The King's Hand (45 page)

“Yes, my lord,” she replied, and Eamon smiled. He had also grown accustomed to refusing gifts from enthusiastic shopkeepers. At first, trembling hands and fearful, furtive eyes had offered such things to him. Now, gifts were offered to him because the people delighted in him, and when he passed they would call to the Master's glory. Sometimes he wondered – and dreaded to think – what Cathair and the other Hands made of the way the East Quarter received him. His comfort lay in the fact that, by all accounts, the Master himself was pleased.

Eamon continued on his way along the small streets, halting every now and then to greet and be greeted. At about midday he came to the road that he had seen with Anderas on his second tour of the quarter, where they had seen the desecrated inn. As he looked at it, he smiled, for he saw that men worked there to reset windows and stone, and clean and repaint wood. One man set a clumsy ladder to the wall, preparing to climb up and take down the sign that bore the inn's name.

Eamon quietly watched as the man tested the first rung of the ladder before looking up at the signpost with a frown.

“Terribly high, it is,” the man murmured to himself. None of the others, busily painting and scrubbing wood, seemed to hear him, and he shook his head then drew breath as though steeling himself to a task not much to his liking.

Eamon stepped forward. “Perhaps I can help you?” he offered.

“Thank you, sir,” the man began, and then saw the black cloak. “Lord Goodman!” he cried, nearly tripping on the rung of the ladder as he hurried to bow. The other men working nearby turned at his exclamation and bowed as well.

“I have not the pleasure of knowing your name, I'm afraid,” Eamon answered, “but I see that you know mine.”

“My name is Miles, my lord.”

“Then I repeat my offer to you, Mr Miles,” Eamon replied, and gestured at the sign. “I can have that down for you in a moment, and it would give me great pleasure to help you.”

“Of course, my lord,” Miles answered, stepping away from the ladder and bowing again.

Eamon undid his cloak where it was clasped at his neck, folded it, and set it carefully to one side. It was hot, and so he wore only a shirt beneath his cloak that day, rather than shirt and black jacket.

“Climbing ladders is complicated enough,” he told the surprised innkeeper. “No need to make it more so.”

“Indeed, my lord.”

Eamon took the ladder and tested it against the sign-beam. He reckoned that it would hold. “Would you steady the ladder for me?”

“Certainly, my lord.”

Eamon climbed the ladder, and as he reached the beam he examined the holding. The sign had been mostly ratcheted off, and long, rusted nails hung half out of the wood. With a tool he could wedge it out completely.

“A hammer, Mr Miles?” he called.

The man handed one up to him swiftly. Eamon thanked him and then set to work. It was neither difficult nor time-consuming, and as he worked he hummed quietly. It was a liberty he rarely afforded himself, and after a moment the humming became quiet singing.

“You've a fine voice, Lord Goodman,” Miles called up cautiously. Eamon laughed; he had forgotten that he was watched.

“My schoolmaster held a different opinion,” he replied, touched by the compliment, “though I believe that may have been because I was supposed to be studying grammar at the time – a burdensome task, and one that I did not enjoy.” He carefully drew out the last nail, supporting the sign with his hand as it came loose.

Balancing the hammer over the ladder rung he climbed down, the sign clasped in one hand. The paint was faded and cracked beyond recognition. “Mr Miles, what is this inn called?” Eamon asked as he reached the ground.

“It was called the Horse and Cart, Lord Goodman,” Miles replied, “though perhaps I may change it.”

Eamon steadied the faded sign on a tabletop. “Make it a good name.”

“I will that, my lord. Please don't trouble yourself,” he added, as Eamon examined the torn gashes in the wood where the nails had held it firm. Eamon smiled.

“It is no trouble at all, Mr Miles.” He straightened up from the table, about to take his leave when he looked across to the other side of the road.

In the shadow of the tall building was a fruit vendor, his wide crates at last well stocked with produce. But it was not this that had caught Eamon's attention; it was the raised voices.

The vendor was at the front of his store, his face pale as he spoke to another, much taller, man. The man wore the bright red uniform of the Gauntlet. Though Eamon could not make out which division the man belonged to, he imagined, from the man's bearing, that he was not an ensign. As Eamon watched, the man in uniform gestured to the three younger ensigns with him. One took up a large bag of apples; the other two cast down a crate and, despite the vendor's cries, stomped the fruit into the ground.

“Please!” the vendor cried. The Gauntlet officer laughed.

Eamon carefully set down the sign he held.

“If you will excuse me, Mr Miles,” he said. There was anger in his heart. But it did not drive him on to rage or violence; it merely drove him quietly across the road to where the four Gauntlet men laughed as the vendor stared at what had been done, and his other customers watched in horror, unable either to intervene or to leave.

“Get on your knees and lick it off the ground, you bastard!” It was the Gauntlet officer who spoke, and as Eamon approached he saw the flames that marked a first lieutenant and the emblem that marked his province: Edesfield. Indeed, the gaunt face was familiar to him: First Lieutenant Curtis. Although Curtis had been stationed in one of the towns near Edesfield, Eamon had met him while training at the college and on active service at the borders.

As Eamon stepped quietly across the street, the lieutenant raised his fist to strike the vendor who slowly bent to his knees in the mulch.

“Lick it!” the first lieutenant cried again, and with the toe of his boot he scuffed the sodden mess up towards the man's face.

“Good afternoon, First Lieutenant Curtis,” Eamon said. He set his own boot firmly before the lieutenant's, blocking the kick he was sure was about to be delivered to the kneeling man's face, then crouched down for a moment beside the vendor. “You can get up,” he said quietly, and took the man's arm to help him to his feet.

As they both rose, the silence was thick enough to cut with a knife. Eamon faced the first lieutenant. Curtis stared at him, his expression something between indignance and amusement. The vendor stepped to one side, and his wife gathered him into her arms before wiping the thick mess from her husband's face.

Eamon met the first lieutenant's gaze, then looked meaningfully at the fruit held by the three cadets. “Have you paid for this fruit, First Lieutenant Curtis?”

The man stared at him, and suddenly he laughed. “I remember you,” he sneered. “Goodman. Yes – Goodman.”

The silence in the street grew tenser. “You have a good memory,” Eamon answered calmly, “though apparently you are incapable of answering questions.”

The man bristled. “What was that?”

“I asked you a question and I would have you answer it.”

“Oh you would, would you?” The man laughed again. “That's rich, very rich indeed! You, Belaal's jumped-up lieutenant!” Eamon looked at Curtis as he laughed louder. The first lieutenant stopped suddenly and smiled cruelly. “If you don't want him to lick the ground, Goodman, perhaps you should do it,” he said. One big hand reached forward to grab Eamon by his shirt.

“Do not lay your hands on me.” Eamon's voice was quiet, but stayed the man's hand. “The charges against you are high enough as they stand. Do not add to them.”

“Charges?” The man spat at Eamon's feet. The other faces nearby – faces that knew more than Curtis – went pale. “Prithee,
dear
Lieutenant Goodman, what would they be?”

“Theft. Violence and intimidation, actual and intended against a citizen of Dunthruik. Wasting of city resources.” Eamon met his gaze. “Disrespecting the Lord of the East Quarter.”

Curtis rolled his eyes. “I'm sure the Lord of the East Quarter would take my part if he were here! These peasants deserve everything that's coming to them.”

“He is here,” Eamon answered. “And you would do well to address him as befits his station.”

Curtis stared at him. “You?” he cried, and threw back his head. “You! Oh, but of course,
Lord
Goodman!” He threw himself into a mocking bow. “Do let me introduce myself. Perhaps you know me? I am the Right Hand.”

The silence became deathly.

“It is treasonous, First Lieutenant Curtis, to take Lord Arlaith's name in vain – more so than it is to take my own. Yet you have done both.” Eamon gestured towards the man, and the movement caught light on the ring on his hand. Curtis's face paled, and his eyes went wide with growing horror.

“What's that?” he whispered, pointing at the ring.

“Now you would ask a question of me? That seems foolish indeed.” Eamon's tone hardened. “You stand in very real peril, First Lieutenant Curtis. For to take in vain the Right Hand's name is to take in vain the name of the Master. To take my name in vain is to do the same. And to treat with disrespect the men and women of the East Quarter, wherein you are but a guest, violates the glory of the one you claim to serve.”

Curtis grew ashen. “Lord Goodman,” he began, “I ask for clemency –”

“And I asked you a question a long time ago,” Eamon replied, “to which you gave no answer. You will forgive me, then, if I do not answer you.”

“It was not paid for.” The words tumbled out of the man's mouth.

“What right had you not to pay for it?” Eamon demanded. “What right have you to wear that uniform, when you comport yourself in a way that befits no man? What right have you to trammel the lives of people for whom you should give your body and blood in service? That is your oath: body, blade, and blood to the Master. To serve the Master is to protect his people. What right have you, First Lieutenant Curtis, to my clemency?” he asked at last, more quietly. “What right have I to grant it, when the offence is not against me, but against the Lord of Dunthruik?”

Shaking, the first lieutenant sank to his knees. Eamon shook his head.

“Do not kneel to me,” he said. “You will pay this man for everything that you have destroyed, and you will pay for the goods that your ensigns hold, whether you take them or not. You will conduct yourself to the East Quarter College, where you will report to the brig.” Stepping forward to the kneeling man, Eamon briskly removed the pins from his collar. The man winced. “The Master will hear of how you have disgraced him. That is all, Ensign Curtis.”

“Yes, Lord Goodman.”

 

Eamon saw that the fruit vendor was paid and that Curtis was escorted into the brig before returning to the Handquarters. He wrote a report of the altercation and dispatched it that afternoon. Anderas advised him that Belaal was stationed in the South Quarter. Eamon sent a copy of the report there. Another he sent to the palace, for the attention of Lord Arlaith's lieutenant. It would come to the Master's attention soon enough.

By early evening he felt strangely tired. Quietly setting aside all the papers on his desk, he made his way to his own rooms. He heard singing as he climbed the stairs, and when he peered about the doorway he saw Cara. The girl was folding in the edges of the freshly changed linens for his bed, and singing as she pulled the thick green cover over them. The rest of his room was in startling order.

She curtseyed as he entered, bid him a good night, and then left, pulling the door gently closed behind her. He smiled. The evening breeze drew in from the window.

It was still light outside. Drawing off his cloak, he laid it over the back of a chair and set his boots carefully to one side. Eamon set himself down on his bed, letting the thick green cover mould about him as he did so. He read for as long as he could, but it was not long before he felt waves of tiredness wash over him. He was soon asleep.

 

A shrill howling ripped through the air and a wind whipped in from far away. He staggered forward, not knowing where he was going, and he followed the howling along the banks of the River that flowed by him. It led down through blasted valleys to the plains around Dunthruik. The city gates creaked and shattered in the strange wind. No guards stood by them. Eamon followed the road in through the Blind Gate and made his way into the East Quarter, calling out as he went. There was nobody there.

He reached the Ashen and there he stopped in horror. The square was filled with ragged corpses. Pale faces stared at him, their eyes vacant. Children lay among them, shrunken and shrivelled.

Retching, Eamon tore himself away and ran through roads that he knew and loved. Suddenly, they were filled with people who raised their hands and mouths towards him, crying out his name, and he covered his ears and ran, ran as fast as he could from the gate and back onto the plain, through fires that raged in plagued streets.

There he stopped, for grim-faced men, dressed in blue, filled the plain. At their head rode a silent man and Eamon recognized him: Hughan. And yet his face seemed strange, as though cast in iron.

Eamon fell down before the King. “Hughan!” he cried. “The city is dying!”

“First they shall be put to hunger, and then to the sword,” the distant face replied, and as the words crushed him, Eamon felt something strange on his hands. He looked down and saw that they were covered in rotting food and clotting blood. With a cry of alarm he tried to wipe the stuff from himself, but as he did it only grew. He looked up at the King once more.

“They are your people!” he screamed.

“They are not fit to live, Eben's son,” the cruel face replied, and it smiled at him.