The King's Hand (32 page)

When he returned to the Handquarters, he sought out Slater, quizzing various servants until he found him. As Eamon had suspected, Slater was the man who had gone through the formal menu with him and was also the head of the household.

He found Slater allotting tasks to a group of servants in the garden. The man was taller and slimmer than Eamon remembered, but his mouse-like looks remained. Slater bowed low to him.

“My lord.”

“I wish to arrange a dinner, Mr Slater.”

To the servant's credit, his face showed no flicker of emotion. “Very good, my lord.”

“I want you to invite all those who attended my formal reception.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I entrust the menu entirely to your hands, Mr Slater,” Eamon added. “No doubt that will relieve you!”

Slater did not reply. Eamon laughed.

“Are you a taciturn man by nature?”

“Yes, lord.”

Eamon turned his head to one side as though to catch sight of the man's eyes. “It may surprise you, Mr Slater,” he said, “but I would have the head of my household feel free to speak to me and meet my look.”

“When would you have this meal, my lord?” Slater asked.

“The evening of the twentieth,” Eamon answered. “Will that give you time enough?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Is that a truthful answer, Mr Slater, or lip service that will bind this household to two days' grinding until the chore is done, rather than gainsay my folly?”

Slowly, Slater raised his head. His eyes were touched with wariness and astonishment. “It is a truthful answer, lord,” he said at last.

Eamon nodded. “Very well,” he said. A new thought occurred to him. “How are we for wines, Mr Slater?”

“Ill-supplied, my lord,” the servant answered. Eamon recognized the courage it took to utter the words. “We used many of them for your banquet.”

“That doesn't matter,” he said. Slater coloured with confusion. “I wish to procure some from Lord Cathair.”

“I shall arrange it at once, my lord.”

“No,” Eamon interrupted. “I wish to see to that myself – if you feel I may be trusted with such a task,” he added with a smile. “Have a word with the master cook, and let me know what wines I should get as soon as you can.”

Slater looked a little embarrassed. “Of course, my lord.”

“Please also do not concern yourself with extending an invitation to Captain Waite,” Eamon added. “I wish to do so personally.”

“Very well. Is that all, my lord?”

It was. Eamon thanked the man for his assistance and returned to his study.

 

Eamon went to see Captain Waite that afternoon. The sun had shifted round with the onward day, blinding him as he climbed the Coll. He wondered as to the wisdom of wanting to see Cathair and endear himself to him – for that was the motivation behind wanting to buy more wines. He was sure that word of his initial period in the East Quarter had travelled far by now. Cathair had always been suspicious of him, but that suspicion had borne bitterness since Eamon's failure at Pinewood. Eamon did not think that he could ever hope to obtain an ally in Cathair, but he had to do something to allay the Hand's acridity. If he could once more make himself the victim of Cathair's poetical tirades, he would have had a measure of success in the venture.

The West Quarter College had not changed since he had left it, and like the first day he had passed through its doors, none challenged him there. When he turned from the entry hall, towards Waite's office, he saw his own name glint on the Hand-board.

The captain was in his office with Farleigh, the West Quarter College draybant. They stood at the captain's desk, studying a group of papers. As Eamon knocked and entered both men looked up and bowed immediately.

“Lord Goodman,” Waite said.

“Captain; Mr Farleigh,” Eamon answered courteously. “A pleasure to see you both.” The draybant looked at him uncomfortably. Eamon looked at Waite. “May I have a moment of your time, captain?”

“Of course.”

Waite nodded to the draybant. The man set down the papers, bowed once more to Eamon, and then left, drawing the office doors closed.

“Please do sit, captain,” Eamon said.

Waite gestured to the chair before his desk. Eamon sat, his cloak falling in thick folds around him. Waite carefully laid aside his papers.

“How may I serve you, my lord?”

“First, by accepting my apologies.”

A measured look went over Waite's face. “I hardly feel it your place to apologize to me, Lord Goodman.”

“I owe you many things, captain, this apology not least among them,” Eamon answered sincerely. “My words to you when last we met were discourteous and unnecessary. More than this: they were spoken ill at a time when your care was, I believe, for me. Whatever my rank, it was not my place to treat you as I did. For this, Captain Waite, I apologize.”

Waite nodded silently. For a moment, Eamon saw a touch of pride in the captain's eyes. Waite had always been proud of him. “Thank you, my lord.”

“I wanted to come to you myself, to extend to you a personal invitation to an informal dinner in the East Quarter on the twentieth,” Eamon added. “Though I do not wish to oblige you if your time must be spent elsewhere, it would please me greatly if you were to attend.”

“Of course, Lord Goodman,” Waite replied with a small smile. Eamon wondered how much of his intent in hosting a second meal the captain had understood – probably all of it. “It would be an honour.”

“There is one more thing I have to ask of you.”

Waite nodded obligingly.

“I need to see Lord Cathair,

on the matter of wines, and I wish to bear him a gift.” Waite's eyebrows lifted. “I suspect that you know Lord Cathair better than many men. In your opinion, captain, what should I take him?”

Waite sat pensive. Then he smiled.

“Lord Ashway had a large personal library,” he said, and as he did so Eamon remembered the shelves that littered every available space in all of his rooms, each of them filled with book after book.

“I believe that Lord Cathair has long been envious of that library, for he is, as you know, a man of letters, and prides himself on that distinction. I imagine that a collection of volumes drawn from the shelves now in your possession would please him greatly.”

Eamon knew at once that Waite was right. “An excellent thought, captain,” he grinned.

“Lord Cathair has been out of the city this last week,” Waite added, “though he has intention of returning tomorrow. He went to inspect the vineyards.”

“Then my timing is good.”

“As ever,” Waite said with a smile. “Lord Cathair often stays at his Ravensill estate for almost a month at this time of the year. It puts some strain on the quarter,” he added, “but we are accustomed to it, and prepared for such absences.” Waite glanced at the papers on his desk. “The West Quarter is swearing in its new ensigns and lieutenants on the twenty-first and Lord Cathair, rightly, likes to be present at such times. Many of the Third Banners are to be formally appointed.”

“Great news indeed,” Eamon answered, forcing away the sudden thickness in his throat. His palm burned; he clenched it silently. Were the Third Banners to endure that, too? Were they to become marked and have the doors of their minds opened to the voice of Edelred?

“Perhaps you would also like to attend, Lord Goodman?” Waite said. “You would certainly do us great honour in doing so. One or two of the lads are particularly nervous about the swearing – though the Crown knows we've been through the ceremony a hundred times! I think that seeing you would encourage and inspire them.”

“I should be delighted to attend. In fact,” Eamon added, “you should bring some of them with you to the East Quarter.” He smiled. “Let them see where their swearing-in may take them, if they work hard.”

“Thank you, Lord Goodman. I think that will give them something to consider.”

Eamon took his leave. Waite's clasp on his hand was friendly when they parted, and for that he was grateful. He admired the man and it would have grieved him greatly to cause – or not to heal – any rift between them.

But as he returned to the Coll his stomach churned. The Third Banner cadets –
his
cadets – were going to be sworn. They were going to be marked, burned and bound to the voice. Would Waite knowingly have them set their hands to that mark?

He thought suddenly of Mathaiah. Had he lived, Mathaiah would also have been due for formal swearing.

But Mathaiah Grahaven was beyond the grip of the throned's mark. Even had he lived, Eamon realized that the cadet would have found a way to absent himself from the ceremony – or to have himself barred from it.

With a shiver, he remembered the night he had spent seeking his dagger in the muddy woods around Edesfield. He had nearly lost his swearing that night. But he did not believe that any of the Third Banners would do anything as foolish as he has done – especially with Waite as their champion: every man in the West Quarter loved their captain. Waite's approval alone would be enough to press them on. And when they saw Lord Goodman sitting by at their hour of swearing…

They would not withdraw. And though he was a lord of Dunthruik, the appointed Lord of the East Quarter, he could not make them. Ford, Jenning, Brockhurst, Ostler, Manners, Smith, Barde… their faces passed before him. The Third Banner cadets would be made marked servants of the throned.

He was at the Four Quarters. He looked up, letting his eyes pass over the statues, the engravings, the crowns, and eagles. He could not stop them.

Turning his steps onto Coronet Rise, he returned to the East Quarter.

 

That afternoon he returned to the college grounds and found Anderas waiting for him. The captain greeted him warmly.

“Lord Goodman.”

“Are the Hands of the Quarter coming?”

“They'll be here shortly.” Anderas looked curiously at him. “What do you intend, my lord?”

“You think that I intend something?”

“No, my lord, I don't think it: I
know
it.” Eamon laughed at the man's audacity. “You may laugh,” Anderas told him, “but you are a man full of intention, made more fearsome by the fact that you have will brazen enough to act upon it.”

“I shall take that as a compliment, captain, and thank you for it.”

The evening breeze touched Eamon's hair. He looked back at Anderas. Like Waite, Anderas was responsible for selecting the men who would be branded, promoted, or Handed. In the following weeks, Anderas would arrange a swearing ceremony for the East Quarter College. It chilled him. The captain was a good man – an
exemplary
man – sharp of wit and compassionate, a dear friend, and yet…

There was no way that the Lord of the East Quarter could forbid a swearing. Eamon would be forced to watch more men swear and, when the King came, he feared he would have to give account for why he had not stopped it.

“Are you well, my lord?”

Eamon looked up. He was not surprised to find Anderas watching him.

“Thank you, yes.”

“Your meeting with Captain Waite?”

“Went well,” Eamon replied. After a moment he continued: “Have you any pressing duties upon the morrow, captain?”

“None that I cannot leave to Mr Greenwood, my lord.”

“Perhaps, captain, we should formally appoint Mr Greenwood as the college draybant!”

“Lord Ashway and Captain Etchell had made note that Mr Greenwood might be considered for the Hands,” Anderas replied quietly.

Eamon detected reservation. “Do you agree with their assessment?”

“It would be a great loss to us if Greenwood was Handed. But things in the East Quarter are settling. Perhaps we may now duly consider and appoint the best man to be college draybant.”

“Rather than to act as it,” Eamon nodded. “We will discuss it. I would like you to accompany me to Ravensill tomorrow, captain,” he continued. “We shall also have need of a cart and driver. Will you see to that?”

“Of course, my lord.”

At that moment the Hands of the Quarter arrived, grim-faced. The East Quarter had fifteen Hands. Eamon remembered some of their faces from his formal dinner and watched as the men fell into a long line and bowed to him. Familiar doubts assailed him; the men's faces were guarded and suspicious. No explanation would have been given to them of Lord Ashway's death, nor of Eamon's own appointment, and he had scarcely taken note of them in the days since he had been made their commander. These Hands would also be more than mindful of the fact that, until not so long ago, Lord Goodman had been but a Hand of the Quarter himself.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Eamon greeted them formally. “I will not keep you long from your duties, of which I know you have many.” He regarded them each in turn. “Your names.”

The Hands gave their names. Eamon recognized only the names of the three most accomplished: Lord Lonnam, Lord Brettal, and Lord Heathlode. Eamon matched each man's look evenly. Like every other man and woman in the whole of the East Quarter, the quarter's Hands had heard different and utterly conflicting stories about Eamon in recent days. He wanted – even needed – to give them a reason to obey him other than for duty's sake, but he could not address them the way he had his household or the college. If Lord Cathair had taught him anything, it was that Hands had to be treated with force.

He plunged straight in. “I read your looks, gentlemen: you served Lord Ashway well – and well you know it! You wonder whether in serving under me – the one who returned in disgrace from Pinewood and who served a two-crown dinner – your service will ever attain a great height. You wonder – jealously – whether you might have taken Lord Ashway's place better than I.”

The Hands stared.