The King's Hand

by Anna Thayer

  “What does Lord Tramist have to say about this?” he asked. He could not imagine the Lord of the South Quarter taking kindly to the family’s movements.

  “I am not sure,” Anderas replied. “The South is often hard pressed for space. Lord Tramist has granted the families permission to leave.”

  Eamon set his quill to the papers and signed them. They were only two families, looking to go into one of the poorest parts of the East Quarter. He hoped that they would find themselves well there.

  “Perhaps, as it is only two families, he will forgive me.” Eamon rose from his seat. “I suppose I shall have to dress very formally for this afternoon’s ceremony.”

  “I expect that Mr Slater has already laid out the appropriate attire for you,” Anderas answered. “He is very particular about such things. Marilio Bellis is being inducted into the household and Draybant Greenwood is testing his son for the cadets,” he added.

  “Will he do?” Eamon asked.

  “He is a little nervous, my lord – but that is not unusual.”

  “Indeed.” Eamon smiled. “Thank you, captain.”

  “Is there anything else, my lord?” Anderas gathered all the day’s papers from Eamon’s desk, ready to dispatch them to the appropriate quarters.

  “One thing more,” Eamon told him. “When I interviewed Mr Fort this morning, he mentioned an incident with his cousin during the cull some fifteen years ago. Draybant Wilson advised me that you might know something about it.”

  The captain paused pensively. “I was just shy of joining the Gauntlet during the cull,” he answered, “so know near nothing of the matter personally. Lord Ashway mentioned something of the case to me once, I believe, just after my appointment. Smuggling wayfarers from the city?”

  “So Mr Fort said,” Eamon nodded. “Is the woman’s name known to you at all?”

  Anderas thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, my lord,” he said. “Her family name was Forthay but she is down in the official account by her husband’s name, as Alleana Tiller.”

  Eamon felt a terrible chill seize him. How could he not have guessed it sooner?

  “Alleana Tiller?” he whispered.

  “Yes. Distinctive names, both of them. As I recall, that was why Fort had to change his. Are you well, my lord?”

  “Yes,” Eamon answered, though shaken.

  Mr Fort maintained that Alleana, her husband, and her son had been killed by the Gauntlet. Perhaps he believed it. But Eamon knew Alleana had escaped the Gauntlet. He had seen her bloodied hands. He had sat with her through her gasps of pain and had been there to receive her final kiss on his forehead. He had been there when his father had knelt down and wept beside her cold, still body. He had been told that thieves, trying to take her purse, had attacked her. At last he knew the truth.

  Alleana Forthay. How could he have forgotten that name? It had been so long since he had heard it; she had told it to him only once. In Dunthruik, she went by the name of Tiller – the name of her husband’s mother, used because he had trade connections in the city by that name. But when they had travelled beyond Dunthruik and returned to Edesfield, his hometown, she was Alleana Goodman.

  Fort’s words ran through Eamon again: “My family has no part with wayfarers…”

  It was not true – there was at least one. Fort could never have known – and could not know – that the man who had granted him his freedom that morning was First Knight to the Serpent’s heir. Nor could he know that the Lord of the East Quarter was the son of the woman who had smuggled wayfarers from the city at the cost of her own life.

  “Lord Goodman?”

  Eamon looked up. There was a thin veil of tears over his eyes. He blinked it back. “I, too, was a boy during the cull.”

  “I understand,” Anderas said quietly.

  They watched each other in silence for a moment.

  “If I may, my lord,” Anderas said, “I have to inspect the new First Pennants this afternoon.”

  “Of course,” Eamon replied – and he had to be witness to the swearing of the Third Banners.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  Jubilant red and gold attired the West Quarter College courtyard. Banners bearing eagles, ravens, and crowns snapped over the doorposts and blazed in the sun. It was a beautiful morning, and far hotter than was normal for the time of year.

  The courtyard was lined with seats, behind which was space for those visitors whose lot it was to stand. This space, as much as there was, was filled with people dressed in their finest: families and friends of the young men who were to swear that morning. Added to these witnesses were officers, ensigns, and cadets, resplendent in their uniforms, who alone among the observers stood in silence, their faces marked with smiles. It was to be a great day.

  Eamon was seated apart from the other onlookers. A raised seating area had been prepared opposite the platform where Captain Waite was to conduct the swearing-in of the cadets. From where he sat, shaded by a long red awning, Eamon would have a clear view of the ceremony.

  He restrained a sigh and shuffled his robes. Before leaving the Ashen he had donned the most formal of his rather large collection of Quarter Hand attire, and the owl and ash sat heavily on him. He fiddled with the ring on his finger. There was nothing he could do but wait.

  Suddenly the two Gauntlet soldiers by the seating platform snapped sharply to attention. Eamon glanced up and saw Cathair stepping up the stairs to the platform. The Hand was thickly attired but bore it better than Eamon did. Approaching, he cast Eamon a smile so pleasant that Eamon had to suppress the urge to screw up his face in disgust.

  “Lord Cathair.”

  “Ah, Lord Goodman! Isn’t it a fine day?” Cathair drew a deep breath of the still air as he took the seat next to Eamon’s. The smile on the Hand’s pale face terrified Eamon.

  “It is.”

  “You have never been in Dunthruik in high summer, I take it?” Cathair laughed. Eamon did not answer. He knew Dunthruik’s summers from his childhood, and as Cathair continued, he distinctly remembered the choking humidity that would fall like a shroud on the worst days.

  “Ah, Lord Goodman, the sea becomes as a balm to the city, and the sun! ‘Jewel of the sceptred skies’…” Eamon realized that Cathair was probably reciting poetry, though he did not know what. It was terrible evidence of how jovial a mood the Hand was in.

  Cathair turned to him again. “I regret that I could not attend last night. Your dinner was a success, I trust?”

  “Indeed, Lord Cathair,” Eamon replied. “Your wine was very greatly appreciated. The Raven’s Avol was a particularly finely balanced vintage.”

  “You know a little of wines, Lord Goodman?”

  “Nothing at all,” Eamon replied truthfully “By which I mean I know nothing about grapes or soils or barrels or styles of wine. I can about distinguish a red from a white,” he added with a smile, “and so the fact that my uncultured tongue was struck so keenly by your wines only goes to prove how excellent they were.”

  “The veil of your ignorance was pierced by their exceeding quality?” Cathair asked.

  “As ever, Lord Cathair, you are more poetic a man than I,” Eamon answered. “Yes, that is what I mean. I was so strongly struck that I may even be able to name the grape when next I taste it.”

  Cathair laughed. For a moment, the tension and distrust between them almost evaporated.

  “Ah, Lord Goodman, I am glad indeed that you enjoyed what poor things my little hills have to offer.”

  In that moment a trumpet sounded and silence arrested the gathered onlookers. Eamon turned his eyes to the courtyard gateway and watched as Captain Waite, followed by Draybant Farleigh and the college’s first lieutenant, walked steadily through the yard. Waite struck a truly imposing figure. The young man who followed him carried the small pommelled sceptre on which the cadets would make their oaths. The pommel glistened in the light. It froze Eamon’s blood.

  Waite reached the platform where the ceremony would take place – d
raybant and first lieutenant close by him. Both turned to look to the gateway, and the watching officers, ensigns, and cadets turned as a single body towards it, raising their swords in a formal salute. The yard became awash with reflected light as some of the college’s third-year cadets – the Banner, Longsword, Raven, and Quiver groups – marched in impeccable order into the yard. It was an impressive sight.

  “Ah! The fortunate number.” Cathair leaned across slightly to speak into Eamon’s ear. “The Third Banners were your own cadets, were they not?” he asked, gesturing to some of the marching men with a slight incline of his head.

  “Yes, Lord Cathair.” Cathair knew full well that they had been his. As the long line drew up before Waite’s platform, Eamon saw the faces of men he knew and loved. Pity churned in his stomach, for he knew what they were to endure and he felt guilty, for he had not stopped them.

  “You must be very pleased to be here today,” Cathair continued, still smiling. “Have you seen the final list?”

  “No, Lord Cathair.”

  “Such a pity! I am sure that you will find it absolutely delightful. Some of the lieutenantcies will, I believe, be especially pleasing to you.”

  The knot in Eamon’s stomach grew tighter. He looked back to the young men who stood but a few feet before him, their faces radiant in the sun as they looked up to the captain who had brought them to that day. The young men had likely anticipated this day with eagerness their whole lives; Eamon knew that he had been the same. He remembered the feverish anticipation that had flowed relentlessly through his veins, the barely contained excitement with which he had watched his colleagues kneeling to lay their hands on the pommel that he longed to touch for himself. He closed his eyes briefly.

  Could he not stop them, even now?

  You will not dare, Eben’s son.

  That day, he had redefined the building list, acquitted a falsely arrested man, and drawn a father and son into his household. All those things he had done thinking, not of the Master’s glory, but of what the King would have had him do. But he did not dare to stop the swearing.

  As he looked back down the lines and scanned the rows of familiar faces, the voice mocked his cowardice. But he could do nothing. To act would be to betray himself and to betray Hughan. By helping Hughan he might yet hope to help these men.

  The line came to a halt. The number gathered was about sixty in total, twelve of them Third Banners. As one, the cadets formally saluted their captain.

  “His glory!”

  “Wonderful, isn’t it?” Cathair spoke even more quietly now, affecting awe at the beauty of the sight.

  “Yes.” Eamon’s heart was heavy. “I remember it well.”

  “Most,” Cathair answered, a slight barb to his tone, “never forget it.”

  Eamon looked to the lines again, then stopped suddenly. He had counted the men, examining their faces, and knew that, though he rued that any of them should be bound to the throned that day, he had been seeking one face over all the others. Waite stepped forward to the front of the platform with a proud smile on his face, to look out across the gathered watchers.

  “Today, these young men formally make known their allegiance to the Master.” Waite’s voice, tremulous with pride, carried effortlessly across the yard. “Each man here has earned this distinction through his skill, honour, and loyalty. May it be for all of you the first step of many in a life of glorious service.”

  Waite stepped back slightly and the first lieutenant laid the staff into the captain’s hands. Eamon’s palm tingled inside his glove. He held his breath as Waite called the first cadet forward by name.

  “Farrow Ostler of the West Quarter.”

  The young man stepped up to the platform and knelt. The courtyard was utterly silent as Waite, the staff now in his hand, turned to the young man. “What do you seek?”

  “Service with the Gauntlet, captain.”

  “And what is your pledge?”

  The words pounded in Eamon’s head. He saw Captain Belaal’s face before his own as he had answered that question what seemed a lifetime ago: “I, Eamon Goodman, do hereby pledge…”

  “I, Farrow Ostler, do hereby pledge my allegiance to the Master. My blood, my blade, my body are all given in his service.”

  Your blood is mine, Eben’s son. Did you not swear it then even as he does now?

  Eamon drew breath as the words cut through him. He had sworn it…

  Waite smiled at the cadet. “And do you swear this most solemnly to the Master, such an oath as may not be broken?”

  “Do not swear!” The words rose up in Eamon’s heart. His lungs filled to cry them out, but his voice was bound just as he was; for Cathair watched him, and he knew he had to smile.

  The kneeling cadet looked up to Waite, his eyes shining with emotion. “I do swear it.”

  “Ah!” Cathair gave out a satisfied sigh. A shudder ran down Eamon’s spine.

  “Then receive the mark of your allegiance.” As Waite brought forward the staff, Eamon’s hand curled in memory of what had touched his own skin. If only Ostler could be stopped, and Ford and Smith and all the others who stood behind him… He searched the line again, saw the eager faces.

  Manners. Where was Manners?

  Ostler’s hand was on the pommel, and the curious silence grew deeper. Eamon’s heart sank as he saw Waite’s solemn face. Did the captain not remember what happened when the oath was sworn? How could he so benignly give that to men whom he loved? Had Waite not been tormented by the voice of Edelred all the days of his service?

  Perhaps he had not.

  Waite withdrew the staff and Ostler looked up, a contented look on his face. Waite smiled at him. “Thus are you sworn,” he said. “Rise, Ensign Farrow Ostler: you belong to the Master.”

  Ostler rose. He saluted Waite and descended from the platform to applause from the onlookers. It died away as Waite called forward the next cadet. “Luther Ford of the West Quarter.”

  Eamon was aware of Cathair leaning close by him. “A ceremony as delicate as it is beautiful – would you not agree, Lord Goodman?”

  Eamon could not answer. He watched as Ford knelt and laid his hand to the staff, and closed his eyes.

  It took over an hour for all the cadets to be sworn. Most were made ensigns and were to remain, at least for the present, stationed in Dunthruik. Some were assigned to external divisions that worked in nearby towns or to special Dunthruik detachments that would prowl the East Road looking for wayfarer activity. One or two were promoted directly to lieutenant, some in the college and others to other garrisons. But Manners was not there.

  As the ceremony ended, Cathair rose. Eamon followed him and watched as the whole courtyard bowed down before them. They left the yard and returned to the entry hall.

  “I think that all went delightfully well,” Cathair mused. “Waite has run a hundred other ceremonies like it and has a singularly special talent for it, I believe.”

  “Indeed,” Eamon answered. With that, at least, he agreed.

  “Your captain at Edesfield had not such a talent?”

  Eamon looked up, surprised. It had been so long since he had heard the name of Edesfield spoken.

  Cathair smiled at him and laughed encouragingly. “Come now, Lord Goodman, you can speak to me of such things! You are a Quarter Hand, are you not, and perhaps you have your old captain to thank in part for that.”

  “Captain Belaal did little to teach me devotion to the Master,” Eamon replied, surprised at the anger in his own voice. It was true that Belaal had honed him, helping to make him worthy of the Gauntlet, but it was also Belaal who had tortured Aeryn and made him breach for the first time. Belaal had not made him worthy of being a Hand. “Belaal sent me to Dunthruik, Lord Cathair, for which I am grateful.”

  “It was not his choice.”

  Eamon blanched. If Belaal had not assigned him to Dunthruik…?

  Cathair smiled. “Surely you know, Lord Goodman, that it is rare for regional ensigns – and more
so for lieutenants! – to be drawn to the city for service? As you can see,” he laughed, “we have so many of our own!”

  “I am not sure that I follow you, Lord Cathair,” Eamon almost stammered.

  “I wonder little at that, Lord Goodman,” Cathair replied. “But perhaps you can ask your erstwhile captain when he arrives.”

  “Belaal is coming here?” The thought chilled him.

  “Indeed he is,” Cathair replied, and his tone grew more sour. “Perhaps you have not yet heard the news? Edesfield, and much of its province, has been lost.”

  Eamon gaped. “What?”

  “I see you had not heard it,” Cathair murmured. “It does not surprise me. Some of us, Lord Goodman, know better than to gallivant on the plains early in the morning.”

  “You learned of this only this morning?”

  “The movers brought news,” Cathair supplied airily.

  “What happened?”

  Cathair raised an unpleasant, condescending eyebrow. “You need not sound so troubled, Lord Goodman! It means but little.”

  But Eamon continued to stare at him, for it was not true. Edesfield, despite a somewhat maligned and ornamental reputation, lay at the very heart of the northern reaches of the River Realm, and was the last bridgeable point on the River before the mouth. It was not so very distant from Dunthruik itself. If the wayfarers had taken Edesfield then the war was turning badly against the throned. If the wayfarers had taken Edesfield it meant that they were once again connected to their allies coming out of the Land of the Seven Sons. It meant that the wayfarers could now control the long southern stretch of the River, and that would greatly increase their ability to hinder and hamper the regional Gauntlet units, which were already severely harrowed. If Hughan – and Eamon was sure that Hughan would have led the attack – had taken Edesfield, then he would soon turn to Dunthruik.

  “You worry that your little town has fallen?” Cathair asked snidely, seeing his face. “Do not. It will not aid the Serpent. The Master is well prepared for him.”

  It was then that Eamon’s heart froze. With a start, Eamon’s thought turned to the Nightholt, the inscrutable tome that he had delivered to the Master long months before. He did not know what it was, and could not guess at it, but Eamon felt with a chilling surety that, with the war against the wayfarers worsening in every region, the only feasible explanation for Edelred’s confidence was in the power of the book. It could only be that the book held some terrible peril for Hughan.