and when Eamon reached the hall he felt terribly self-conscious. The captain didn't comment on it. Speaking amicably, Waite led the way from the college out into the Brand.

Central Dunthruik in the early evening showed that nighttime was to be a glamorous affair. Carriages, ornately fashioned and exquisitely decorated, were drawn through the streets by pure-bred horses that tossed proud heads. Soldiers were changing posts and Gauntlet red was everywhere, interspersed at intervals with the black of the Hands. Eamon had never seen so many of either. Captain Waite explained that the Hands often attended meetings at the palace. The frequency of such meetings was increasing as the situation with the east worsened.

“Those snakes are starting to be a bit of a nuisance, too,” he commented wryly. “Springing up everywhere. Just last week we found one working in the quarter offices. Hands took him in there –” Waite gestured vaguely to a narrow side street; it led along the huge walls of the palace and to a darkly stoned door. “The Hands' Hall. They got some good information from him – had a breacher, like you. Wrecked the man's mind, though. Pity, really, as he deserved to feel every part of his execution. Doubt he felt a thing, he was so shot when they finished.”

Eamon swallowed in a dry throat.

The Coll led to the palace gates; these were broad enough for ten men to walk abreast and unbelievably tall. A crowned golden eagle stood at their top, devouring a serpent. As he walked through them Eamon saw Gauntlet stationed everywhere, including above him where an opening in the walls' walkway allowed men to overlook who came and went. Each man stood sharply to attention as Waite passed; Eamon guessed that a good proportion of the palace detail came from the West Quarter College.