The Traitor's Heir (64 page)

They followed the Coll to the Four Quarters. There, Eamon bore down Coronet Rise to the south and then onto the Serpentine. The streets were quiet, but he was anxious; he was not a frequent visitor to the quarter.

The Serpentine spanned a crumbling part of the city, showing few traces of former glory in its abandoned stones. The road snaked through the South Quarter, going almost diagonally across it from Coronet Rise to the Blind Gate. The houses were dimly lit and Eamon scanned each one, looking desperately for the sign that would proclaim the presence of the correct inn – the road had several. At each false sign the voice mocked him. He tightened his grip on Lillabeth's hand. It would be there. It had to be.

At last his search was rewarded. A small inn stood halfway down the road, partially collapsed against the neighbouring building. Its sign showed a wall – appropriately, as the city wall was not far away. Eamon saw guards walking the misty parapets.

Keeping Lillabeth close he strode to the inn door. The windows were misted, and in the scant candlelight he could not tell how many people might be inside. Drawing his cloak tightly around him and his hood around his face, he opened the door.

He had no idea what to do. The few clients who sat at tables rose to their feet and bowed as soon as they saw him; he cursed his black robes.

He led Lillabeth to the bar. The innkeeper rose.

“You honour us, my lord.”

Eamon fixed all his hope on memory of Hughan's words. Had the King not said that the innkeeper could help him, should he need to escape? Could not that warrant secure Lillabeth's freedom also?

You are a fool, Eben's son.

“Are you the proprietor of this inn?” Eamon deepened his voice to disguise it. He needed to speak to the man in private. But how…?

“Yes, my lord,” the innkeeper replied cautiously. “I have that little honour.”

The answer came to him. “Good. You will take us to the best of your rooms.” He scattered coins indolently across the table. Lillabeth stiffened. Eamon was sorry, but he saw no other way.

“At once, my lord.” The innkeeper dashed behind the bar, fumbled for a set of keys, and bade them follow him. Lillabeth was reluctant at Eamon's arm but he made her follow. They delved into the inn's smoky depths.

The man led them up a small staircase to a room. He unlocked the door with trembling hands and bowed again.

“I hope it pleases you, my lord.” Eamon saw the man watching Lillabeth pitifully. “You will not be disturbed here.”

Will you not do as he expects?
The voice goaded him.
Why not take her, son of Eben?

Eamon pushed Lillabeth roughly through the door. As the innkeeper made to leave, Eamon stopped him. “I require your services a moment more, keeper.”

The innkeeper looked petrified, but at the terrible look on Eamon's face he stepped hastily into the room. Eamon snatched the keys from his hand, pressed the door closed, and locked it.

“My lord!” the keeper began. Eamon hissed for silence.

He prowled the room, examining its every part. The keeper and Lillabeth watched him fearfully – he knew it – and as he strode he strove with the voice that preyed on him.

You are angry, Eben's son. Visit it on them. It will relieve you.

Eamon swallowed and focused. The walls seemed sturdy enough; the room's window faced the street. He turned to the innkeeper.

“You are certain nobody will hear us here?”

“My lord, have pity!” the keeper cried, falling to his knees.

Eamon was stunned. What did the keeper think he meant to do? What had other Hands done before him?

“Please,” he whispered, stepping up to the keeper, “do not kneel before me.” He laid a gentle hand on the man's shoulder.

“You're… you're not going to –?”

“I intend no harm either to you or to the girl. I am sorry if I misled you into thinking otherwise. A man in my position has many battles to fight, I fear, and must sometimes do so by indirect means. Good keeper,” he added kindly, “I have need of your service.”

“My service?” The keeper stared. “My lord, I don't know what you mean –”

“I understand that this looks strange. Please. I come on behalf of a name higher than my own, and it is service to him that I require.”

“A higher name…” The innkeeper glanced at Lillabeth. She stood motionless. Wide-eyed, the keeper looked back to Eamon. “My lord… who are you?”

“I am the First Knight.” The words came boldly from his lips.

Lillabeth's silent mouth fell open. The keeper was at a loss for words.

“You… you…”

“This lady serves the King,” Eamon continued. “She is now in danger. I would ask you to see her from the city.”

“How can you be the First Knight?” the man asked. He gaped at Eamon – and his black robes – incredulously.

“Will you help her?”

With odd dignity, the innkeeper rose to his feet. “Follow me,” he said.

He led them silently down the staircase and to the back of the inn, away from watchful eyes. He directed them to a storeroom filled with barrels, kegs, and sacks of grain hoarded against the remaining winter months. The door was closed behind them.

Kneeling down beside a collection of large barrels the keeper laboriously began to move them aside. Eamon helped him. For what seemed an eternity all that could be heard was the sound of wood scraping hard across the stone floor.

The barrels revealed a small trapdoor, wide enough for a man to slip down. The innkeeper ran his hands into a groove in the wood and lifted up the thick board. A wave of air ran up towards them, guttering the torches dying on the wall.

Eamon peered downward. He saw nothing in the darkness. “What is it?”

“Part of the old sewer system, disused for centuries, my lord, and in poor repair.” The innkeeper took a torch. “Go to the end of the tunnel. There are a few forks; go straight. There's a dead end topped by another door. Knock. They'll let you out.”

Eamon nodded. “Thank you.”

At the keeper's direction, Eamon positioned himself in the trapdoor and lowered himself down the ladder that he found beneath his feet. It did not descend far; reaching the ground, he found that the tunnel was barely two hands above his head. The innkeeper passed down the torch, then helped Lillabeth. Eamon steadied her as she climbed down.

“You must go straight, always straight!”

Eamon thanked him again. He was turning when the man called after him: “First Knight!”

Eamon marvelled at the power of this title – his title. Just as a smile from him as Lord Goodman had made cadets and lieutenants beam, this name – a name of his that he had forgotten – seemed to draw out something from deep within him. Something that stirred hope and courage in him and bestowed them on others. He saw both then on the innkeeper's face.

“Keeper?”

“Will I know you, if I see you again?”

Eamon was glad of the hood hiding his face. “Keeper,” he said at last, “you will know me when the King deems it time. Until then, treat all of my colour with the same caution you always have.”

Awestruck, the innkeeper nodded.

“The King's grace go with you,” Lillabeth whispered to him.

“And with you!”

The keeper closed the gap. Eamon heard barrels being replaced over the trapdoor. The torch in his hand spat, threatening extinction; a tinge of claustrophobia gripped him. The floor was slippery and the torch smoke stung their faces.

He held out his hand to Lillabeth. “Come on.”

The tunnel was narrow, the air thin and stale. Stonework crumbled overhead and underfoot. Lillabeth stumbled repeatedly.

“Are you well?” he asked, steadying her. She was breathing hard.

“Yes,” she answered him. “I'm well. I'm sorry.”

“Don't rush,” he told her as she struggled to gain her feet. Her face was pale, her eyes reddened by tears and smoke. He made her lean on him. Holding the torch high, they carried on.

They passed bends and gaping forks. Eamon ignored them. At length they reached the end of the tunnel. The straight way, which curved slightly westwards, came to an abrupt end.

The torch was dying in Eamon's hands. Trying not to panic, he held its spattering embers high. Where was the exit?

“There,” Lillabeth said suddenly, pointing upwards. Eamon looked. In the darkness above was a trapdoor. The wood was set in a channel in the stones, just out of reach. A plank of wood was below it.

Eamon passed the torch to Lillabeth and grabbed the plank. He lifted and angled it beneath the trapdoor before driving it upwards in three firm knocks.

He kept very still, listening. No sound of movement above. Lillabeth swallowed nervously. He strained and knocked again.

Nothing. Chilled sweat beaded his forehead. What if there was nobody above to hear them?

“The torch!” Lillabeth gasped.

It was sputtering. Hefting the plank he knocked again; the sound echoed the long length of the tunnel.

No answer. Eamon dropped the plank.

The torch died. He took it and cast it down, the last embers spitting and glowering before fizzling out.

Lillabeth shivered. Eamon wrapped his cloak about her.

“I'm sorry.” His voice echoed, like the dead knocks.

A faint noise. They both looked up. Something moved overhead. Suddenly the trapdoor ground to one side. Beyond were stars and torchlight.

“Who goes there?”

“Bearers of the King's grace,” Lillabeth replied.

A rope ladder fell. Eamon steadied it for Lillabeth. She reached the top without difficulty. Drawing his hood over his face, he followed her. The torchlight was blinding as he emerged. He heard the River. They were beyond the city walls!

Even as he marvelled, blades were drawn and arrows knocked to strings.

“Hand!”

“Kill him!”

“No!” Lillabeth shrieked, throwing herself between them and him. “He is a King's man!”

The men around them were dressed in green and brown, like those Eamon had seen in Hughan's camps. They watched him fiercely.

“If he is a King's man,” one growled, “let him show his face.”

“He can't –” Lillabeth began.

“It's all right, Lillabeth,” Eamon interrupted. Alessia had betrayed him; the Hands would already know everything. Showing his face could not hurt him now. He sternly met the gaze of the leading man. “You and your men will swear never to speak my name to any but the King.”

“That depends on your face!”

It was answer enough. “Very well.”

He pulled back his hood. He did not know whether they recognized him. He did not care. He had to see to Lillabeth. “Miss Hollenwell has been compromised,” he told them. “You must take her to the King.”

“We will.” Seemingly satisfied, the man gestured for his men to lower their weapons. He looked Eamon up and down uncertainly. “Are you going, too?”

“No,” Eamon replied. “I must return to the city. I have a friend there in grave peril.”

Lillabeth turned to him in horror. “If you go back they'll –”

“All the same, I must.”

“Then my companions will take you back into the city through the port; you can't return by this way. We will take Miss Hollenwell to safety.”

Eamon nodded gratefully. He turned to Lillabeth. “Thank you.”

Lillabeth looked surprised. “For what?”

“Your faith in me today. I have never earned it – but I have changed.”

Lillabeth took his hand. “He always believed that you would remember.”

Eamon frowned. “Who?”

Lillabeth froze. “You don't know,” she breathed. But she could not continue – one of the wayfarers took her arm.

“I beg your pardon, Miss,” he said. “We have to go, and so does your friend here, or he'll be missed. That's costly in his garb.”

“Yes, of course.” Lillabeth looked back to him. “Take care, Lord Goodman.”

Eamon watched, utterly bemused, as she disappeared. Who had believed he would remember? Who had maintained such hope in him, despite all that he had done?

There was a voice at his ear. “This way.” The wayfarer gestured towards the Sea Gate and the port. “We can't take torches or they'll see us from the walls. You'll need to watch your step.”

“Of course.” Gathering his cloak about him, he followed his guide towards the port.

They waited until the guards were changing and then Eamon made his way through the Sea Gate alone. The streets were silent and he kept his hood drawn close. His heart pounded with exhilaration – and fear.

Surely the throned already knew everything that he had done – why had he not been incarcerated, like Mathaiah? He could not fathom it. There had to be some reason – but what? He felt a dreadful pawn in a game beyond his imagining. Perhaps that was all he was.

It took him very little time to reach the palace. As he passed the threshold of the Hands' Hall a figure rose towards him. His guilty heart leaped.

“Evening, Ratbag!” said a cheery voice.

Eamon grasped his chest; his heart beat so fast he feared it might burst out.

“Ladomer! River's sake, you scared me!”

“You scared me,” Ladomer countered. “What are you doing, coming in at this hour?”

“I was with Lady Turnholt…” Eamon began the response then fell grimly silent.

“Lovers' quarrel?”

“No.”

“Why didn't you stay with her, then?” His tone was disquieting. Eamon decided to change the subject.

“You're up a little late, aren't you?”

Ladomer shrugged. “Apparently Lord Cathair doesn't sleep. He had some last minute papers that he wanted to send to the Master. Some cadet they arrested, I think. Details of his effects, and so on.” He waved his hand – Eamon knew the drill. He was seized with dread. Could the papers be about Mathaiah?