The Traitor's Heir (39 page)

He stood stock still, struck dumb. How could that emblem be staring back at him from the wall of a draper's shop, in the crumbling heart of Dunthruik? It could not be real! And yet even if it was a false, mocking costume, something about it called to him. The flames at his throat grew uncomfortable as he stared, enthralled, at the sword and star.

He became aware of Mathaiah beside him. The garments' significance was not lost on his ward. Eamon's hand loitered on the embroidery, tracing the faded colours in amazement.

Did he dare?

A smile grew on his face. “You were right, Mathaiah; there is something here.”

“Sir, do you think it wise to –?”

“Why don't you try it on, Mr Goodman?” The old man stood in the doorway now. His eyes were keen, his words more so. “Try it on. See if it fits you.”

There was a small room rather like a cupboard at the back of the shop. Eamon slipped between the shadows, taking the uniform with him. While Mathaiah and the old man exchanged obligatory pleasantries Eamon stripped off the hot weight of his uniform and exchanged it for the old garments. Though a little thinned in places the trousers were well made; their silver seam shimmered in the lamplight. The shirt sat easily on his shoulders and the cloak, as it fell about him, enfolded him comfortingly. He felt the embroidery over his heart and was encouraged by it.

Grinning, he emerged into the shop-light. Silver facings ran dimly about the cloak hem, sparking like stars.

The old man and the cadet stared at him.

“I think it fits.”

The shopkeeper nodded. “There's just one more thing.” He hobbled forward and tugged with a veined hand at the chain showing at Eamon's neck. The heart of the King spilled forward to shimmer in the light. “Now it fits,” he whispered, his old eyes rimming with tears.

“Sir,” Mathaiah breathed worriedly, “you can't –”

But Eamon did.

That night Eamon left his quarters and strode boldly through the corridors. He met Waite in the hall, where he was receiving the captain of another quarter.

“Yes,” Waite was saying, “he has a great future in him; Lord Cathair was telling me…” One look at the first lieutenant he was trumpeting silenced him.

Eamon saluted primly.

“What are you doing, Mr Goodman?” Waite's voice quivered between mirth and outrage.

“Attending the masque at the palace, sir.”

“You brazen hussy,” Waite clipped.

“Thank you, sir.”

Waite could only laugh. “Carry on, Mr Goodman.”

Saluting again, Eamon left. Wherever he passed, soldiers stopped and stared. They knew that the uniform he wore was embellished with the Serpent's symbols; he knew that gaping faces followed him. He didn't care. The emblems shone brilliantly in the light.

Deep down, Eamon didn't know if he was being brave or reckless: he purposed to go to a ball given by the Right Hand, as escort to a noblewoman high in the throned's favour, proudly boasting the colours of the enemy. It was dangerous and stupid, inviting all the wrong kinds of attention, and he knew it. But the uniform of a King's man was a glorious contradiction in a city of gold and red – and it was the uniform he ought to wear. Something about it was balm to his troubled soul. What harm could befall him when he served the King?

Such thoughts had led him to decline Alessia's offer of a coach and Mathaiah's of an escort. Being in bold mood, he walked openly to the palace. It would certainly get him talked about but he intended to pass the uniform off as an arrogant joke.

He marched merrily. Hanging street lanterns swung in the wind. The road was alive with carriages, and men and women had lined it to watch the procession of the masque's attendees. The air was filled with perfumes and music.

Eamon skipped among the milling crowds. He knew that they stared at him, aghast and open mouthed; he left shocked gasps everywhere he went. It exhilarated him. If only they knew how truly he showed himself that night!

A gust of wind brought the whisper of distant thunder. Eamon did not care – it would not rain that night.

He reached the palace gates. The ensigns on guard might well have arrested him on the spot were it not for a nearby voice crying with delight: “Mr Goodman! Is that you?”

Eamon turned. Alessia was waiting for him near the gate; she clapped her hands to see him. As the guest of such a highly born lady, the guards were obliged to let him pass.

Dozens of carriages had begun to arrive, each bearing jewelled cargoes. Alessia drew him to a secluded part of the plaza.

“Let me look at you.” Taking his hands in hers, she lifted them so that he stood like a mannequin while she examined every detail of his costume. A mischievous glint appeared in her eye.

“I see you don't like to fail a challenge.”

“You said that I needed to match you, my lady,” Eamon answered. Though whatever he had worn it would have been impossible to do so. Alessia had bound her curled tresses about her head so that they cascaded down her back. A tiara of glistening gold nestled in her hair and a stream of gold lay all about her throat. She wore a dress of dark, dark red and about her shoulders hung a golden cloak with red designs woven into it. Every fold of the garment was designed to suggest the curved body underneath. Eamon felt a rush of pride.

“My turn, Mr Goodman.” She pirouetted slowly before him. Her perfumed hair passed by his face. He drank in the smell. “Does it please you, Mr Goodman?”

“You look wonderful,” he enthused before adding a demure “my lady.”

Her beautiful smile played over her lips. “I trust that I shall not look amiss on your arm this evening?”

Eamon shook his head speechlessly: surely she knew he would be the envy of every man at the masque?

Alessia seemed to read his thought and laughed gently.

“You are the talk of the whole palace, sir. And tonight, First Lieutenant Goodman,” she said, slipping her arm into his, “I am wholly yours.”

Remembering nothing of what he wore, where he was, or even who he was, he led Lady Alessia across the Royal Plaza, under the Master's balcony, and into the palace.

C
HAPTER
XVI

T
he steps into the palace hall were lined with lights and banners, displayed like hunting trophies, bearing the emblems of the attending nobles. Eamon tried to concentrate while Alessia showed him her family's crest, an eagle in full flight grappling a shield in its talons; the shield bore a crown like the Gauntlet's emblem. He thought that he heard her telling him that the family had earned the crest for killing a prominent enemy of the Master's many generations ago, but the notion washed meaninglessly over him. All he was conscious of was the way in which the whole world was in her eyes.

They went from the hallway into corridors leading through the East Wing. Each passage revealed a greater one and glistened with unimaginable grandeur; dozens of tapestries covered the walls. They alternated between great crimson folds, embellished with an upright crowned eagle in golden thread – the emblem of the city of Dunthruik – and black lengths embellished with the birds of the city's quarters: raven, owl, falcon, and harrier.

The corridors turned at last and met their end in grand, open doors. As they approached, Eamon's ears were filled with delightful refrains of music. He could also hear the distant murmur of voices, sometimes punctuated with laughter. Alessia told him that the doors led into the throne room itself, which was used on such occasions to host the Master's dearest.

A sudden chill pierced Eamon's heart. “Will he be there?”

Alessia laughed. “Your enthusiasm does you great credit, Mr Goodman, but I am afraid that you are to be disappointed. The Master won't be here tonight; only the Right Hand. That is honour enough for us.”

Eamon smiled. “Your company is all the honour I need,” he told her, delighting in the gentle laugh and demurely lowered eyes that answered him.

As they came to the doors he saw that the panels bore the angled script he had seen in the Nightholt. Intoxicated by the lady at his arm, his eyes passed blithely, blindly, over the writing. He gave it no further thought.

A raised platform stood just beyond the doors, leading down to an enormous hall filled with lords and ladies in all their finery. Some had come as famous heroes, some as musicians and playwrights; a quill here, a lute there. Some had come as animals: there were ladies with great nests of hair arrayed to impress height beyond their stature, and one knight had an ebony tail attached to the back of his coat. Apart from the flippant knight, all those robed in black were Hands. The ladies wore dresses that billowed outwards when they danced. Small trains of serving girls, trying vainly to keep their mistresses in order, followed the ladies. There were masks, masks – everywhere masks. Large and small, ornately worked in precious metals or in wood. Among all the artistry barely a face could be seen.

So Eamon saw the lords and ladies laughing and dancing in the great hall of Dunthruik. He wondered briefly if below them, in the kitchens, cooks and slaves sweated and toiled, and farther down still whether prisoners cried and travailed. But in the throne room music formed the most regular noise, and the lords and ladies ignored the beautiful melody. Nothing mattered but the glittering dresses and the swirling masks.

Just inside the door were a small band of servants, two trumpeters, and Lord Cathair. The trumpeters played fanfares to announce those who arrived, while another servant marked names on a list and Cathair absently surveyed their work. As he and Alessia entered, the Hand's sharp green eyes flashed with surprise.

“Mr Goodman,” Cathair began. Eamon braced himself for a barrage of criticism. For a moment he held his breath: what if Cathair failed to take it as a prank?

Cathair suddenly laughed and laid an amiable hand on Eamon's shoulder. “My dear Mr Goodman!” Cathair chuckled. “This is a masque, yet you have come unmasked!”

Mind racing, Eamon froze. Cathair knew! Catching movement in the corner of his eye, Eamon prepared to defend himself. They would not take him easily.

He whirled towards what he had seen – only to find that the gesture that had arrested him was Alessia raising a small mask to her own face. Suddenly he understood. Terrified then that his reaction marked him as a guilty man, he bowed low to the Hand, placing his own hand over the emblems at his breast.

“I have no answer to that, my lord.”

Cathair smiled. “No harm done, Mr Goodman; no harm done.”

He was saved by the startling blast of a trumpet.

“Lady Alessia Turnholt and escort,” the announcer cried, “First Lieutenant Eamon Goodman of the West Quarter.”

When Alessia's name was called nobody really acknowledged it; Lady Turnholt was well known in Dunthruik and would be, Eamon supposed, long after his own name had passed into the dim shades of obscurity. But at the announcement of the long-expected Goodman, hundreds of eyes turned to look at him. This was the man whose name was the talk of the whole court, the man who had escaped snakes to reach Dunthruik and become a first lieutenant in mere days, the man who had become the companion of Alessia in less time than it had taken him to become a first lieutenant. It was the man rumoured to be the greatest breacher the city had ever seen and the man who, if the darkest whispers were to be believed, would one day become Right Hand himself. Such a man was worth looking at, and so they looked.

Eamon felt what seemed a thousand eyes fall upon him. A startled silence covered the whole hall like a pall. Hundreds of masks dropped, and hundreds of aghast faces were revealed. The lords and ladies of Dunthruik had seen him, and seen what he wore. Eamon's heart – so sturdy in the streets of Dunthruik and so untroubled while he had walked with Alessia – faltered.

Only the music continued undisturbed.

Eamon felt a tug on his arm. Alessia was leading him to the top of the stairs that led down into the long hall. The eyes held him prisoner, following his every move; they would not let him go.

Those standing near the bottom of the steps backed away as he alighted on the first stair. His heart beat fast and he, who had loved being watched all that day, now longed for the eyes to cease. What could they see? He did not know. There was no mask in the world great enough to cover him. He would have to cover himself.

At the top of the stairs was a page bearing a tray of goblets – welcoming beverages for the guests. He did not seem to note Eamon's outrageous costume as he offered him a drink. The wine was a deep gold, cool and bubbling.

With a slick movement, Eamon caught a drink. As he raised the goblet high, the chandelier light struck it, lighting his palm with gold.

“My lords and ladies,” he called, “a toast! To the Master's glory, and to exquisite company!”

Holding the wine high a second longer he downed the glass and then, with an unforeseen flourish, he took Alessia's hand and raised it to his lips. Alessia coloured and smiled; Eamon's heart flared hot.

To his relief, the company echoed his toast back to him and then, seeing the kiss, laughed and returned to their doings. The dancing recommenced.

Alessia leaned towards him and spoke softly into his ear. “It would seem, Mr Goodman, that you are a fearless man.”

“What is there to fear when I serve the Master?” Eamon asked her, aware of Cathair watching him with a strange glint in his eye. It was an unsettling look – like that of a creature who watched its prey, lauding its efforts to escape. What if Cathair…?

Alessia's voice drove his fear away. “Come with me, Mr Goodman,” she said, descending into the hall. Eamon followed her.

The hall was magnificent – a great stone mosaic forged of red, gold, and white gems. Descending towards it was like stepping down into a lake of frozen fire and the lords and ladies were as spirits, summoned forth and dancing on the flames. Fifteen sumptuous paintings ran around the balcony openings, each depicting an impressive scene figured in bold, uncompromising detail.