by Anna Thayer
At last she stopped and dropped down to her knees beside a figure in the dust. Eamon crouched down beside her.
The girl’s cousin was a young woman. Her eyes were still. She was not moving.
The little girl pressed against Eamon’s side. “Will she be –?”
“I don’t know.” It was too dark and he knew too little of the surgeon’s trade to answer her.
He laid his face by the still woman’s. The faintest trace of breath touched his cheek. He did not know what could be done, but knew that the little girl could not stay there.
“Ellen,” he said, “you’re going to go up.” The child glanced nervously at her cousin and gripped his hand. “I’m going to see if I can help your cousin. Will you go?”
At last, the girl nodded silently.
Eamon took her back to the opening. She spluttered as they came to a stop at the dusty bottom.
“Strong-arm!”
“My lord?”
“Keep good hold of the cloak.” Eamon turned to the girl. “You need to keep good hold, too.”
“Why did he call you ‘lord’?” the girl whispered. Eamon was grieved to hear new fear creep into her voice.
“Because he doesn’t know my name,” he answered gently. “Have courage, and hold on.”
The girl nodded again and fixed the cloak in her hand. Eamon lifted her high above him, as though she were a feather, and supported her as she sought a foothold in the wall.
“Can you manage, Ellen?”
“Yes, sir.”
He held her up as long as he could, stretching out his arms and fingers while the young man, his feet dug firmly into the broken walls, pulled hard on the cloak. Step by scrabbled step, the girl reached the lip of the hole and staggered against the young man’s leg. He seemed to know her; he gathered her to him with words of encouragement.
“Tell Captain Anderas to send some men,” Eamon called up. “There is another survivor, but she may be incapacitated. I will try to bring her to safety.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“See this girl safely back to the others.”
The young man bound the cloak to a beam and then drew the girl up to her feet. As he led her away across the tumbled building, Eamon turned and worked his way back into the tunnel.
He reached the young woman’s side and wondered just how he could help her. The girl’s cousin was laid out as though she had been knocked to the ground, maybe by one of the beams that crossed the hole, and there was an ugly wound across the far side of her head. Eamon was grateful that Ellen had not seen it. The woman still drew breath faintly, but Eamon wondered if, as time passed, it grew fainter still. His eyes grew more and more accustomed to the dark and he saw that there was blood clogged in the dust about her. He took her hand, saw no reaction, and tried calling her. But the pale lids remained closed.
Overhead the beams boomed ominously. He heard the Gauntlet working their way through the debris. How many others were there, trapped or dead, in grottoes of mildewed stone? Looking back at the face before him, he decided that this woman would not remain among that number.
You are a Hand: the dead mean nothing to you. The voice was fierce but Eamon laughed when it reached him.
“I am the First Knight,” he answered, “and I am the King’s Hand; I tell you that this woman will live.”
You cannot command it, son of Eben.
Eamon took the woman’s hand and pressed the cold fingers in his.
“In the King’s name I ask it,” he said, “that this woman may live to see him walk these streets in triumph.”
The flare of light was so great that he had to close his eyes. There was no burning in hand or brow as when the throned’s mark spoke – just light, light, light, filling his hands and fingers and obliterating the grimy shadows of the fallen walls. It moved around the young woman. He watched it with amazement as it washed about her, and marvelled at the sense of peace that it brought with it.
The light slowly faded and the air hung still. Eamon was silent. Then he leaned down.
“Wake up,” he said quietly.
He watched as she drew a deep breath and her eyes slowly opened. Like her cousin’s, they were a deep, dark brown, and they searched the air before turning and seeing him.
“I’m alive?” she whispered.
“Yes,” Eamon answered, “and you are going to live, and live long.”
She gazed at him in wonder. “Who are you?”
“My name is Eamon. I was passing when the building collapsed. I came to help.” The woman nodded, and then suddenly she looked to her side. Seeing nothing there she sat up suddenly.
“Ellen!” she cried. Eamon reached out to keep her head from hitting the low beams as she started.
“She’s already out, and safe,” he told her, “and you will be too.”
The woman ducked her head down, and as she did so saw the small pool of blood on the ground. She touched her head and hair, then looked at Eamon, completely bewildered. He pressed her hand.
“You weren’t badly cut. Come with me.”
Together they went from the hollow, half crawling and half standing, until they reached the lip of the deep well. Eamon looked up. He heard the noises of Gauntlet drawing near, and was sure that he heard Lieutenant Scott’s voice among them.
“Lieutenant!”
The next moment a face appeared at the top of the ditch; it was Scott’s.
“My cloak is tied there. Have your men take firm hold of it.”
Scott nodded breathlessly and gestured to his men to take hold.
Eamon turned to the young woman. “Hold on to the cloak. I’ll help you to climb out.” He pressed her hand against the black fabric, then formed a ledge for her feet with his hands. As he did so, she registered the cloak’s colour. A startled look passed over her face.
“Ready, lieutenant?” Eamon called.
“Ready, my lord.”
The woman gasped. “You’re –”
“Climb up,” Eamon said gently.
Timidly she set one foot in his hands and he lifted her. Scott reached down to help her from above. Eamon turned his head away as debris scuffed down the face of the ledge.
Soon the woman was out. Eamon paused to cough dust from his lungs. He sneezed ferociously, his eyes stinging.
“My lord!” Scott called down, and with his voice came the cloak again. Eamon took hold of it, set his foot against the crumbling stone, and began to climb.
It was much harder going up than it had been going down, and the creaking, shifting stones and wood sounded more ominous to him than before. He clawed his way back into the daylight. Scott seized his arm and pulled him onto the ledge, where they both staggered as the stones shifted.
“My lord, we should –”
“I am in complete agreement.” A couple of ensigns were already escorting the young woman back across the mass of stones. Eamon took his torn, dusty cloak from Scott’s cadets. Laughing at how ridiculous the thing looked, he drew it into a long sash over his back and shoulders and tied it firmly. Scott stared at him.
They worked their way back across the debris. Though Eamon called out regularly to check if there were any others trapped who could hear him, no answer came.
When he eventually reached the courtyard floor again he saw that dozens of people from the nearby buildings had flooded out, and were helping the Gauntlet to move the debris. A couple of carts had also appeared, and the rubble was being moved into some of them. Along the far side of the courtyard were two lines of people: in one they lay still and pale on the ground. Eamon counted the dead with a terrible weight in his stomach. Fifteen, probably all from the same, or related, families. In the other group were another dozen people – some shivering with fear, others crying and weeping, others staring into nothing. Anderas was by them and Eamon saw that a Gauntlet surgeon was present, too. It was highly unusual for such a man to treat any who did not belong to the Gauntlet, but Eamon thoroughly approved of what he expected was the ca
ptain’s initiative.
He walked up to the group of survivors, shaking dust from his hair. None of them saw him at first. When Anderas greeted him, they gaped at him and his bedraggled dress.
“There are three more unaccounted for, my lord.” Eamon saw the young man who had first helped him crouching by the woman he had rescued. They spoke together in low voices and stared at him. Ellen was at her cousin’s side, holding her and crying. Near them were a couple of older women, both quaking and tearing at their hair in grief, and injured men.
Eamon drew the ragged cloak off his shoulders, shook it once, and stepped across to the trembling women. He wrapped it about them.
“I am sorry that it is so dusty,” he apologized, “but I trust it will keep you warm.”
The looks upon their faces expressed more than any words could.
Eamon returned to Anderas. “What is the name of this square, captain?”
“Tailor’s Turn, my lord.”
“I assume that these buildings are on the restoration list?”
Anderas looked at him strangely. “Yes, my lord.”
“How long for?” Eamon persisted.
“Buildings in this area have been on the list for years, my lord.”
Ferocious anger was building in Eamon’s heart. “How many years?”
“At least three.”
“And they pay to remain on the list?”
Anderas nodded.
“Continue with the clear-up,” Eamon commanded. “See that these people are cared for.” He turned for his horse. The beast still stood, unperturbed, among the Gauntlet soldiers who raced back and forth. As he went, Ellen looked up and called after him.
“Thank you, Eamon!”
Silence fell on the crowd, and the doctor, tending to one of the men, looked up in mortal alarm. Ellen seemed completely oblivious to the silence, tucking a tress of thick, matted hair behind one ear as she smiled at him.
The man Eamon called “Strong-arm” came to his feet. “Please, my lord –” he began, a pitiful look on his face.
“All is well, Strong-arm.” Eamon looked at the girl and smiled. The faces around him waxed with bewilderment and fear. “You’re welcome, Ellen,” he said. “You take good care of your cousin.”
CHAPTER XX
The doors to the Crown Office glistened in the mid-morning sun. Eamon dismounted at the ornate gates, throwing the reins to a nearby servant. The man at the door bowed low and Eamon, who had not stopped to change his dust-covered clothes, strode inside.
Everywhere he walked men leapt to their feet, struck dumb by his arrival. He spoke to none of them. He searched for one man and would not leave until he found him.
“You,” he called to a passing servant.
“My lord,” the woman answered, curtseying. As she rose, Eamon started in surprise.
It was Toriana, Alessia’s maidservant.
He did not have the wit or time to ask how a servant of Alessia’s house found herself there, but her face mollified his anger.
“Where is Mr Rose?”
“In his office, my lord.”
Nodding once to her, Eamon surged towards the principal office.
The Crown official was at his desk, reading some papers and sipping delicately at wine. Eamon swept into the room, leaving the doorman no time to announce him. In fact, the first that Mr Rose knew of his presence was his shadow as it passed over his desk.
“Mr Rose.”
The official’s head jerked up, spilling wine over the rim of his goblet.
“Lord Goodman!” he cried, bolting to his feet. “I am so very sorry. I did not know to expect you.” As he took in the state of Eamon’s dress, his mouth fell open. “My lord –”
“It is customary, Mr Rose, to bow to a Quarter Hand. In this, your servants are better schooled than you, it would appear.”
Grey-faced, Rose bowed low. “What service can I offer you, my lord?”
“Offer me?” Eamon laughed sharply. “Offer me none. You will give me all the service which I, in the Master’s name, command, Mr Rose.” The official trembled before him. “Where is the list of building works for the East Quarter?” he demanded.
“Here, my lord.” Rose gestured feebly to a tall pile of papers on his desk.
“Where are the quarter architects?”
“In their offices, my lord.” Rose watched him nervously.
“Summon the head architect.”
Rose edged round his table and leaned cautiously out of his door. The man’s voice echoed down the corridors. Not long later he re-entered, followed by a tall man who seemed familiar. As the man entered, he bowed low.
“My lord,” Rose told him, “this is Darren Lorentide. He was not here on your last visit. He is the East Quarter’s chief architect.”
Eamon took in the man and felt a long-forgotten grief rise in his heart. This man could be a brother, cousin, or an uncle to the Lorentide he himself had condemned to be delivered to Cathair for torment and death.
He tried hard to mask his surprise. “Mr Rose, give Mr Lorentide the list of building works.”
Rose moved swiftly indeed. Lorentide looked bewildered as the list was given to him.
“Mr Lorentide, to the best of your knowledge, how urgent is reconstruction work in Tailor’s Turn?”
Lorentide looked across at Rose, as though for guidance or support, but it was the look of a man whose better judgment had long been servant to another’s will.
“Mr Lorentide,” Eamon demanded sharply, “are you the head architect in my quarter?”
“Yes, Lord Goodman.”
“Then why do you look to Mr Rose? I spoke to you.”
Lorentide met his gaze. “The work is desperately urgent, my lord.” Seeing the dust on Eamon’s robes, he swallowed.
“Mr Lorentide, one of the buildings in the Turn collapsed this morning, taking with it the lives of at least fifteen citizens of this quarter.”
Lorentide’s face grew ashen, and Rose squirmed in discomfort.
“Yes, my lord,” Lorentide said, his voice barely more than a whisper.
“You know of this, Mr Lorentide?”
“We heard of it an hour ago, my lord,” Lorentide answered softly. “Mr Rose advised us that the Gauntlet were handling the situation, and that clean-up is not the preserve of the architects.”
“What were you working on?”
“The Patagon estate, my lord.”
Eamon’s hackles rose. The Patagon estate belonged to one of the quarter’s high-ranking families of knights. He angrily surmised how the quarter’s building list was ordered. “How urgent is that work?”
Lorentide hesitated. “It was requested some time ago, my lord,” he began, “and we have been working on it for a while.”
“Is it life-threatening?”
“No, my lord. It is a matter of worn façades, and a new gateway.”
Eamon glared at Rose. The official’s jaw dropped.
“He speaks just to please you, my lord!” Rose blustered.
“No, Mr Rose,” Eamon answered fiercely. “His honesty pleases me. His words do not, for they reflect the way that this office, bearing the Master’s seal and authority, is managed.” His voice grew harder. “What right have you, Mr Rose, to drain the resources of the city?”
Rose blinked hard. “My lord, I never –”
“By withholding the architects and founders and builders from the Turn this morning – as you have done every morning for the last three years since it was added to the list – and by leaving the Gauntlet to deal with the consequences, you are responsible for a breach in city order. It is a very serious offence, Mr Rose.” He looked back to Lorentide. “Mr Lorentide, from now on you will be the master of the reconstruction list. I want it reprioritized so that the buildings in most need of repair – whose damages represent a threat to lives and livelihood – appear at the head of the list. Residents of each building will contribute a percentage of their earnings to that work; the rest of the cost
will be fronted by this office and by the city.”
Lorentide stared at him, wide-eyed.
“My lord,” Rose began, “you cannot –”
Eamon turned slowly to him. “Cannot, Mr Rose?”
Rose paled to a shade of yellowish-green. “I would strongly advise you not to go against the city’s –” he began.
“I keep my counsel with the Master,” Eamon replied. “When you act from this office, Mr Rose, you are a representative of the Master. How many people in this quarter do you think have cursed him because of what you have caused to happen today? The Master will hear about such rumours, and he will know that they spring from your ineptitude. I would be disquieted by such a thought, if I were you.” Eamon looked again at Lorentide. “When you have prepared the new list, Mr Lorentide, take a copy of it to Captain Anderas,” he said. “Any assistance that can be reasonably rendered by the Gauntlet shall be afforded to you.”
“Thank you, Lord Goodman.” Lorentide bowed low. Relief flooded his face.
Eamon looked at both men. “To his glory, gentlemen.”
“To his glory,” they replied.
As dusk fell that evening the Handquarters in the East Quarter filled with light from tall candelabrum, and groups of men decked out in full Gauntlet uniform arrived at the entrance. There, well-dressed servants met them, taking cloaks from those who wished to leave them and marking names on the list of expected attendees.
Eamon greeted each guest in turn, by name, for he had spent much of the afternoon studying the list and was at last finding himself capable of matching names to faces. Some faces he knew, and knew well – others not so well. Many of the lieutenants from the East Quarter came, though Greenwood, who was preparing for his formal installation as college draybant, remained behind. Some of the quarter’s new cadets accompanied their more experienced peers. Their eyes were wide at the tall rooms filled with dark wood and brimming with officers. All of the East Quarter’s Hands came, each of them refreshed after a late afternoon spar with Eamon in the practice yard. Waite was there, and with him a few of the West Quarter’s cadets. Manners was among them.
