by Anna Thayer
When the afternoon drew to a close and the Hand had left, Eamon rose stiffly from his chair. Captain Waite ambled over, shuffling papers under his arm.
“Mr Goodman,” he said, jovially. “How have you enjoyed today so far?”
“Well, sir.” It was almost true.
“Good man!” the captain smiled. Eamon suspected that his name would be a source of endless amusement for his captain. He resigned himself to it. “I’m going over to the palace to interview this young cadet of yours. Lord Cathair likes to keep me informed as to such matters, which is very helpful of him, don’t you find?”
“Indeed, sir.”
“As you’re to be on duty there, you’ll come up with me – your cadets will follow later. I’m told that your Mr Grahaven is a bit… confused; Lord Cathair mentioned shadeweed – nasty, effective stuff. They do say that a familiar face can help to break the after-effects.”
“Sir,” Eamon saluted.
“Best find yourself another pair of trousers first, lieutenant!” Waite laughed, gesturing to the mud. “I’ll meet you in the hall. The seamstress will be able to find you something.”
The seamstress did find him another pair of trousers, though they were too tight, and when Eamon reached the hall he felt terribly self-conscious. The captain didn’t comment on it. Speaking amicably, Waite led the way from the college out into the Brand.
Central Dunthruik in the early evening showed that nighttime was to be a glamorous affair. Carriages, ornately fashioned and exquisitely decorated, were drawn through the streets by pure-bred horses that tossed proud heads. Soldiers were changing posts and Gauntlet red was everywhere, interspersed at intervals with the black of the Hands. Eamon had never seen so many of either. Captain Waite explained that the Hands often attended meetings at the palace. The frequency of such meetings was increasing as the situation with the east worsened.
“Those snakes are starting to be a bit of a nuisance, too,” he commented wryly. “Springing up everywhere. Just last week we found one working in the quarter offices. Hands took him in there –” Waite gestured vaguely to a narrow side street; it led along the huge walls of the palace and to a darkly stoned door. “The Hands’ Hall. They got some good information from him – had a breacher, like you. Wrecked the man’s mind, though. Pity, really, as he deserved to feel every part of his execution. Doubt he felt a thing, he was so shot when they finished.”
Eamon swallowed in a dry throat.
The Coll led to the palace gates; these were broad enough for ten men to walk abreast and unbelievably tall. A crowned golden eagle stood at their top, devouring a serpent. As he walked through them Eamon saw Gauntlet stationed everywhere, including above him where an opening in the walls’ walkway allowed men to overlook who came and went. Each man stood sharply to attention as Waite passed; Eamon guessed that a good proportion of the palace detail came from the West Quarter College.
The gateway opened out into the Royal Plaza. Eamon stopped and stared.
The plaza was an enormous open space enclosed by the ring of the palace walls. Guards moved atop them and, in the colonnades beneath, Eamon saw doorways and stairways; he imagined that corridors passed through the thick walls and back into the palace itself. The centre of the huge square was divided into four spaces, each marked by a statue of the throned, his arm outstretched to support a bird. From where he stood Eamon could not tell which bird marked each quarter.
The whole square looked forward to the great buildings opposite the gates. These dwarfed every other building in the city. Steps ran up to a grand doorway – this he judged to be the main entrance to the palace. Above this was a balcony that spanned the whole length of the edifice; it was the monumental centrepiece to both the façade and the square, and Eamon knew at once that it was where the throned appeared when the majesties were held. The thought of it stole his breath.
“What do you think, Mr Goodman?”
Eamon tore his eyes from the balcony. “It leaves me speechless, sir,” he managed.
The captain laughed. “In that, Mr Goodman, you are not alone. The balcony,” he added, “is part of the throne room; the palace spreads back behind it.”
“Will we go inside, sir?” Eamon breathed.
“We’re going to the Hands’ Hall,” Waite told him. “It’s more usual to take the side entrance for that, but I do enjoy seeing men’s faces when they first see the Royal Plaza.”
With Eamon close on his heels, Waite followed the inside of the walls before going into one of the small entrances that led into cool and seemingly interminable corridors. They passed dozens of doorways, mostly leading to the right; Eamon imagined that they were skirting the inside of the walls.
“We’re passing through the East Wing of the palace,” Waite advised him. “On this level are the Grand Dining Hall and the kitchens; below are the servants’ passages and above you,” he said, gesturing upwards, “are the guest quarters and the eyrie of the Right Hand.”
Eamon glanced up and shuddered.
The corridor came at last to another doorway that opened into a broad yard. A gate was in the wall to the left. Waite advised him that it was known as the Hands’ Gate and that it was the secondary entrance to the palace. Hands stood at either side of it.
They paused in the small gate yard. Eamon realized that the Hands’ Gate was the same side entrance that Waite had pointed out to him from the Coll. A group of stable hands were rubbing down horses in the yard; Eamon thought that he recognized one of the beasts as Cathair’s.
“Ah! Captain Waite!” A voice called happily to them and Eamon saw Cathair himself, a moving shadow untouched by daylight, under the colonnade that led to the dark building. “And Lieutenant Goodman, too! Such punctuality, gentlemen! It is most becoming.”
“My lord.” Waite bowed low and Eamon did the same. Cathair took Waite’s hand and clasped it warmly.
“We shall go in together,” he said.
Cathair led them into the Hands’ Hall. The entry was a wide space furnished of dark grey stones, and evidently a place for receiving guests. A handful of doorways led from it, each one crested with a crowned eagle whose crimson jewels glistened. At first Eamon thought that the gems all shone by reflection, but even those on the darkened side of the hall seemed to smoulder.
Noting his confusion, Cathair smiled.
“Only marked Hands can pass through these doorways, Mr Goodman,” he said. “Hands, and those whom they invite.”
Eamon nodded silently. It was worth knowing.
Cathair led them to one of the doorways. Eamon tried to see if it had any distinguishing mark but saw none. As Cathair passed over the threshold there was a slight ripple between the dark lintels and suddenly Eamon saw a lit corridor stretching back into the building. It was as though at Cathair’s command dark curtains had been drawn aside. The eagle over the posts shone brightly.
Cathair gestured graciously for them to pass within. When he fell into step behind them Eamon again saw the ripple, but from where he stood he could see through the doorway into the hall they had left. The whole effect reminded him strongly of the Hidden Hall. He wondered whether whatever it was that kept both functioning had common roots.
The corridor was long, and many rooms and several staircases, going both up and down, led from it.
They came to a halt before one of the corridor’s doors; two men stepped out of it. One was a Hand. The other wore a maroon uniform, denoting him as a Gauntlet surgeon; he carried a stained, empty glass. He bowed.
“My lord,” he said. “I have ministered to the cadet: you should find him a little more life-like.” Eamon eyed the glass. What exactly had Mathaiah been made to drink?
“Good,” Cathair answered. “Life is something which he has seemed to be lacking. Send the notary on your way out, doctor.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The doctor vanished down the corridor towards the hall, escorted by the other Hand. Whatever was left in the cup he carried stank terribly; Eamon’s
stomach turned. He hoped that Mathaiah had borne it well.
Cathair, a very picture of nobility, once again held the door open. Eamon passed under the shadow of the Hand’s arm into a small room.
It was in many ways not unlike his room at the West Quarter College, furnished sparsely but comfortably with a bed and a couple of chairs. It had a north-facing window looking down into the central courtyard. Through it Eamon saw several Hands going about their business.
Mathaiah lay in the bed, dressed in a night-shift. The covers were drawn down from his breast and the young man breathed shallowly and swiftly, as though he was too hot. His vacant eyes stared, searching the ceiling for something that only he could see. Eamon’s heart quickened.
A notary entered, bowed deeply to Cathair and then, at a nod from the Hand, sat to make his notes.
“Mr Grahaven was stationed at Edesfield,” the Hand began, looking to Waite. “He seems to have had one or two run-ins with the concept of authority – not hard with Belaal issuing it! Apart from a few careless acts he has a clean – and very promising – record.”
“I’ve read his file,” Waite nodded, looking at the cadet wistfully. “Belaal would have wasted this boy. Who knows if his mind is too far gone now to serve at all? Poor scrub.” He shook his head and turned apologetically to Eamon. “I don’t know if you’ll be able to get sense from him.”
“He has been senseless since we brought him here,” Cathair added. “We do need his account of what happened so as to verify your own record, Mr Goodman, if we can obtain it.” The Hand gestured magnanimously to the chair by the bed. “If you would care to sit?”
It was not a suggestion. Eamon reminded himself as he sat that it could all be a trap as easily as a genuine interview, and tried to keep himself alert. But Waite’s friendliness and Cathair’s unceasing gentillesse made it difficult to remember that either of them was his enemy.
He leaned over the bed and peered at Mathaiah’s face. If he remembered correctly, shadeweed dulled senses but a known voice was sometimes able to help the afflicted mind to focus, so bringing the victim back to a point of consciousness.
The only problem, of course, was that Mathaiah had been subjected to no such thing. If he was feigning the effects of the poison then he was doing it very well. If he was not…
“Mr Grahaven,” Eamon called, softly at first. “Mr Grahaven, can you hear me?” Mathaiah’s eyes began to dart here and there, as though seeking him in thick fog. “Mr Grahaven?”
A low groan left the boy’s mouth.
Waite shook his head. “He’s gone,” he muttered. “Damned snakes.”
“Perhaps, but perhaps not.” A thin smile spread over Cathair’s pale face. “Mr Goodman?” he said kindly.
“My lord?”
All kindness vanished. “Breach him.”
For a moment Eamon could not understand the brutal command. He had been called a breacher – it was, he remembered, a rare gift among the Gauntlet. Quite what it entailed or how to use it at will, he was not sure.
“I mean no disrespect, my lord,” he began, cautiously, “but should not a man with more experience than I be called upon to…”
“Nonsense!” Cathair waved his hand dismissively. “His mind is shattered and so there is nothing to be lost if you prove yourself inadequate. I should perhaps mention that not everyone has been as inclined to accept your story as I have,” he added. “You have more incentive than any other man, Mr Goodman, to obtain this boy’s report, and the most to lose if you do not.”
The glinting, green-eyed gaze held him. Without a word Eamon turned back to Mathaiah and wondered silently – desperately – what to do. To do as Cathair asked he would have to use the throned’s mark. Surely that would jeopardize his new allegiance? Wouldn’t he be seen? Would he be able to do it at all?
The cadet’s face was sickly in the cold light. Eamon laid his hands on it. The skin was hot and troubled. Not knowing what else to do, he closed his eyes.
For a long time nothing happened. The mark in his flesh had always come without a warning; he had never sought it and he did not want to then. With his eyes shut fast he tried to veil his normal sight and open whatever other lids he had. He had to reach that other place. What would they do to Mathaiah if they could take no sensible answer from him? He thought of the city’s pyres – and clenched his eyes shut tighter.
The darkness began to lighten. The black became grey and he saw the strange plain where once he had met Aeryn. But there was no red light, no wind, no voice to drive him on. Now the plain was a grey, timeless twilight.
Mathaiah walked there, his eyes turned patiently towards the dim horizon. He seemed to await the rising of a hidden sun.
Unable to fathom what he saw and feeling that he might lose it at any second, Eamon called: “Mr Grahaven!”
The boy turned; his face flew to life and his intelligent eyes twinkled with delight.
“There you are, sir! I’ve been waiting for you,” he said, and laughed.
“What do you mean?” Eamon demanded, more confused than ever. “Are you all right?”
“I’m all right, sir,” Mathaiah assured him. “Let go. I’ll wake up.”
Suddenly the plain was gone. Eamon’s eyes snapped open. He had no idea how much time had passed.
Lord Cathair stood behind him watching with chilling interest. As Eamon started back to the world Captain Waite stepped away from the wall where he had been leaning.
“Well?”
Eamon withdrew his hands. His palms were hot where they had clasped the cadet’s brow and he noticed with alarm that the fiery eagle could not be seen. Suspecting that its lack might condemn his fragile subterfuge, he tucked his hand away. He was parting his lips to announce that he didn’t know whether or not he had been successful when Mathaiah drew a deep breath and blinked hard. His waking eyes regained their sense.
“Sir?” His voice cracked from lack of water.
Eamon could scarcely believe it. “Welcome back, Mr Grahaven!” They shared a smile.
There was a moment of astonished silence. Suddenly Waite laughed aloud and clapped Eamon heartily on the back.
“Good man!” he laughed. “Good man!”
“Indeed,” Cathair mused, but kept the rest of his thought disingenuously to himself. “Very fine work, Mr Goodman. We will begin the questions,” he added.
The interview lasted about an hour. In that time Mathaiah was given food and water and gave account of the taking of the holk and his torture at the hands of the snakes, making particular mention of one called Giles. Eamon admired the cadet’s decision to focus on their erstwhile tormentor, for in telling what Giles had committed against them the cadet had barely to lie at all. The cadet’s story also proved everything that Eamon had maintained to the captain and the Lord of the West Quarter. Lord Cathair listened with a look of perpetual interest while Captain Waite occupied himself with the fatherly gestures necessary to encourage the shaken cadet to speak.
“I knew it was shadeweed, from the smell,” Mathaiah told them. “We’d seen some at college.” He shuddered and coughed. “I’m just glad to be awake, sir.”
“You did well, Mr Grahaven,” Waite told him. Eamon silently agreed.
Cathair gestured to the notary. The man folded his papers, rose with a deep bow and left. A Hand was waiting outside the door to escort him from the hall. Eamon watched both men go with relief. The questioning had concluded.
“We should leave Mr Grahaven to his rest, perhaps,” Cathair said.
Eamon rose from his place at Mathaiah’s side. He wished that he could know what had really happened. As he stood Cathair drew him aside.
“I have never yet seen a breacher that breaches as you do.”
“I hardly knew what I was doing, my lord,” Eamon answered truthfully. To one side he could see Waite speaking with Mathaiah. It was a welcome distraction from the uncomfortable attention of the Hand.
“If I told you that this city’s greatest breacher had trie
d, and failed, to do as you have done, would you believe me?”
Eamon gaped. He dared not believe it.
Cathair smiled. “Mr Goodman, I speak truly when I say that there is much potential in you. Do not put it to waste.”
Eamon froze. The smiling face revealed nothing.
Did Cathair know?
“Well, Mr Goodman,” Waite said as he approached. “I think you need have no fear for your commission; the cadet has given a perfectly acceptable account of the proceedings. I am certainly content with them and it would not be my recommendation to investigate your conduct further.”
“I concur with you, captain,” Cathair added. “I believe that today’s report will be sufficient to quell all murmurings of discontent.”
Cathair led the way back to the hall, the threshold falling dark behind them as they passed. After the appropriate valedictories were concluded, Waite led Eamon away. Eamon was conscious of Cathair’s eyes on his back as they left. He wondered what kind of attention he had brought to himself.
The Royal Plaza was now filled with carriages, depositing gentry for the palace’s evening festivities. The laughter of lords and ladies was already high on the evening air.
The Third Banner cadets were waiting at one of the gatehouses at either side of the broad entrance to the plaza, ready to take the posts of another West Quarter group. Eamon exchanged duties with another lieutenant who seemed grateful to be relieved. Captain Waite gave him a brief but detailed description of his duties before reminding Eamon his duty would last until the second watch.
“There are extra cloaks in the gatehouse, if it gets cold.”
“Thank you, sir,” Eamon answered, saluting. The captain smiled, and then made his way from the gates onto the Coll. Eamon set the cadets to their posts at once.
Guard duties were all too often a tedious affair and being posted at Dunthruik – even with the imposing grandeur of the Royal Plaza – was no different after the initial novelty. Eamon spoke a little with some of the other lieutenants and ensigns at the gate and learned that duty at the palace was a particular privilege of the West Quarter. They admitted a large number of guests and saw a good number of couriers and servants passing through the lanterned columns. Eamon listened to a few of the Banner cadets telling tales of their afternoon’s lessons and then, when such conversation had dwindled, he watched the stars go by, listened to the music in the palace, and admitted and discharged carriages as the festivities came to a late end. He saw dozens of nobles and their ladies, decked in finery and extravagance, and he saw half a dozen Hands, patches of darkness amid the gaiety. Eamon thought that he saw Cathair among them, speaking to another who also had an emblem marked at his breast. Both men were unusually pale, even in comparison to the other Hands who passed by. Eamon wondered how many of them were breachers and what else these men, so high in the Master’s favour, could do. As the Hands left, many of them looked closely at him; he felt that they garnered more about him in that moment of scrutiny than he would like. He saluted them – men on duty did not bow, even to Hands – as they departed.
