by Anna Thayer
“The Lord of Dunthruik and Master of the River Realm.”
The Master stepped forward. Drawn by some terrifying magnetism, Eamon followed him.
“To his glory!” called the crier.
“To his glory!” answered the hall; Dunthruik’s greatest bowed down before them.
The Master stepped forward and raised his head. A crown of flames twined his brow.
“My glory is not bound by shores or walls, or by earth or heaven,” he called, “yet it is shown in men who rise above the weakness of their blood and glorify me.” Eamon froze. The eyes of the hall were upon him and upon the Master. In particular, it was to the Quarter Hands that his eyes turned; their gazes made a fearsome spectrum of ambivalence, disgust, hatred, and pity.
“It is such a man,” the Master continued, “whom you shall honour this night. This feast is given for my Right Hand.”
There could be no hesitation; Eamon felt the Master’s hand on his shoulder. As it alighted, he faced the throned, then dropped down to one knee before him. He pressed the Master’s hand feverishly against his brow.
“Your glory ever and above all things, Master,” he whispered.
The hall watched in silence, amazed by the sight of a Right Hand on his knee. Then the hall erupted into an ocean of wild applause.
The throned smiled. “Rise, son of Eben,” he said.
The music began again in earnest, but it could not drown the clapping. The throned led Eamon to the high table. There, servants seated the lords of Dunthruik, Eamon among their number, a bewildered lamb among wolves. He sat alongside the Master at the head of the table; the other Hands sat to either side, their faces turned in varying shades of disdain. Eamon wondered if there was not a touch of jealousy to Arlaith’s grim brow.
The Master sat. The assembled guests did likewise and the feast began. Eamon had never witnessed its like. As each service was brought to the table, the nobles and knights, the ladies and courtiers, the Hands and visiting merchants, the Gauntlet captains and their assistants, raised their glasses towards the high table and gave out cries to the Master’s glory and to his Right Hand. With each cry the faces of the Quarter Hands grew progressively darker, all save Dehelt’s, who raised his cup with a smile.
At length the meal concluded and the throned invited the hall to make use of the floor to dance; the hanging lights and standing candles summoned fire from the paving stones and the lords and ladies danced to hymns which spoke of the Master’s glory. Eamon recognized some of the words and realized that they had been drawn from the Edelred Cycle.
The Master smiled and began a circle of the hall to greet his many guests and accept their praise and flattery. Eamon supposed that many of them never saw the Master except at such times. He stayed behind and watched.
As the high table rose, Arlaith descended the hall and met nobles from the East. They greeted him warmly; Sir Patagon bowed deeply before seizing Arlaith’s hand and clasping it with profound affection.
“How fare you, Lord Goodman?” asked a voice.
Eamon turned to see Lord Dehelt standing by him. He wondered what to make of Dehelt’s pleasantries. If he scratched beneath the surface, would Dehelt prove just as malicious and virulent as the others?
“Why are they so warm with him?” Eamon asked, gesturing with a discreet nod towards Arlaith.
“He has done the quarter great service,” Dehelt replied, “or so rumour would have it. He speaks but little of his doings to me,” he explained. “It ill beseems a neighbour.”
“What service?” Eamon asked.
“Grain prices in the East have been substantially higher than elsewhere for some time,” Dehelt answered carefully. “It had started driving up the price throughout the city, though the South seemed to have some to spare. Lord Arlaith has now alleviated this problem, I understand.”
Eamon felt a tremor of horrified presentiment. “How so?”
“He released a great deal of grain back into the city this morning.”
Eamon’s blood curdled. “He did not buy it?”
“No, my lord,” Dehelt answered. “He found it – throne alone knows where.”
But Eamon knew. He stared down the length of the hall at Arlaith with utter hatred.
“If you will excuse me, Lord Dehelt.”
Dehelt began to reply, but Eamon never heard it. He swept down the hall to where Arlaith stood, surrounded by fawning nobles in their feckless gaiety. Eamon, draped in black and a wrathful heart, surged forward like a murderous tide.
“Lord Goodman,” the nobles chimed as he approached.
“His glory,” Eamon answered thickly. They watched him with wariness. In that moment he did not care. Part of him wanted to seize Arlaith by the throat there and then, drive the man up against the wall and call fire and fury down upon him. But he knew he could not; Arlaith also knew it.
“Lord Arlaith,” he said grimly, “I would speak with you.”
“Your wits are evidently befuddled with Raven’s brew,” Arlaith laughed cheerfully, “for it seems to me that you do just that, Lord Goodman!”
“I will speak with you now,” Eamon said, “and in private.”
Arlaith raised an insolent eyebrow, then turned to the nobles who stood by them.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said and imposed his cup upon one of them. “As you see, the Hands never cease in working for you.”
“Hear!” called the nobles, and laughed.
Arlaith turned to Eamon, who would have killed the lord with a look if he could. Instead, he gestured to the south balcony. Some of Edelred’s own guards stood there.
It was to the balcony and its guards that Eamon led Arlaith. “None bar the Master are to disturb us,” Eamon told the men as they passed. The guards bowed deeply.
Eamon strode onto the wide stone ledge. Arlaith sauntered after him. As soon as the red drapes fell behind them and the sound of revelry became but as a distant dream, Arlaith smiled – the deadly, insincere smile that he had always borne as Right Hand.
“I see you have become well accomplished in giving commands, Lord Goodman. I congratulate you.”
Eamon rounded on him. “Where did it come from, Arlaith?” he demanded.
“There is no need to raise your voice, Lord Goodman,” Arlaith told him with a click of his tongue.
“Do not bandy with me!” Eamon snapped. “Answer! Where did it come from?”
Arlaith feigned surprise. “Perhaps you have not seen the report? That would be strange indeed. I entrusted it to Captain Anderas to bring to you. You spoke highly of him, as a man of infinite reliability and character.” He shook his head sadly. “Perhaps you were misled…”
“Do not lie to me,” Eamon thundered. “You gave no report to Anderas; he would have brought it to me.” Arlaith stilled a little. “Now speak clearly,” Eamon growled, “else your tongue will be the next thing served in this hall.”
Arlaith looked at him with amusement. “You have grown bold, Lord Goodman.” A smile darkened his face. “You would dare to threaten me?”
“I will not fear a Left Hand,” Eamon retorted bitterly; the words almost knocked Arlaith’s composure. “Now speak!”
“Very well, if you insist upon it…” Arlaith paused, looked once across the gardens towards the Hands’ Hall as though pondering for a moment where to begin, and then shrugged. “I was clearing out some very unseemly and untidy corners of the East Quarter College – no reflection, I am sure, on their previous keeper – when I stumbled on some grain. Imagine my surprise!” he added. “Well, the people had been plaining for food and so I asked myself: what would Lord Goodman do? I had to think but for a moment to find the answer.” Arlaith spread his arms with a laugh. “Tonight, the East sups at last.”
Eamon glared at him; he could not argue against the Hand’s flattering insolence.
“Why did you not come first to me?” he demanded.
“You knew of this?” Arlaith asked innocently, then his eyes widened. “Ah! Perhaps t
hat is what the draybant meant, before he was…” He looked up with horror. “Oh dear, Lord Goodman.” And the horror on his face became once more his accustomed and mocking smile.
“Speak plainly,” Eamon cried, “or I swear –”
“Do not swear, Lord Goodman,” Arlaith retorted. “You are not very good at it.”
“The grain was stored under my orders,” Eamon hissed, “to be kept until my orders released it.”
“There was no paperwork to that effect,” Arlaith replied. “Obviously, without paperwork to sanction their actions, the men who resisted my release of the grain could not be taken at their word.”
The words froze Eamon to the core. “Resisted?” he repeated.
“Their actions were against the state – deeds of treachery, no less – without papers to sanction them,” Arlaith answered. “I had letters delivered to their families this afternoon. They were classed as wayfarers and sent to the pyres.”
“Even in the letters?” Eamon gaped. A family could endure no greater dishonour than to have their menfolk branded traitors.
“Even so,” Arlaith answered steadily.
“Who?” he whispered.
“There were several injuries, among them Cadets Grey, Locke, and Bellis – they have been remanded in the brig – and three fatalities. Two ensigns whose names escape me, and Draybant Greenwood.”
Eamon sank back against the stonework in horror. Greenwood, dead? The grain was wasted and Greenwood was dead.
It was the price, his wretched heart cried at him, to be paid for serving the King.
Wrathful, bitter tears sprang up into his blinded eyes. He rounded on Arlaith.
“You bastard!” he yelled. “You know full well what you did!”
“You injure me, Lord Goodman!” Arlaith replied. “I acted in the interest of the East Quart –”
“The grain was stored in the interest of the East Quarter!” Eamon raged. “You went against my commands and you killed men loyal to the Master!”
“I knew of no commands, Lord Goodman,” Arlaith told him, “and I took no arms against these men of yours.”
Eamon turned and gripped the stone. He might be Right Hand but he could not touch Arlaith; he could bring down no vengeance on him. Tiny twists of law and bureaucracy kept him safe.
“It distresses me to see you thus, Lord Goodman,” Arlaith said at last. “Are you well?”
“Get away from me!” Eamon spat.
“As you command, my lord.” Bowing slickly, Arlaith left.
Eamon shook. Was he so powerless? He was Right Hand, but he could not protect those whom he loved. So many men were dead, and more would follow. He could not save the city. He had been foolish to try. He had tried. He had tried to hold…
Suddenly footsteps came across the balcony towards him.
“Lord Goodman?” It was Fletcher’s voice, and it trembled as it spoke.
Eamon did not turn to face him. “What is it, Fletcher?” His eyes burnt with tears that he could not weep before his lieutenant.
“The Master asks why you will not come and dance, and join the festivities?” Fletcher sounded terrified, as though he feared to bring the message and feared the answer that he would have to take back.
“Tell the Master that I excuse myself most humbly, and that I am exceedingly grateful for this great feast he has given for me,” Eamon replied. His hands shook violently. “But I cannot go in. I am not well.”
“Shall I fetch a doctor, Lord Goodman?”
“No!” Eamon yelled, turning to him at last. Seeing his face, Fletcher blanched. Eamon rubbed a hand over his brow; it was covered with sweat. “I will go to my quarters,” he said. “The Master may seek me there, if he desires it.”
“Very well, Lord Goodman.”
Eamon stormed away along the balcony. The light from the feasting hall coloured his skin as he went.
Rage caught in his throat as he flung open the doors that led into his quarters. He slammed them shut behind him but he could still hear the music. With a cry he turned and stalked from his bedroom to his entrance hall. As his chest heaved he felt the weight of the stone, and with a great cry of wrath he tore the heavy chain from him. This he hurled across the room, and after it he cast Eben’s dagger. Both came to rest by the mantelpiece and lay, whole and unscathed, in the glinting firelight. Shuddering, Eamon pressed his back, hard, against the wall, and shook.
“My lord?” spoke a timid voice.
Eamon looked up and saw Cartwright standing in the doorway to one of the other chambers, a taper in his hands.
“My lord, are you well –?”
Eamon looked up at him through a veil of tears. He could not hear, could not think.
“I told you not to speak of her, Cartwright!” he thundered, and as he lay against the stone he wrung his hands together in grief. “I told you not to bring that treacherous whore before me!”
Cartwright’s face grew grey. “My lord,” he whispered, “I did not speak of Lady Turnholt.”
Eamon felt Alessia’s soft face in his hands; the name convulsed through him, releasing a torrent of memory and hurt which he had long sought to hide.
“Do not name her!” he yelled. “Perfidious, lying whore!”
His outcry was too much for her servant.
“You repay her with such names?” Cartwright asked incredulously. “She loved you.”
“Loved me?” Eamon stared at him. “She betrayed me; may she reap all reward of that from Fleance’s curséd couch!”
“You believe that story?” Cartwright gaped.
“It is the truth!”
“Forgive me, my lord, but it is not.” Cartwright stepped angrily towards him. “I served her house, Lord Goodman, and I knew her well, long before you did. Alessia Turnholt went to no man’s court and no man courted her after you deserted her. You did not know her at all if you believe these lies of her.”
“It is the truth!” Eamon howled. He knew it was the truth; Ladomer had told him so. And Mathaiah had died because of her. That was unforgiveable. “She betrayed me!”
“If she had gone with Fleance with the Master’s favour would her house have been disbanded? Would it not have gone with her? Would not I have gone? Would I be here in your hall if her house had not been disbanded?” The servant’s face was flushed with anger; only death could await a servant who dared to raise his voice against the Right Hand, but Cartwright courted it. “You are an intelligent man, my lord, and you can answer these questions as well as I can.”
Eamon could bear it no longer. He surged to his feet and forward, bearing down on his servant with the wrath of storm-torn skies.
“You snake!” he screamed. “Lying snake! Get out!” His voice and hands rose as though to strike the man and then shook with inconsolable rage. He could not. “Get out!” he bawled. “Out!”
With shaking hands Cartwright fled the room.
Eamon heard the door close behind him. He sank down to his knees, his head pounding with the pressure of lost loves and mixed loyalties, of lies and betrayals, hatred and longing. He had been harrowed and harried and feasted on by grief, and now it broiled deep within him. Death and blood and flame; he was mired by them, with no way of escape, and nothing to cling to, except the indulgence of the Master for whom he must fawn and prance like a witless puppet.
Perhaps that was all he was.
CHAPTER V
“Cartwright?” Eamon croaked. His voice sounded pitiful between the caverns of the drapes. No answer came. “Cartwright!” he called again, trying to sit up. He could not.
“Lie still, my lord.”
He fell back against the deep bed. It was warm and damp.
Slowly he drew open his aching eyes – they felt swollen and heavy, and it took time to work them – then started in surprise. A man wearing the uniform of the Master’s servants stood nearby, peering at him. As he focused, Eamon made out Fletcher standing behind the first man; the lieutenant’s uniform was like a continuation of the drapes t
hat the first man pushed as he leant close.
Drapes… Eamon gasped sharply and sat up. He was in the bed of the Right Hand; he had never dared lie in it before. He had never wanted to.
“How did I get here?” he demanded. As he spoke, he realized that he was naked beneath the covers. He became acutely aware of the scars on his back and settled firmly against the pillow. “Well?” he barked.
“You were found on the floor in your hall, my lord.” The servant reached out and took Eamon by the wrist; he held the pulse and counted a short while before he continued. “You were moved.”
“Moved?” he queried.
“By the Master’s servants and myself, Lord Goodman,” Fletcher answered. The first man continued his strange count, beating the pulse absent-mindedly against the bed. “I was sent to ascertain in what way you were unwell.”
Eamon shivered. “The Master may seek me in my quarters…” So, like a fool, he had told Fletcher before he fled the ball, and the Master – or, at least, his servants – had come. How had the Right Hand been found? Senseless on the floor, wracked with wrath and grief; Arlaith would have enjoyed the sight, had he the opportunity.
He shuddered, wondering what words had been spoken over him and who had undressed him and laid him in the bed, and whether they had laughed or looked on him with pity. He did not know; he remembered none of it.
As he tormented himself with those thoughts he returned at last to what he did remember – his servant, and his waking.
“Where is Cartwright?”
“Who is this Cartwright?” the counting man asked.
“A servant,” Fletcher answered, then stepped forward to the bedside. “I have not seen him yet this morning, my lord.” Fletcher did not look concerned. “Shall I send for him?”
Eamon winced. How could he ask for the man after what he had said? He sighed and leaned back heavily into the pillow.
“No,” he said at last. The counting man set Eamon’s wrist down and examined him thoughtfully, marking his breathing. Fletcher watched in silence for a while and then turned officiously to the other man.
