The King's Hand (29 page)

There was a pensive pause. Scott eventually drew breath. “I don't think I would want to ask him three. One would do.”

“Really?” Taine sounded disappointed.

“Really. Lord Ashway was a formidable man, and it will need a formidable man to replace him. I think I'd ask Lord Goodman what kind of a man he is – and whether he meant what he said, about serving the quarter.”

“That's two questions, ass!”

“But the answer to one answers the other,” Scott told him. “I think he'd give a good one.”

Mers scoffed quietly. “Already so endeared to him, Mr Scott?”

“Out of duty, yes,” Scott answered. “That's what duty means. I followed Lord Ashway – we all did – and I will follow Lord Goodman. My uniform demands that.” The lieutenant paused. Eamon craned his neck, keen to hear every word.

“If,” the lieutenant continued at last, “by your question you mean ‘Does Lord Goodman have your unswerving loyalty and would you stand by him if the Serpent came?'…” Scott fell silent again. “If he gave a good answer – and proved it by what he did – then I think I might.”

There was a long silence. In it, all Eamon heard was eating in the mess, and beating in his heart. There was still hope.

Courage, First Knight.

Taking a deep breath, Eamon stepped into the mess. The table seating the five officers was by the door. A man poured wine into their goblets, and, as he stepped out, Eamon saw the faces of half of the officers at the table. They didn't seem to see him immediately, but suddenly two of the speakers – one of them Mers – caught sight of him. They fell silent just as Taine, his back to the door, spoke again.

“So, Scott, when do you think you'll ask Lord Goodman your question?”

“He could ask it now if he wanted to,” Eamon said quietly.

The whole table turned. The echo of scraping chairs filled the mess as every man there rose hastily and bowed low. One lieutenant was a short man with light brown hair who was much paler than his fellows. Eamon assumed him to be Lieutenant Scott.

“Lord Goodman,” Greenwood said, “you honour us with your presence.”

“And you this quarter with your loyalty, Mr Greenwood,” Eamon answered, enjoying Greenwood's surprise at being correctly named.

Eamon looked to the other lieutenants at the table. Mers turned a particularly unhealthy shade of green – whether drawn on by fear or the excessive alcohol from the night before was difficult to tell – and the others merely watched him with fear.

“Mr Taine,” Eamon added, “though you are well informed regarding my fondness for literature, I am afraid that I am far too ill-schooled to limit myself to three questions – even less to remember to answer them last first, as tradition dictates.” He smiled. “I fear I would tell Mr Scott that he could ask as many questions as he liked, but that I would not be beholden to answer them all. In that, perhaps my approach would have had some advantages over the more classical model which you suggest.”

Taine's face wrinkled, as though he was not sure whether to shy away and bow or burst into a grin.

“Yes, Lord Goodman.”

Eamon turned to the palest of the lieutenants. “Mr Scott?”

“M-m-my lord.”

“My offer stands. I will answer you your question if my own duties permit it.” He smiled gently, and as the lieutenant drew himself up to meet that smile, Eamon thought he saw a little courage coming into his face.

“Lord Goodman,” he said, his words spoken with a measure belied by his figure. “The Master chose you for this quarter, and so you must be a man of no little accomplishment. Captain Anderas trusts you – and the captain is a man with good eyes. Many of the ensigns who served with you at Pinewood speak well of you. This being the case, perhaps you would take my question amiss, but I hope you will forgive it.”

Eamon admired the lieutenant's composure.

“Lord Goodman, may I ask what kind of a Hand you will be over this quarter?”

The man's voice shook as he reached the end of his question.

Eamon watched him for a moment. “You are a credit to yourself and to your captain, Lieutenant Scott.”

“Thank you, Lord Goodman.”

“I am the kind of Hand who believes that serving this quarter in a time of uncertainty is a great honour. I am the kind of Hand who holds service – the service of a willing heart – above all other things. I am the kind of Hand who would do all things well, so as to bring glory to whom I serve.”

Scott gazed at him. “Thank you, Lord Goodman.”

Eamon looked at the lieutenants with their varying expressions. More than one of them watched him now with an odd respect.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I'm afraid that I am keeping you from your meal.” He gestured to the table and their cooling plates. “I bid you a good afternoon.”

“Thank you, Lord Goodman,” the first lieutenant replied.

 

Eamon returned to his study in the Handquarters, pensive. The light had shifted round so that it slanted through the tall window. He rested his hand against his chair.

His memory returned to the talk he had overheard between the officers, and as the light continued changing, his thoughts turned at last to one that he had sought to avoid.

Since he had been made Lord of the East he had maltreated more than house, college, and quarter. In miscarrying his duty, in allowing himself to be spoken of amiss, he had also tarnished the name of the one who had made him a Quarter Hand.

He had done what perhaps no man might do and live. He had brought dishonour to the throned.

You must go and speak with him, Eamon.

Eamon shivered. He knew that it was true. He had to go to the Master and plead his case such that he would be cleared – house, college, and quarter depended on it. He could do nothing, even if he acted for the King, without the throned's benevolence.

How he could go to the throned and beg clemency – and live to tell of it – he did not know.

The pile of papers on his desk had grown during the day. For a moment there was the temptation to leave them for Anderas – the captain would see to them. But he saw grief's claws before they sank into him, and veered out of its clutches.

He sat down at the desk and the papers. The ream was thick.

He took the first sheet and read it – a notice of the arrests made by the Gauntlet the previous day. Beneath it was a collection of exit papers from various people requesting permission to leave the quarter, either for another quarter or to leave the city entirely. As Eamon studied them, the enormity of responsibility touched him. He had the power that made these people stay or go.

He perused the papers into the early evening. Some – simpler ones, requesting building materials or a change in Gauntlet guard patterns – he signed. He had done similar work for Cathair, and knew what to do. But when it came to arrest warrants, exit papers, food distribution, and draybants' reports, he still did not quite know where to begin. He realized also that, until he had spoken to the throned and shown that he was in his right mind, he should not sign, seal, or mark them.

As the sun began to set, there was a knock at his door. He called to grant admittance. Anderas stepped in.

“You look tired, captain,” Eamon noted, looking up from where he worked. Anderas glanced at him in surprise.

“My lord, you're –”

“Demonstrating that I am not as poor a student as you feared, I hope,” Eamon answered with a smile, indicating the papers he had dealt with. “There are some that I still need to consider.”

“Can I assist you in any way?”

“More than you have done?” Eamon laughed gently, and shook his head. “Thank you, captain, but all is well. Some of these cannot be seen to until tomorrow.” He looked up. “How many new recruits did you get today?”

“Twenty-seven,” Anderas answered quietly.

“Something the matter, captain? That seems a fair number.”

“There are strict selection criteria for entry to the Gauntlet, as I am sure you remember, my lord.” Anderas counted them off on his fingers. “No actual or putative involvement with the wayfarers, aged between sixteen and twenty-five at the time of admittance, good physical health, demonstrated devotion to the Master, strong personality, and potential to progress through the ranks.” He paused. “For so many, joining the Gauntlet is no longer about service; it's about escape. The men are fed and watered every day, and there are wages, however scant, to send home. I imagine such considerations were not far from your mind when you joined. They were not always far from mine.” He looked up with a sigh. “Twenty-seven is a good number of new recruits, Lord Goodman, a good number indeed. But it is only a fraction of those who came today. I could not take them all.”

Eamon nodded. The captains – with the aid of their college draybants and lieutenants – were personally responsible for the selection of their men. It would have been a long and arduous task, especially as the East still did not have a college draybant.

Anderas sighed again. “Almost, but not quite, as many men as I accepted will be found dead in the streets of the East Quarter tomorrow. They will be men that I saw and turned away today.” His voice caught. “Sometimes, Lord Goodman, you can tell when you meet them: you know that their names will be on a different list in the morning. The Gauntlet is their last hope – but it is no hope at all for them. They have already despaired.”

They sat in silence. At length Anderas stirred and picked up some of the papers. Eamon reached out and stopped him.

“All is well, captain,” he said to Anderas's surprise. “You can rest tonight. You have done enough.”

“Yes, Lord Goodman.” Anderas rose wearily and rubbed one hand across his eyes. The man was exhausted. “Will you be well this evening?”

A chill moved through Eamon, the quiet reminder of the grief and anger that would settle with falling darkness, when he was left alone.

“Yes, captain.”

“Lord Goodman… will you retire to your quarters tonight?”

Eamon matched the captain's gaze and saw his concern. How long had it been since he had lain himself down in a bed to sleep? He stretched his shoulders self-consciously.

“Yes, captain,” he said. “I think I shall.”

Anderas nodded. “Send for me if you need anything, my lord.”

Eamon smiled. “Despite your prior assertions as to the nature of a Gauntlet captaincy,” he said, “it may surprise you to learn, Mr Anderas, that you are not my butler. If I have need of a captain, I will send for you. If I have need of a butler, I will send for my major-domo…” he paused, trying to remember the name.

“Mr Slater,” Anderas told him.

“Mr Slater,” Eamon repeated.

“Of course, my lord.” Anderas bowed, and turned to go, then he paused. “I met some of the lieutenants this evening, to discuss the allocation of the new recruits. I heard something about a question in the officers' mess?”

A smile flickered on Eamon's face. “I may have answered one,” he said with a quiet laugh. “You have some very fine officers with you, captain. I am glad of it.”

“So am I, my lord.”

“There is one thing more you can tell me before you go,” Eamon added. “I must see the Master tomorrow.”

Confusion ran over Anderas's face. “Lord Goodman?”

“I must see him,” Eamon repeated. “How did Lord Ashway arrange such meetings?”

“You are a lord of Dunthruik. You need simply go.”

Eamon turned cold. “Then I will do so. Thank you, captain.”

“Good night, Lord Goodman.”

 

Eamon continued working for an hour or so at the pile of papers. One of the servants brought him supper in the latter part of the evening and he ate it slowly while he worked.

When he finished, darkness had fallen deeply outside, and the trees were dappled with starlight. Sitting back, he realized how tired he was. His whole back ached. Stretching his arms out high over his head, he winced as his old scars pulled and stung.

Quietly he rose and took up the lamp at his desk. He picked up his papers and made his way from the room.

There was a staircase in the corridor that led up to his quarters. He had gone there with Anderas on his first day, but he had not once set foot in the rooms beyond that. He was therefore surprised to hear footsteps at the head of the staircase as he ascended. A touch of light in the corridor soon explained this. Eamon stepped lightly into the hallway, shading his lamp.

He saw through the doorway into his chambers and bedroom. A small figure was hunched by the mantelpiece, setting a fire. The flames touched his face, picking out tiny beads of sweat. Eamon smiled; it was Callum. Behind the boy was the girl who had served breakfast that morning. She was straightening the sheets and covers on the great green bed.

How many times had they performed this work for him in vain over the last week? Surely they had seen that the bed had never been used? How they must resent him for it!

He stepped quietly through the outer room and on into the bedchamber. The girl looked up, saw him, and curtseyed – she did not flee.

“Lord Goodman,” she said. The little boy rose to his feet, bowed, and went quickly to the girl's side.

Looking at the fire and the bed, Eamon smiled. Unexpected tears touched his eyes. “What's your name, Miss?” he asked.

“Cara, my lord.”

“Well then, good evening, Callum and Cara,” Eamon said.

The boy's head jerked up with a smile.

“You remembered my name!” Callum said. “Nobody ever remembers my name!”

“Callum!” the girl's voice was low with warning. Eamon looked at the boy with a smile.

“Your sister takes good care of you, doesn't she?”

Cara glanced at him, as if wondering how he had deduced their relationship. The boy nodded.

“Yes, Lord Goodman.”