The Traitor's Heir (50 page)

“Will you be there, sir?”

“Yes,” Waite answered slowly. He paused for a moment. “Is everything all right, Mr Goodman? You seem agitated.”

Eamon's head was swimming. He hated himself for what he had done to Giles, hated himself for taking Overbrook to his death, and was terrified about what Hughan must think of his First Knight now. And Aeryn! What would she think of him when Giles's body was brought back to the camp?

He suddenly longed to spill out his guilt to Waite, to purge himself of its weight. But for that release he would have to give himself up, reveal his long treachery, and lose the captain's trust just as he had lost Hughan's…

Why shouldn't he? If he confessed himself to Waite now, fully and utterly, his impeccable record with the Gauntlet might save him. He could be forgiven and welcomed with open arms by the Master, before being drawn into the fold that had always longed to hold him. He could prove himself against the wayfarers; they could never trust him now. Let them laugh at him! They would not laugh when he was the Right Hand and he exacted a cruel vengeance from them for their mockery.

His thoughts shook him. When he looked up he saw that Waite watched him still.

“Mr Goodman?”

Eamon struggled. “Overbrook was a good man, sir. I feel… responsible.”

Waite smiled sympathetically. “I know. Unfortunately it is the burden of command that we bear. The loss of any man is deeply felt, especially when he is your own. But you must remember that he is one man, and there are many that you lead. You must be strong for them. To your business, Mr Goodman.”

Eamon took the letter, saluted, and left the room.

He listened to his footsteps echo in the corridors. Soldiers and officers were moving towards their messes for lunch. Eamon caught sight of Mathaiah and Manners speaking together. As he passed by they glanced at him. Manners offered him a smile, but Eamon could not match Mathaiah's gaze. It bored into the dark parts of his soul.

He hurried from the hall.

The clerks told him that Overbrook's father lived alone near the South Quarter, attended by a few servants. He was an old man. Eamon did not know if he had any other children or whether his son's death would at a single blow rob him of the prop of his age and house.

Eamon felt the letter in his hand but his thoughts could not hold there long. Giles – always to Giles they turned. How could he live out his life bearing it? And what choice would he have but to tell all that he had learned to Lord Cathair? What redemption could there be for him now? He called down curses on himself as he walked the Coll.

Your redemption, son of Eben, lies in my service.
The voice was strong in his mind, a firm counsellor.
In that service you will redeem your blood from its ancient treachery.

Eben had betrayed the throned. Eamon shook angrily. Had Eben not done so, Hughan would never have lived and Eamon would never have found himself in this situation. That treachery trapped him. He reviled Eben Goodman.

What kind of man had Eben been? Incapable of staying either course, he had been traitor once to Ede and then to the Master. Had Eben known the oppression, the weight and conflict that beat relentlessly in him? Had Eben known it and chosen it as the inheritance of his house? If Eben Goodman had had but the resolve to keep one vow – just
one
– none of what Eamon now faced would lie before him. How long, he wondered, did he truly expect to live as he was living?

Give yourself to me, son of Eben, and you will atone for your house and live.

He had walked to the Four Quarters. From the heart of the city he could see straight to the Blind Gate.

“First Lieutenant Goodman!”

Some passing Gauntlet and militia – led by a striking draybant – saluted him. Eamon met gazes with the man. The stranger nodded courteously to him.

“Draybant Anderas, to his glory.”

“His glory,” Eamon answered, saluting. “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”

The draybant smiled broadly. “The pleasure is and shall remain mine, Mr Goodman. I hope you'll not think me jealous for saying so!”

They clasped hands in greeting. The stranger seemed only five or six years older than him – young for so high a Gauntlet post. Draybant Anderas was clear-skinned and smiling. His eyes were blue and his hair a dusty gold.

Eamon tried to place him. “South Quarter?”

“I suppose we aren't all as famous as you, Mr Goodman,” the man replied good-naturedly. “East Quarter College; I report directly to Lord Ashway. We recently lost our captain to the fever – the Hands are yet to ratify his replacement.”

“My condolences,” Eamon said, grateful for the distraction that the meeting provided him from his own sorrows.

“On serving the Lord Ashway, or the loss of a captain?” Anderas asked, and laughed. “I jest, Mr Goodman, I jest! Captain Etchell was a fine man, and your wishes are well received.” He smiled, his eyes falling as he did so to the letter that Eamon carried. He turned his head to one side. “Condolences?”

Eamon nodded wordlessly.

“I'm sorry,” Anderas replied. “I'm sure he was a good man.”

“He was, sir.”

“I had better let you to your business: condolences are best not left long.” He seemed about to move his small squadron along, but then paused. “Might I ask a question, Mr Goodman?”

“Yes, sir.” How different this man was from Alben, from Fields, from the lieutenants and draybants he had known since he had joined the Gauntlet! Was this not how all Gauntlet should be?

“We've heard all about you in the East Quarter, of course, and envied the tales of derring-do.” The man smiled, and where others might have lowered their voices in asking what he then did, Draybant Anderas did not. Eamon admired him for it. “Is it true, Mr Goodman, that you surrendered your sword?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It is a matter of curiosity – I hope you will forgive my prying. Might I be so bold as to ask why you did so?”

Eamon saw the men in the patrol gazing at him. “I wanted to save my crew,” he answered with a sad smile. “They were also good men.”

The draybant nodded as though he had suspected the answer, and flicked a pleased gaze towards his men.

“A noble endeavour, Mr Goodman. Inspiring leadership.” Anderas was silent for a moment, as though enjoying the righteousness of the intent. Then he reached out and clasped Eamon's hand again, warmly. “I have had the pleasure today of making acquaintance with a legend in the making, Mr Goodman, and I thank you. I hope we shall meet again.”

“Thank you, sir. I shall look forward to it.”

The draybant gathered his men and they marched towards the East Quarter. Eamon remembered leading his own cadets along that road, the day that he had been to capture the Lorentides.

A draper by trade, Mr Overbrook lived very near the Four Quarters. The family house was well kept, speaking of modest wealth. Eamon knocked on the door with a heavy hand.

Some moments later Mr Overbrook appeared. His eyes, blue as his son's had been, took Eamon in at a moment and counted the flames at his collar before speaking.

“Good afternoon, first lieutenant. His voice carried the intonation that Eamon had known in the young cadet. “How may I be of service to you?”

Eamon's throat was dry. The man's eyes fell on the letter. Mr Overbrook became quite still.

“Might I come in, Mr Overbrook?”

The cadet's father nodded dumbly. “Y-y-yes,” he stammered, “I suppose you had better.”

The afternoon brought a cold, shrill wind and the threat of rain. Cadet Overbrook's remembrance was short and his corpse was escorted to the college pyre by a procession of cadets. They held their blades high while the palled body was set upon the bier, and Eamon spoke a few words, recognizing Overbrook's service and heroic death. As the pyre was kindled and the cloth took to flame, a fanfare played.

“This life was given to his glory, and crowned in that glory he shall be.” It was an infinitesimally small comfort, Eamon thought, to the boy's father, who wept as the flames snapped at the pall.

The Third Banners were silent when they returned to their duties; there was an empty place in the room where they studied that afternoon, and unused books upon it.

Later, Eamon went to the Third Banners' dormitory to go through Overbrook's belongings. His map of Dunthruik, exquisite in every detail, lay untouched on the communal table. It was littered with inks and compasses.

Slowly, Eamon shuffled the instruments aside. It was a paper worthy of honour. He decided to suggest to Waite that it be framed and hung in the hall. Overbrook would have appreciated the gesture.

Waite was in the hall. Eamon entrusted the cadet's remaining things to Lieutenant Best, who proceeded to escort Mr Overbrook home. The old man's shoulders were hunched with grief as they went down the college steps into the rain.

Eamon joined the captain.

“We buried two men today, Mr Goodman.”

“Sir?”

“He lost his wife when he fled the Breusklian border,” Waite observed morosely. “He has no other sons, and his daughters live far away.”

Eamon turned to gaze after the man. There seemed to be nothing to say.

As they faced the Brand a dark figure stepped up. Although he walked a little stiffly, Lord Cathair seemed to carry no other trace of his new wound. The West Quarter Hand was accompanied by a series of other men – some Hands and some Gauntlet officers, captains, and draybants from other quarters. Eamon hoped to see Anderas among them and was not disappointed: the draybant walked by Lord Ashway, and was among the last to mount the steps. The very last to come tumbling in from the rain was Ladomer. His old friend grinned at him.

“I'm taking notes,” he said, answering Eamon's unspoken question as he passed.

“Welcome, my lords; gentlemen,” Waite said, clasping hands with each of them in turn. “I hope you will find the college here suitable to the task.”

“My quarters will be ample,” Cathair answered. “I apologize that no other venue was available. The Right Hand had some important business to attend to that could not wait, and I am afraid he cannot join us. Lieutenant Kentigern will be keeping notes for him during the meeting.” To hear Ladomer referred to by his surname brought back memories of Edesfield. How in the River Realm had Ladomer managed to land such an important role? And how could his friend stand being an administrative officer rather than an active lieutenant?

“Follow me, gentlemen,” Cathair said.

“You too, Mr Goodman,” Waite added.

Cathair led them to his quarters, then down long corridors lined with bookshelves. At last they came to a large, ornate room. A grand table stood at its centre, laden already with maps and circled with chairs enough for the number attending.

The room filled with Hands, captains, and officers from all over the city. The groups representing each quarter sat together along one side of the table. Eamon found himself sitting next to Ladomer.

“You all right, Ratbag?” his friend whispered while the others were taking their places.

“No.”

“Your cadet?”

“No.” For a moment he felt that everything would come flooding out of him. The accursed fire was in his hand; he clenched his fingers over it and trembled. He could not tell Ladomer – not now…

Cathair saved him: the Hand rapped his fingers on the table for silence. Ladomer fell studiously to his note making. Eamon watched the curling script out of the corner of his eye.

“His glory,” Cathair began. The room echoed the words back to him. “Gentlemen, let me begin by assuring you all that the Master's full authority is behind me in this meeting, and that it is at his request that it has been called. Mr Kentigern, please keep your notes for the Right Hand accurate; they will be archived for reference at a later date.”

“Yes, Lord Cathair.”

“As you know, gentlemen,” Cathair continued, “last night Mr Goodman, some others, and I went to investigate the rumours that we have been receiving as to this Serpent army. Word reached us weeks ago that this self-styled heir to the so-called house of Brenuin had himself been to Istanaria during December, and that the Easters had pledged some kind of alliance to him. Our agents did try to assassinate the Serpent while he was in the city, but the attempt miscarried. Our agent was lost, but the last word we received from her indicated that Easters would be coming to join the Brenuin forces in some numbers. This has since been confirmed thanks to the efforts of some excellent breachers here in Dunthruik – my thanks especially to Mr Goodman in this regard; he has been indispensable to me in the last few months while we have been trying to track this encampment down.”

Eamon accepted the praise with a bowed head. It felt surreal to him: he was sitting in a room filled with Hands, hearing about spies he had never known existed and hearing Hughan referred to by the name of the royal house fallen with Ede. That name filled the room with stillness and Cathair seemed wary to speak it.

Hughan Brenuin. As he sat there Eamon suddenly remembered the day he had thought Hughan lost. He had searched the fields outside Edesfield, the day the snakes had come, searching the bodies left behind for the boy who had been his closest friend. He had searched until the earth was cold and clammy, crying out the name he loved and knowing that no answer would come to him. He remembered Hughan and Aeryn, standing together in the Hidden Hall watching him leave; they had pinned their hopes on his shoulders. Past and present seemed to coalesce into an indistinguishable mass, broken only by Giles's face.

He had failed.

“The Serpent keeps at least one camp on the West Bank, between Hoefield and Lower Ashford,” Cathair continued. “It has tributary access to the River and is well protected by Ashford Ridge to the north. Some details have been noted of its layout, but we were unfortunately unable to make as thorough an account of it as we should have liked, due to a small skirmish.”