The King's Hand (35 page)

Cathair nodded, seemingly torn between rage at Eamon's audacity in recital, and delight that he now held three volumes from Ashway's coveted library. Eamon waited. Given some of the doubts cast over its author, choosing the Edelred Cycle for the third book had been a bold move, but his luck seemed to have held.

Suddenly Cathair looked up. “Lord Goodman,” he said, “these are very thoughtful gifts, for which I thank you. I will deposit them in my library right away, and I would relish the opportunity to show you my own Ravensill collection.”

“Thank you, Lord Cathair,” Eamon answered, with a touch of misgiving. “I would be delighted.”

Cathair gestured for Eamon to follow him into the grand house.

The hallway was as grand as the house's brightly painted exterior would suggest. Paintings lined its walls and marble cases led off into bright stairwells.

Cathair stepped smartly across the hall. As he did so Eamon heard the bounding of clawed paws rattling over the floor. Cathair's dogs came charging into the hallway, yapping with delight. They leapt at their master, licking his hands and running round him endlessly, their tails striking at his legs. Cathair answered them with rough, but kindly, words.

Then the dogs spotted Eamon. They immediately charged at him, though they did not leap or jump. One of them began a low growl. As Eamon drew his hands close to himself so as to disabuse the dogs of any tempting targets, they followed the ring he bore with bright eyes. Cathair must have noted it too, for he laughed.

“Perhaps there is treacherous blood in you, Lord Goodman?”

Eamon's heart stopped. He glanced at the ring in alarm.

“Was Lord Ashway a traitor?” he breathed, his surprise genuine.

Cathair did not answer. Perhaps in his delight in baiting, he had spoken more than he meant to say. There was a long silence, broken when Cathair whistled softly. The dogs trotted obediently to his heels, though one still cast dark looks back at Eamon.

“Lord Ashway's mind was broken,” Cathair said at last. “He pressed too near, too hard.” Eamon looked up; there seemed to be bitter and sorrowful notes in the Hand's voice.

“He did so against your wishes?”

“He was reckless and foolish,” Cathair exploded wrathfully, “and he knew –
he knew
– the Master's will for the snake – Lord Arlaith was explicit on the matter. But no! Ashway was always too fond of his own vanity. He pressed too hard and it broke him. And when his mind was broken he displayed himself to the whole city, the gibbering mouthpiece of the Serpent's whoring brood!” Cathair spat the words out with utter hatred. When he paused he was breathing heavily, almost with grief.

Eamon blinked hard, barely comprehending what he heard.

Cathair spoke again, his voice quieter. “Ashway brought his madness on himself,” he said. “He was removed – and you or I can be removed as easily, Goodman. Never forget that.” Cathair suddenly fell silent and a smile returned to his lips. “Ah, here we are.”

They stood before a tall door. Its handles were fashioned like ravens, their wings unfurled and talons outstretched. As Cathair opened the doors, Eamon felt a rush of moving air.

A long room met them. It was easily twice the size of the room where he worked in the East Quarter, and taller too. Every wall was filled with shelves and every wide shelf was crammed with books. The room was flooded with light, which emanated from the arched window that filled the opposite wall.

The dogs trotted in and settled on a large rug in the centre of the floor. The rug showed an enormous raven with a snake caught up in its beak.

“Welcome, Lord Goodman, to one of my many libraries!” Cathair's voice echoed. “This home being somewhat of a retreat, I keep material here that is more for my delectation than my edification. I am sure that you will understand that.”

“Of course,” Eamon answered, wondering with dread what kind of volumes were on the shelves. Even though the cloak of a Hand lay on his shoulders and the signet of a quarter on his hand, Eamon's blood curdled before Cathair in all his chilling eloquence.

“On that side of the room I keep my collections of famous (and infamous) authors, in chronological order, of course,” Cathair said, striding over to one of the bookcases. “I find it helpful to get inside the writer's thought, so to speak, to know what came before him, and what after.” He leaned against one of the shelves and smiled broadly. “Tell me, Lord Goodman: do you know where the River Poet stands in the long string of his fellows?”

“He is contemporary with Terrol,” Eamon answered quietly.

“Very good!” For a moment Eamon had a disturbing picture of Cathair as a master in a village schoolroom. He shuddered it away.

The Hand moved across the room and set the book into one of the shelves, between two much smaller ones. It seemed untidy to Eamon, but he supposed that was the fault of chronological order. Cathair moved back to his desk to pick up the other two books.

“This geographical volume will be a little harder to place,” he said, stepping over to Eamon with a smile, “and I shall have to think on it. Its fellow proves easier to master. I wonder, Lord Goodman, if you would mind putting this up for me?” He held the Edelred Cycle out towards Eamon.

“Where would you have it, Lord Cathair?”

“The second case, Lord Goodman, eighth shelf up, on the left-hand side.” Cathair busied himself with finding a place for the slimmest volume as Eamon stepped carefully over to the case, feeling oddly watched by both Cathair and his dogs.

Reaching the second case, he counted to the shelf in question. He had to make use of a nearby stool to reach it, and climbed up at the left-hand side. There, as he reached out to place the book, he stopped dead.

Cathair had been very literal in his description of where the book had to go: at the end of the long line of volumes, supporting them where they did not fill the shelf, was a tall, semi-cylindrical glass jar. Inside the jar was a stuffed, dismembered hand.

The limb had been set with its fingers stretched upwards, and its palm faced the books. Eamon glanced along the shelf and saw that a second hand stood at the other end. Grisly guardians of Cathair's library, the hands held the books steadily between them. Eamon stared.

Suddenly he became aware that Cathair stood below him. The Hand watched him.

“Ah yes! My latest amusements,” Cathair said, his voice all smiles. “They're such lovely bookends, don't you think, Lord Goodman? Terribly
handy
.”

Eamon steadied himself against the shelf. “You know,” Cathair mused, “it is most appropriate. Your ward was held for knowledge, and now he holds it for me.”

The blood drained from Eamon's face. Horror and rage touched his heart.

Mathaiah's hands.

He moved the jar aside, making room so that he could place the book. His fingers touched the glass, just a tiny space away from the limb that was bound inside. How often had that hand strengthened him? How often had it expressed joy or grief or forgiveness?

The book was in place. He turned and stepped down. He met Cathair's gaze. The Hand watched him with a deceptive smile; Eamon knew he was being tested. He forced a smile of his own.

“I am glad that he is of some use at last, Lord Cathair,” he said. “He always was a bit of a handful. You chose well in filling his.”

“I am so glad that you approve,” Cathair answered cheerfully. “He, of course, was not keen to part with them, but he had no further use for them.” The nonchalant smile grew. “He screamed a good deal – seemed to think that his Serpent would save him!” Cathair laughed scornfully. “Mr Grahaven learnt well that night who is Master of the River Realm. I have other mementos of him, of course; he was a snake that rendered me particular satisfaction. But it would not do to keep all of him in the same place.”

Eamon felt a dagger twist deep inside him. Mathaiah's eyes – what had Cathair done with them?

“He was shown great kindness if he did not see the end,” Eamon answered quietly.

“He did not need to
see
it; his sense was sharp enough.” Delight thrilled Cathair's voice. “But I am forgetting myself in all these pleasantries. You came for wine, Lord Goodman, and wine you shall have!”

Cathair led the way from the room. The dogs leapt instantly to his heels, snapping at each other. Eamon followed, steeling his heart. He had to bury his shock and grief. He
had
to.

They reached the steps. Sunlight touched Eamon's face. He drank it in, willing it to douse the grief that newly burned in him.

In the courtyard nothing had changed. Anderas waited patiently to the side and watched the doorway to Cathair's estate.

Cathair spread his arms wide and drew a deep breath. “Ah, the ‘rolling hills and rolling winds that plough the furrows of the sea'!” He smiled. “You have brought a cart to take back your wines, I trust?”

“Yes,” Eamon answered, and gestured to the edge of the courtyard where Anderas and the driver waited. His heart was heavy but he kept his nerve. “I will not rob you of an undue amount.”

“I think four large casks would be sufficient for your needs.”

“And would three hundred crowns be sufficient to cover your expense?” Eamon asked. Slater had previously advised him that a large cask would cost up to eighty crowns. It was more money that a Gauntlet officer would earn in six months.

“For you, Lord Goodman, a total of two hundred would be ample,” Cathair replied genteelly. “I shall have them brought to you at once.” The Hand called across to Febian. “Lord Febian, direct three casks of Raven Avol and one Passa to Lord Goodman's entourage.”

Febian was in the midst of counting the number of casks on a wagon. To judge by the look on his face, the interruption made him lose count. “Yes, Lord Cathair.”

At his command, several of the servants re-routed from the line to roll casks towards his cart. As one lifted the first cask onto the cart, he stumbled, partially losing his grip. Anderas stepped round and steadied the cask while the servant got his grip again.

“That is Captain Anderas, is it not?” Cathair asked.

A note of alarm ran through Eamon.

“Yes.”

Anderas stepped back again, allowing the grateful servant to continue with his task.

“Does he often make a fool of himself, stooping to a servant's work?” Cathair's voice was filled with distaste. Eamon struggled to keep his own voice calm.

“He does not stoop, Lord Cathair. He is an exemplary and well-loved officer.”

“He is dear to you, isn't he?” Cathair's voice was airy, light, insubstantial – but Eamon knew it signalled Cathair at his most dangerous.

“He is the captain of my quarter and a servant of the Master,” Eamon answered.

“It is good to have men whom we are close to,” Cathair continued smoothly. “They make our burdens the less. But when they are gone… Ah! We become men hewn by grief. Perhaps, Lord Goodman, you understand my meaning?”

Eamon's heart swelled with fear and rage. Would the Raven dare to strike at Anderas, a man sworn to the Master, just to injure him?

Courage and peace, Eamon.

The Hand's pale face smiled, unperturbed. Eamon forced himself to return that smile.

“Of course, Lord Cathair.”

“It has been a real pleasure to see you this morning, Lord Goodman. I would invite you to dine with me, but I am afraid that I have very few victuals to offer. I am, as you likely know, returning to the city later today.”

“I have some business to attend to in any case,” Eamon answered. “I will send payment to you in the West Quarter this evening.”

The Hand answered him with a mocking nod of his head. “Most kind. I trust that you will be present at tomorrow's swearing?”

“Yes. Captain Waite was kind enough to invite me.”

“That rare man reads my every thought!” Cathair said, sounding pleased. “It will be a pleasure to see you again so soon, Lord Goodman. Have a very pleasant journey back to the city.”

“Thank you, Lord Cathair.”

With a steadiness that betrayed the rage burning inside him, Eamon returned to where Anderas and the driver awaited him. The captain bowed.

“Are we ready to depart, my lord?”

“Yes.” Eamon strained to keep his composure.

He mounted quickly and led the way past the line of heaving servants and on through the gates. Anderas rode silently by him. The cart trundled heavily behind them. Eamon pushed his steed far ahead of it. He needed air, he needed to breathe – but every breath was laboured.

It wasn't until they reached the cover of the shallow hills, and Cathair and his mansion of horrors were far behind, that Eamon dared to draw breath. It shuddered out of him.

“Lord Goodman?”

Eamon was silent. He was glad that the driver was far behind. He covered his face with his hand.

Cathair had baited him: the green-eyed Hand was a master and knew how to torture without ever once setting an instrument against Eamon's body. All the Hand need do was bide his time and trade in suffering and treachery against those whom Eamon loved, knowing full well that the Hand over the East Quarter could do nothing but approve and bow to that will as though it were his own. It was for this that Cathair would be there to watch and gloat over the West Quarter cadets as they were sworn in, revelling as Eamon was forced to watch and take no action to stop it. It was to keep that grim hold over him that Cathair had threatened him, using Anderas. Eamon knew it, and knew that that, too, could betray him.

One thing more he knew.

A sob welled inside him. He did not hold it back. The city loomed ahead, great columns of smoke billowing high on his left – more had been fed to the pyres that morning. A cool sea wind drove through him and he shuddered. His horse made a disconcerted noise as he wept.

“Lord Goodman –”