by Anna Thayer
Alessia laughed, delighted with his answer. “You speak well, lieutenant!” She strolled across to the balcony rail and leaned against it, facing him. “There are rumours about you at court, Lieutenant Goodman. You so intrigued me with your gallantry last night that I decided to see if they were true. I hope you do not think that rude of me?” she added with a sincere look.
How could he think of her as anything but entrancing? “No, my lady.”
“I am glad!” Alessia laughed, seemingly relieved. “Would you object to my seeking answers to some of those matters that most intrigue me?”
Eamon gazed at her, astounded by her interest in him. “I would answer you willingly, my lady.”
“They say that you surrendered your sword,” she told him, turning so as to look up into his eyes. The turn was enough to set his heart racing, let alone the glimpse of her beautiful neck. “They say,” Alessia continued, “that you were taken prisoner by wayfarers and that they tortured you, yet you revealed nothing. They say that you stole precious information, risking your life to bring back the last man of your crew, and that you brought things of great value back to this city and to the Master. Quieter voices, more wary of being heard, say that you breached a man that Lord Tramist, Lord of the South Quarter and finest breacher of this city and the River, could not. They say you are the only man who stands up to First Lieutenant Alben in matters of decency.”
He did not care how she had heard such things. Eamon half-heartedly tried to offer her compliments some resistance. “You flatter me, my lady.”
“I do not,” she told him. Suddenly she shivered. At once, Eamon removed his jacket and eased it over her bare shoulders. She smiled. When she looked at him again he found that she was impossibly close to him. His heart pounded so loudly that he was sure the whole world could hear it.
“They say,” she whispered, “that in one meeting you conquered the heart of Alessia Turnholt, and that she seeks to reward you in full for your gallantry.” Her eyes filled his sight and heart, forming the circles of his whole world.
Suddenly there was a hoarse, piercing scream – a girl’s. It was followed seconds later by a yell. Eamon recognized the second voice: Mathaiah’s. The cries came from the side of the house.
There could be no hesitation. Eamon tore himself away from Alessia and hurtled back inside. Flinging open the dining room doors he raced down the stairs, into the hall, through the doors. He heard sounds of a struggle near the stables, where the West Wing opened on the garden. Alessia was running close behind him.
“Stay inside!” he commanded. He did not wait to see if she obeyed. He bolted across the yard.
Lillabeth was pressed against the wall of the house. She sobbed and clutched at torn clothes with bloodied hands. In front of her was a man in a state of half-undress. His breathing was ragged and he was wild with rage, for between him and his weeping prey stood Mathaiah.
“Out of my way, bastard!” the man yelled. “Or I’ll have you, too! Go back to your precious warder and leave me to my business!”
The wild man heard Eamon’s approach and turned. With a rush of hatred Eamon recognized him: Alben.
With a screech the first lieutenant hurled himself at the cadet. The next moment Mathaiah and Alben were struggling hand to hand in the moonlight, the first lieutenant towering wrathfully over his foe. Alben drew a long dagger and thrust it at Mathaiah’s chest. But the cadet was quick and with a feat of strength blocked the man’s blow. Mathaiah twisted Alben’s arm impossibly at the wrist and Alben was forced to tear away with a scream. He slashed across Mathaiah’s arm and the cadet gave a cry of his own.
All this happened in moments. First lieutenant and cadet fell apart and Mathaiah moved back to stand protectively by Lillabeth, drawing his sword with his bleeding arm. His breath was pained.
“Sir!” he warned.
Eamon turned in time to see another man bearing down on him, dagger drawn. He blocked the blow and then drew his blade ferociously across the man’s neck. There was no time to think about what he had done.
The corpse fell away from him and he rounded on Alben. The first lieutenant was laughing.
“Beginner’s luck, Goodman!” he sneered. “That one was supposed to have garrotted you on your way home. Now I can kill you and your ward myself, a solution that I like much better.”
Howling like a devil Alben slashed again at Mathaiah. The cadet blocked the blow but its force was enormous – he staggered down to his knees beneath it, his sword clanging away from his hand.
“Stop!” Eamon yelled, lunging at him.
With a bloodthirsty smile Alben parried the blow. Content that he had drawn the man’s ire, Eamon fell back a pace.
“Let me tell you how this evening is going to go, Mr Goodman,” Alben said. “First, I’m going to nearly kill you. Then I will kill him, and I will take her, and then I will finish you slowly. You don’t object, I hope?”
“They have nothing to do with us, Alben!” Eamon told him. “They are in my way – much like you.” Hurling his dagger into his other hand Alben drew his sword. Terror flashed through Eamon’s flesh. He did not know how skilled a swordsman Alben was.
“You want murder?” he cried. “For what, Alben? For Manners?” Alben erupted. “You expect me to think that you’re blind, Goodman? I’m not. Since you came Waite has thought of nobody but you. How do I become a Hand if my captain is dallying with lieutenants? He can dally all he pleases, of course, but not when my promotion is on the line. The incidents at the course are amusements, Goodman, much like you are, and I intended to duel you to teach you your place, like all those other newcomer bastards.” Alben’s face was hollow and crazed; Eamon fell back before it. “But then, Goodman, you dare to court Lady Turnholt, brazenly, in my face. Sleep with as many whores as you want, Goodman – but not with mine.”
Eamon gaped, but had no time to answer and barely the time to think. Alben launched himself, foul blades grinning in the light. Eamon met the oncoming blow and jerked to one side to avoid the slashing dagger strike that followed it.
Their swords jarred and Eamon struggled to hold his own. His stomach cramped as he and Alben tore apart and then exchanged a furious match of thrusts and parries. Fire burnt on Alben’s palm: a red light like that in the man’s eyes.
Suddenly Alben threw a strike that brought Eamon’s sword out of his hand. The pommel-blow that followed struck Eamon hard in the jaw and he was sent, head swimming, to the ground. With a blood-curdling scream Alben threw down his blades and hurled himself on top of him. He clenched his sweating hands about Eamon’s throat. Eamon cried out as the palm-fire burnt him.
“I’m going to choke you like a dog, Goodman!” Alben hissed, driving his thumbs down. Choking and gasping, Eamon tried desperately to pull Alben’s hands away, but his strength was waning.
Only one defence was left to him. He rammed his hand into Alben’s face.
The plain was dark and when Eamon looked with his other eyes Alben stood like a tower before him. The man laughed derisively.
“This will solve nothing, Goodman!”
Eamon staggered. His vision was still blurred; he could do nothing while he was being choked. He could not control it. Alben knew it. The first lieutenant approached him with a grotesque smile.
“So, you’re a breacher,” he snarled. “Would you like to know what I am? A breaker.” Alben thrust his hand into Eamon’s face. The hand upon him became a fistful of knives.
He screamed.
In agony Eamon fell fitfully between the plain and the real world. In one he could see Mathaiah trying to tear Alben off of him while in the other were the knives and looming presence. There was nothing he could do. Nothing.
Courage, Eamon!
Suddenly there was strength in him again and he saw the plain. The knives ceased to strike. Alben gaped in horror. Eamon looked at himself and understood that help had come: he was arrayed from head to foot in an armour of bright light.
He opened his eyes to t
he courtyard. There was strength in his hands and light at his throat where the heart of the King lay. He tore Alben’s hands from his neck. Breath returned to his starved lungs and he hurled Alben from him.
Both men staggered to their feet. Eamon was aware of blue light shimmering by his hands, of Mathaiah and Lillabeth watching in astonishment, and of the cries of approaching soldiers. It was then that he realized what was plain for all to see: that he was a King’s man. Alben had seen it. If he didn’t act quickly then the approaching soldiers would see it, too.
“You treacherous, wayfaring bastard!” Alben cursed, and drew breath to yell it out loud.
The breath never reached his lips. Eamon snatched up the fallen dagger and hurled himself at the first lieutenant. He had no choice.
The blade went deep. Alben collapsed against the wall of the house. Eamon stepped back, hating himself and hating Alben for forcing him to do what he had done.
Suddenly Alben spoke again. His voice was small, different. As he spluttered blood into the darkness his eyes searched frantically this way and that.
“Eamon!” he pleaded. “Eamon, it wasn’t me, he…” The man gave a gasp of pain. “Eamon, please! Save me!”
Eamon felt the ebbing light of the King’s grace in him. He knew he could do it. He had done it before. But the soldiers were coming…
The light faded away. Alben’s mouth twisted into a sob. Gripping its hilt, Eamon twisted the dagger.
“Lieutenant!”
Eamon saw Waite, Cathair, and a hoard of Gauntlet soldiers. Behind them came Alessia, her running much hampered by her long dress. Eamon understood at once that she had raised the alarm – he did not have time to wonder how she had found Cathair and Waite. With a cry the lady ran to Lillabeth and gathered her into her arms. The maid was weeping.
Waite’s face paled as he surveyed the scene. He met Eamon’s gaze in a fury.
“You had better have a damn good explanation for this, lieutenant!”
“Sir, I…” Eamon faltered. There was blood on his hands. The first lieutenant was stone still, his wretched face growing cold. He choked back an angry cry.
“What happened here?” Waite demanded, rushing to Alben’s side.
“I can explain, sir,” Mathaiah said, clutching at his wound. “Alben… he was in a kind of fit… He attacked this serving lady… I tried to help her, and he was upon me… He meant to kill us… Lieutenant Goodman had no choice – he had to kill him.”
Waite glanced at his erstwhile first lieutenant. “Alben,” he whispered sadly. He pressed his eyes shut.
Lord Cathair stepped forward. “Mr Alben was an exemplary officer, gentlemen, but was known to suffer from bouts of fierce anger. He was receiving treatment for it.”
Eamon gazed at the Hand, dumbfounded. The explanation for Alben’s madness seemed too quickly offered. Alben himself, dying, had seemed a different man…
“With respect,” Mathaiah cried, “the fact that he was receiving treatment would have been of no comfort to this lady had he had his way!”
“Cadet,” Eamon warned sharply.
“No, no.” Waite’s face was grey and he moved with the slowness of an old man. “Mr Grahaven is right.” He turned to some of the ensigns who had followed him. “Gentlemen, escort Lady Alessia and her maid back to the house, and entrust them to her household.”
At further commands from Waite the bodies of the nameless assassin and dead first lieutenant were removed. Eamon trembled. He had done it – he had killed a man to defend his broken oaths. What else was he capable of doing?
Waite and Cathair were speaking together in low voices. Mathaiah stepped to Eamon’s side.
“Are you all right, sir?”
Eamon nodded dumbly. He turned to speak as privately as he could with the cadet.
“Did they see?” he whispered, dashing at tears with bloody, shaking hands.
Mathaiah shook his head. “I didn’t want to kill him.” He felt sick. There was nowhere for him to clean his hands.
“Lieutenant Goodman.”
Eamon spun about. Cathair summoned him with a gesture. Captain Waite had already turned to follow the soldiers who carried Alben’s body away.
Quivering, Eamon bowed. “My lord.”
“Captain Waite has magnanimously decided that you will not be required to attend watch duties tonight.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“He has also recommended that you return to the college and get some rest. You will have other duties to attend to in the morning. Be sure to be looking your best at parade.”
“Yes, my lord,” Eamon answered. “But I will escort my ward to the surgeons first: he is wounded.”
“Do so,” Cathair smiled. “I bid you good rest, First Lieutenant.” The Hand disappeared into the night. Eamon stared after him with burning eyes. “He said that you would make first lieutenant within two days…”
Eamon drove his hands across his eyes. The moon in the cold sky told him that it was the end of his second day.
CHAPTER XV
Eamon slept fitfully that night. No amount of washing seemed to cleanse his hands.
Could he not have healed the first lieutenant and then breached him to change his memory? Surely he could have done. But it was too late.
The predawn light seeped slowly through the window. He shuddered, longing for his chill flesh to be warmed. The first lieutenant’s dying pleas harrowed him by name.
“Save me, Eamon!”
He thrust his hands back into his water basin and scoured them again. Was this what service to Hughan meant – murder?
He anxiously shook his hands dry. Desperate to distract himself, he paced back to his bed and took from his jacket the papers he had picked up in Ellenswell.
Most were faded with age – odd words or drawings could be distinguished here and there. They angered him. Had he saved worthless papers over a man that day?
Only one leaf caught his eye. On it was a simple sketch: a watchtower on the crest of a hill, overlooking a wooded valley. There was no name, mark, or indication of any kind. Inked soldiers stood at their posts and a flag was raised above them. Beneath the flag, among distant hills, was a man with a bright face. On his breast were the sword and star.
Eamon stared at it, demanding some providential absolution. There was none to be had.
His thoughts oppressed him as he left his room. Even Mathaiah’s face, when it appeared at the other end of the corridor, did little to cheer him.
“Good morning, sir.” One jacket arm was swollen, betraying a bandage underneath, but apart from this the cadet was merry enough. Eamon tried to smile.
“How are you feeling?”
“College surgeon says I’ll be right as the River,” Mathaiah answered, patting his injury. “Yourself, sir?”
“Not well,” Eamon confessed. “Not looking forward to this morning. I’m glad you’re about.”
Mathaiah smiled encouragingly. “Wouldn’t be anywhere else but here, sir.”
Parade was called at the usual time. Eamon took his accustomed place in line. The Third Ravens kept scouring the courtyard for their first lieutenant – everyone seemed to notice the absence. The college’s lieutenants spoke together in curiously hushed tones. Eamon could read their conversations from their faces: they all wanted to know where Alben was.
His gut twisted as his double oath consumed him.
Waite came at last. He seemed intolerably tired. The ranks fell silent.
“At ease, gentlemen,” the captain called. He did not need to draw their attention: the college was rapt by his gravity. “I’m afraid that I have some unpleasant tidings. We have lost First Lieutenant Alben to wayfaring intrigues.”
Stunned outrage rippled through the college. Perhaps he hadn’t heard clearly over the beating of his throbbing heart. Was he not to be named? No; his murder was to be covered with the tale of insurgents.
“Snakes are at large, gentlemen,” Waite continued, “and this is proof that they ha
ve penetrated our city.”
Eamon shuddered. Waite could not guess how near to the truth he was.
“Honour Alben’s memory with your vigilance, West Quarter. His death will not then have been in vain.” Waite paused, taking the whole college in his gaze. “Lord Cathair and I have consulted on the matter. We appoint a new first lieutenant this morning.”
There was another murmur; several of the lieutenants looked secretly pleased, expecting the honour to alight on them. But Eamon already knew the outcome of Waite’s consultation. He met Waite’s gaze. There was an uneasy formality in it.
“Lieutenant Goodman.”
Stunned silence. It was only his third day in Dunthruik, and some lieutenants had reached that rank before Eamon had even joined the Gauntlet. How they would loathe him – and they did not know who he was, and what he had done.
Eamon presented himself before his captain with a salute. Waite’s face was expressionless. He held another flame in his hand, a mark ready to join the two already pinned at Eamon’s neck.
“Lieutenant Eamon Goodman,” he said. “Your blood, blade, and body speak of the Master’s glory; will you command men for that glory?”
Eamon could not look the captain in the eye. “For his glory.”
“Then for his glory it is given to you to command men, First Lieutenant Goodman. Lift your head, Mr Goodman,” he added quietly.
“Sir.” Eamon trembled as the captain pinned on the flame – a bitter, undeserved, usurped honour. Waite knew what had happened – how could he make this appointment?
Waite surveyed the ranks. “I present to you First Lieutenant Goodman,” he called. “This promotion is ratified by the Master himself, and performed by my own hand.” The mark of the throned flared along the contours of his raised palm. “Let any who has bane bring it to me.”
Waite lowered his hand. He proceeded to dismiss the ranks. Then he turned to Eamon.
“Congratulations, Mr Goodman.” The captain held out his hand. There was little warmth in it.
