The King's Hand

by Anna Thayer

  Marilio Bellis was assigned to the kitchens, and Slater, when asked, reported that the chief cook came from a village very near to Marilio’s own. The two men often spent whole days discussing the best way of preparing various dishes and, in the days after Marilio’s arrival, Eamon found that his meals became steadily more varied and adventurous. Sometimes he went down to the kitchens himself to ask a few questions as to how the food was prepared. Though both Cook and Marilio were nervous to start, they soon warmed to the idea, and Eamon was able to spend some time hearing the two men trade ideas on the best ways to balance flavours and prepare different dishes. He especially enjoyed learning how to fillet fish and cook snails, and was ridiculously pleased when the two cooks encouraged him to try his hand at the preparations for both. He discovered then that he was far better at eating food than cooking it.

  Wilhelm Bellis proved a very able cadet and integrated swiftly into life with the other new recruits. According to Greenwood, the young man expressed an interest in being considered for transfer to one of the surgeon-training units after he completed his cadet training. Sometimes Eamon caught the cadets drilling or studying at the college; when he did, he often made the time to encourage them as they ran the course.

  As far as Eamon could tell, the East Quarter was quietly flourishing. Eamon saw people with bread on their tables and roofs under which to set them. There was still crime and corruption, and every night the Gauntlet brought in more suspected wayfarers, and every morning heavily laden carts ran along the stony road to the North Gate and the steady pyres. But the requests for exit papers from the quarter shrank and Eamon found himself with several entry papers from other quarters during the course of a week. He could not sanction them all – the city was filling with captains, officers, and men from other regions, and the East was housing its fair share of them.

  One evening Eamon watched the latest column of arriving soldiers pass down Coronet Rise. Anderas was with him. The captain shook his head.

  “The war does not go well, Lord Goodman.”

  “Such is indeed the case, if we can judge it by the men,” Eamon told him. News of the loss of Edesfield had gone out, and Eamon had seen some of the ensigns and officers who came from more distant regions. Many bore grim or haunted looks, and tales of bitter skirmishes and battles were to be heard, whispered in the quarter colleges.

  “I do not judge it from the men, my lord,” Anderas answered. “I judge it from their colours.”

  Eamon looked at him curiously. “Their colours?”

  “Apart from the men withdrawing here because they must, during the last two weeks, the city has received additional men from only twenty-five regions,” Anderas explained.

  Eamon raised an eyebrow. “You’ve counted?” he asked incredulously. The River Realm had thirty-one provinces, in which number the city of Dunthruik was counted as one.

  “Yes. Even Larkbury Province managed to send one hundred men. But from the Tallendor, Tungol, Escherbruck, Waldeburg, and Arudia regions?” He shook his head as he numbered the provinces off on his hand. “From them we have not received a man.”

  Eamon breathed deeply and looked back to the lines. Most of the men arriving in the city had, notwithstanding the loss of Edesfield, managed to reach it by River. It had kept them more or less out of the clutches of the wayfarer and Easter forces, all of which still seemed land-bound. The five missing provinces were the southernmost regions of the River Realm, with little or difficult access to the River and its tributaries. Eamon suspected that, if the regions had not sent men, it was because Hughan and his allies had impeded them.

  “Things would be bad enough if our losses were restricted to the south. But it isn’t just the southern regions. Since the Easter incursion over the borders before the winter, the east has been hard-pressed, and the provinces of the West Bank fare little better. The north has been ill-secured for some time – we saw that at Pinewood. I fear, my lord,” he added quietly, “that, for all our valour, Dunthruik is swift becoming our last outpost. Trouble has been brewing all the winter long – now, it nears our gates.”

  Eamon agreed. But if the city of Dunthruik knew how near to its own walls danger pressed, such knowledge did not dampen the mood of the majesty celebration which was held that week. The Master appeared at the balcony and the crowds hailed him uproariously, ravenously.

  He could not read that night.

  After the incident which led to Cadet Manners missing his swearing, he was sentenced to fifteen days in the West Quarter brig. Upon conclusion of this punishment he was assigned, at Cathair’s insistence, to heavy manual labour in the port. So as not to draw undue attention to himself, Eamon waited until Manners’ release to have Greenwood arrange a meeting with Manners for him. This request was still somewhat unconventional, but not entirely without precedent, for though Manners no longer served under Eamon’s authority, the incident in question occurred in the East Quarter under Eamon’s jurisdiction. Eamon therefore held the legal right to question Manners on his conduct.

  Greenwood arranged for Manners to be brought to the East Quarter to give account. Eamon noted that the cadet’s arms and face looked red from the sun, while his arms seemed more muscular than before. But he looked content.

  “I know that you have told your story before, Mr Manners, but I would hear it for my own quarter’s records,” Eamon told him. A scribe sat with them to make notes of the interview.

  “There is little to tell, Lord Goodman. My judgment was somewhat impeded by the excellent wine in which I had overindulged that evening. When Cadet Plier and I passed the Crown Inn, we became involved in a brawl over a woman.”

  Eamon found that difficult to believe. “You did not seem terribly drunken when I spoke with you.”

  “I fear that I hid it well enough from you, my lord,” Manners answered. “Beyond your presence, I lost any restraining sense. I understand that when I was arrested in my altered state, I spoke in a shameful and disrespecting manner of the Gauntlet, struck the lieutenant who sought to restrain me, and spoke exceedingly ill, I believe, of Lord Cathair.” Manners kept his face quite calm as he spoke. Eamon wondered at it.

  “What exactly did you say, Mr Manners?” he pressed.

  “I am afraid I have very little memory of that, Lord Goodman.”

  Eamon thought this a touch too convenient. “Speaking ill of a Hand carries hefty penalties. It seems that you were fortunate to be assigned to the port.”

  “Work on the sewers finished early this year,” Manners answered, with the slightest trace of a smile.

  Their gazes met. “I am very sorry that you were not sworn in, Mr Manners,” Eamon said quietly, “and will not hide from you that you are unlikely to receive that honour for the foreseeable future, unless you distinguish yourself.”

  Manners nodded. “Yes, Lord Goodman,” he replied steadily.

  Eamon thanked him for the interview and then dismissed him back to his work.

  During the second week of April, Slater bustled busily into his office. Eamon was surprised by the man’s unwonted forwardness.

  “Mr Slater?” he asked.

  “My lord,” Slater answered, bowing low, “Mr Montano is here.”

  “Mr Montano?” Eamon repeated the name, feeling sure that he had heard it before, and that he should show some familiarity with it. At a loss, he met the servant’s gaze. “I am sorry, Mr Slater, this is an appointment which I appear to have forgotten…”

  “We spoke of him yesterday, my lord,” Slater answered. Eamon shook his head blankly. “The Master’s painter. He has come for your inaugural portrait, my lord.”

  “Oh.”

  Eamon proceeded to spend much of that morning (and of several other mornings that week) sitting in an august chair in front of a deep red curtain, dressed in his finest robes and doing his best to hold still while the greatest painter in Dunthruik took his details and set them on canvas. It was an agonizing experience, and Eamon felt uncomfortable beneath the painter’s scrutinizi
ng gaze, which drilled into every part of him. As the brush and oils moved on the thick material, Eamon’s skin tingled.

  Slater often popped in to judge the progress, and Eamon was able to chart the success of the painting in the servant’s face as it lit and fell during Montano’s work.

  “Are you fond of art, Mr Slater?” Eamon asked.

  “Yes, my lord.” The man’s enthusiasm was wonderful to hear, and though Eamon was forbidden to see the painting between sittings, Slater assured him that it would be worth the wait.

  One morning Anderas came by to update Eamon on a couple of developments in the college. His report was crisply delivered, and once he had finished, he stayed for a few moments to watch the artist work. Eamon caught the occasional glimpse of him as he stood, just beyond the easel, with a broad smile on his face.

  “It’s a good likeness, my lord,” he said. “He has your eyes just right.”

  Eamon would have answered, but felt that too much movement would not be helpful. He could not even frown. Anderas noted his expression and grinned. “Would you like me to go and smirk elsewhere, my lord?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind, captain.”

  “You must be still, Lord Goodman!” cried the paint-smeared artist in frustration.

  Eamon apologized, but it made the situation worse. Laughing, Anderas absented himself.

  It took some time before the painting was done, though even Eamon had to agree with Anderas’s assessment when he finally saw it officially hung in his hall. It seemed strange to him, to see himself robed in black and bearing the marks of the throned’s favour. It seemed strangest of all because it no longer frightened him: the Hand in the painting was not the Master’s, but the King’s.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  It was mid-April. Having finished his morning’s work, Eamon decided to leave the Handquarters behind him and take a stroll through the quarter. It was a habit to which he was more and more accustomed, and the people of the East Quarter no longer looked at him in surprise or alarm when they saw him in the streets.

  He took one of the smaller roads that ran parallel with Coronet Rise. At one end it curved and struck across to the North Quarter, but Eamon did not follow it that far. Instead, he followed it round into some of the quieter roads, pausing every now and then to look at the wares that were on sale. He never lingered too long, for it made some shopkeepers uncomfortable. When he paused to look at the rich fabrics on display in Draper’s Way, he remembered the small shop where he and Mathaiah had bought the colours of the King. He looked again at the myriad colours that decked the whole road. Blue cloth could be found almost nowhere in the streets of Dunthruik.

  “Does it please you, my lord?”

  Eamon looked up to see a seamstress watching him as he held a fabric pensively in his hand.

  “It is beautiful,” he answered truthfully.

  “Please do take it,” she told him, beginning to unwind the fabric from its reel. “A gift for you, my lord –”

  “No, good lady,” Eamon replied with a laugh. “I need no gifts. This quarter’s livelihood depends on the services of those who work in it. Sell this fine cloth, and feed your family.”

  “Yes, my lord,” she replied, and Eamon smiled. He had also grown accustomed to refusing gifts from enthusiastic shopkeepers. At first, trembling hands and fearful, furtive eyes had offered such things to him. Now, gifts were offered to him because the people delighted in him, and when he passed they would call to the Master’s glory. Sometimes he wondered – and dreaded to think – what Cathair and the other Hands made of the way the East Quarter received him. His comfort lay in the fact that, by all accounts, the Master himself was pleased.

  Eamon continued on his way along the small streets, halting every now and then to greet and be greeted. At about midday he came to the road that he had seen with Anderas on his second tour of the quarter, where they had seen the desecrated inn. As he looked at it, he smiled, for he saw that men worked there to reset windows and stone, and clean and repaint wood. One man set a clumsy ladder to the wall, preparing to climb up and take down the sign that bore the inn’s name.

  Eamon quietly watched as the man tested the first rung of the ladder before looking up at the signpost with a frown.

  “Terribly high, it is,” the man murmured to himself. None of the others, busily painting and scrubbing wood, seemed to hear him, and he shook his head then drew breath as though steeling himself to a task not much to his liking.

  Eamon stepped forward. “Perhaps I can help you?” he offered.

  “Thank you, sir,” the man began, and then saw the black cloak. “Lord Goodman!” he cried, nearly tripping on the rung of the ladder as he hurried to bow. The other men working nearby turned at his exclamation and bowed as well.

  “I have not the pleasure of knowing your name, I’m afraid,” Eamon answered, “but I see that you know mine.”

  “My name is Miles, my lord.”

  “Then I repeat my offer to you, Mr Miles,” Eamon replied, and gestured at the sign. “I can have that down for you in a moment, and it would give me great pleasure to help you.”

  “Of course, my lord,” Miles answered, stepping away from the ladder and bowing again.

  Eamon undid his cloak where it was clasped at his neck, folded it, and set it carefully to one side. It was hot, and so he wore only a shirt beneath his cloak that day, rather than shirt and black jacket.

  “Climbing ladders is complicated enough,” he told the surprised innkeeper. “No need to make it more so.”

  “Indeed, my lord.”

  Eamon took the ladder and tested it against the sign-beam. He reckoned that it would hold. “Would you steady the ladder for me?”

  “Certainly, my lord.”

  Eamon climbed the ladder, and as he reached the beam he examined the holding. The sign had been mostly ratcheted off, and long, rusted nails hung half out of the wood. With a tool he could wedge it out completely.

  “A hammer, Mr Miles?” he called.

  The man handed one up to him swiftly. Eamon thanked him and then set to work. It was neither difficult nor time-consuming, and as he worked he hummed quietly. It was a liberty he rarely afforded himself, and after a moment the humming became quiet singing.

  “You’ve a fine voice, Lord Goodman,” Miles called up cautiously. Eamon laughed; he had forgotten that he was watched.

  “My schoolmaster held a different opinion,” he replied, touched by the compliment, “though I believe that may have been because I was supposed to be studying grammar at the time – a burdensome task, and one that I did not enjoy.” He carefully drew out the last nail, supporting the sign with his hand as it came loose.

  Balancing the hammer over the ladder rung he climbed down, the sign clasped in one hand. The paint was faded and cracked beyond recognition. “Mr Miles, what is this inn called?” Eamon asked as he reached the ground.

  “It was called the Horse and Cart, Lord Goodman,” Miles replied, “though perhaps I may change it.”

  Eamon steadied the faded sign on a tabletop. “Make it a good name.”

  “I will that, my lord. Please don’t trouble yourself,” he added, as Eamon examined the torn gashes in the wood where the nails had held it firm. Eamon smiled.

  “It is no trouble at all, Mr Miles.” He straightened up from the table, about to take his leave when he looked across to the other side of the road.

  In the shadow of the tall building was a fruit vendor, his wide crates at last well stocked with produce. But it was not this that had caught Eamon’s attention; it was the raised voices.

  The vendor was at the front of his store, his face pale as he spoke to another, much taller, man. The man wore the bright red uniform of the Gauntlet. Though Eamon could not make out which division the man belonged to, he imagined, from the man’s bearing, that he was not an ensign. As Eamon watched, the man in uniform gestured to the three younger ensigns with him. One took up a large bag of apples; the other two cast down a crate and, des
pite the vendor’s cries, stomped the fruit into the ground.

  “Please!” the vendor cried. The Gauntlet officer laughed.

  Eamon carefully set down the sign he held.

  “If you will excuse me, Mr Miles,” he said. There was anger in his heart. But it did not drive him on to rage or violence; it merely drove him quietly across the road to where the four Gauntlet men laughed as the vendor stared at what had been done, and his other customers watched in horror, unable either to intervene or to leave.

  “Get on your knees and lick it off the ground, you bastard!” It was the Gauntlet officer who spoke, and as Eamon approached he saw the flames that marked a first lieutenant and the emblem that marked his province: Edesfield. Indeed, the gaunt face was familiar to him: First Lieutenant Curtis. Although Curtis had been stationed in one of the towns near Edesfield, Eamon had met him while training at the college and on active service at the borders.

  As Eamon stepped quietly across the street, the lieutenant raised his fist to strike the vendor who slowly bent to his knees in the mulch.

  “Lick it!” the first lieutenant cried again, and with the toe of his boot he scuffed the sodden mess up towards the man’s face.

  “Good afternoon, First Lieutenant Curtis,” Eamon said. He set his own boot firmly before the lieutenant’s, blocking the kick he was sure was about to be delivered to the kneeling man’s face, then crouched down for a moment beside the vendor. “You can get up,” he said quietly, and took the man’s arm to help him to his feet.