The King's Hand (24 page)

“My lord, it is supposed to be served rare; it then more closely resembles the Master's colour –”

“Well cooked,” Eamon insisted. “Followed by the cheeses and then dessert, which you may choose yourself.” The major-domo's jaw dropped, but Eamon carried on. “What wines are there to choose from?”

“They are all Ravensill.” The wines came from land that belonged to Lord Cathair, and the revenue from the trade was fed back into the West Quarter and maintenance of the port; Eamon had seen the numbers and the details when he had served as a quarter's Hand under Cathair. Ravensill wines were highly sought after in the merchant states; he wondered what the Easters made of it. He remembered the red that he had tasted as a first lieutenant in the West Quarter, and the way that Lieutenant Fields had cooed at him while he poured.

He had enjoyed that wine. But he did not want it.

“The white,” he said, tapping the page. The major-domo looked horrified, then vaguely distasteful.

“The white?” he asked, as though he hoped repeating it would change Eamon's mind.

“
The white
.”

“Let me see if I have understood correctly, my lord.” The major-domo drew himself up. “You want the nuts, followed by the
Crown
Medley, then the
Crown
Platter – which, despite being red meats, are not to be red. This is to be served with a white wine, to be followed not by dessert but by cheeses, to be followed by something to be chosen by someone other than yourself?”

Eamon nodded. “Yes,” he said.

“My lord… you realize that you are choosing a two-crown dinner? In many circles this will be considered an ins –”

Eamon didn't care how many crowns were involved. “That is what I command,” he said slowly.

The major-domo bowed swiftly. “As you wish, my lord.”

“When is the supper?” Eamon asked.

“Tomorrow evening,” the man answered. “The invitations will be seen to. Thank you, Lord Goodman.”

 

That evening he sat at his desk. It had come to be his entire world. He stared out of the window over the garden. Anderas came earlier than usual and checked the day's papers. Eventually, Eamon noticed that the man watched him. He turned to face him.

“Captain?”

“Forgive me, Lord Goodman,” Anderas inclined his head, then matched Eamon's gaze. “Mean you to look at these papers?”

“Aren't you already doing that?”

“Lord Goodman…” Anderas closed his eyes, then drew a careful breath. “Lord Goodman, I cannot authorize them all.”

“Have you not done so thus far?”

“I should
not
authorize them.” He paused. “I am but the captain of the East Quarter. My men want to see the hand of their Hand on these papers. You must –”

“
Must
, Anderas?” Eamon's tone was virile.

The captain fell silent. Eamon watched him. Why did he suddenly feel so estranged from this man?

His haunting thoughts returned to him. He raised his hands to his head with a deep breath.

Anderas watched him. Then he gathered up the papers, bowed, and left.

 

The heavens stayed clear during the day, and as the evening set in, a chill breeze blew in from the sea.

In the late afternoon, Anderas took Eamon to the grand dining hall in the Handquarters. The room was long though not too narrow, and great tables lined it, meeting a high table at one end on a dais. The room had been prepared for over a hundred guests, among whom would be the quarter's officers, some selected ensigns, the Hands under Eamon's jurisdiction (whom he had met several times, but remembered none of them), and representatives from each of the other quarters, accompanied by their own men. Eamon saw the guest list and was relieved to learn that the other Quarter Hands did not intend to put in a personal appearance. This fact should perhaps have perturbed him, but he did not rue their absence, nor take any hint of warning from it. The only names on the list he recognized were those of Waite, who would be coming on behalf of Lord Cathair, Anderas, and a handful of officers from the North Quarter whom he had met when working at the port.

Eamon stood in the hall with Anderas, watching as the servants laid the places to the tables and set carefully written name tags by each place. The cutlery was impeccably polished and arranged, and the glasses shone where they stood; he had caught scent of the cooking when they had passed the kitchens earlier and it had boded well.

“As you are aware, my lord, this supper will be your formal reception as the Lord of the East Quarter.” Eamon allowed his attention to be drawn by Anderas's words. “You greet your guests in the hall outside when they arrive, and after the servants let you know that all is ready, you can bring everyone in. They find their seats. There is a toast to the Master, then the meal. At its end you bid farewell to your guests as they leave by this door.”

“Is that all?” Eamon didn't feel much intrigued by the description of his evening's activities. He wanted to sit in his chair and stare at the familiar, gaunt hollowness inside himself.

“Yes, my lord, it is.”

Eamon looked across at the captain and almost allowed himself to be concerned by the man's pale face and tense tone. The moment passed.

Anderas bowed. “If you'll excuse me, my lord.”

“Of course.”

 

The evening came swiftly, and Eamon again donned the ceremonial robes that had been given to him by the Master. He hated them, just as he hated the ring on his finger, and he hated that he could not sit alone with his grief and rage but must instead put himself on show to scores of people whom he also hated. He consoled himself that it was but one evening and that they would have to leave when he told them to.

The sun sank below the horizon when he made his way into the reception room. Some of the quarter's lieutenants and two draybants were already there, their uniforms smartly presented. A couple of token ensigns walked with them, their uniforms even more sharply primed and their eyes wide as they took in the great alternate banners bearing the owl and Master's eagle. Servants passed among those gathered there, serving drinks. As soon as he appeared, Eamon was greeted by a room of rustling fabric and silent, bowing men.

Eamon greeted them but stood aloof as they resumed conversation. He barely heard what was being said, his mind far away. His glass chinked against the ring in his hand as he moved.

“Lord Goodman, good evening.” Eamon turned and saw Waite. The captain rose from a deep bow and stood at his elbow. He smiled. “How are you, Lord Goodman?”

“Well, thank you, captain.”

The captain's perceptive eyes rested on him for a moment. “I bring you Lord Cathair's regards, but, unfortunately, not Lord Cathair himself. He has sent a case of wines for your cellar, by means of an apology and as a token of his esteem.”

“Were they poisoned?” Eamon asked abstractly. Waite blinked in surprise, then laughed.

“No, Lord Goodman – at least, not that Lord Cathair told me. He did, however, ask me to advise you that the wines come from a noble rot crop, and that he felt these would be most fitting for your feast.”

Eamon looked at the captain. He saw the insult and Cathair's intent, but he could not feel it. There was nothing left in him capable of feeling.

Waite spoke again. “So far as it concerns me, a good wine is one that sits well in the stomach, and it can rot or not as it chooses.” He smiled. “How do you find yourself as a Quarter Hand, my lord?”

“I find myself well, captain.”

“I find you much changed.”

It was a sudden and unexpected stroke.

Eamon looked at him sharply. “I find you much too bold.”

Waite smiled, a small smile, then laughed quietly. “I found you as a lieutenant,” he said. “You had a strange look to you in those first days, Lord Goodman. It was after Alben died that I first noticed it.” The captain fixed him with a firm stare. Eamon felt hideously vulnerable, as though the angry casings of his grief would crack under the gaze of the man before him. “I see that look again now,” Waite added, “and I wonder why it is you bear it.”

Eamon's hand clenched tighter about his glass. He willed the captain to dissolve into the ground, and to take his wretched curiosity with him.

He was saved by a servant who came forward and bowed beside him.

“When you wish to go in, Lord Goodman,” he said, “we are ready.”

Eamon summoned them all to dinner.

 

The long dining hall was brightly lit and welcoming. Not a thing was out of place. On the wall over the high table hung a banner bearing the owl and ash. The Master's eagle framed it. Eamon felt its regal gaze on him as he took his place at the high table. Waite was to sit to his left and Anderas to his right. Neither man met his gaze as they took their places, and part of him thought less of them for that.

He watched as those invited came into the hall and took their seats. He saw the servants by the doors at the back of the hall, standing as inconspicuously as they could. As the guests stood by their chairs, their eyes turned to him, but he was not able to discern the intention behind the stares. He was a prisoner, and anything beyond the walls of his cell ceased to interest him.

The goblets at his place were filled, the cutlery wrought in a golden sheen, and small crowns marked the stems of the goblets. Eamon took one and raised it in his hand. As he did so, every man in the room did likewise. He marvelled that his gestures should have such effect.

“To the East Quarter,” he called, “and to his glory.”

“His glory,” the room echoed. The hundred voices spoke and drank in unison. The guests set their glasses down and seated themselves, as the first servants stepped into action, silent and flawless. They bore the nuts to the table.

Conversation surrounded him as the meal progressed. Some of it may have been aimed at him, as an attempt to engage him, but he was never certain. He responded to little or none of it, and ate swiftly, enjoying less than little of it. It was a business that had merely to be endured and dispensed with. He found some pleasure in the fact that the wine was white and that the soup, a deep red colour, was thick. It tasted good, though he would not have liked to admit it.

Soon the Crown Platter, an exquisite selection of red meats, was brought out. Eamon was dimly aware of a stunned silence as it was laid before the guests. One or two of them glanced at him in horror, but he did not understand it. Perhaps they preferred their meat bloody. He did not.

Anderas stared at him. He ignored it. Even Waite seemed a little disturbed as the plate was laid before him. In silence and with uncertainty, the men began eating.

There was another odd silence when the cheeses were brought, though most seemed content with the major-domo's choice of dessert – a rich pastry served with honey. Eamon found it ironic that the part of the meal he enjoyed the most was that in which he had had no part. He wondered idly whether he should have let the major-domo choose everything.

The meal drew to its close. At Anderas's whispered instruction, Eamon rose and went to the door for the formal leave-taking of his guests. He made himself smile and bid farewell to each of them. Anderas stood at his elbow, discreetly whispering their names to him as they approached. Eamon cared about none of them, not even those he knew.

“Thank you, Lord Goodman,” Waite said as he took his turn. Eamon wondered why the captain looked pale.

“Thank you, captain,” he answered. “Please give my regards to Lord Cathair,” he added, as the men representing the other Quarter Hands also approached, “and to Dehelt and Tramist. Thank you all for your company.” He was lying with every utterance, and well he knew it. Perhaps they did, too. They bowed to him and left.

“Lieutenant Mers, East Quarter,” Anderas muttered, and Eamon looked up to the next man, one of the last in the long line of leaving guests. He was red in the face and his eyes did not seem entirely clear. He laughed. It seemed to Eamon a strange, mocking laugh.

“A
two-crown
dinner,” Mers sneered, bowing ridiculously low.

“Lieutenant.” Anderas's voice was harsh and full of warning.

“Very fine, Lord Goodman. You have my thanks. A two-crown dinner for a backhanded quarter.” As the lieutenant spoke he looked slyly at Anderas.

“Hold your tongue, lieutenant.”

Anderas's voice was terribly loud in the emptying dining hall, causing a couple of the servants to glance at him. The outburst stirred even Eamon from his stupor. Anderas's cheeks coloured with anger. Faced with such a look from his captain, the inebriated lieutenant grew a little pale.

“Yes, captain. I know that you have his papers to deal –”

“Leave,” Anderas told him. “
Now
.”

The lieutenant left. Eamon watched him go before looking back at Anderas. The captain's hands shook as he leaned forward to speak once more, his voice bearing its customary whisper.

“Lieutenant Smith,” he said quietly. Obediently, Eamon bade the remaining men farewell.

 

Anderas walked with him back to his quarters. As they crossed the main hall to the study, the captain was curiously quiet. At the door, the captain bowed and made to leave.

“You're forgetting your papers, captain,” Eamon told him. “Fetch them, and you may go.”

Anderas's eyes closed a moment. He sighed. “Yes, Lord Goodman.”

The captain followed him into the room and strode to the desk to collect the papers. As he did so, Eamon gently closed the door.

Anderas looked up. His eyes recognized a coming storm. He paused by the desk, the papers in his hands.

“My lord?” Anderas's voice was tense.

Eamon waited for him to speak further, but the captain remained silent. Eamon's chair, the ennobling throne of his grief, called to him from behind the dimly lit table. He walked across and sat down in it, feeling its wooden arms holding his own. Anderas watched him sit.