The King's Hand

by Anna Thayer

  “Then my timing is good.”

  “As ever,” Waite said with a smile. “Lord Cathair often stays at his Ravensill estate for almost a month at this time of the year. It puts some strain on the quarter,” he added, “but we are accustomed to it, and prepared for such absences.” Waite glanced at the papers on his desk. “The West Quarter is swearing in its new ensigns and lieutenants on the twenty-first and Lord Cathair, rightly, likes to be present at such times. Many of the Third Banners are to be formally appointed.”

  “Great news indeed,” Eamon answered, forcing away the sudden thickness in his throat. His palm burned; he clenched it silently. Were the Third Banners to endure that, too? Were they to become marked and have the doors of their minds opened to the voice of Edelred?

  “Perhaps you would also like to attend, Lord Goodman?” Waite said. “You would certainly do us great honour in doing so. One or two of the lads are particularly nervous about the swearing – though the Crown knows we’ve been through the ceremony a hundred times! I think that seeing you would encourage and inspire them.”

  “I should be delighted to attend. In fact,” Eamon added, “you should bring some of them with you to the East Quarter.” He smiled. “Let them see where their swearing-in may take them, if they work hard.”

  “Thank you, Lord Goodman. I think that will give them something to consider.”

  Eamon took his leave. Waite’s clasp on his hand was friendly when they parted, and for that he was grateful. He admired the man and it would have grieved him greatly to cause – or not to heal – any rift between them.

  But as he returned to the Coll his stomach churned. The Third Banner cadets – his cadets – were going to be sworn. They were going to be marked, burned and bound to the voice. Would Waite knowingly have them set their hands to that mark?

  He thought suddenly of Mathaiah. Had he lived, Mathaiah would also have been due for formal swearing.

  But Mathaiah Grahaven was beyond the grip of the throned’s mark. Even had he lived, Eamon realized that the cadet would have found a way to absent himself from the ceremony – or to have himself barred from it.

  With a shiver, he remembered the night he had spent seeking his dagger in the muddy woods around Edesfield. He had nearly lost his swearing that night. But he did not believe that any of the Third Banners would do anything as foolish as he has done – especially with Waite as their champion: every man in the West Quarter loved their captain. Waite’s approval alone would be enough to press them on. And when they saw Lord Goodman sitting by at their hour of swearing…

  They would not withdraw. And though he was a lord of Dunthruik, the appointed Lord of the East Quarter, he could not make them. Ford, Jenning, Brockhurst, Ostler, Manners, Smith, Barde… their faces passed before him. The Third Banner cadets would be made marked servants of the throned.

  He was at the Four Quarters. He looked up, letting his eyes pass over the statues, the engravings, the crowns, and eagles. He could not stop them.

  Turning his steps onto Coronet Rise, he returned to the East Quarter.

  That afternoon he returned to the college grounds and found Anderas waiting for him. The captain greeted him warmly.

  “Lord Goodman.”

  “Are the Hands of the Quarter coming?”

  “They’ll be here shortly.” Anderas looked curiously at him. “What do you intend, my lord?”

  “You think that I intend something?”

  “No, my lord, I don’t think it: I know it.” Eamon laughed at the man’s audacity. “You may laugh,” Anderas told him, “but you are a man full of intention, made more fearsome by the fact that you have will brazen enough to act upon it.”

  “I shall take that as a compliment, captain, and thank you for it.”

  The evening breeze touched Eamon’s hair. He looked back at Anderas. Like Waite, Anderas was responsible for selecting the men who would be branded, promoted, or Handed. In the following weeks, Anderas would arrange a swearing ceremony for the East Quarter College. It chilled him. The captain was a good man – an exemplary man – sharp of wit and compassionate, a dear friend, and yet…

  There was no way that the Lord of the East Quarter could forbid a swearing. Eamon would be forced to watch more men swear and, when the King came, he feared he would have to give account for why he had not stopped it.

  “Are you well, my lord?”

  Eamon looked up. He was not surprised to find Anderas watching him.

  “Thank you, yes.”

  “Your meeting with Captain Waite?”

  “Went well,” Eamon replied. After a moment he continued: “Have you any pressing duties upon the morrow, captain?”

  “None that I cannot leave to Mr Greenwood, my lord.”

  “Perhaps, captain, we should formally appoint Mr Greenwood as the college draybant!”

  “Lord Ashway and Captain Etchell had made note that Mr Greenwood might be considered for the Hands,” Anderas replied quietly.

  Eamon detected reservation. “Do you agree with their assessment?”

  “It would be a great loss to us if Greenwood was Handed. But things in the East Quarter are settling. Perhaps we may now duly consider and appoint the best man to be college draybant.”

  “Rather than to act as it,” Eamon nodded. “We will discuss it. I would like you to accompany me to Ravensill tomorrow, captain,” he continued. “We shall also have need of a cart and driver. Will you see to that?”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  At that moment the Hands of the Quarter arrived, grim-faced. The East Quarter had fifteen Hands. Eamon remembered some of their faces from his formal dinner and watched as the men fell into a long line and bowed to him. Familiar doubts assailed him; the men’s faces were guarded and suspicious. No explanation would have been given to them of Lord Ashway’s death, nor of Eamon’s own appointment, and he had scarcely taken note of them in the days since he had been made their commander. These Hands would also be more than mindful of the fact that, until not so long ago, Lord Goodman had been but a Hand of the Quarter himself.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Eamon greeted them formally. “I will not keep you long from your duties, of which I know you have many.” He regarded them each in turn. “Your names.”

  The Hands gave their names. Eamon recognized only the names of the three most accomplished: Lord Lonnam, Lord Brettal, and Lord Heathlode. Eamon matched each man’s look evenly. Like every other man and woman in the whole of the East Quarter, the quarter’s Hands had heard different and utterly conflicting stories about Eamon in recent days. He wanted – even needed – to give them a reason to obey him other than for duty’s sake, but he could not address them the way he had his household or the college. If Lord Cathair had taught him anything, it was that Hands had to be treated with force.

  He plunged straight in. “I read your looks, gentlemen: you served Lord Ashway well – and well you know it! You wonder whether in serving under me – the one who returned in disgrace from Pinewood and who served a two-crown dinner – your service will ever attain a great height. You wonder – jealously – whether you might have taken Lord Ashway’s place better than I.”

  The Hands stared.

  Eamon stepped forward to pace before them, meeting each of their gazes in turn.

  “But when you think such things, my lords, you forget that I am the man who returned, from the Serpent’s own camp, bearing the head of an Easter lord which to this day adorns the Blind Gate. I did so in less than seven days. You forget that the Master chose me himself, and that he gave me authority to rule over this quarter for his glory.” Eamon’s face grew hard.

  “When you forget these things, gentlemen, you set yourselves against me. To set yourself against me is to do no less than set yourself against the Master himself, and against his glory. I counsel you to do so no more.”

  The Hands gaped.

  “In recent days, I have not had the opportunity to assess your qualities,” Eamon continued. “You ha
ve many duties here in the city, duties that have doubled with the orders for the culling, but such duties do not constitute an excuse for physical laxness. I want you to stay sharp. I have seen the Serpent, gentlemen, and how Hands that fall foul of him are treated – piled into open graves and left to wolves and crows. This day I would know if, seeing him, you would live to speak of it as I do. Captain Anderas.”

  “My lord?”

  “Have Lieutenant Taine and the Crimsons bring practice infantry blades.” Eamon knew that the quarter’s Crimson ensigns were doing a weapons drill in a nearby training yard. “Invite them to come to this yard, to admire the skill of the quarter’s Hands.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  The line of Hands exchanged discreet glances.

  “Lord Goodman,” said one – Lord Lonnam – “what would you have us do?”

  Eamon looked hard at Lonnam. “When the Master stretches out his Hands against the Serpent, they must be able to bend the bow and strike with steel. This quarter – and the whole of the River Realm – must know that the Master’s Hands are a deadly and fearsome force. I will see evidence of it. Steel sharpens steel, so men do men. You will show your best, gentlemen, when you are observed.”

  The Hands looked grim.

  Anderas returned, leading Lieutenant Taine, and behind him the Crimson Ensigns. The young men brought the wooden practice blades, and at Anderas’s direction laid them together in a corner of the yard before drawing up into a neat group.

  “The ensigns may stand at ease, captain,” Eamon called.

  Anderas nodded. The group of ensigns relaxed a little.

  Eamon gestured for Anderas to bring him a couple of the wooden blades before looking back to the Hands.

  “Lord Brettal, step forward,” he commanded.

  Gaze narrowed, Brettal hesitated for a fraction of a moment, then did so. Eamon took one of the weapons from Anderas and gave it to the Hand. The Hand stood and watched as Eamon took the second blade from the captain. He weighed it in his hand.

  There was a long pause. The line of Hands watched expectantly. Brettal twitched his shoulders.

  “Do you not mean to choose me an opponent, my lord?”

  “I have done so,” Eamon answered. He pulled off his cloak and handed it to Anderas.

  Brettal stared. “You mean –?”

  “Show me your strength, Lord Brettal,” Eamon said, and struck at the Hand.

  Lord Brettal was a Hand in good shape. Despite his surprise, he turned Eamon’s initial strike with clean efficiency and stepped back. Eamon allowed Brettal this minor reprieve; it had been a long time since he had fought a duel. He had been good at it, back at college. But neither in Edesfield nor in the West Quarter had his opponent been a Hand, and in neither place had his own victory been so important. If, after all of his words, one of the quarter’s Hands defeated him, it would only mire him in further tales of weakness.

  Brettal returned to him with a strong, fast blow; Eamon was hard-pressed to parry in time. The blow jarred his limbs as the Hand drew back and swiped at him again. Brettal was well worthy of the black that he bore: he stepped lightly from his attack, and flexed his hilt-grip.

  They fell apart again, circling about each other. Each assessed the other’s guards. The ensigns called and cheered. The line of Hands remained silent.

  Brettal came at Eamon again. Their blades met and locked. Eamon swung himself away from the bind and struck back. The Hand’s guard was tight, but Eamon went through it, landing a blow across the man’s arm.

  “You have just lost the use of your arm, Lord Brettal,” Eamon told him. His lungs worked hard but his voice was clear.

  Brettal blinked hard. “Yes, Lord Goodman –”

  Eamon turned his blade again and rested its point against the Hand’s stomach.

  “Now you’ve been run through,” he added. “I understand, of course, that the shock of losing your arm may have contributed to that.” He lowered his weapon and stepped back. “The Master has lost another loyal servant.”

  Brettal bowed low. “It would appear that I am in need of some practice, my lord.” His face coloured.

  “You shall be fearsome once you have it,” Eamon told him. “You may return here at this hour tomorrow, if you wish, and attempt to decapitate me.”

  Brettal glanced up. A small smile passed over his face. “I will do so, my lord.”

  Brettal returned to the line and Eamon looked back to it, looking for another of the more senior Hands. “Lord Lonnam,” he called, “let me see your mettle.”

  Lonnam took the wooden sword from Brettal and stepped boldly forward, jaw set. Delighted, the ensigns cheered.

  Lonnam matched Eamon’s gaze. “You shall not find me a simple foe, Lord Goodman,” he said. He turned his blade to a whipping blow, aimed at Eamon’s side.

  By reflex, Eamon parried the blow and then pulled himself free in time to thwart a second strike. Lonnam was stronger than Brettal, probably stronger than Eamon himself, and he recognized it when their weapons jarred and bound a third and then a fourth time.

  “You have a good arm, Lonnam.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “It will avail you little when the Serpent takes your leg,” Eamon answered, for at just that second the Hand left his right flank unguarded. Eamon swooped down hard.

  “I appear to have been crippled, my lord,” Lonnam chuckled nervously, and stepped back with a bow to join the line. The ensigns applauded him.

  Eamon turned to Lord Heathlode. The blood rushed round his veins.

  “Will you defeat me, Lord Heathlode?”

  The third Hand was a lithe, diminuitive man. He laughed uncertainly.

  “Lord Goodman, my fellows may be out of practice but I was never in practice; I was not made a Hand for martial prowess,” he answered. “But as you ask it of me, I will attempt it.”

  The Hand stepped forward. Eamon saw at once that he was not a born swordsman. His grip on the weapon was poor, despite years of Gauntlet training. How long had it been since Heathlode had used a real weapon?

  The Hand took but two steps forward. Eamon exploited the weakness in his grip – a single, sharp knock sent the weapon flying. Heathlode looked disappointed rather than surprised as his blade spun away and landed with a dull thud behind him.

  Eamon touched his own weapon to the man’s chest. “The Serpent takes your head home to adorn his wall.”

  “He has very poor taste, Lord Goodman,” Heathlode replied with a bow.

  Eamon looked at the three defeated Hands. They had seemed easy opponents. Perhaps they truly were out of practice – or perhaps some star had watched over him.

  He looked firmly at them and lowered his voice so that only the Hands could hear him. “I expect that Lords Brettal, Heathlode, and Lonnam are representative of your skills,” he said. “I am an infantryman by trade, gentlemen, sworn to the Gauntlet but seven months ago and yet, facing three of the East’s own Hands, I stand here undefeated. Clearly this suits me as an exercise in vanity, but it does not suit any of you. You may be breachers, changers, dreamers, breakers, movers, or seers, or have a hundred other talents from when you first swore your oaths – but they will not save you against the skill of an armed and determined man. It did not save your fellows at Ashford, and it did not save many of the Hands who were with me at Pinewood.” He surveyed them sternly. “Like the greenest Gauntlet recruits, you will each put in weapons practice every day. If I do not see substantial improvement I will pit you against the ensigns and cadets.” A couple of faces grew wide. “You think this an unnecessary whim, gentlemen, designed for your discomfort?” he laughed. “It is not. To suffer defeat at the hands of ensigns and cadets would serve you better than the humiliation of being felled by a snake, and if by subjecting you to the former I saved you from the latter, I would count myself to have served the Master. To your duties, gentlemen,” he finished. “Another day, I shall challenge others of you.”

  The Hands bowed low. Perhaps inspir
ed by Eamon’s threat, some of them made their way to the pile of blades that the ensigns had brought. Not long later these had split into pairs and threes and begun practising. To see so many Hands in action at once quieted the ensigns: they watched in awe.

  Eamon watched too. Then he saw Lord Lonnam coming across to him.

  “You have a good hand, my lord,” said Lonnam, bowing.

  “Thank you, Lord Lonnam.”

  The Hand looked at him curiously. “My lord,” he said softly, “if you have such a hand for steel, why did you surrender your sword?”

  The sounds of the other Hands caught in combat echoed in the yard, marked every now and then by the ensigns’ voices. Eamon pressed his wooden blade into Lonnam’s hands.

  “Lord Lonnam,” he said, “there are better things to live and die by.”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  With each passing day, the winds that buffeted Dunthruik from the north-west grew less severe, and they brought with them touches of warmth. The great, trailing flowers in the Ashen bloomed.

  Following his spar with the Hands of the Quarter Eamon had slept well, though his sleep was interrupted by odd dreams. As he sat at breakfast he struggled to remember anything of them but pale forms and flickering images.

  Slater brought him his breakfast: the accustomed tray of breads, all of them fresh and accompanied by meats and cheeses. That morning Slater also brought a strange fruit that he did not – and could not – recognize. He had never seen its like before in his life. It was a little smaller than his fist, and was a ruddy golden colour.

  “Good morning, my lord.” Slater bowed as he laid the tray on the table, neatly avoiding Eamon’s papers.

  “Good morning,” Eamon answered, eyeing the fruit suspiciously. He had not the courage to ask what it was, and if Slater observed the disconcerted fashion in which he stared at it, then the servant had the sense not to mention it.

  Slater left, and Eamon ate. He had been left a knife and a small bowl of water. He presumed they were each for the fruit, though he was unsure how to cut it properly. Not long later there was a knock at his door. Eamon bade the knocker enter. Anderas stepped inside. The captain bowed.