The Broken Blade

by Anna Thayer

  A moment later a lone trumpet sounded. The courtyard, which had been hushed already, now fell silent as a slow procession of Gauntlet soldiers appeared in the doorway. The two leading men carried a banner between them, showing an eagle whose breast was marked with a sprig of ash. Behind the banner-bearers walked three more men, one for each of the men who had been slain defending the grain; each man bore a sword upright in his hands. Behind them came the other ensigns and cadets who had been discredited, their faces solemn. Eamon was glad to see Wilhelm Bellis walking among them.

  The procession came to the foot of the captain’s platform and there it paused. The banner-bearers went up the steps to stand before Anderas. There they set the banner onto the platform’s broad table. The two bearers then stepped to either side of it, drawing with them the wings of the banner’s eagle. These they spread wide.

  The first sword-bearer came forward. He climbed the steps and walked to the eagle. Then he turned the sword and spread it flat across his hands and faced the crowd.

  “Draybant Joel Greenwood.” Anderas’s clear voice pronounced the name into the silent yard. As his words hung in the air, the ensign turned and laid the sword down upon the banner’s breast. Then he quietly left the platform, returning to the ranks of standing men. Two more swords were laid on the banner in the same way.

  When all the ensigns had rejoined the ranks, Arlaith stepped forward to stand behind the eagle.

  “These men served the Master and brought him glory,” he said. “Let us bring him glory also.”

  “To his glory,” answered the yard. The two banner-bearers slowly folded the eagle’s wings in over the swords. They stood back and the remaining men from the procession – those who had survived – climbed the platform; each touched his hand once to the folded banner before forming a line before Arlaith.

  “These men also serve the Master,” Arlaith declared. “Let all taint of the enemy fall from their names. They are loyal to the Master and with joy is their service received, to his glory.”

  “To his glory,” the yard echoed once again. The men bowed before Arlaith and he received them formally, clasping his hands about theirs before they went to rejoin their lines. As the last man did so, Eamon’s heart eased.

  The ceremony did not go on much longer; the folded banner was carried away across the yard and as it left, the trumpet sounded once more. The hanging hush lasted a little longer and then the ranks of Gauntlet filed out; the families of the men affected followed them. Soon the whole yard held little but the sound of marching feet.

  It was then that Eamon found Arlaith beside him.

  “The matter has been conducted to your satisfaction, Lord Goodman?” the Hand asked quietly. Eamon looked at him.

  “My satisfaction is met,” he answered.

  Arlaith paused for a moment and watched as more of the guests left. Anderas stopped by a group of people. Eamon wondered whose family they were.

  “My lord.” Arlaith’s voice called him from his thought. He looked back to the Hand. “I have arranged a meeting. Mr Slater and Captain Anderas are to attend; it would be of great pleasure to me if you were to attend also.”

  “What is the purpose of this meeting?”

  Arlaith smiled. “I hope to set your house in order, and to keep my promise to you.”

  Eamon matched the man’s gaze and a sudden smile came onto his face. He had never imagined that he and Arlaith would share a smile.

  “My keeping of promises pleases you, Lord Goodman?”

  “Yes,” Eamon answered, “immensely. I would have one more brought to this meeting,” he added.

  “You need but name him,” Arlaith responded graciously.

  “Lord Febian.”

  Arlaith paused. “Febian?”

  “I desire his presence.”

  Arlaith nodded slowly. “Of course; I’ll send for him at once.”

  “Thank you, Lord Arlaith,” Eamon answered.

  Arlaith sent a messenger for Febian then took Eamon back to the Handquarter. They made their way to Arlaith’s office. Arlaith closed the door with all the gallantry of a nobleman and gestured to the room with a grandiose sweep of his hand.

  “My house is your house, Lord Goodman. Would you like to sit?” Arlaith indicated a tall chair. Eamon set it into the corner of the room before sitting.

  “I shall observe more than I partake,” he said.

  “Very well. A drink, Lord Goodman?” Arlaith stepped across to a small cabinet bearing cups and bottles of dark liqueurs.

  “I shall decline, thank you.”

  “As you wish.”

  Not long later, the door opened. Slater bowed.

  “My lords,” he said, “Captain Anderas is here and Lord Febian has arrived.” Eamon caught a glimpse of the Hand; he looked flustered.

  “Thank you, Slater,” Arlaith answered. “Bring everyone in and we can begin.”

  Slater bowed, then held the door open before Febian and Anderas. The Hand looked pale and out of breath. Anderas glanced briefly across to Eamon; Eamon nodded in return.

  Hand, captain, and servant bowed.

  “Welcome, gentlemen,” Arlaith began. Slater shifted uneasily. Febian scowled, but the expression faded swiftly when he saw Eamon sitting in the corner. Eamon realized that the man was terrified of him.

  “Mr Slater,” Arlaith continued, “I have new directives for the running of this house.”

  “My lord,” Slater acknowledged. A furtive glance to Eamon betrayed his wariness. “What would you?”

  “First and foremost, every man, woman, and child serving in this house will eat fresh bread every day, and will eat at least one substantial meal in the day apart from that. This directive will be funded by the house and my own purse.”

  If the command surprised the servant, he kept it well hidden. “Yes, Lord Arlaith,” Slater said.

  “Further to this, the servants of this house are free to move about as best serves their business,” Arlaith continued. “The preceding discretion directive is remanded. Servants will be disciplined for breaches in the rule of the house, and that rule will remain strict, but silence shall no longer form a part of it. Any servant who is maltreated is to bring their complaint to you, and you shall bring it to me.”

  “As you command, Lord Arlaith.” Slater bowed deeply.

  “Captain Anderas, these commands will likewise be used for the college servants. All are to be judged on the basis of their fidelity to myself and to the Master, as expressed in their conduct and discharge of their duties.”

  Anderas nodded. “Yes, Lord Arlaith.” The familiar ring of the captain’s voice was like dawn-songs.

  There was a pause. After a moment Febian looked awkwardly about the room and then swallowed audibly. “Lord Arlaith?”

  “Lord Febian?” Arlaith answered crisply.

  “I was called away from urgent business to attend this meeting,” Febian began. His voice grew tetchy as he spoke. “You will forgive me, but I fail to see what concern all this is of mine.”

  Like a master actor passing centre stage to his fellow, Arlaith looked across to Eamon. Every gaze in the room followed Arlaith’s. Eamon rose.

  “These matters concern you closely,” he said.

  Febian almost glared at him. “How, my lord?”

  A long silence fell. Febian stared, a strange mixture of elation and dread on his face. Eamon strode to him and took his hand. Memories of the dead after the retreat from Pinewood and of the Hand’s fury in that battle flashed through Eamon’s mind. The palm that lay open in his had shed needless blood.

  Quietly he laid a ring on Febian’s palm. Febian looked at it; a raven glinted back at him. Arlaith’s gaze narrowed on the ring and he bit his lip.

  “Your house is to be directed in the same way,” Eamon told him.

  Febian gawked. “The Master is great and gracious.”

  “You will come with me to the palace,” Eamon added. “The raven’s hall will not lie empty long.”

 
Febian bowed. “My lord. To his glory.”

  “One thing more,” Eamon said, turning back to the others in the room. “The Crown is to hold a commoner tonight, in my honour. I am sure that the invitations have already reached you, but I reiterate my desire that you each attend, and ask that the invitation also be extended to the house and college.”

  “With pleasure, Lord Goodman,” Arlaith answered.

  Febian matched Eamon’s pace as they went back through the streets to the palace. A light rain blew in from the north and skirted the sky, patching the cobbles and grand paving stones. As they rode, Febian’s eyes dropped now and then to the ring; his eyes grew wide with it. Then, as though aware of Eamon’s gaze upon him, he looked up.

  “Something troubles you, Lord Febian?” Eamon asked.

  For a moment there was no sound but the horses’ hooves on the Coll.

  “I have never distinguished myself before the Master,” Febian answered at last. “Why, then, does he lay this honour upon me, when this city is full of his Hands?”

  “You were not the Master’s choice,” Eamon told him, “but you were mine.”

  Febian grew pale. Fear appeared in his eyes.

  “You are a fine Hand, Febian,” Eamon told him, “and I have seen the strength of your ardour for the Master. You know the West Quarter well and its workings better than others. And I know you.”

  Febian’s face set grimly. “You are a politic man, Lord Goodman.”

  Eamon matched his gaze. “You misunderstand me,” he answered softly.

  “I may not contradict you, my lord,” Febian said. “It is as you say.”

  “A man contradicted me once, Lord Febian, and in so doing saved my life,” Eamon answered.

  “Was he honoured as I am to be honoured?” Febian asked.

  Eamon smiled, thinking of Anderas. “I gave him the greatest honour in my power,” he answered.

  “Then, as I am sure he did, I shall thank you,” Febian said coldly.

  They rode on in silence to the palace. Eamon conducted Febian deep into it and entrusted him to the keeping of some of the Master’s servants. Febian looked at him.

  “You will come for me, my lord?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Eamon replied.

  He went to wait for the other Hands in the Hands’ waiting room. It was a small room but lavishly decorated with the emblems of the Quarter Hands on its four walls. These corresponded to the points of the compass, and on the ceiling a great, black eagle was painted for the Right Hand.

  Eamon walked slowly round the room and the harrier, falcon, raven, and owl gazed back at him. He stopped before the owl in thought.

  The doors to the room opened. Lord Dehelt entered.

  “My lord,” Dehelt greeted him, bowing.

  “Lord Dehelt,” Eamon answered warmly. “Good day.”

  “And to you, Lord Goodman.” Dehelt rose and met his gaze. “They call you the ‘Raven’s Bane’ in the streets, my lord,” he said quietly.

  Eamon said nothing; his ears resounded with howls and Cathair’s curses.

  “You were injured?” Dehelt asked. Eamon nodded. “Cathair had long talons,” Dehelt replied, then shook his head and sighed. “For long years, he was ever the most loyal of all the Master’s Hands. It seems that times change.” He looked up. “You are recovered from your hurts?”

  “Some of them,” Eamon answered with a small smile.

  “May none of Cathair’s curses come to land on you, Lord Goodman,” Dehelt said.

  Eamon looked up. Dehelt offered him a small smile.

  “I am no seer, Lord Goodman,” the Hand added, “but you have done in this city things which have never been seen since the time of its founding. It rejoices in you. Your coming here was meant and I am glad to see it.”

  Eamon was awed. “Thank you.”

  He might have said more but at that moment the doors opened again, admitting Tramist, and mere paces behind him, Arlaith. Other Hands of the quarters followed behind them. All bowed towards Eamon. He had to lead them to the throne room, where the Master waited. He looked to the Hands. One face alone looked upon him with open hostility: Tramist’s. Dehelt supported him after a fashion, and Arlaith’s rancour dissolved more with each passing hour. The other Hands of the quarters looked on him in awe.

  Did he dare to think that he might one day lead any one of them to the King?

  “We will go in,” he said.

  The ceremony was just as Eamon remembered it. He partook in it fluidly, finding the words in his mouth and the gestures in his hands as they were needed. The Quarter Hands each declared Febian’s service as they had done for him, and Eamon ratified it. Cloak and ring were bestowed. The new Lord of the West Quarter rose to his feet in the palace halls.

  The throned commanded Dehelt to take Febian to the West Quarter to install him. It was a gesture for which Eamon was grateful; he was not sure Febian would take kindly to being installed by a man who might discredit him at a word. The other Hands were dismissed and the doors to the throne room closed behind them. Eamon was alone with the throned.

  “Thus the Raven,” the Master said. There seemed to be a touch of nonchalance in his voice.

  “He is not Lord Cathair,” Eamon agreed, “but he will serve you to the fullness of his strength, Master.”

  “You shall know it if he does not,” the throned answered.

  An icy chill bit through him. Eamon resisted the urge to shudder.

  Suddenly the throned spoke again: “Son of Eben, follow me.”

  They went into the corridors between the throne room and the throned’s quarters. Eamon barely glanced at them as they passed – already they had become too familiar to him.

  It was to the room where Eamon had first met the tailors that they went; the light fell once again from the windows, brilliantly illuminating the centre. The Master halted by the doorway and Eamon stopped behind him.

  “Go in,” the Master told him, a strange smile on his face.

  Eamon looked at him uncertainly for a moment but could not disobey. With the Master’s eyes upon him he stepped into the room.

  There was a stand at its very heart. A heavy cloth covered what it held. Eamon paused before the stand, taking in its height and width.

  “Take down the cloth,” the throned told him, “and receive my gift.”

  Eamon reached forward. The cloth was silken in his hand, and as he drew it away with a flick of his wrist it billowed out like smoke, then fell gently to the ground. What lay beneath stole his breath.

  A tall suit of dark grey armour stood before him, glinting austerely in the half-light. Its smooth rounded lames, broad pauldrons, curved greaves, its finely wrought vambraces, breast and back plate, gauntlet and helm… Each was solemnly faultless. Eamon’s whole being yearned towards it. It conjured in his mind the clash of blade against blade and the look of fear on the stricken foe as the wearer of such plate as this bore down violently upon them, to deliver the killing blow.

  He stood and stared at it. Behind him, he felt the Master’s presence as a well of flame.

  “Master,” Eamon breathed, “I have no words.”

  “‘Then will I serve you, proving your glory on my body, by my blade and with my blood’,” said the throned. His voice was quiet, and close by Eamon’s ear. He smiled. “From your own tongue springs this art, son of Eben.”

  “I have never seen its like,” Eamon breathed, and he had not. Only the Master himself could have a finer suit.

  “Touch it,” the throned told him.

  Eamon did not need encouraging. The plate was cool and thrilling beneath his hand.

  “Surely this is too fine a thing for me,” he whispered.

  “At the sight of it alone shall snakes flee in fear from you. Your blood is mine and it will be protected.”

  Eamon looked slowly at the Master. “They will come?”

  “They must come,” the throned replied, and Eamon saw anew the anticipation in the Master’s eyes and tone. It was the s
ame with which he had received the Nightholt, and it terrified him utterly. “They must.”

  “This city is ready for that day, Master.”

  “We await only the Serpent.” The Lord of Dunthruik surveyed him and smiled. “Let him come!”

  Eamon quailed, but the Master reached out and touched his face.

  “I am ready, Eben’s son,” he said quietly. “And so are you.”

  CHAPTER IX

  It was a long-awaited night. The music and festivity of voices and singing carried even to the high windows of Eamon’s chambers. Eamon stood at his balcony and listened, forgetting all else.

  “Can you hear them, Mr Cartwright?” he laughed.

  “Most assuredly, Lord Goodman,” Iulus answered. “It has been many years since we had a commoner and never has one been the inaugural gesture of a Right Hand.”

  “Did Lord Arlaith never hold one?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “How long did Lord Arlaith hold his position?”

  Cartwright hesitated. “I am not sure, my lord. He took the office long before my time.”

  “How old are you, Mr Cartwright?”

  “Forty-five with the winter, Lord Goodman.”

  Eamon knew that Cathair had been the last of the Hands who had been with Edelred at the beginning, but had somehow forgotten that Arlaith had been Right Hand for a long time. He could not guess how old Lord Arlaith was – the man barely looked Cartwright’s age.

  “My lord, you must dress.”

  “Yes,” Eamon conceded. His formal attire for the evening lay on his bed. “It would not do to be late.”

  He dressed swiftly and Cartwright assisted him, drawing the heavy cloak over him and settling it on his shoulders.

  “Do you look forward to the commoner, Mr Cartwright?”

  Cartwright did not answer immediately – he was too busy fixing Eamon’s cloak in place with an elaborate eagle-shaped brooch.