by Anna Thayer
“Thank you, Master,” he answered. “I did.”
“Pity is a vile and creeping virtue, son of Eben.” Suddenly the smile was gone and the Master’s voice was on him like a heavy blow, grinding him to dust. “Do not intercede for Arlaith.”
Eamon bowed low again. “Yes, Master.”
“Go. See that he does as I have commanded.”
Eamon went that afternoon to the Blind Gate. The city streets were awash with Gauntlet and with noise, for the attack on the port had struck hard. Eamon saw fear in the faces he met and knew it to be in the people’s hearts also: the Serpent had come and ringed the city, by land and sea.
He arrived in the square by the Blind Gate. It towered high above him, and watchmen lined the walls. They gazed out over the plains towards the valleys and the coils of the River. Near the watchmen was a trellis, on which the heads and bodies of traitors hung. Some belonged to Cathair’s dogs.
Eamon brought his gaze away and looked back to the gates themselves, remembering for a moment the exodus from the East Quarter, the Grennils and the countless other families who had left the city to make room for its defenders. He wondered where those families were that day and whether they looked on Dunthruik from beneath the King’s banner.
The square by the gate was filled with Hands and horses. The horses looked fresh, but the Hands did not. Their faces were tired and grim. Eamon wondered whether they had been out that morning, seeking to break the lines.
Arlaith stood to one side of the group, carefully adjusting the straps and harnesses on his horse. The Hand swore as he pulled angrily at the saddle.
Eamon dismounted and went to Arlaith’s side. Without a word he reached out and loosened the strap that had so infuriated the Left Hand. Arlaith looked up at him, first with surprise and then with ire.
“Thank you,” he hissed. It was by no means a civil pronouncement.
“You did not deserve the wrath laid against you,” Eamon said quietly. “That is why I spoke.”
“You would judge the Master?” Arlaith returned.
Eamon watched as Arlaith finished violent adjustments of the saddle. “No.”
“Then do not speak against him. You make things difficult in doing so, Lord Goodman, both for yourself and for those whom you seek to aid.” Arlaith stepped back from the horse with an infuriated sigh. Eamon saw that the sword set at the Hand’s side was different from his own and that it was borne in an ornate scabbard. It reminded him of Cathair’s.
“Why are you here?” Arlaith demanded.
“To see that you do as the Master commanded.”
“I have no need of watching,” Arlaith spat. “I was riding to war before you were conceived, Lord Goodman.”
“Still, I have come to watch,” Eamon answered. “And to wish you good fortune. I do not envy you your task.”
Arlaith’s face softened a shade. “Then I shall thank you for your wish.”
Without a further word Arlaith climbed into the saddle. He grew to an enormous stature and Eamon gazed at him in surprise. Seated upon the beast, Arlaith seemed to hail from a bygone age.
“To horse!” the Left Hand commanded. The others did as he bade and the square filled with the noise of mounting men. Eamon stepped to the side to let Arlaith pass, watching as the horsemen drew up behind the gate. So many mounted Hands was a fearsome sight.
“Open the gate!” Arlaith cried. There was a flurry of movement in the gatehouse and then the gates began to swing open. The horses fretted while they waited, neighing and dancing upon their hooves as though upon hot coals.
The Blind Gate opened. Through it the road ran out into the plains. They seemed empty of anything but grass and mud. Yet the churned earth gave evidence of an earlier sortie.
Arlaith took the reins and turned to face the Hands. “Once again, gentlemen, we seek an impression of the Serpent’s force, and we will not fall back for mere arrows. If the Serpent sheds a few scales by our outing, then so much the better.”
With a cry Arlaith urged his horse forward. It leapt into a gallop and charged through the gate. The Hands tore after him.
Eamon watched them go, mesmerized by the sight.
The gates drew shut behind them. Eamon went at once to the gatehouse and up the stair onto the walls. The smell of rotting flesh assaulted his nostrils as he climbed past the traitors’ ledge, but he went on until he had reached the wall-top. There he turned to look out across the plain.
The mountains, hazy with distance, gazed back at him. The River and its banks were shaded with light copses. The galloping Hands drew into formation and pressed out across the plain. Still Eamon saw no foe.
The field flashed green and a group of Easter archers appeared. They came as though from nowhere, summoned by the charging Hands. More groups appeared from behind the edges of the plain. The thrill of the charge filled Eamon’s veins, but on the city wall, all was mute. He felt wind in his face – wind that bore the scent of flowers in a distant valley.
The Easters bore down with ferocious speed. Arrows flew. One of the Hands was struck, but he kept riding. The Hands drew off from their charge as more foes appeared from their right; they wheeled about and began to return to the city. They could not break through.
As the Hands quit the field, the Easters and wayfarers returned to their previous positions. Eamon followed a group of them with his eyes as they passed off towards the River. He caught sight of movement to the south on the far bank.
Remembering Tramist’s words about a bridge, he curiously peered south through the haze. There was movement there, on what was called the West Bank. A group of river holks, some of which he suspected had been involved in the naval attack the previous day, and beyond them groups of men, gathered at either side of a large pontoon bridge.
The sound of galloping hooves reached Eamon’s ears. The Hands returned to the gate. Eamon went down the steps to meet them. He arrived in time to see Arlaith clatter into the square.
“Bloody Easters!” he yelled. “Bloody, bloody Easters!” He dismounted violently, handing his horse over to one of the many Gauntlet who awaited them, then stormed across to Eamon. He opened his mouth to speak but Eamon spoke first.
“‘Bloody Easters’?” he guessed.
“Bloody Easters! What has the Serpent to do with them? How am I to assess their numbers?” he fairly howled it.
“How many riders were there?” Eamon asked.
“How should I know? They conceal themselves and their positions. Short of going up and clasping hands most politely with each and every bloody one of the scions of the Seven Bastards, I have no way to count them!”
“Lower your voice, Lord Arlaith,” Eamon told him. The other Hands looked at them nervously. The injured were brought on stretchers and taken to the surgeons.
“I will not ride out again,” Arlaith hissed. “Let the Master be content with my assessment that there are many of them.”
“Let us assign a number to ‘many’,” Eamon answered. “You are an experienced man, Lord Arlaith. What is your guess?”
“That the Easters seem to be supporting the troops from the port raid,” Arlaith replied after a small pause. “They’re here to blockade the city while the main army arrives, which it has done.”
“And how many men would it take to blockade this city?” Eamon asked.
“At least five hundred,” Arlaith answered bitterly.
“Then let us guess that the Serpent has used your logic,” Eamon replied, “and I will take that news to the Master.”
Arlaith eyed him carefully. “Will you, Lord Goodman?”
“Yes,” Eamon told him levelly. “And I will ask you to go to the south wall, to assess what can be seen on the bank. Dismiss these Hands,” he added.
Arlaith assessed him for a moment. “Very well, Lord Goodman.”
Eamon nodded once to him and then returned to his horse. He mounted and rode to the palace.
He came swiftly to the throne room. The doorkeeper met him and bowed d
eeply.
“Lord Goodman.”
“I bring news for the Master.”
“He is in his private garden.” The doorkeeper’s answer surprised him. “I will conduct you to him.”
The doorkeeper led him to the Master’s wing of the palace. Passing the grand staircase that led up to the Master’s chambers, the doorkeeper took him down a corridor and to a tall archway Eamon had never seen before. It led between the hedges and into the afternoon sun in a walled garden.
The walls of the Master’s buildings bound the garden round. High above, the tall windows of the Master’s rooms loomed over him. The garden was filled with red: red vines and climbing plants and flowers of more types of crimson and scarlet than Eamon could imagine.
A small building stood in the centre of the garden, more ornate than anything Eamon had ever seen: delicate fluting was carved in spirals all about its dome, like the flourishes of a dancer.
The doorkeeper conducted him there. Inside was cool and dark. Eamon could barely make out the markings on the walls, but long benches lined them.
The Master was within. He stood looking at a great crowned eagle that adorned the wall before him.
“Master,” said the doorkeeper.
The Master rounded on him. “Why do you disturb me here?” he hissed viciously.
The doorkeeper paused. “I bring Lord Goodman.”
The Master nodded wordlessly, and bowing, the doorkeeper withdrew.
It was then that Eamon felt his vision change. As he gazed at the hollow of the building he thought that he saw a woman sitting on one of the long benches. She sat and watched the doorway where Eamon himself stood. A moment later he saw a brilliant smile blossom on her face as a striking young man entered before her. His hair shone like fire in the sunlight as she rose and rushed to him. He took her hands and she laughed as he kissed her.
Eamon blinked hard and stared, but the vision had gone. The throned was before him, and as Eamon watched, the Master turned to face him.
“Where is Arlaith?” he asked.
“The south wall.”
There was a grim silence. “I did not send him there.”
“I did,” Eamon said boldly. “I have come bearing his news in his stead.”
“Have you, Eben’s son?” The throned’s grey eyes stabbed keenly at him. “Come you to take his praise, or his punishment?”
“I will take whatever you deem to lay upon me.”
The Master’s gaze softened into a laugh. “Speak.”
“There are about five hundred men blockading the city, Master,” Eamon answered, “and the enemy can easily send more. There is evidence of further movement beyond the bridge; it is this which Arlaith has gone to investigate.”
The throned glanced up at the walls. “They will be from the Land of the Seven Sons,” he said. “The Serpent knew that he had to cross the River to reach my city, but he had not the wit to do it. And now he lies there, waiting for his bridge.” He laughed. “Come swiftly, Serpent,” he murmured. “Swiftly.”
Eamon could only stand in silence as the Master wandered in his own thoughts. Then the fiery head turned towards him.
“You will take council for battle, son of Eben,” the Master said. “Tomorrow you will preside over my Quarter Hands and my generals.”
The idea terrified him. “Yes, Master.”
“You will go to Captain Waite of the West,” the throned continued, “and you will greet him as ‘general’ in my name. He will command the Gauntlet during the battle that is to come. He will elect his own successor to the captaincy.”
“Yes, Master,” he said. Eamon’s heart grew, in fear and in pride, for the captain.
“Meet them at first light, Eben’s son,” he said. “I will hear your plan of war by dusk.”
“Your glory, Master.”
With Fletcher’s assistance, Eamon sent out the summons for the war council. He watched with growing dread as his lieutenant departed, the papers firmly under his arm.
As the evening drew on he took to his horse once again, so distracted that it took him two attempts to mount. Sahu whinnied disapprovingly and he apologized, after which the horse deigned to carry him down the Coll.
Night settled in the eaves of the West Quarter as he arrived at the college. A couple of cadets lit the braziers on the college steps. It surprised Eamon at first, but he realized that since the exodus of the city’s civilians, a large number of servants had gone, too. Only the palace, nobles, and Quarter Hands had retained them. The colleges found the servants’ tasks useful for the occupation of numerous cadets and ensigns who had arrived with the external divisions.
Eamon dismounted and went into the college, greeting those on guard. They bowed to him in return. As he passed through the hall he saw Overbrook’s map; it still hung on the wall, the most detailed map of Dunthruik that had perhaps ever been drawn. Eamon smiled for a moment, remembering the cadet’s enthusiasm for the project and how he had complained that the West’s Crown Office had seemed curiously uninterested in its drawing. Eamon wondered if copies of the map had since been made. He supposed that they must have been.
He made his way into the depths of the college itself. There was a tense feel to the air and Eamon knew that the cadets, ensigns, and officers could feel the battle brewing in the distance – none better than they.
He found Waite in the central courtyard. The captain stood on the steps watching the dark clouds as they passed overhead. Although the air was warm his arms were folded across his breast.
Eamon stepped up beside him. Waite bowed at once. “Lord Goodman.”
“In the Master’s name I greet you, General Waite,” Eamon answered.
Waite turned to stare at him.
“It is an honour for me to bring this to you,” Eamon told him. The general stood, dumbfounded, as Eamon reached out and pinned another flame to his collar. “General Waite,” he said, “there is to be a war council at the palace in the morning. As you have charge of the Gauntlet and militia in this city, it is the Master’s wish that you attend me there.”
“Of course, Lord Goodman.” Waite glanced at the flame on his collar, and then back to Eamon with a sad smile. “I never would have guessed that this might be brought to me – and by you.”
“Nor I.”
“It has a certain poetic rightness,” Waite answered, then laughed. “You see, Lord Goodman, that the West is still moved by poetry.”
Eamon smiled. “The Master would have you choose a captain in your stead.”
“I will do so, my lord, this night.”
They stood for a few moments on the steps. A flight of swallows dashed by.
“How are the injured?” Eamon asked.
“In the infirmary,” Waite replied. “We lost another man this morning, but the others seem stable.”
“And Lieutenant Manners?”
“Of the cadets who served under you when you were a lieutenant, he is the last,” Waite mused. “The others…” He sighed deeply, and stared out across the darkening yard. “To a man, and before ever the Serpent came to these walls, they have lost their lives. Does that trouble you, Lord Goodman?”
“Yes.”
“Lieutenant Manners has proved to have some luck over him in recent weeks,” Waite answered. “Even now, though he does not wake, he lives.” The general paused and shook his head with a small laugh. “Did he ever apologize to you for how he treated you, the day you arrived in Dunthruik?”
“Oh cadet, is it? You had better hope that I have a dull memory…”
Eamon laughed; it seemed a strangely fond memory to him then. “I don’t believe that he ever did, general.”
Waite smiled. “He is a good man – they all were,” he said quietly.
The pad of approaching footsteps sounded through the hall behind them. A cadet ran up to them and bowed, the lamp-lighting torch still glowing in his hand.
“My lord; captain,” he said. Waite allowed the mistake to pass. Eamon smiled to himself. It w
as difficult to see the new flame in the half-light.
“Cadet,” Waite acknowledged.
“I beg your pardon, my lord. You are Lord Goodman?”
“Yes,” Eamon answered. It was refreshing not to have been recognized instantly.
“There is a messenger for you,” the cadet said. “He comes from the Crown Theatre.”
“The Crown?”
“He says it is urgent that he speak with you.”
“Thank you, cadet.” Eamon looked to Waite. “I will see you in the morning.”
“Good night, my lord.”
By the time Eamon reached the college steps again it was nearly dark. A servant stood beneath one of the braziers, peering nervously into the doorway. As he saw Eamon, he leapt forward.
“Lord Goodman?”
“The very same,” Eamon answered, stepping into the light. The servant’s face was pale. “You have a message for me?”
“I know you are busy, my lord, but there’s been an incident at the theatre,” the servant began. “I was asked to find you – I am sorry it has taken me so long to do so.” The man looked red in the face, and Eamon wondered how long, and in how many places, he had looked.
“What has happened?”
“One of the troupe has been badly hurt,” the servant answered. “Mr Shoreham said that she is under your protection, my lord, and so he sends word to you.”
Eamon’s blood turned cold. “I’ll go at once.”
Quickly he gathered his horse and rode down the Coll to the Crown. He dismounted and hurried inside, making his way swiftly to the troupe’s rooms.
Arriving was like coming among the panic of a rattled flock: the actors were pale, some weeping. Shoreham was there; the bearded man came across to him at once.
“My lord.”
“I hear that there has been an incident?” Eamon answered.
The man nodded nervously. “A Hand came. He asked to see Ilenia. They had an altercation and he attacked her.”
“Attacked?” Eamon breathed.
“We have done all we can,” Shoreham told him anxiously. “As an attack on someone under your protection is an attack against you, I sent for you.”
