by Anna Thayer
“What news shall I send to the Master?” he asked.
“That the Right Hand is awake, Mr Fletcher,” the man answered, “and perhaps in need of leech craft to calm his somewhat over-excited blood.”
“What!” Eamon exclaimed. “I need no leeches!” he added hotly.
The servant raised an eyebrow at him. “If I say that you need leeches, Lord Goodman,” he told Eamon severely, “then you need leeches.”
“Who are you?” Eamon demanded.
“This is Mr Doveton. He is the Master’s physician, my lord,” Fletcher told him quickly. “He has come to you at the Master’s personal request and is an expert in his trade.”
“I will have no leeches,” Eamon persisted. The thought of them made his stomach turn.
“Unless your temperament makes startling improvement before I am a minute older, Lord Goodman, there shall be leeches all over you within the hour,” the doctor replied.
Eamon glared at him but knew that he had no sway over a servant serving him at the Master’s behest. It was a disconcerting realization.
“I apologize,” he said quietly. The doctor looked utterly taken aback. “But I am not overly fond of the idea, besides which fact there is nothing wrong with me; I was tired and overcome with emotion.”
“I beg your pardon?” the doctor breathed. He looked astounded.
“I said,” Eamon began again, as calmly as he could, “that I was overwhelmed by emotion and that this led to my collapse.”
“No, my lord,” the man said, shaking his head. “I beg your pardon, I meant the first part.”
“My apology?”
“Yes,” the doctor said with an air of amazement. He looked to Fletcher, then shook himself as though to clear his head. “My recommendation will be that you allow me to monitor you for a few days, Lord Goodman,” he said. “If you improve, my leeches shall go hungry.”
“You’ll forgive me if I feel no compassion for them,” Eamon answered. The doctor blinked again, then laughed.
“The Master asks if you will come to breakfast, my lord,” Fletcher interrupted.
Eamon glanced across at the balcony window. The idea made him feel sick, but he had no choice. “Yes, Mr Fletcher,” he answered, rising from his bed. “I will go. You may tell him so.”
Fletcher bowed and withdrew. The lieutenant’s footsteps retreated across the hall and the doors opened – then closed – behind him. The doctor drew to his feet and gathered up the few things he had brought with him, among them smelling salts and other bottles. Eamon saw that one of them had been opened. He wondered what it was and whether it had been used.
He eyed the doctor carefully for a moment. The man met his gaze.
“I will help you to dress, Lord Goodman,” the doctor told him. “Your own house has been asked to stay away for the present, so that I might treat you.”
Eamon froze. The doctor looked down at him. “My lord, does that trouble you?”
“I do not care for unknown eyes… prying.”
“I assure you, you suffered no indignity under my supervision.”
“That is not it… I – I carry marks from my past that I should prefer remain hidden. A man of my station has enough rumours surrounding him without adding to them.”
“You speak of your scars?” said the doctor.
Eamon nodded. “How many others saw them?” he asked quietly.
“Some of the Master’s house,” the doctor replied. “But none who can speak of it.” Eamon felt sudden and guilty relief that the servants were mute.
“My lieutenant?”
“Was not present when the servants laid you in your bed, my lord.”
“You will speak of it to no one,” Eamon told him.
“No… except the Master, my lord,” the doctor replied. He watched Eamon for another moment, then stretched out his hand. “Come, my lord. You may dress and go to breakfast.”
Once dressed Eamon made his way across the balcony towards the Master’s dining room. As he walked he dwelt on what must have happened the previous night. The more he pondered it, the more humiliated he felt. This time he had needed no assistance; he had betrayed himself. A fine figure he had made, the Right Hand who had collapsed on the night of his own celebration; and so his anger increased.
The doorkeeper greeted him impeccably and admitted him to the throned’s company. The servants within bowed; Eamon wondered how many of their silent faces now knew what he had so long endeavoured to keep hidden.
The Master sat at the table, his taster at his side. As Eamon approached, the Master appraised him critically.
“How fare you, Eben’s son?” he asked, though there seemed little concern in his voice, merely cold interest. It shredded Eamon’s heart.
“Well, Master,” Eamon answered. Did he want the Master’s pity? He drew a deep breath. “Forgive me,” he said. “I was not myself last night. I hope only that I did not anger you.”
“Anger me?” The throned laughed. “Yes, Right Hand, you did.” The Master fixed him with a piercing glare; Eamon would rather have been pinned with a hundred daggers than endure that look. “I asked you to come in, Eben’s son, and you refused me.”
Eamon swallowed. How could he explain why he had acted as he did? As he felt the glint of the Master’s eye upon him he realized that he must.
“I received ill news, Master,” he said quietly, “and I received it badly.”
“What news?” the Master asked, and gestured for food to be laid before himself. Eamon remained standing. He had not been invited to sit.
“When I was Lord of the East Quarter, Master, I took it upon myself to set aside a store of grain.”
“Indeed?” The Master did not sound interested, but his keen eye roved across Eamon’s face like a hunter seeking a hare hidden in the bush.
“This store, Master, I made for the quarter; I hoped that were the Serpent ever to come to our walls and lay siege to our city, the East would live.”
“This is an initiative, son of Eben, which was not discussed with me,” the Master told him.
“I was afraid to speak of it, Master,” Eamon answered, “because such provisions might lengthen a siege, should one come. I therefore did not know how the measure would be received. My heart was to have the people of this city kept safe.” He paused, hoping that the Master might somehow encourage or berate him; but the man remained silent, his concentration seemingly on what he ate and drank.
Chilled, he saw no choice but to continue. “The news I received last night touched on this,” Eamon said. “I learned that Lord Arlaith had taken this store and distributed it to the people of the quarter.”
“And this made you sick, Eben’s son?”
Eamon heard the mocking tone of the Master’s voice. It pricked anger in the place of his grief. “Lord Arlaith did this not for your glory, Master, nor even for his own.” Eamon thought of Greenwood’s body being taken to the pyres, just as Mathaiah’s had been, and suddenly his rage grew greater. He abandoned all effort to hide it. “Arlaith did this to spite me, to bait me, and weaken me. In so doing he killed, and branded as traitors, men who were nothing but loyal to you and to your glory.”
Silence followed his outburst. Still the Master ate, and the servants stood.
The Master took a long draught of his drink. He looked up at Eamon.
“Tell me, Eben’s son,” he said. “What is it that you have done that Arlaith would bait you so?”
Eamon tried to match his gaze. He felt like a child.
“I have done nothing to him, Master.”
“And, following news of the release of your grain store, you returned to your quarters and fainted?”
Eamon lowered his eyes; the Master’s tone shamed him. “Yes.”
“Son of Eben! Is so little a thing enough to cast you down?”
Eamon did not answer him.
The Master laughed, and a whimsical smile rolled across his face. “You are yet young and fragile, son of Eben. You will grow, an
d such small matters will not burden you.” The Master surveyed him a moment more. “I understand that you have many scars on your back, Right Hand,” he said quietly. “How came you by them?”
Eamon looked up in surprise, but the Master’s face was unreadable.
“Did…” he faltered. Edelred watched him in the silence. “Master,” Eamon breathed. “Did Lord Arlaith not speak of them to you?”
“I speak with you, son of Eben,” the Master answered, “not with Arlaith.”
Eamon swallowed. Arlaith had known that he had been flogged; was it possible that the Master had not known it before the previous night? “I… I was flogged, Master.”
“For what trespass?” The Master’s tone was deceptively neutral.
“My own,” Eamon answered quietly. For a moment Mathaiah’s face flashed across his mind, along with those of the other two cadets. In horror, he realized that he no longer remembered their names. He closed his eyes. “I was flogged for a failure in my command, Master. I keep it hidden. It is shameful to me.”
The Master did not speak, but seemed deep in thought.
“Sit and eat,” he commanded, gesturing to the plate which the taster had sampled before laying it at the table. He did not know whether this was done for his safety or the Master’s amusement. “Your strength is needed, Eben’s son.”
Eamon bowed and took his place at the table. His strength? He had no strength left; it had been stolen from him in thrusts and jabs, by dinners and ceremonies, in every moment since he had become Right Hand.
His plate was filled with food and his goblet with fine wine. The idea of eating seemed abhorrent to him, but he took bread, dipped it into his goblet, and ate. The whole hall watched him.
He left the hall at the Master’s bidding, his stomach heavy and unwell, but he had no freedom to refuse the throned. He wondered if he had ever had.
As he crossed the south balcony he looked down upon the gardens. Unlike the palace’s grim and endless corridors, the gardens were green and clear. Eamon ached to be in them.
He passed through his quarters and sought out one of the many stairs that led down to the ground level of the palace. Once there he took a door into the gardens. The Hands’ Hall stood like a blemish upon the green, but beyond it, paths wound in and out of hedges and blossoms that spiralled up after the spring light.
He went past them all, past the blossoms and the hall. His steps carried him towards the palace’s southern-most garden. There, not far from the palace wall, he found a fountain at the centre of the broad courtyard. He paused there, watching the light leaping from the water up onto the stony eagles that stood guard over it. The light flecked them with shimmering plumage.
There was a small path beyond the fountain. He paused to look at it and saw that it was well kept. Yet it seemed older and wilder than the neat stones of the eagled fountain.
Eamon turned and followed it. Trees lined the path. Behind him, Eamon caught glimpses of the high palace arches and chambers, framed by thick green.
The path opened out into a small space from which Eamon could neither see nor hear the noises of the palace. Tall, delicate frames, painted white, wove round it, and twisted into these frames were climbing plants which spun gracefully about the wood. Caught up among them were roses, red as blood, as large as his fist, and as beautiful as he had ever seen them. In the silence of the courtyard they had their own song, but he could not grasp it. He almost reached out to touch the petals of the flowers, but he did not dare; they were beyond his ken in beauty and in sorrow.
He stood still for a moment, drinking in their heady scent, then looked about himself again. In the centre of the rose garden was a small pedestal. Quietly he walked to it. The stone was an object of great craft, solemn and tranquil amid the hanging roses that inclined towards it. At the top of the pedestal was a broad basin, engraved with a motif of running plants. Eamon stepped up and peered down into it. Then his breath was stolen away.
In the still water he saw the high arches of the blue sky. Birds moved across it and there, above the reflection of his astonished face and hidden in a corner of the growing light, stood a shining star. It was faint, but he saw it.
“Hold to the King.”
Eamon rested his hand on the pedestal and turned his head up to the sky. The light grew, and as he watched, the star faded from his sight; its final rays filled his eyes.
When he looked back to the basin, the water moved as wind breathed across it. The roses whispered to him. Feeling a strange peace, Eamon left the garden.
He rode to the port that morning to inspect the final stages of the quay repair and meet with one of the throned’s merchant allies. He brought valuable Gauntlet men from their postings in Etraia. Fletcher rode with him, maintaining a stony silence, but Eamon did not mind it. He listened to the horses as they clattered across the cobbles and the stones, then watched as the gates opened out onto the sheltered harbour. The waterfront was broad and encircled by a wide breaker that gave only a narrow, west-facing entrance and exit to the port. The throned’s own fleet, a small affair, was decked in red and stood in the shallows to the southern end of the harbour, while those craft docking or awaiting entrance or exit moved through the waters by virtue of oars and sails. Beyond the circle of the breakers, a line of craft moved on the swaying waters, taking turns to make use of the port-mouth.
“There is no need for you to trouble yourself overly with this meeting, my lord,” Fletcher told him as they rode. “It is, however, important that Etraia sees we hold them in high enough regard to send you to meet a captain.”
Eamon nodded. Etraia was the staunchest of the Master’s merchant allies and the supplier of the vast quantities of grain that Dunthruik needed after the winter. In exchange, Dunthruik supplied arms, cloths, and wines from Ravensill.
Fletcher looked up to the harbour, then back to Eamon. “The most important part in dealing with the Etraian seamen, my lord, is never to ask them how their journey was, unless it is absolutely necessary.”
“Oh?” Eamon asked, surprised. It was not a warning he had been given before. “I would have thought it the very first question to ask a man of the sea. It is brave work that they do, even in the summer months.”
Fletcher leaned towards him and lowered his voice a little. “These ships cross the Straits of Etraia, my lord. It is a narrow and dangerous sea path between the western-most point of the River Realm and the eastern-most part of Etraia. Making use of it greatly shortens the journey between the northern and eastern regions of Etraia and Dunthruik. But these captains…” he paused. “They enjoy spinning a story from such things.”
“And this is a problem?”
“It is invariably a long story, Lord Goodman.” Fletcher’s eyes glazed over slightly and Eamon wondered how many of these stories his lieutenant had endured.
They reined in their steeds at the quayside and waited while a great ship docked. The port-hands called to one another as they tied down ropes and secured the moorings. The ropes strained as the ship moved with the tide, but this did not impede the docking and the lowering of the gang.
After a time, the vessel’s captain sauntered down. He was broad-shouldered and tanned. But for his colourings, he reminded Eamon of Giles. The captain’s step was heavy as he came aground.
Fletcher dismounted at once and greeted the captain. The captain smiled and bowed warmly.
“Mr Fletcher!” he called. “A pleasure to see you! What a crossing I have had!”
The lieutenant drew a deep breath of resignation, and asked about the captain’s journey. The sailor launched into his tale with great gusto, while the lieutenant forced a grin and nodded sporadically throughout the telling.
As the tale continued, Eamon took pity on his lieutenant. He dismounted and approached the captain.
The captain halted. “My lord,” he acknowledged with a deep bow.
“A fair tide, I trust?” Eamon asked. Fletcher shot him a pained look of warning.
“In
deed,” the captain answered, drawing breath, “though at the straits –”
“I have come to express to you the Lord of Dunthruik’s personal pleasure with the service and fealty which Etraia brings to us at this time,” Eamon interrupted. “Mr Fletcher is well acquainted with the form that this thanks will take and will discuss it with you on my behalf.” On this occasion, it was to take the form of a vast number of Ravensill’s finest wines – which were highly valued in the merchant state – as well as timber and stone from Dunthruik’s ample supplies.
The captain inclined his head grandly. “The Master’s thanks mean much to us, my lord Right Hand.”
“I leave you to Mr Fletcher, captain,” Eamon said.
“Of course, lord.”
Eamon mounted his horse again and turned back for the port gate, leaving Fletcher and the captain to make the requisite arrangements.
As he urged Sahu on to the gate, he caught sight of a group of Gauntlet working at the quayside to bring grain down off a merchant galley. This had become a frequent sight at the port in recent weeks, but Eamon paused as he heard a familiar voice calling orders for the workers.
“The next load to the West house!” the voice called. The men hauled the grain across to a storehouse on the waterfront, from which men from each quarter would collect it.
The man giving orders was Manners. The cadet wore full Gauntlet uniform once again and bore two flames at his collar. He was cadet no longer.
Manners looked up and saw Eamon staring. The lieutenant gave a few more orders to the men at work and then approached Eamon.
“Lord Goodman,” he said and bowed.
“Lieutenant,” Eamon answered. The word was cumbersome on his tongue.
Manners had been sworn.
“Can I be of any assistance to you, my lord?” Manners asked.
“No,” Eamon breathed. He stared for a moment at the tall ship and its workers.
“There were new orders for the grain this morning,” Manners said quietly, following Eamon’s gaze to the ship. “They have taken everyone by surprise. We have been told that every quarter is to hoard grain, against a siege.”
