The King's Hand

by Anna Thayer

  “I’ve read the whole book,” he answered. “Fearsome knowledge it is, too.”

  Ladomer laughed. “Well, I have come to waylay you.”

  “You’ve become a highwayman?” Eamon asked, sceptically and bad-naturedly. It was good to see Ladomer, but he had a hundred things weighing on his mind and had hoped to slip off along the docks to think. He mused wryly that, since he had returned from the King’s camp, he seemed incapable of going anywhere without being noticed.

  “No, though I’m sure I would make a very good one,” Ladomer told him. “You silly ass! I’ve not seen you for days – what with one thing and another – and the Right Hand is busy all morning. I thought I’d find you and see if I could persuade you to join me for a drink.”

  “I’d rather –”

  “Stand and look at mud you can’t do anything with?” Ladomer quirked an eyebrow. “Eamon, you are an awful, boring relic.”

  “You are talking to a Hand,” Eamon reminded him firmly, though he felt a smile creeping onto his face.

  “And you,” Ladomer answered, drawing himself up proudly, “are talking to the Right Hand’s… right hand!”

  “Is that official?” Eamon laughed.

  “No.” Ladomer pulled a face. “But it sounds good, doesn’t it?”

  “I wouldn’t say it in front of the Right Hand if I were you.”

  “Come now!” Ladomer answered. “You say all sorts in front of him. Why shouldn’t I?”

  Eamon didn’t answer him. “Sense of self-preservation?” he tried at last. Ladomer just laughed.

  In the end he allowed Ladomer to persuade him and, assuring him that he would not be taken far from his beloved mud, Ladomer led him to one of the inns on the waterfront. A grotesquely hewn dolphin advertised the locale that his friend chose, and, though Eamon was unconvinced, Ladomer assumed command. Though he was of the higher rank, when with Ladomer Eamon often felt overshadowed and uncertain. Ladomer had always been brighter, faster, stronger, and more tactically inclined than he. It was Ladomer who had always been destined for great things – Ladomer who should be wearing black.

  Ladomer directed him to sit at a table near one of the tall windows and returned to it not long later with a couple of broad mugs. One he handed firmly to Eamon, with the insistence that he drink from it. Reluctantly Eamon set the thing to his lips. The brew was reasonable, but his mind wandered to the first time he had met Hughan in the Hidden Hall; this drink was nothing compared with that.

  “So tell me about yesterday.”

  Eamon looked up, drawn with hideous suddenness from his memory. Ladomer watched him with an inquisitive look.

  “What about it?”

  Ladomer threw his hands up in despair. “What about it, he says to me. Eamon!”

  Eamon swallowed, and lowered his voice. “Something was wrong with Lord Ashway –”

  “For throne’s sake! I know that!” Ladomer looked at him as though he was the densest person in the whole of the River Realm. “You think that I didn’t see him when they brought him in? They’ve taken him back to his quarters and confined him under his captain’s care.”

  Eamon was stunned. “Who’s directing the quarter?”

  “Temporarily, the captain.” Ladomer grimaced at the change in subject. “Lord Ashway ran a tight ship, so there isn’t much to do.”

  “And the captain?”

  “What do you want me to say?” Ladomer demanded. “He’s as bright as an eagle’s eye and as fit as the hand that downed the Serpent. Satisfied?” Eamon was about to interject when Ladomer spoke again. “Now will you answer me my question?”

  “You seem to have answered most of it yourself,” Eamon observed carefully.

  “You are very cagey with me sometimes, Lord Goodman. Do you know that? It never used to happen at the Star.”

  “That was the Star, Ladomer.” Memories of Edesfield ran sharply through him – incisive, like a blade.

  Ladomer took a long draught of his drink and then leaned more calmly across the table. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “You miss it?”

  “I miss how things used to be. Before any of this happened. It all seemed easier then.”

  “Maybe it was.” Ladomer was silent for a moment. “Will you tell me what happened yesterday?”

  “I told him to be quiet,” Eamon answered. He met Ladomer’s searching gaze. “That was all.”

  “No other Hand there was able to stop him. Have you thought about that, Eamon?”

  “Yes.” And he had wondered why he had not been summoned to give account of it. If Ladomer had an explanation for this fact, he did not give it.

  There was a long silence. Both of them sipped at their drinks in the quiet inn.

  The inn door was pushed open. Eamon thought nothing of it until a shadow passed over the table.

  Manners stood there, a stern expression on his face.

  “Mr Manners?” Eamon asked.

  The cadet did not answer. Slowly he set something down on the table.

  “For my life, Lord Goodman.”

  Eamon stared at him, not understanding. Manners bowed to him, acknowledged Ladomer, and left. On the table was a golden coin.

  “What was that?” Ladomer asked.

  Eamon was about to answer that he didn’t know when he saw another one of the cadets at the door: Ford. Barde and Ostler were behind him. They also came to the table and each set a coin there. “For my life, Lord Goodman,” they said, and left without a further word. There were more behind them.

  Eamon could only watch as, man by man, men from Pinewood and from Dunthruik – the men he had seen trembling before the might of the Right Hand in the decimation line – came into the inn and each one of them laid the same coin before him with the same words. As man after man – ensigns, cadets, and militiamen – came in a seemingly endless stream, neither Eamon nor Ladomer spoke. There were no knights, Hands, or officers – just men. Some remained after laying their coins, watching him.

  Last of all came the man whom he had saved from the line. Eamon recognized his face and remembered how it had lain before him, riddled with fear and awe at a Hand who would save a simple man. Eamon remembered his name: Redmound.

  The man laid a coin at the edge of the large pile.

  “For my life, Lord Goodman.” There were tears in his eyes as he spoke.

  Eamon looked at him, astounded. At last, he found his voice. “You – none of you, owe any of this to me,” he said. Ladomer stared at him and he knew he had to speak. “Please, take these back.” He looked at the faces of his men. “Take them back.” His voice was a whisper.

  Redmound smiled at him. “By a good man we were redeemed and made good men again. What is a coin to that?”

  Eamon could only gaze as, one by one, the cadets and men filed from the inn. The innkeeper looked after them in amazement, but seemed more amazed by the golden mass in front of Eamon. Eamon looked back to the coins, tears welling in his eyes.

  Ladomer leaned towards him. “It would be well,” he said, and his voice was oddly quiet, “if the Master did not hear of this.”

  Eamon looked at him, speechless.

  As the day drew on it clouded over once again, but Eamon took the Third Banners, and men from the North and West Quarters, back to the road to finish working. They had all but completed the most important stretch of the waterfront road, and, as they worked, the sailors and merchants – many of them by now familiar faces – stopped to speak to the men and encourage them. The stones were laid together with precision; Eamon watched Ford perform a victorious walk over the first completed section of road, encouraged by riotous applause from the other workers.

  Eamon helped with the work, but kept to himself, still overwhelmed by their generosity.

  That evening he went to the college with them.

  “Will you join us for a meal, Lord Goodman?” It was Manners who asked. Had any other Hand in the whole history of Dunthruik ever been addressed in t
he loving, free way that these men addressed him?

  “It is kind of you to offer, but I have other duties.”

  Manners nodded. “Yes, Lord Goodman.”

  The cadets began to go. After a moment Eamon called out after them. “Mr Manners.”

  Manners paused in the darkening hall and returned to him with a bow. “My lord?”

  “Your service… must be to the Master.”

  Manners smiled. “So it must.” He bowed. “Good night, Lord Goodman.”

  Eamon watched him go. Thoughts churned in his mind, of the men whom he had saved, and the men whom he had lost. With deepening resolve he turned and went to Waite’s offices.

  The captain was there, sorting through papers. A lamp, dwindled by long service, burned by him, casting light over the wood. As Eamon entered, the captain looked up, then stood smartly.

  “Lord Goodman. I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “What was said to the families?” An angry edge came into Eamon’s voice and he tried to soothe it.

  Waite looked at him seriously. “The men who were executed?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Right Hand dealt with it, Lord Goodman.” His tone warned. Eamon ignored it.

  “Do you know where these families live?”

  “Yes, Lord Goodman.”

  “Tell me.”

  Waite looked at him as though he were insane. “Lord Goodman –”

  “Where do they live, captain?”

  “Would you have me work against the Right Hand?” Waite demanded.

  “Has he set a restriction against my knowing this information?”

  “No, Lord Goodman.”

  “Then I would have you do as I have requested.”

  After a short pause the captain looked at him and nodded. “The families live in the city, Lord Goodman.”

  “Would you show me?”

  Reluctantly, Waite led him into the hall and to Overbrook’s map of the city. The detail was exquisite. The young man’s death ripped through him like a barb.

  “One on the Ermine off the Coll; one near the Four Quarters; one at the waterfront.” Waite pointed out the places on the road. “What do you intend to do?”

  “Thank you for your assistance.” Eamon offered him a smile and then left, knowing that Waite stared.

  The streets of the city were settling under darkness. He returned briefly to his room in the Hands’ Hall and examined the bag where he had put the money given to him that morning. Almost eighty crowns glittered inside. It was a great deal, but it could never be enough.

  Silently, he divided the money.

  When darkness fell completely, he was just another Hand in black, moving through the city unnoticed. The city lights ran all along the Coll to the Blind Gate, where Rendolet’s head had no doubt received its first winged visitors. Eamon shivered. He went to the house of the first fallen man.

  Even though it faced onto the Coll it was small. It looked as though it might once have been part of a larger property, now divided between several families. The entrance was down a cobbled side street. Eamon heard music in a nearby inn as he followed the street into a tiny courtyard. In it he saw a boy and several old men; they sat and listened to strains of music. When they saw Eamon, the boy leapt to his feet.

  “His glory!” he called. None of the older men moved.

  “I’m looking for the house of Morell,” Eamon said quietly. The boy pointed at a sunken doorway in one of the walls. Light crept through the misshapen timbers.

  “There, my lord.”

  Eamon went to the door and knocked gently.

  It was a long time before there was any answer. At last the door opened, letting a thick, smoky light into the street. A young woman stood there, hair collapsed in tangled tresses about her face. Eamon’s heart sank. She trembled as she saw the black he wore.

  “Mrs Morell?” His words felt futile.

  “My lord.” She did not know who he was, but, even in her grief, she would honour a Hand. His heart went out to her, yet, looking at her, he found that he did not know how to do what he had come to do.

  “Mrs Morell,” he began, “I am Lord Goodman.”

  Her eyes widened with terror and hatred.

  “Was killing my husband not enough for you? It was your defeat – yours. Why should you live, and not him?”

  Eamon recoiled. He brought a bag of coins from under his cloak. It was awkward in his hand. “Mrs Morell –”

  The woman’s eyes fell on his offer. She spoke with disgust. “I will take no coin from you. My lord, please leave.” Her voice shook.

  “Mrs Morell –”

  With a grieved bow the woman turned and fled, weeping, into the house. Without her to hold it, the door swung closed.

  As Eamon stood there, stunned, he heard someone stepping up by him. One of the old men, leaning heavily on a cane, came to bow to him.

  “Did you come to buy our silence, Lord Goodman?” he asked. Only age quelled his fury.

  “I did not come to buy anything,” Eamon retorted. The old man did not flinch. Eamon took a deep breath. “Mr Morell?” he guessed.

  “My lord.”

  “Mr Morell, I came to offer something that can never take the place of the son who has been taken from you and your house. Your son served me and he served the Master even with his life. He fought at Pinewood with honour, never once abandoning his oaths. He did not deserve death as he received it. He deserved to be honoured, and he should have rested better in a noble tomb than on a wretched pyre.”

  Mr Morell stared. They were not the words that the Right Hand would have spoken.

  “In whose name do you come, my lord?” Morell asked carefully.

  “My own,” Eamon answered wretchedly. “Just my own.”

  Sorrow poured into his heart. How could he assuage their grief? Perhaps he could not.

  In the silence, he offered the bag again.

  At last, Morell took it. He met Eamon’s gaze. “We will accept what you bring.”

  “I am sorry for what was done.”

  “So are we, my lord.” The old man bowed once, and entered the house.

  Eamon watched him go. Grief surfaced, raw and red. This was what he had to do, for every man whose life had been given in the line for his shame.

  Turning, he went back to the Coll, away from the music, and on to the next house.

  His reception in each house was much the same, consisting of suspicion and wary acceptance. It was a bloody coin that he brought, never able to give back what had been taken. Those who remained behind were widows, aging mothers, fatherless children. Their grief was green, budding, and seeding hatred of which he was the object.

  It was late evening when Eamon arrived at the Four Quarters, his errand concluded. He felt heavy of heart, desperately so, but he had done all he could. Maybe one day the families would understand the truth of what had happened – maybe that day would never come. He reminded himself that though men had died in the Right Hand’s decimation line, and died because of him, many more had lived – and that was his doing also.

  He stood, drawing deeply of the air, when he heard footsteps approach. Someone halted by him.

  “Lord Goodman?”

  “Yes?” He did not recognize the man before him, but saw that he was a first lieutenant.

  The man bowed. “First Lieutenant Greenwood, East Quarter.”

  “Good evening, Mr Greenwood.”

  “I’m sorry to trouble you, my lord – Captain Anderas implores your assistance.”

  Eamon frowned. “Has something happened?”

  “I believe it has to do with Lord Ashway. My lord, would you come with me to the Ashen?”

  “Of course.”

  Eamon accompanied the first lieutenant along Coronet Rise and then across the Ashen. The square was moonlight-mottled, and tall braziers stood at the Handquarter doors. As they approached, Eamon made out a figure on the steps who peered anxiously into the square.

  Greenwood vaulted the s
teps and saluted. “Sir.”

  “Thank you, Mr Greenwood,” the captain replied.

  The first lieutenant saluted again, bowed to Eamon, and left.

  “Lord Goodman,” Anderas said formally.

  “Captain.”

  The moonlight illuminated a tense, gaunt look to the captain. Eamon at once remembered what Ladomer had told him: Anderas was holding the reins of the East Quarter for the time being. “Is everything well, captain?”

  A flicker of strain ran across the captain’s face. “No, Lord Goodman. My men looked everywhere for you, but couldn’t…”

  Eamon suddenly saw that the captain shook like a brittle leaf. Eamon reached out to steady him.

  “Courage, captain.”

  Anderas looked strangely at him, biting his lip. At last, he drew breath.

  “Lord Goodman, I sent after you because… it is about Lord Ashway. I…” He faltered and closed his eyes. “I cannot control him.”

  Eamon stared. “What do you mean?”

  At a loss for words, Anderas shook his head. “The Right Hand commanded that he be kept confined in his quarters, as befits his station, until I receive further notice,” he said, “and I have done so. But this evening… This evening he is howling, calling down curses. I cannot stop him.”

  Eamon remembered Ashway in the Brand, and shuddered.

  “Will you help me, Lord Goodman?”

  What could he do? He met Anderas’s gaze. “I will do all that I can, captain.”

  They went together into the Handquarters, its corridors and rooms eerie in the moonlight, like the chambers of a forgotten keep.

  The captain led Eamon to Ashway’s quarters and on towards his study. Eamon saw the internal courtyard through the tall windows lining the corridor. A tall ash tree was engraved on Ashway’s door, its leaves lined with emerald traces.

  There, Anderas reached to his belt. He drew out some keys and unlocked the door.

  The study was dimly lit and lined with bookshelves, as Eamon had seen the week before. They were grim and forbidding in the shadowy light. One wall was dominated by a tall painting framed with gold. It showed a tangled mass of men, some under the banner of an eagle, some under the banner of a tattered star.