The King's Hand

by Anna Thayer

  “My son met Cara about two weeks ago, my lord. He was not on duty and came to visit me. She was helping me to prepare a terribly unruly beast for your table.”

  “Ah!” Eamon smiled. He understood.

  “My lord, her recovery is much the greater for him being there – and for your grace.”

  “Of that I am well content.”

  “And I am more than well content with the honour that I have found serving in this house, my lord.”

  An odd shot of grief ran through his heart. Could Marilio mean that? Could he mean that he was content to serve a bastard Hand, one belittled and humiliated by the Right Hand? Did he truly mean that he was happy to serve such a man when that service could so easily turn and strike him like a snake? Yet Marilio’s face was unconcerned by such things, and every word seemed his true and very thought.

  “You are an honour to this household and to me, Mr Bellis,” Eamon said quietly. Marilio beamed from ear to ear.

  “I hope that you enjoy your supper. Mr Cook and I had some healthy debate as to how it should best be done.”

  “And is the resulting dish predominantly of your hand, or his?”

  “I bow always to the superior palate of Mr Cook,” Marilio replied, “but, should you find it lacking in herbs, that will not be for a want of trying on my part.”

  “Mr Cook is resistant to herbs?”

  “Yes, and a great pity it is, too; there are a great many traditions of cooking that make ample use of them in our province.” Marilio smiled and bowed. “Good evening, my lord.”

  “Thank you, Mr Bellis. Please thank Mr Cook also.”

  Nodding, Marilio bowed and left. Eamon applied himself to his meal – a slim cut of meat accompanied by various vegetables and an impeccably presented fruit.

  Eamon ate, slowly at first, but soon the feel of the food and his memory of Marilio’s words encouraged him. His appetite grew, and he ate heartily.

  When he went to bed he read, with clear eyes and an astute sense, until long into the night.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  He woke slowly with the coming dawn, the emerging light gently touching his eyelids and summoning him back from the realms of his sleep. As his senses slowly returned, he felt the weight of the Edelred Cycle on the bed beside him, still gathered in the curve of his hand. Blinking sleep from his eyes, he sat up and held it in front of him, bringing into focus the neatly scribed words. He had read a good deal of the poem now, scrutinizing every page, but he still had not found what he sought – not a single reference to the Nightholt. Just as it had been in Ellenswell, the Master’s book was well hidden.

  Would he find reference to it at all?

  Eamon sighed. He could not allow himself to become discouraged. He looked down at the book again. More pages had been irrevocably creased and folded while he slept. For a moment he pitied the torment to which Ashway’s volume was subject. At least the book would not have to endure it much longer.

  Knowing that he was up earlier than was usual, he went down to the kitchens, seeking breakfast. As he moved through the corridors, footsteps approached him from behind. Turning, he saw a sleepy and pale-looking Callum stumbling down the hall with wood in his hands. The little boy rubbed at one eye; the child seemed not to have seen Eamon.

  “Good morning, Callum,” Eamon said.

  The boy jumped and looked up before bowing hastily. “Good morning, my lord.”

  “How are you, Callum?”

  “She’s getting better, my lord –”

  “I asked how you were faring.”

  The boy looked up with round eyes. “Me, my lord?”

  “Is your name still Callum?” Eamon asked with a small laugh.

  “Yes…”

  “Then I think I was asking you.”

  “I am well, my lord,” Callum told him.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m upset about what happened to Cara,” the boy added. Eamon watched him.

  “And angry?”

  “Yes.” The confession took an enormous amount of restraint. The boy struggled to keep back the tears in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” Eamon said. “She will get better.”

  Callum nodded quietly. In silence they went together to the kitchens, arriving just as Cook and Marilio broke a collection of eggs on the side of a wide pan.

  “Good morning, Lord Goodman!” Marilio called, as cheerful as ever.

  “You’re up early, my lord,” Cook added. “Mr Slater didn’t tell me that you were to be up early, else I would have brought you something.”

  “Contrary to popular belief, Mr Slater is unable to control the hours of my waking and sleeping,” Eamon answered with a smile. Callum took the wood across to the grate where the fire burned. Cook stepped to one side to let him feed the fire and then looked at Eamon again.

  “I’ve heard no such superstition, my lord,” he answered.

  “You should grow larger ears, dear cook,” Eamon replied, and sat down at the table. There were no other servants in the kitchens – Eamon realized that they had likely already been and gone on to their daily tasks. Not long later the cook brought a plate of cooked eggs and a thick slice of bread across to him on a tray.

  “Your breakfast, my lord,” he said.

  “I’ll take it here,” Eamon answered.

  “At the servants’ table?” Cook asked.

  “I also am a servant.” Eamon took the plate from the astonished cook and set it by the boy. “Come and eat, Callum,” he called as the child was about to leave the kitchens. Reluctantly, Callum came and stood by him. Eamon pushed the plate to him. “When you’ve eaten you can take some to your sister.”

  “Will you be wanting some more eggs, my lord?” Cook asked uncertainly. Eamon watched as Callum ate, and smiled.

  “I believe I will,” he answered.

  When Eamon had finished eating, and Callum was well equipped with food for his sister, Eamon made his way to the main hall.

  For once, he had to wait for Anderas. Eventually the captain appeared, and Eamon watched him climb the steps.

  “Good morning,” he called.

  Anderas looked up in surprise and then smiled. “Good morning.”

  They took horses from the stables and rode as usual. Eamon noted wryly that after a few days without practice his muscles ached far more than was usual when they clattered back in through the North Gate.

  “You rode well this morning, my lord.”

  “Really?” Eamon groaned, while trying to stretch his sore limbs.

  Anderas laughed. “Truly.”

  They walked back through the streets that began to teem with Dunthruik’s daily business. Passing Gauntlet watches greeted them.

  They continued together into the Ashen, where a large group of men were gathered in one of its corners. Some were Gauntlet officers, and they stood about a person. Eamon heard raised voices and looked up at the group. He could not make out what was said, but as he watched, one of the ensigns moved as though to strike someone.

  “Come with me, captain.” He tugged at the reins and moved his horse closer to the disturbance. Anderas followed.

  “Good day, gentlemen. I trust all is well?”

  “Lord Goodman! Captain Anderas!” The men of the Gauntlet jumped to attention. As the men drew back, Eamon saw a man on horseback, whom he recognized as one of the quarter’s knights. Near him the ensigns surrounded a young man, bound by ropes. A woman wept beside him.

  “Lord Goodman!” The woman, her greying hair pulled back in streaks about her head, called to him. She ran to his horse.

  Two ensigns grabbed her arms to keep her back from him. “How dare you address the Lord of the East Quarter?” demanded the knight. “Back to your hovel, peasant!”

  “Lord Goodman, please!” she called again. The ensigns pulled her away from Eamon.

  “Wait,” Eamon commanded. “Let her speak.” The two ensigns stopped dragging her away, but kept their heavy hands upon her shoulders. “What is the m
atter, madam?”

  “My lord, they have arrested my son!” The woman gestured to the young man, who was bound hand and foot. One of the ensigns struck him. Another spoke:

  “My lord, he is guilty of theft. He was taken at Sir Patagon’s manor this morning.”

  “Madam,” Eamon said, meeting her distraught gaze, “if your son is guilty of theft then he must face the consequences of that action.”

  “He is not guilty!” the woman cried. One of the ensigns tried to silence her but she carried on. “He is not guilty! Lord Goodman, they will not let him speak for himself, they will not listen! He has done no wrong. Lord Goodman, please!”

  “I have heard you, madam,” Eamon told her, “and I will hear these men also.” He turned to the ensigns, and nodded.

  “We have the testimony of Sir Patagon, my lord. He saw the servant fleeing his halls. He demands the death penalty.”

  “Does the law not require at least two witnesses?” Eamon asked quietly.

  The ensign before him drew breath. “Sir Patagon expects a full confession, my lord.”

  Eamon turned his steed and drove it forward to the group of ensigns that guarded the woman’s son.

  The knight – Sir Patagon – gestured in disgust at the prisoner. “A servant from my own house, thieving and scheming against me!” he cried. “Surely you would deal severely with such a one in your own house, Lord Goodman!”

  “He would receive the proper penalty should his offence be proven,” Eamon replied. “What has your servant to say about the charge against him?” The knight’s face puffed with indignation.

  “I have the witness of my own eyes, Lord Goodman!”

  “On that basis alone you would so swiftly condemn a man? Eyes can be deceived.”

  “The miserable wretch deserves no less than death!” the knight persisted. “His word cannot stand against mine.”

  “If such is the case, then why require him to make a confession?” Eamon asked quietly.

  “His kind are born with lies on their tongue. Only the pain of torture extracts the truth.”

  “Nevertheless, would it not be prudent to hear him first and perhaps save us all some hassle?” Eamon asked.

  Patagon glared at him, but dared not gainsay the Lord of the East Quarter. Eamon looked across at the young man. “Are you guilty of that with which Sir Patagon charges you?”

  “No, Lord Goodman.”

  Eamon looked back at the knight. “Already the situation is more complex, Sir Patagon.”

  “Meaning no disrespect to you, my lord, but what else did you expect him to say?” Patagon erupted. “He is guilty, and he will confess to what he has done before he dies.”

  “Have you a second witness?” Eamon asked.

  “I do not need one,” Patagon answered coldly. “A confession will suffice.”

  “And the man’s present assertion of his innocence does not disconcert you?”

  “I am well within my rights, Lord Goodman,” Patagon answered.

  “Lord Goodman, I did not do it.” The young man spoke up from his captivity. Patagon cried in rage and struck him.

  “Miserable wretch! You’ll soon change your tongue!”

  “Under torture?” Anger seeped into Eamon’s voice. Patagon looked at Eamon haughtily. “Then what would you do, Sir Patagon, if you find more things stolen from your care? How would you repay this woman for the son she lost? Or perhaps you would not care so long as you sate the bite of your anger in this man’s flesh.”

  “I am sure that I need not remind you of the law, Lord Goodman,” Patagon told him. “In the absence of a second witness, a confession –”

  “I know the law,” Eamon retorted. He turned to Anderas. “Captain!”

  “My lord.”

  “See to it that this young man is imprisoned, but he will under no circumstances be questioned until my return.”

  “Your return?” Patagon laughed irately. “If you go seeking his innocence, you may never return. As to his guilt, it is before you; you need do no more than breach him.”

  Eamon rounded on him. “Do not presume to tell me when to breach a man, Sir Patagon, unless you are willing to undergo the same.”

  The man paled. Eamon ignored it. He turned his horse and tore out of the Ashen.

  His anger carried him swiftly to the palace, through its broad corridors and to the door of the throne room itself. He did not know what he would say, but knew that the words would come to him. He was known and greeted as he passed, but was so intent on his purpose that he gave no return. Part of him knew that his passion moved him on to folly, but he did not heed the salient warnings of his thought: his heart was aflame.

  At the throne room door, the Master’s doorkeeper greeted him cordially.

  “Lord Goodman.”

  “I must see the Master.”

  The doorkeeper bowed.

  “The Master is in a meeting at this time –”

  “This will not wait.”

  “I am afraid that the Master –”

  “I will see him now,” Eamon thundered.

  The doorkeeper was silent for a moment. “My lord,” he said, “if I might offer you counsel –”

  “You may not.”

  The doorkeeper paused. After a moment, he nodded.

  “Very well, Lord Goodman; the Master will see you.”

  Stepping to one side, the doorkeeper pushed the door quietly open, and Eamon stepped through.

  The Master was there, his crown glinting in its nest of flaming hair. Eamon felt the throned’s eyes bore into him coolly. Before the throned stood another, dressed in black. Eamon recognized him at once: Lord Arlaith.

  A gasp escaped Eamon’s lips as he gagged for breath. The sound magnified tenfold in the cavernous room, and echoed back to him from every wall. He could not interrupt a meeting between the Master and the Right Hand! Yet there he stood. They watched him. In terror, he realized that he could not now leave.

  “Come forward, Eben’s son.” The Master’s voice carried effortlessly to his ears. “Let us hear what ails you such that it will not wait.”

  Eamon felt as though a hand pressed down on him. The words that invited him forward both disdained and diminished him. Crippled, he stumbled his way across the hall.

  At last he reached the foot of the throne. There he bowed low to one knee.

  “Your glory, Master,” he said. The throned smiled at him.

  “Rise, Eben’s son.”

  Eamon rose, painfully aware of the Right Hand’s ire. “Master,” he began, “I had no desire to interrupt –”

  “If that were true, Eben’s son, then you would not have disturbed us.”

  A chill cracked down his spine. He could not tell whether the words signalled approval or chastisement. “Being here,” the Master told him, “you would now prove yourself unwise not to press your suit.”

  Eamon’s chest heaved with barely restrained alarm as he looked up and met the Master’s eyes. He saw the flicker of dying embers in his ash-grey stare, and understood the fragility of the ground on which he trod. Of a sudden, Cathair’s words returned to him: “you or I can be removed as easily…”

  Carefully, Eamon bowed his head low. “I thank you for your gracious manner towards my folly, Master,” he said. “I come to speak to you about the law.”

  The throned raised his eyebrows in unfettered joy. “The law, Eben’s son?” It was the kind of surprise that delighted in the unexpected foibles of a child.

  “Yes, Master.” Eamon swallowed. “If it would please you, Master, I would discuss the use of confession.”

  “Surely, Eben’s son, you mean that you would discuss the changing of it?” The Master’s voice was very quiet. “You would change a law laid by my own hand?”

  Eamon looked again at the deep pools of grey that held and toyed with him. He could give only one answer.

  “Yes, Master. I would.”

  A terrible silence fell. The Right Hand’s acerbic indignation struck at Eamon as
the man’s eyes rested on him, but he kept his gaze fixed firmly on the Master. The throned watched him. Then a curious smile curved on his lip.

  “You are bold and presumptuous, Eben’s son.” Eamon tried to keep himself from trembling. “But, where you are such, you will see that I am gracious. You will return here tomorrow morning, and you will lay your case before me and before my Hands.”

  “Yes, Master,” Eamon answered. The idea terrified him. “To your glory.”

  “Leave, Eben’s son.”

  Eamon bowed again and turned. As he walked back to the throne room door he felt eyes piercing the back of his skull. The doorkeeper opened it before him. He did not look back.

  “I’m a fool, Anderas.”

  “Would you prefer me to confirm or refute the statement?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” Eamon answered, and shivered.

  They walked the evening together in the gardens of the East Quarter Handquarters. Eamon had been nervous all day, unable to concentrate on anything. Always his mind returned to the terrifying thought of going before the Hands and the Master, of laying before them an argument that would be ridiculed and a case that could only be denied. Worse, Lord Arlaith would be there, and the Right Hand would avenge any slight… And yet, Eamon knew that to not speak out against the law of confession in the city was worse than a disservice to the throned: it was a disservice to Hughan. He knew that what he proposed to do – what he had so often sought to do in the East Quarter – was what the King would have him do, and he desperately feared that the Master would see it, too.

  He looked back to Anderas, who watched him quietly. “How is the young man in question?”

  “In holding,” Anderas replied. “Sir Patagon was somewhat irritated by the fact that you returned and nobody is torturing his servant yet, but he was reminded that, as you have taken a personal interest in the case, only your command could now initiate such a process.”

  Eamon looked down at his hands. “I don’t want him tortured. Confessions under torture are not born in truth. There must be better ways to determine a man’s guilt or innocence.”

  “When charges are pressed and in the absence of a second witness, my lord, the law requires a confession.”