The King's Hand

by Anna Thayer

  As they both rose, the silence was thick enough to cut with a knife. Eamon faced the first lieutenant. Curtis stared at him, his expression something between indignance and amusement. The vendor stepped to one side, and his wife gathered him into her arms before wiping the thick mess from her husband’s face.

  Eamon met the first lieutenant’s gaze, then looked meaningfully at the fruit held by the three cadets. “Have you paid for this fruit, First Lieutenant Curtis?”

  The man stared at him, and suddenly he laughed. “I remember you,” he sneered. “Goodman. Yes – Goodman.”

  The silence in the street grew tenser. “You have a good memory,” Eamon answered calmly, “though apparently you are incapable of answering questions.”

  The man bristled. “What was that?”

  “I asked you a question and I would have you answer it.”

  “Oh you would, would you?” The man laughed again. “That’s rich, very rich indeed! You, Belaal’s jumped-up lieutenant!” Eamon looked at Curtis as he laughed louder. The first lieutenant stopped suddenly and smiled cruelly. “If you don’t want him to lick the ground, Goodman, perhaps you should do it,” he said. One big hand reached forward to grab Eamon by his shirt.

  “Do not lay your hands on me.” Eamon’s voice was quiet, but stayed the man’s hand. “The charges against you are high enough as they stand. Do not add to them.”

  “Charges?” The man spat at Eamon’s feet. The other faces nearby – faces that knew more than Curtis – went pale. “Prithee, dear Lieutenant Goodman, what would they be?”

  “Theft. Violence and intimidation, actual and intended against a citizen of Dunthruik. Wasting of city resources.” Eamon met his gaze. “Disrespecting the Lord of the East Quarter.”

  Curtis rolled his eyes. “I’m sure the Lord of the East Quarter would take my part if he were here! These peasants deserve everything that’s coming to them.”

  “He is here,” Eamon answered. “And you would do well to address him as befits his station.”

  Curtis stared at him. “You?” he cried, and threw back his head. “You! Oh, but of course, Lord Goodman!” He threw himself into a mocking bow. “Do let me introduce myself. Perhaps you know me? I am the Right Hand.”

  The silence became deathly.

  “It is treasonous, First Lieutenant Curtis, to take Lord Arlaith’s name in vain – more so than it is to take my own. Yet you have done both.” Eamon gestured towards the man, and the movement caught light on the ring on his hand. Curtis’s face paled, and his eyes went wide with growing horror.

  “What’s that?” he whispered, pointing at the ring.

  “Now you would ask a question of me? That seems foolish indeed.” Eamon’s tone hardened. “You stand in very real peril, First Lieutenant Curtis. For to take in vain the Right Hand’s name is to take in vain the name of the Master. To take my name in vain is to do the same. And to treat with disrespect the men and women of the East Quarter, wherein you are but a guest, violates the glory of the one you claim to serve.”

  Curtis grew ashen. “Lord Goodman,” he began, “I ask for clemency –”

  “And I asked you a question a long time ago,” Eamon replied, “to which you gave no answer. You will forgive me, then, if I do not answer you.”

  “It was not paid for.” The words tumbled out of the man’s mouth.

  “What right had you not to pay for it?” Eamon demanded. “What right have you to wear that uniform, when you comport yourself in a way that befits no man? What right have you to trammel the lives of people for whom you should give your body and blood in service? That is your oath: body, blade, and blood to the Master. To serve the Master is to protect his people. What right have you, First Lieutenant Curtis, to my clemency?” he asked at last, more quietly. “What right have I to grant it, when the offence is not against me, but against the Lord of Dunthruik?”

  Shaking, the first lieutenant sank to his knees. Eamon shook his head.

  “Do not kneel to me,” he said. “You will pay this man for everything that you have destroyed, and you will pay for the goods that your ensigns hold, whether you take them or not. You will conduct yourself to the East Quarter College, where you will report to the brig.” Stepping forward to the kneeling man, Eamon briskly removed the pins from his collar. The man winced. “The Master will hear of how you have disgraced him. That is all, Ensign Curtis.”

  “Yes, Lord Goodman.”

  Eamon saw that the fruit vendor was paid and that Curtis was escorted into the brig before returning to the Handquarters. He wrote a report of the altercation and dispatched it that afternoon. Anderas advised him that Belaal was stationed in the South Quarter. Eamon sent a copy of the report there. Another he sent to the palace, for the attention of Lord Arlaith’s lieutenant. It would come to the Master’s attention soon enough.

  By early evening he felt strangely tired. Quietly setting aside all the papers on his desk, he made his way to his own rooms. He heard singing as he climbed the stairs, and when he peered about the doorway he saw Cara. The girl was folding in the edges of the freshly changed linens for his bed, and singing as she pulled the thick green cover over them. The rest of his room was in startling order.

  She curtseyed as he entered, bid him a good night, and then left, pulling the door gently closed behind her. He smiled. The evening breeze drew in from the window.

  It was still light outside. Drawing off his cloak, he laid it over the back of a chair and set his boots carefully to one side. Eamon set himself down on his bed, letting the thick green cover mould about him as he did so. He read for as long as he could, but it was not long before he felt waves of tiredness wash over him. He was soon asleep.

  A shrill howling ripped through the air and a wind whipped in from far away. He staggered forward, not knowing where he was going, and he followed the howling along the banks of the River that flowed by him. It led down through blasted valleys to the plains around Dunthruik. The city gates creaked and shattered in the strange wind. No guards stood by them. Eamon followed the road in through the Blind Gate and made his way into the East Quarter, calling out as he went. There was nobody there.

  He reached the Ashen and there he stopped in horror. The square was filled with ragged corpses. Pale faces stared at him, their eyes vacant. Children lay among them, shrunken and shrivelled.

  Retching, Eamon tore himself away and ran through roads that he knew and loved. Suddenly, they were filled with people who raised their hands and mouths towards him, crying out his name, and he covered his ears and ran, ran as fast as he could from the gate and back onto the plain, through fires that raged in plagued streets.

  There he stopped, for grim-faced men, dressed in blue, filled the plain. At their head rode a silent man and Eamon recognized him: Hughan. And yet his face seemed strange, as though cast in iron.

  Eamon fell down before the King. “Hughan!” he cried. “The city is dying!”

  “First they shall be put to hunger, and then to the sword,” the distant face replied, and as the words crushed him, Eamon felt something strange on his hands. He looked down and saw that they were covered in rotting food and clotting blood. With a cry of alarm he tried to wipe the stuff from himself, but as he did it only grew. He looked up at the King once more.

  “They are your people!” he screamed.

  “They are not fit to live, Eben’s son,” the cruel face replied, and it smiled at him.

  It was dark. Eamon felt sweat on his hands and brow and he clutched at the covers, searching for proof that he was awake. The Edelred Cycle lay at his side, its pages crumpled where he had crushed them in his sleep. His heart pounded in his breast as he struggled to bring his mind back to the bed, the window, the evening breeze, the shape of the book by him – to anything but the nightmarish plain.

  It had not been Hughan. He repeated it to himself again and again. It had not been Hughan.

  Hunger before the sword, Eben’s son. The voice was there and his pulse quickened in panic. Hu
nger before the sword. It is no less than they deserve, and when they die their blood will be on you, their beloved Hand. For when the Serpent comes and takes their wretched lives, they will see that you betrayed them to him.

  Eamon sat upright on the bed and shook his head. His stomach was knotted. It was not true.

  And yet there was truth to it. Hughan would come soon. The King would have little choice but to lay siege to the city, and then the people of the East Quarter would starve and die. Then the ensigns and cadets, his own men, would be sent out of the city gates to face the claws of the King’s men.

  Eamon. The terrible vision faded away as the gentle word touched his heart. Eamon, your heart is for the people of this city. So is the King’s. Keep hold of your heart and use your courage, First Knight.

  He breathed deeply. He would only have betrayed the people he loved if he did nothing. He had done much in the quarter – but not yet enough.

  A short while later, as he set his cloak about his shoulders once more, there was a knock at the door.

  “Come,” he called. The door opened and Eamon looked up to see Slater. “Mr Slater.”

  “I am very sorry to disturb you, Lord Goodman. Cara told me that you were resting. I would not have come if it had not been important.”

  “I know. Thank you, Mr Slater.”

  “A messenger has come for you, Lord Goodman,” Slater continued. “He comes from the Right Hand.”

  Eamon looked at him for a moment in surprise. “Please let him know that I shall be there directly,” he answered. Slater bowed in acknowledgment and quietly left the room. After taking a few moments more to compose himself, Eamon followed him.

  A pale-faced messenger waited for him in his hall. Eamon was not surprised to learn that the Quarter Hands had been summoned to see the Master.

  The palace seemed strange to him as he followed through its halls, walking ever towards the throne room. His mind whirled.

  He met Dehelt in the corridor. The Lord of the North Quarter greeted him cordially.

  “Lord Goodman.”

  “Lord Dehelt,” Eamon replied, and took a moment to take the man in a little better. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man who reminded Eamon a little of Giles. His hair was tawny and he wore his black robes with an easy grace. It occurred to Eamon that he knew surprisingly little about the two Hands who had charge of the quarters bordering his own, and even less about what they knew or thought of him.

  “You are well?” he asked.

  “Thank you, yes,” Dehelt replied. He seemed a quiet man, but it was a daunting kind of quiet. “Your riding improves, I trust?”

  “Yes,” Eamon replied, feeling a little discomfort. Though he had not realized it, it now seemed perfectly logical to him that he would be visible to the Lord of the North Quarter when he rode out of the North Gate. He would be sure to remember it. “Considerably.”

  “I am pleased to hear it.”

  They reached the passage near the throne room, where Cathair and Tramist already waited. They spoke quietly together, and as they approached, Tramist shot Eamon a scathing look. He steeled himself against it, and instead presented both Hands with a warm smile.

  “My lords,” he said, though he did not bow.

  “Ah, Lord Goodman! I am so glad to see that your habit of appearing without your due attire is dispensed with for such occasions,” Cathair said jovially, though Eamon detected stark disapproval.

  “I am Lord of the East Quarter, Lord Cathair,” Eamon replied, “and I retain that position whether I am recognizable by robe or not.”

  “It seems Ensign Curtis learned that to his own cost this afternoon,” Dehelt commented.

  “Gentlemen,” said a voice: the Right Hand’s. They had not seen him approach. Eamon at once joined the other Hands in bowing before him. “Let us go in.”

  The Master waited for them – no less resplendent or imposing in his robes than ever – and Eamon at once felt the power of the grey stare on him. He matched pace with the other Hands and bowed low with them before the Master.

  “Your glory, Master,” the Right Hand said.

  “Rise,” the throned commanded. They did so, and the Master spoke.

  “The Serpent has taken much of the River Realm,” he said, “and he comes here.” The grey gaze followed Eamon. “But we will be ready. His house will be crushed, and you, my Hands, will be there to see me put it to the sword.”

  A horrified shiver ran down Eamon’s spine as he thought of Hughan coming within this man’s grasp. Surely the King would be torn, disembowelled, and set in grisly triumph upon the Blind Gate, where his broken body would be exulted over by these men…

  Eamon met the Master’s gaze, and saw him smile. What other outcome could there be? He was foolish to question the matter. What was the house of Brenuin before the Lord of Dunthruik?

  Courage, Eamon.

  The other Hands watched him from the corners of their eyes. His vivid thoughts faded and he drew his mind back to the Master’s words.

  As he had thought, the presence of more and more Gauntlet in the city was preparative against an expected strike. The throned knew that Hughan would come and knew that Dunthruik would be the place where the last battle was fought. The quarter colleges were to be set to harsher drills and the thresholders were to be named so that, should a final defence of the city become necessary, they would know their places. Any man suspected of aiding, abetting, or sympathizing with the Serpent was to be sent to the pyre without question.

  The Master looked at Eamon with peculiar emphasis. “There will be no more acquittals.”

  Eamon felt the eyes heavy on him. The Master knew about Fort: the words were for him. He bowed his head, giving his assent to the command along with the other Hands.

  “This is my will,” the throned said at last. “See it done.”

  “To your glory,” the Hands answered, and rose to their feet. Eamon rose with them and bowed, preparing to leave with the others. Then he heard the terrifying voice speak his name.

  “Son of Eben, you will stay.”

  Eamon looked up, then almost laughed to see that the other Hands seemed more alarmed by this prospect than he was. The Right Hand drew breath as though to speak, but the Master smiled and stole it from him.

  “You will go, Lord Arlaith.”

  “Your will and glory, Master,” the Right Hand answered, and bowed.

  Eamon stood before the throned, matching his gaze as the sound of the other Hands receded behind them. The Master smiled at him wryly, as though enjoying the awkwardness of the situation he had created – perhaps, Eamon mused, because he had created it and he would undo it, or not, as it suited him.

  He swallowed in a dry throat, heard the throne room’s doors closing behind him, and bowed down to one knee before the Master.

  “How may I serve you, Master?”

  “You serve me, Eben’s son, with a boldness that my Hands envy,” the throned answered. An indulgent smile played about his lips.

  “Is it to your glory and pleasure?” Eamon dared.

  “Yes, Eben’s son. It is.”

  It was terrifying praise to receive.

  “Then until you deem otherwise, I shall continue as I have begun, Master. My quarter sings your praise and that is how I would have it.”

  “Continue as you do, Eben’s son,” the throned told him, “and the East Quarter shall not be all that you will hold for me.”

  Eamon looked up agog. The Master’s face seemed immense before him, and his eyes held him with inescapable intimacy. It chilled him to his core, diminishing him to a vulnerable child to be praised or beaten as his deeds dictated. He was subjected to the whim of those terrible eyes…

  “To your awesome King alone.” Memory of Mathaiah’s song washed through him.

  Drawing a deep breath he bowed his head down to his breast. “May I serve your glory, Master,” he said.

  The following dawn he rode with Anderas as was routine. He had spent much of the night awake
, unable to shake a deep sense of unease. He feared that Dunthruik would be besieged and that people who did not serve the throned, people who served the throned through fear, even those who served by choice, would never know the King because they would not live to see him come.

  A siege would kill many, but as he lay gathered in his sheets he thought of a way that he could lessen what was to come to the people of the East Quarter.

  As they went along the road that led back into the city, Eamon turned to his captain. He wondered how he might speak without arousing suspicion. And yet, was he not simply taking the simplest of precautions? Were they not the sort of precautions that only a lord of Dunthruik could lay in place?

  “How many caves are there beneath the quarter?” he asked.

  Anderas looked at him and was silent for a moment. Eamon marvelled that the man rarely seemed surprised by anything he said.

  “Maybe a dozen,” the captain answered.

  “Is there one near the Handquarters?”

  “There is one beneath one of the college outbuildings,” Anderas told him.

  “Is it large?”

  “Reasonably so.”

  “Is it well known?”

  “Not beyond the officers of the quarter, though wild rumours of lost treasure in hidden caves predictably abound among the cadets from time to time.”

  “The next grain ship comes in tomorrow.” Eamon knew he was thinking out loud, but in part he wanted Anderas to hear it.

  “Yes. From the state of Etraia, I believe.”

  Eamon nodded. It was one of the merchant states most loyal to the throned. A portion of the grain that the ship bore would already have been allocated by palace officials to go to the East Quarter, to be sold at the grain market.

  “Mr Greenwood is on logistics duty tomorrow?” he asked. The quarter’s logistics draybant had been having difficulty in keeping the college and quarter in order that week, and Greenwood had offered to assist by organizing the groups of ensigns that would collect the grain from the port when it came in.

  “Mr Greenwood shall be marshalling our granarians, yes.”