by Anna Thayer
What a sight they made to the city watchmen: the bedraggled survivors of an unexpected massacre. They had gone out in glory; they would re-enter less than half their number, with a dozen wounded men and missing half a dozen deserted ones. They would return with a tale of defeat to break their names and match their broken bodies. It hovered, vulture-like, over his men. He wished that he could bolster them against the terrible welcome awaiting them, but his voice stuck in his throat.
Slowly they wound their way on to the city. Those who lived near the Blind Gate had seen them approaching, for there was yet light enough to bear witness to their return; those on the road stopped in shock to watch them pass. Eamon rode at the head of the column, his head as high as he dared to raise it. He did not meet the looks of the onlookers, and tried to ignore upturned faces.
The gate grew large before him, a thick edifice of stone graven with the emblems of the Master’s city and glory. The gate guards watched from every orifice of the walls, while people gathered along the streets within. All gaped.
Eamon felt every eye upon him as he led the column through the gates, past guards standing uncertain and still. They went in silence; people whispered. He could not allow himself to imagine what they said.
He led his men to the Brand. People stared at every turn – rich and poor, old and young, Gauntlet, merchant, peasant, noble; it made no difference. They all knew who he was and saw that he had failed.
They halted in the Brand and Eamon, wearied by scrutiny, dismounted. He was grateful for the shadow of the college.
“Lord Goodman?”
Ladomer stood on the college steps, papers in hand. He rushed forward. Formality was swept aside.
“Eamon, what happened to you?”
Eamon fought the tremor in his voice. “I must see Lord Cathair.”
“He’s just received Lord Ashway for a meeting –”
“I must see him at once. Please, see what you can do, Ladomer.”
Ladomer stared a moment longer, then hurried away. Eamon watched the end of the column filtering into the courtyard behind him. The cart with invalids clattered over the stones. The lieutenant surgeon leaped down, calling for men for infirmary duty. Eamon hurried to help as they unlatched the sides of the cart and began unloading the surviving injured men. Anderas was the first to descend, his face deathly but tenacious. Eamon gripped his hand as they laid him on a stretcher.
“You’re here, captain,” he said, willing him to live. “Just a little longer. They’re taking you back to the East Quarter. You will be healed.”
Panting, Anderas nodded.
The injured officers were gathered and taken to their relevant quarters. A couple of other Hands, Febian among them, came to stand by him. They looked nervous, and shifted the weight of their robes uncomfortably on their shoulders. They looked to Eamon, awaiting his leadership. He said nothing. Words had failed him long before.
Ladomer re-emerged. He bowed, face coloured with worry. “Lord Cathair advises that the Right Hand will see you in the Hands’ Hall at once.”
Eamon trembled. The wrath of the Right Hand… would be more than he could bear.
“Thank you, Mr Kentigern,” he whispered.
As the evening light dwindled westward, the brands at the Hands’ Hall were lit. The doors stood open, the strange script upon them as unreadable as it had ever been. The letters seemed to snag and cut at him.
No explanation he could give would satisfy the Right Hand.
He drew breath, trying to steady fraying nerves and shaking hands. The Hands who had gone with him to Pinewood followed him over the darkened threshold.
They waited in the antechamber. Eamon stood silently. The other Hands did not speak or meet his gaze. They were kept a long time.
The central hall was exactly as he remembered it. The Right Hand sat at its head, the westering light showcasing his face. To either side of him sat Cathair and Ashway, one more grim-faced than the other. Cathair’s look was unspeakably dark; Ashway’s was one of anger and sinuous pleasure.
The Right Hand was unreadable.
Quivering, Eamon knelt. “My lords,” he breathed. He waited for the command to rise.
It never came.
“I understand that there has been a misadventure, Lord Goodman?” The Right Hand’s voice cut palpably across the room.
Eamon flinched. “Yes, lord.” What else could he say?
“You will recount it, Lord Goodman, omitting nothing.”
Eamon looked up; the Hands behind him remained upon their knees, their heads bowed. He understood: the duty of bearing the wrath of the Right Hand was his alone.
Trembling, he gave account – the careful plan, the convoy’s arrival, the initial attack; the press of arrows, thick in the air like a fly-swarm. The dead, littered among the wagons. The beaten retreat.
“You gave that order, Lord Goodman?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“You turned tail before the enemy!” Ashway cried in disgust.
“My men were being slaughtered!” he answered hotly.
“Better dead than shamed by flight!” Ashway retorted.
“If there is any shame in the affair, then it belongs to me alone!” Eamon rejoined. He would not allow Ashway to tarnish the names of the men who had lived to see their homes and families – men who had lived to serve the throned and fight again – with cowardice. “If there must be blame, let it fall on me.”
“Such theatrics!”
“Hold your tongue, Lord Ashway,” the Right Hand spoke sharply. Ashway fell silent, instantly cowed. “All shame in this matter is rightly apportioned to Lord Goodman. It was on the basis of information obtained by him that we planned this attack, under his hand that we set these forces, and at his command that those forces acted.” He looked down at Eamon. Eamon paled. “How many men did you lose, Lord Goodman?”
“More than half, my lord. Some in the battle, some to their wounds. A very few deserted.”
“He cannot even keep his own men in defeat!” Ashway hissed. “Your precious pupil has proved what trust he merits!” he added, glaring at Cathair.
“I discharged my duties to the best of my ability!” Eamon cried, emboldened by passion. “I cannot be held accountable for the actions of armed men about whom I knew nothing!”
“Did you not just pronounce that you were accountable for everything disreputable in this venture?” Ashway countered.
Eamon looked to the Right Hand. “I performed my duty,” he said, obstinacy setting in his voice. “My lord, if you would just let me speak with the Master –”
“The Master is not interested in your defeat,” the Right Hand answered. Though his voice was steady, almost placid, it tore at Eamon’s heart. “It was a simple task that he, and Lord Cathair, gave to you. You failed them in it.”
Eamon was crushed. “Yes, my lord.”
“Did you not also try to hinder your men from obtaining their rightful vengeance on the Master’s enemies as you returned?”
Eamon didn’t answer. He supposed that the news could easily have reached the city; they had been less than two days’ march away. If he confessed it they would strike him hard…
“Yes, my lord,” he said at last.
“Why did you do that, Lord Goodman?” the Right Hand asked coolly.
“There was no reason to strike down the villagers, my lord.” It sounded like a vain explanation, even to him.
“No reason, you mean, apart from evidenced Serpent sympathies?”
Eamon could not answer.
The Right Hand’s eyes showed no trace of feeling. “The destruction of the village might have alleviated your disgrace, Lord Goodman, had you played an active role in it. Instead, you meant to halt it. Not once, but twice you have failed the Master by not exercising yourself in the responsibilities entrusted to you. You barely merit those colours.”
Eamon lowered his head. The weight of the rebuke was enough to lay him in a tomb.
“How may I redeem myse
lf, my lord?” he whispered.
“That is not for me to decide. But I should henceforth discharge my duties with extreme attention, were I to find myself in your position.”
“My lord.” He had been flogged until he lay, broken and bloodied, crawling in the dust.
The Right Hand watched him carefully. “You will assist Lord Cathair with the preparations for the city cull,” he said. “Be sure to merit this grace of mine, and to apply yourself to the task. You may rise when we have left, Goodman.”
Eamon bowed his head with murmured acquiescence. One by one the seated Hands left, and those who had knelt behind him followed at some unseen command.
Eamon waited until their footsteps were echoes in the distance then raised his head. The black stone glared at him.
Silently he rose and bore himself from the hall.
He emerged alone, shivering in the dark. High above him he could see torches in the palace and thought that he heard music playing in its many chambers. The lords and ladies of Dunthruik were oblivious to his defeat and humiliation. He did not know what he would have said to the Master had he been permitted. Perhaps it was better to be chastised by the Right Hand alone. He was, after all, still alive.
Whether he would be once Cathair had finished with him, he did not know.
Cathair had lodgings in the West Quarter College, but he also had expansive chambers in the Hands’ Hall. It was from there that he directed much of his business. He would find out what was required of him.
Eamon wove his way through the dark stone passages to the doors that marked Cathair’s abode. The angular script lay on them and two ravens were graven into the wood. Some Gauntlet stood nearby and though they let him pass, they did not bow.
He came into the room that formed the more public part of Cathair’s quarters. It was rounded, with windows looking in across the courtyard; through them Eamon could see the edifice of the Hands’ Hall, its doors grim in the moonlight. The room had several doors leading from it into other chambers. Before Eamon was a table and an arrangement of long, cushioned chairs that would easily seat several people. The upholstery bore strange patterns. He wondered whether the swirls of brown were typical of the lands to the south, and when Cathair might have travelled the deserts. It was an unusual feat if he had done so and an even more unusual gift if he had not.
Something clattered. Suddenly all four of Cathair’s dogs were around him. The beasts easily reached his waist and Eamon knew, from months in Cathair’s company, that should they choose to jump they would be taller than he was. He was assaulted by the memory of his first arrival in Dunthruik. These dogs could maul a man to death.
The dogs growled, baring teeth between snarling lips. Holding his hands well away from them, Eamon stood in an invisible contest of wills with the hounds – who sniffed at him, growled, and occasionally feinted for his arms with their long teeth, daring him to run and give them excuse for a chase and rending. But he held his ground.
At long last he heard a voice. “I see that you take the Right Hand very literally indeed, Lord Goodman.”
Cathair emerged from one of the other doorways, a dimly lit room visible behind him, his papers spread over a desk and books aligned in deep shelves. The Hand’s eyes had a menacing glisten to them, which rekindled Eamon’s fear of his pale-faced enemy. Cathair had not spoken once during his interview with the Right Hand, but his anger had been clear.
“He bade me to assist you, my lord,” Eamon replied timidly.
“A foible of his own, little according with my desires. You are an abominable humiliation, Goodman!” he spat. “You have disgraced me and the whole West Quarter through your pitiable, unforgivable remonstrance.”
Eamon didn’t answer. He tried to match the green eyes, but could not. Cathair was right.
The dogs snarled; one snatched at his hand. He began shaking. Cathair came striding to his dogs. His eyes grew cool. “Do you like hounds, Goodman?”
Eamon swallowed. Was that a faint smile about the Hand’s lips?
“I myself am very fond of hounds,” Cathair snapped at him, a fifth dog. “I like hounds, Mr Goodman, because they are unswervingly faithful to me.” Cathair touched the head of one of his beasts. “They awake when I command it, eat when it pleases me, bite and rend when I ask it of them. They recognize the justice of my punishment when they do wrong and then return, fawning and whining, to lick my hand in their penitence.”
“Yes, my lord,” Eamon managed. The dogs growled at him, but patiently awaited their master’s commands.
“Another thing I like about my hounds, Goodman,” he said, “is that they are good at discerning men who are enemies to me and to the Master.”
Eamon’s heart went cold. Cathair’s green eyes were those of a preying, circling beast, preparing to make the kill.
Every muscle in Eamon’s body was tense. Should he feign ignorance, reject the insinuation in outrage, or collapse to his knees in confession and beg forgiveness? Sweat broke on his brow. If he did not do the last then surely the culling in Dunthruik would begin with him, with his blood spilled on the Hand’s floor? He quaked with horror. If that happened he could never seek Hughan’s forgiveness or redeem his name.
So he resolved to answer.
“A hound is but a hound, my lord, a nose a nose, a scent a scent, a man a man. All can be fooled, however faithful.”
“You also are a hound of mine, Goodman, and I am the hand that has fed you,” Cathair replied, with severity that might sear flesh from bone. “I am a Hand that metes out vengeance, death, and judgment. Remember that.” He paused. “Men were sent to Ashford Ridge to destroy the Serpent’s camp. They fared no better than you did at Pinewood.”
Eamon stared at him. The Ashford expedition had also gone out under Cathair’s auspices but the force had been much bigger, well prepared, filled with experienced men. How could it have failed? He dared not ask; Cathair’s gaze was grim.
“Understand from this that today is not a day to test me, Goodman,” Cathair growled. “Did you know about the Easters hidden in the convoy?”
The question surprised him. Was it to become an interrogation? “No, my lord.”
“Did you seek at any time to hinder the efforts of your men in the engagement, giving orders contrary to the glory of the Master?”
He blanched. He wished that he had. “No, my lord.”
“Did you contrive to assist the enemy?”
Eamon stared at him. “Why are you asking me these questions, my lord? My only desire was to serve the Master.” That, at least, was true.
“Because I know too well, Goodman, that yours is a house of biting dogs,” Cathair spat.
Suddenly he whistled. It was a shrill sound, freezing every part of Eamon’s being. He prepared for the worst, feeling with soul-destroying certainty that he had betrayed himself without ever – which was worse – intending service to Hughan.
Claws rattled away across the floor. He blinked hard. The hounds had flocked to the far end of the room and crunched happily at thick slabs of meat in a bowl by one of the doors. Sweat chilled on his forehead.
Cathair offered him a beguiling smile. “Come, Goodman,” he said. “We must not disappoint the Right Hand.”
It was late that night – so late that it was nearly morning – when Eamon emerged from Cathair’s quarters, shivering. He tried to garner an impression of the time from the position of the stars, but his head swam with fatigue and a stomach-churning nausea he had been obliged to hide.
Not long after he had joined Cathair a number of other West Quarter Hands had arrived. Few had acknowledged him, no doubt fearing contamination from his sullied name. He had listened with growing unease to what was discussed.
He had seen the preliminary plans for the culling of wayfarers in the city, plans concerned with the logistical arrangements for the arrest, torture, and execution of any suspected snakes. Orders for it had to be drafted, dispatched, and filed, and holding areas prepared for the processing of thos
e arrested. That “processing” was to involve breaching, torture, and confession, and find its end at the pyres.
A clear hierarchy for jurisdiction had been compiled where the Hands, second only to the Right Hand and the Master, had the highest power to decide the fate of those imprisoned. In each quarter of the city specialized units of Gauntlet had been formed to hunt the wayfarers, each answering to their captain and two specially assigned lieutenants. Cathair had not been idle while Eamon was at Pinewood.
The cull, which had been delayed while lists of probable victims were drawn up, would begin in the following days. It was to be brutal, based in part on a reward scheme. Any who informed on another and were then proven to have told the truth would be given money to thank them for their interest in the Master’s authority. If proven wrong they would face no punishment. The criteria for “proving” wayfarer sympathies were slim and Eamon wondered what proportion of the River’s population would escape unscathed. Messengers would go that night, and more the next morning, taking authority for the cull to every regional Gauntlet unit. Eamon shuddered to think of the red uniforms prowling through Edesfield, bringing charges of treason where there was perhaps not even the basis for suspicion. How many men would burn, like Telo or Lorentide? How many would be forced to implicate others, like Clarence? How many would lose their lives, wayfarers or not?
Grey touched the sky behind the palace. Drawing his cloak around him, he returned to his own quarters. It was a small room, far from the central hall, but could only be reached by passing the guarded doors. Apart from such details it was much the same as the room he had had at the West Quarter College. The bed was larger and more ornate, decorated with stylized hands and rimmed with the haunting script. It was draped with dark covers and on the wall hung a long banner, bearing the Master’s eagle. It glowered at him as he sank wearily down.
He lay back. He did not bother to undress or even to remove his muddy boots. His mind was full of the culling, of the Hidden Hall and its faded emblems, of Hughan and the throned. It had all seemed so clear to him once, and yet… Why was he only capable of betraying – first one lord and then the other?
