by Anna Thayer
“If there is any gouging to be done then I think you will find, Lord Ashway, that such delights fall under my jurisdiction,” Cathair interrupted soberly. Eamon wondered at the perilous tone to his voice.
Ashway rounded on him. “This whole wretched affair is your jurisdiction! If you hadn’t –”
“Lord Ashway,” Cathair said.
Ashway fell silent. The Hand looked paler than usual. As Eamon watched, Ashway pressed a hand to the side of his head; his fingers shook where his dark gloves encased them. He glared darkly at Cathair.
“I’ll not waste any more of my –”
“Outside.”
Cathair’s rage was a serpent, coiled and ready to strike.
Ashway glared. “You would dare to –?”
“I said outside.”
Panting a little, Ashway drew himself up straight and strode from the room. Cathair followed him. Both Hands went into the main chamber and pulled the door closed behind them. Eamon heard raised voices, but could not make out their words.
He looked at Mathaiah. As Ashway had stormed out of the room the Hand holding the cadet’s head had thumped it hard against the back of the chair. Now he laughed as the cadet moaned. The Hand moved to strike the young man again.
“Hold!” Eamon commanded. As he spoke he saw Mathaiah’s eyes drawing open. Pale and bloodshot, as they rested on Eamon a glimpse of light returned to them.
The Hand looked up at him. “Hold?”
Eamon strode over. “This is no way to use a prisoner, lord,” Eamon told him. “This is a matter requiring a certain finesse.”
“Lord Ashway has tried finesse,” the Hand retorted testily. As he spoke, Eamon saw the other Hands retreat from him.
“You are Lord Goodman,” one of them said.
“Yes, I am.” The eyes of the Hand before him grew wide with trepidation. “And I shall show you why my name is feared.”
Slowly he leaned himself against the table to look squarely into Mathaiah’s eyes. “Mr Grahaven, I find you in a somewhat poorer condition than when we last met.”
“I am no poorer,” Mathaiah answered simply. Eamon idly scooped up the papers on the table and scoured them. It was clear to him that Mathaiah was being made to read something. But what?
The pages all bore the same thing – the hideous lettering from the Hands’ Hall. As Eamon nonchalantly perused it, foreboding crossed his heart. The papers had the look of something copied, the letters rushed and misshapen, as though scribed by a less expert hand. They had none of the bold and angular incisiveness of the letters he knew.
The answer came to him like a blow: the Nightholt. They were copies of pages from the book that they had found in Ellenswell – the book that, on Eamon’s insistence, they had delivered to the Hands. Mathaiah had said then that he could almost read it; Eamon had said as much to Alessia.
She had told the Right Hand.
He looked up at Mathaiah, saw his unscathed face – his untouched eyes – and understood. They needed the young man’s eyes because they were making him read the Nightholt. But why would they need him to?
In silence Eamon laid the papers down. “Have they told you of my latest exploit, Mr Grahaven?”
Mathaiah did not answer, but Eamon saw the other Hands staring at him. He laughed arrogantly.
“You may well be the last person in the city to hear of it,” he said, “but I relish the telling to you especially. I have destroyed the Serpent’s alliance with the Easter houses. The head of Feltumadas, heir to the house of Istanaria, even now stands impaled upon the Blind Gate. But you are, perhaps,” he added indolently, “uninterested in that?”
“You cannot destroy the King,” Mathaiah retorted fiercely. “Nor can you extinguish the light brought by the house of Brenuin!”
The other Hands seemed startled that he had spoken. They glanced at each other and then at Eamon nervously.
“Do not let him sing, Lord Goodman!” one of them hissed.
Eamon looked back to Mathaiah. “Always you think of the house of Brenuin. But what of the house of Grahaven?”
Mathaiah fell still. It was not how he wanted to bring such news to his friend, but there was no other way. He laughed. “Your father is old, your brother is dead. Only you remain, and on my travels, snake, I had the pleasure of meeting your charming wife.” Mathaiah’s eyes widened, but he remained silent. “She bears the last heir of your line. Be assured, Grahaven,” he said, lowering his voice, “that unless you render unto Lord Ashway everything that he needs, I will hunt down your wife and base-born child and, finding them, will serve them suffering, torment, and death.”
“Then you may bear my wife a message,” Mathaiah said weakly.
Eamon fixed Mathaiah with his most arrogant glare.
“You would make a messenger of me, snake?” he sneered.
Mathaiah met his gaze with a small smile.
“Tell her that if my son is to be base-born, then she shall name him Eamon.”
Breath failed him.
“What?” His voice came as a whisper, which the Hands, judging by their faces, took to be deep anger.
“You are not deaf, Lord Goodman,” Mathaiah answered. As Eamon stared Mathaiah gave him a simple, slight nod.
The door opened. Cathair entered, eyes flashing. He took in the room at a glance.
“Lord Goodman.”
“My lord?”
“There is work to be done.”
“Yes, my lord.” Eamon looked at Mathaiah one last time.
The cadet’s eyes were steady. Eamon wondered that such a heart could be in one so young and marvelled that he had the honour of calling such a man his friend.
Cathair called his name again. Without hesitating, Eamon followed.
Back in the open air, Eamon realized just how hot he felt. He was flushed with emotions that he didn’t understand, with senses of obligation and foreboding and the sudden memory of a promise he had made to Lillabeth.
He had to try to get Mathaiah out, but how could he? He could not go down to the Pit without Cathair knowing of it. Even if he could, he did not know how he might get Mathaiah out of it or whether it would be safe to take him to the Serpentine…
Ashway stood in the courtyard, pacing ferociously around the flagstones. He might have been tracing patterns on them and avoiding the cracks while he muttered to himself. Eamon wondered what words the two Hands had exchanged.
Ashway looked up as they emerged. He was red, as though he might explode into a tirade, but on seeing Eamon, fell silent. Eamon feigned not to notice.
“Lord Goodman, please accompany Lord Ashway back to the East Quarter,” Cathair said. “He has copies of some notes which I need. Bring them to me.”
“Yes, Lord Cathair.”
“Do you think that I need to be – ?” Ashway began, but a look from Cathair silenced him. “I will send you the notes, Lord Cathair,” he hissed.
“Thank you, Lord Ashway.”
Tangible ire passed between the two. With a great sigh, Ashway turned on his heel and stalked off. Eamon bowed once to Cathair and then hurried after the Lord of the East Quarter.
Ashway did not wait for him. Keeping pace with the Hand was like chasing a wrathful beast as it darted and wheeled down the colonnade, through the Hands’ Gate and onto the streets of Dunthruik. Eventually Eamon managed to set his step in time with Ashway’s. He caught a glimpse of the man’s face, its accustomed pallor disguised by rage.
Ashway walked in silence all the way to the Four Quarters and then strode abruptly down Coronet Rise towards the Ashen and his own Handquarters. Soldiers and Gauntlet and civilians froze before him and bowed as he passed, but Ashway scowled angrily at most of them. To the others he barked that they should remove their sodden carcasses from his path or join the next pyre wagon.
Eamon came after him as though in the wake of a devastating wind.
Ashway’s Handquarters were an impressive set of buildings in the quarter’s main square. A broad marble slab set i
nto the wall announced that the square was known as the Ashen and a token collection of ash trees were growing in one of its corners. The buildings were tall and well kept, and the square was clean, crawling with Gauntlet soldiers who all looked busy. Just to the right of the Handquarters Eamon saw a low arch that bore the crown: the East Quarter Gauntlet College. Anderas would be there, performing the duties of his captaincy. Had the man really sent as many wayfarers to the pyres as Ladomer claimed?
Ashway marched to the Handquarter doors. His guards leapt aside with well-practised agility and bowed as Eamon passed, following ever in Ashway’s steps. The Hand led him through the entrance hall, in which a tall statue of the throned gazed austerely over a red marble floor, down a corridor with several connecting stairs and passages to a large door. Ashway threw it open, revealing a long, grand study with an arched window overlooking a garden. Workers were out among the plants. As they saw Ashway enter his room, they fled from view of the window.
Ashway went straight to his desk, littered high with papers; there was a tall bookshelf to one side, also strewn with parchments. The Hand rifled through the sheets on his desk and then went to the case with a loud and angry sigh. Eamon stood awkwardly, feeling not unlike a boy summoned in ire to his schoolmaster’s table, and tried to ignore Ashway’s evident rage.
At last the Hand pulled down a slim collection of papers. These he folded in three before sealing them. He used the ring on his finger to put his mark into the wax: an owl. Eamon tried to catch sight of the writing as the Hand worked, but saw little of the narrow script.
Ashway rose and turned to him.
“These are the papers that Lord Cathair requires,” he said. “Take them and go.”
“Yes, Lord Ashway.” Eamon let the Hand slam the papers into his outstretched palm, trying not to flinch. Ashway’s hand went back to his forehead. He drew a sharp, seething breath.
Eamon looked at him in alarm. “Lord Ashway, are you –?”
“I said go.”
Eamon bowed and left.
The papers seemed heavy to him as he made his way back through the streets to the palace. He wondered what they were, but knew that he could not remove the seal.
It was late afternoon when he came at last to Cathair’s quarters in the Hands’ Hall. In comparison to the dark wood and red marble in the East Quarter, Cathair’s rooms were exotic. Eamon was admitted without hesitation, and when he knocked at Cathair’s door he was summoned swiftly inside, to be greeted by his dogs. He restrained any sudden movements while they barked and snarled, daring him, as always, to defy them and merit a mauling.
“Lord Cathair, I have brought your papers,” he called.
Cathair appeared from one of the side chambers. He snatched the papers and looked carefully at the seal.
“I see that there is some shred of honesty in you, Lord Goodman,” he said, proceeding to tear it away.
“Lord Cathair –”
“You know well that there is work to do,” Cathair answered him. “Do not waste my time with your petty endearments.”
“Then do not you waste mine with your accusations of treachery,” Eamon retorted.
Cathair looked sharply at him.
“You are too bold, Goodman.” Something in his voice made Eamon fall very still. “Should your allegiance ever be shown to be against the Master, know that I will make you pay for every word that you have ever uttered. There are certain parts of my learning, Goodman, that cannot be understood unless you experience them for yourself,” he added with a long smile.
“Then I fear that I will always remain ignorant of the full extent of your greatness, Lord Cathair.”
Cathair did not answer him. His eyes ran hungrily over the paper, which he held in such a way that Eamon could never hope to see what was written there. As Cathair read, one of his dogs came to him. The Hand rested a palm on the beast’s head.
“Lord Goodman, I have had a small office set up for you,” Cathair said at last, “and I have a matter of great importance for you to attend to.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“The port waterfront is a vital part of the West Quarter’s jurisdiction,” Cathair told him. His eyes took on a melodramatic, sarcastic sheen. “The storehouses must be counted and the ships inspected before the start of the trading season reaches us in force. Most importantly of all, the main roads must be resurfaced, all according to regulation, of course. It is, as I am sure you will agree, a desperately important role, which can only be entrusted to a man of quality.”
Eamon matched his gaze. The overseeing of port and waterfront maintenance was a role normally given to lieutenants in the North and West Quarters. Eamon was fairly sure that Lieutenant Best had been in charge the previous year and seemed to recall the man giving account of how he had hated every minute of the assignment. His hatred had been alleviated only by knowledge of the fact that, in being assigned to the port, he had avoided being assigned to the sewers.
Lord Cathair intended to give him as crushing and humiliating a role as he could. Eamon refused to be deterred.
“It is an especially important task,” he agreed.
“I am so glad that you see it as I do,” Cathair answered. “I’ve had the regulations taken down to your study so that you can look at them before you begin work. I’ve taken the liberty of sending some notice to Captain Waite on your behalf, to put together a team of workers for you. You can collect them tomorrow and begin taking up the old stones.”
“Yes, Lord Cathair,” Eamon said. “Thank you.”
“No, no, Lord Goodman,” Cathair answered with a grand smile. “Thank you.”
One of Cathair’s servants showed him to his “study”. Eamon was not surprised that the servant led him first into a hall and then to a small, dusty side corridor, then to a short, and not entirely stable, wooden staircase that led down into what seemed to be a small cellar. The air was dank and musty, and the stones crumbled underfoot. A large wooden door, such as might be found in a barn, was set in the wall and led outside – cracks of light passed through it. Mice scurried in the corners and, beyond the door, horses stamped. Eamon smelled their dung. He suspected he was in one of the series of servants’ rooms below the main part of the Hands’ Hall.
The room had a small table and chair, as well as a lopsided candle. There was a fireplace to one side, thickly blackened. When Eamon went to inspect it he wondered how many decades it had been since the place was last used. The table bore a thick volume, its edges frayed; he couldn’t even make out a title on the dull cover.
The tattered state of the book’s bindings spoke eloquently as to its age and the extent of its use. On looking at the first few pages he saw outlines of the rules and regulations to be followed in the setting down, and taking up, of roads in the city, with long sections of maps and illustrations.
He set the book down and looked around the room. Clearly Cathair had not taken well to the Right Hand’s choice of his assistant.
“Is that all, Lord Goodman?” the servant’s voice sounded in the empty room. Eamon drew his eyes from the tome.
“Thank you, yes.”
The servant nodded and hurried quickly away, his footsteps soon fading into silence.
Eamon surveyed the room again. The situation was a little ridiculous, but if it was how Cathair wanted to begin, then it was how they would begin. He had nothing to lose.
Slowly, he sat. The chair felt unstable, and was more than a little uncomfortable. Pulling his hood over his head in an attempt to block out the sound and smell of the horses and singing stablehands, he drew the lit candle closer to him and began studying the book.
CHAPTER IX
When Eamon finally emerged from his new lair, stiff and bleary-eyed, he bumped into Ladomer. Amused by Eamon’s apparent disorientation, his friend raised an eyebrow.
“Cathair?” Ladomer asked.
“Cathair,” Eamon answered, and they laughed. One word had been enough.
Eamon slept fitfully that nig
ht. Waking, the banner of the throned stared eerily back at him in the moonlight and, sleeping, it was Mathaiah’s pale face. The young man’s words went round his mind countless times – he could not comprehend the love and respect and joy that had been in them. He would take the message to Lillabeth – but would rather be present to see Mathaiah deliver it himself. He wrestled with how to free the young man, but no viable plan came to him.
The next morning was the first day of March and he rose early. Mindful of Cathair’s instructions he made his way down to the West Quarter College, arriving just as Waite’s morning parade was filing out of the yard to its duties. As Eamon entered, the captain greeted him.
“Lord Goodman.” He took Eamon’s hand and clasped it warmly. “I heard all about it,” Waite added, smiling. “You’ve made us all very proud.”
“Thank you,” Eamon answered. He watched the last cadets leaving the courtyard, then looked back to Waite. “Lord Cathair told me that he had sent you a message –”
“Yes.” Waite’s face seemed to darken a little, but the look passed. “I’ve gathered the men he asked for. They’ll be in the entrance hall for you in a few minutes.”
“Thank you, captain.”
Waite offered him an apologetic smile.
Eamon was therefore not surprised to find his digging contingent composed of the Third Banner cadets. The young men waited merrily in the hall, chatting happily to one another. When they saw Eamon they broke into spontaneous applause.
“Lord Goodman!”
“Show a little restraint, gentlemen!” Waite called, though the attempt was half-hearted.
“I’m sure the work I have for them will restrain them well enough, captain,” Eamon answered.
“We’ll be working for you?” A young face – Cadet Barde – spoke the common question.
“Yes, though I’m afraid you won’t be needing your swords today. Please go and ransack the college tool store,” Eamon added loudly. “I want each of you back here in two minutes, armed with something fit to carve up a road.”
