The King's Hand

by Anna Thayer

  “Do you like the theatre, Mr Tiller?” Mrs Grennil asked.

  “My father took me sometimes, when I was about Damien’s age,” Eamon answered. “I always enjoyed it very much.”

  “You must go to the Crown Theatre,” said Mr Grennil. “It’s an absolute masterpiece. Sometimes the Right Hand lets the theatre give performances for free. They’re called ‘commoners’ – I imagine because folk like us can go.”

  “They’re not a common occurrence,” his brother-in-law added wryly.

  “It has been a while since we’ve had one,” Mr Grennil agreed.

  Mrs Grennil had the two older boys collect up the empty bowls and brought a dish of fruit in their place, while the little girls and Damien fought over the last scraps of bread. In the end Neithan gathered all the remains together and divided them equally between the three. When the fruit was brought, the smallest girl sat back and declared that there was no room for it in her stomach. She was granted permission to leave the table and scurried off to the floor where the wooden toys – a collection of horses, dogs, and bears – lay discarded. Her sister and Damien soon followed her.

  “I must congratulate you both on very lovely children,” Eamon said, looking to the two mothers at the table. Both women blushed a little, and thanked him.

  Suddenly there was a knock on the door. Mrs Grennil rose to answer it.

  “G-good evening,” she stammered with the breathless air of one startled and struggling to regain her composure.

  “I’m terribly sorry to disturb you, madam,” said a voice. Eamon recognized it at once. Everyone in the room stood as the newcomer spoke again. “I understand that one Mr Tiller is your guest this evening?”

  “Mr Tiller?” the woman offered. “He is here, sir.”

  Eamon looked up as Anderas stepped across the threshold. Eamon detected traces of anxiety beneath Anderas’s polite exterior.

  “Is something the matter, captain?” he asked.

  “You are required at the Ashen, Mr Tiller. It is a matter of some urgency.”

  “I shall come at once.”

  Eamon turned to his hosts. “I’m sorry I can’t stay,” he said. “You’ve been most gracious.”

  A sudden draught pushed into the house through the open door. Damien shivered, then looked at Eamon with eyes wide with concern. “You’ll want your cloak!” he cried. “Mother always says that if you don’t wear your cloak when it’s cold then you’ll catch your death.”

  “Mothers are very wise things,” Eamon returned. “But my mother would be most displeased, as I did not think to bring mine this evening. But it isn’t far to the Ashen – I am sure I will be all right.”

  Mrs Grennil smiled. “We can easily lend you one.”

  “That’s very kind –”

  “But he has one,” Damien interrupted. “A great big black one! He was wearing it when he brought me home.”

  Confusion and then alarm passed over Mrs Grennil’s face.

  Anderas raised his hand to his mouth and cleared his throat. “We should be on our way, Tiller.”

  “Yes, captain.” Eamon bowed to his hosts. “Thank you for a splendid evening. I bid you farewell.”

  “The pleasure was ours,” Jehim replied curtly. His eyes narrowed as he studied Eamon intently. “Think nothing of it.”

  At that moment Eamon and Anderas would have made good their parting but for the impetuousness of a small boy. Without warning, Damien ran across the floor and threw his arms around Eamon in a hearty embrace.

  “Goodbye, Mr Tiller. I hope your hand feels better, and – Oh! What happened to your ring?”

  “I left it at the college,” Eamon said quickly. He glanced towards Anderas.

  “Let us go, Mr Tiller,” said Anderas.

  But Damien was not so easily distracted. “Ma, you should have seen it! It had an owl on it!”

  This time the boy’s mother paled visibly. “An owl…?” she whispered.

  Damien beamed. “That’s right, an owl!”

  The silence that followed was stunned and terrified. Only the little boy seemed not to notice it. The men and women with whom Eamon had been eating and drinking only moments earlier lowered their gazes and bowed their heads. “Please, do not be so before me,” Eamon said quietly.

  “My lord, if any of us have spoken rashly in your presence, I beg you, have mercy. We are poor folk with coarse tongues, who give little thought to our words,” Mrs Grennil began, her voice trembling.

  Eamon laughed gently. He stepped forward to press her hands between his own.

  “My dear, foolish woman!” he told her, surprised by the passion in his own voice. He tempered it, and smiled at them. “You have been the best of company to me this evening,” he continued. “Forgive me my deception, for I only meant to spare you from undue distress. You have my thanks, both for your ‘coarse words’ and your wonderful meal.”

  “But it was nothing!” Mrs Grennil quaked – she seemed close to tears. “It was but dust and mildew! We laid insult to you by daring to host you at this table –”

  “There are few honours in the world so great,” Eamon replied. He pressed her cold hands again and looked at the gathered family. They stared at him. “There are things more wholesome in this city than fine meat and wine, or bright clothes. There are many honourable and whole things in this house, and at this table. You have delighted me and honoured me in every way, and in that you have glorified the Master also.” He looked at Mrs Grennil and smiled again. “Thank you.”

  “I am very sorry, my lord,” said Anderas. “This matter at the Ashen will not wait.”

  Eamon looked back at the family. “I must take my leave. But before I do so, there is one thing more I wish to say.” He looked at Jehim Grennil. The man stood awkwardly at one side of the room, a worried look on his gruff face.

  “I apologize for my harsh words, Lord Goodman,” he said, bowing.

  “Some of what you spoke was based on truth,” Eamon told him. “I will not hold you at fault for it. I accept your apology, and would have you know that you need not fear me. I hope,” he said, more quietly, “that you will be able to believe me when I say that my heart is for the people of this quarter. I hope also that, as I serve the quarter, I will be able to give you reason to believe me.”

  Jehim nodded, and bowed again. “Thank you, Lord Goodman,” he said.

  “You will always be welcome at this table, Lord Goodman.” Mrs Grennil curtsied as she spoke.

  Tears welled in Eamon’s eyes. “Thank you,” he answered.

  He left with Anderas at once. When they were out of earshot of the Grennil household, Eamon asked, “What has happened?”

  “But little – yet,” Anderas replied, but his face was grim. “Lord Arlaith waits for you.”

  The words brought crushing dread to Eamon’s stomach. Why should the Right Hand be waiting for him, and at that time of night?

  Anderas spoke again: “I took the liberty of arranging for Mr Slater to wait for you in the hall with your formal attire so you will be able to present yourself properly to Lord Arlaith.”

  Eamon nodded, grateful again for the captain’s provision. “Thank you.”

  In the halls of the Ashen, Slater waited nervously in the shadows. As Eamon entered through the doors, the servant crossed the floor to greet him. Eamon felt absurdly conscious of his own portrait gazing down at him.

  “Please come with me, my lord,” Slater said, leading Eamon into one of the small reception rooms off the main hall. One of Eamon’s cloaks was laid carefully on a chair inside. Slater picked it up and laid it across Eamon’s shoulders.

  “Thank you, Slater,” Eamon said. As his servant fiddled to do up the brooch, his hands shook.

  “I am sorry, my lord. I’ll have this done in a moment,” Slater told him. Carefully Eamon eased the brooch from Slater’s hands, fastened it, then turned to look at him. In the scant light he saw that the servant’s face was pale.

  “Mr Slater,” he said quietly, “what i
s the matter?”

  The servant did not reply, but lowered his eyes. “I apologize for my manner,” he murmured, folding his trembling hands together.

  “Yet you do not answer my question.”

  “Lord Arlaith waits for you, my lord.” Slater paused and then looked up. “My lord, the Right Hand went first to your quarters seeking you, and then to your rooms… He asked Cara regarding your whereabouts.”

  Eamon’s blood ran cold.

  “He…” Slater’s voice broke and he struggled to bring it back under control. “My lord, he struck her –”

  “He did what?”

  “ – and breached her.”

  Eamon stared at him. He knew that the Right Hand would have found nothing in Cara’s mind, but that did not matter. What mattered to him was that Arlaith had breached her and wronged his household.

  Anger filled Eamon’s veins. “Where is he?” he demanded.

  Slater quailed. “Your office, my lord.”

  Eamon did not wait for a further word. With his cloak thick on his shoulders, he turned and made his way down the halls to his office. His blood pounded through him. He felt none of the fear that he knew he should feel in going to an unexpected meeting with the Right Hand.

  The door to his office was closed. Eamon boldly cast it back.

  The tall lamps in his room had been lit, casting a steady light that rebounded from windows and shelves.

  Lord Arlaith was there. He sat, with his hands folded on Eamon’s desk and his dark cloak draped tenebrously about him. As Eamon entered, the Right Hand looked up and the light shadowed forth a terrifyingly pale, quiet face.

  “Close the door, Goodman.”

  Eamon matched his gaze.

  “I have a title but little less than your own,” he replied. “You will use it when you address me, Lord Arlaith.”

  “I came here as a courtesy to you,” Arlaith replied. “You will answer to me by whatever name I give you.” As he spoke, he rose to his feet and surged forward like a dark tide until he stood before Eamon, his thunderous eyes flashing. In that moment, Eamon felt the first tremor of fear run through him – but his anger was still the greater.

  “Close the door, boy.” Arlaith’s voice was grim and terrible, but Eamon did not shrink back from him.

  “What kind of courtesy is it, Lord Arlaith, that brings you into my household to strike and breach my servants?” he demanded.

  Arlaith gave a clipped laugh. “Your serving wench may count herself lucky that my business precluded rendering to her the punishment that she deserved for her reticence,” he spat.

  “My household deserves no punishment.”

  “Do not contradict me.” the Right Hand appeared hideously tall; the sight stole Eamon’s breath. He knew that he should keep silent, but he could not still his tongue.

  “If you spoke truth, Lord Arlaith,” he retorted, “you would not find it a contradiction.”

  “Did you enjoy your dinner, Lord Goodman?” the Right Hand asked.

  Eamon was chilled to the very bone. The Right Hand’s face was an impenetrable mask that betrayed nothing. It was that total absence that struck deep into Eamon’s heart. How had Lord Arlaith known where he had been?

  “What did you eat?” Arlaith continued genteelly. “Stewed rat? Wilted cabbage? Was there wine, or did the Grennils have only vinegar to offer you?”

  Eamon floundered. “I –”

  “Yes, you are none other than Eamon Goodman, the helping Hand who eats in the charnel houses of his quarter, places fit only for the breeding of vermin,” the Right Hand said. As he spoke, Arlaith’s talon-like fingers held Eamon’s ring, thieved from his bedchamber. Noting Eamon’s gaze, Arlaith closed his fist around it and stared down at him. “Do you truly see no peril in your defiance?”

  “It is not defiance,” Eamon replied, tearing his eyes from the caged ring. “Who are you to cry defiance at me? My allegiance is not to you.”

  “Do you know what you are?” Arlaith replied, his voice so quiet that it was more terrifying than the most thunderous rage. “You are nothing but an insolent, blood-licking cur from mud-sodden streets – streets which served only to bear witness to the Serpent’s screeching howls as he went down in the dust and died.”

  Eamon’s breath grew short with fear as the Right Hand held him in his black gaze. Arlaith had not laid a single finger on him, and yet Eamon felt contained within an iron grip. It was a grip that hated him, that would brook no more of him, and could crush him at a single thought.

  Eamon steeled himself against it. “I am sworn to the Master,” he said.

  “There is an inn in your quarter that bears your name,” Arlaith told him. “There are ensigns in the West Quarter, and men in the East, who arrogantly call themselves by it – the ‘Good Men’! They would do well to fear for their lives. There are men and women in this city who tell tales of ‘the people’s Hand’.”

  “I do nothing but what I have been charged to do,” Eamon replied hotly. “I am the Master’s servant, and if you would take fault with me you will take it to him.”

  “My bane is with you, Goodman,” Arlaith answered him. “You dare to abase yourself before these people? Very well! They shall be repaid according to your errors.” Turning to stare out of the open door into the corridor, the Right Hand raised his voice. “Slater!”

  Slowly, trembling such that he could barely stand, Slater appeared in the shadows of the passage. He bowed and did not rise. Eamon wondered how much the man had heard.

  “Yes, Lord Arlaith?”

  “Take the serving wench out into the Ashen, and have her flogged,” Arlaith commanded.

  Slater paled, but did not dare to look to Eamon.

  “She will take twenty lashes.”

  “You cannot!” Eamon yelled.

  Slowly, Arlaith rounded on him. “Cannot, Lord Goodman?” he repeated, his words deathly quiet.

  Eamon heard the warning tone in the Right Hand’s voice, but in his anger he did not heed it. “You do not have the right to –”

  “She will take fifty lashes.”

  Eamon stared at him and fell back a pace, aghast. “The law permits no more than –”

  “One hundred lashes, Slater,” Arlaith told the shaking servant, “and make sure ‘Miss Cara’ knows who she has to thank for them.”

  Eamon gaped at him in horror. With wild eyes he looked up again at the Right Hand. “Lord Arlaith –”

  “Is one hundred lashes not enough, Lord Goodman?” Arlaith asked. “Very well; we shall make it one hundred and thirty. Perhaps you would have me flog her young brother, too?” Eamon was staggered. There was nothing he could do to stop it. Nothing at all. The Right Hand knew it, and smiled.

  Slowly, not caring that Slater stood there watching him, not caring that the door to his chamber stood wide open and that any number of people might see him, not caring that he was the Lord of the East Quarter, he lowered himself down to his knees. He shook as he knelt upon the hard ground.

  “Please, Lord Arlaith,” he whispered. Arlaith looked at him with crooked and perverse delight. “Please, be merciful.”

  “You make a pitiful and wretched display, Goodman,” Arlaith sneered. “You would beg for the back of a servant? Do you bed her after she makes your bed?”

  Eamon closed his burning eyes against the temptation to further rage. “Be merciful, Lord Arlaith.”

  “Mercy ill befits a Hand, Lord Goodman.” Arlaith’s voice was chilling.

  “Please.” Eamon could do no other: he prostrated himself utterly before the Right Hand. “I beg it of you.”

  There was a clatter on the stones by his ear. Looking up, Eamon saw his ring glinting at him. He did not dare to meet Arlaith’s gaze.

  “Mr Slater,” the Right Hand said at last, “the wench will take twenty-five lashes, and will count me gracious. Go and prepare her for it.”

  “Yes, Lord Arlaith,” Slater answered.

  Eamon heard footsteps retreating as his servant returned dow
n the hallway. This latest news would be of sore comfort to her.

  As he lay on the ground, the Right Hand moved by him, sending a quiver of fear in his wake.

  “This is the nature of my courtesy, Lord Goodman,” he said, “and that – among the dirt and the stones – is your place. Be mindful of it.”

  Eamon bit the inside of his cheek as the Right Hand spoke. “Yes, Lord Arlaith.”

  The Right Hand turned from him and left. Eamon knew that the man went out into the Ashen where, in moments, his whole household would be gathered to witness the flogging of an undeserving girl.

  What a grand trophy you shall have this day, Eben’s son! A girl’s blood upon the stones of your hall. It is your doing.

  Eamon lay on the ground. Grief and anger churned together in his breast. As the voice tormented him, he laid his forehead against the cold stone floor; salty tears passed down his face. The owl gazed up at him from between the paving slabs. For a long moment he wanted nothing but to remain there. How could he stand and watch? And yet if he did not go, he knew that Arlaith’s grace would grow the less.

  Rise, Eamon. Be not afraid.

  Choking back a sob, he brought himself to his feet. Taking the fallen ring in his hand, he staggered to the doorway, forcing himself down the passageway and out into the Ashen.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  The Ashen felt unusually bright to Eamon’s burning eyes. Extra torches lit the edges and centre of the square, casting twisted shadows up into the overhanging trees as they swayed in the night breeze.

  Eamon’s whole household tumbled out of the Handquarters into the alleviated darkness. The servants looked pale and frightened. Some of them were half-asleep, but they knew at whose command they had been summoned and so they formed a silent and orderly line near the Handquarter steps.

  Several Gauntlet officers, no doubt commanded from their watch duties by the Right Hand, set up the flogging frame near the steps to the Handquarters. They raised and fixed the beams and hanging ropes to hold Cara’s arms spread-eagled. As Eamon watched them, his heart and back wrenched with remembered pain and fresh horror.