The King's Hand (15 page)

“You slept well, I trust?”

“I did. Yourself?”

“Well indeed.”

The doors to the greater hall opened. They passed within.

The Right Hand was seated upon the raised chair in the hall, his shadow long across the floor. He rose and came forward to greet them. Eamon bowed.

“My lord.”

“Your work has been well done, Lord Goodman,” the Right Hand told him. “The Master passes on his congratulations once again.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Eamon answered. He did not meet the Right Hand's eyes – this was the man he had brashly defied before leaving the city. As the Right Hand watched him, he knew that the throned's closest had not forgotten it.

“It is the Master's desire for you to serve Lord Cathair over the coming weeks.”

Eamon saw Cathair look up sharply.

“Lord Cathair still has much to teach you, if you will learn it,” the Right Hand continued. “He has been a master of men, and a servant of the Master, for years uncounted.”

“His glory.” Eamon risked a discreet glance at Cathair. The Hand's eyes raged green fire, but he held his tongue.

“Tell me of your mission,” the Right Hand continued. “I would hear how you accomplished it.”

At the Right Hand's gesture Eamon rose and spoke of what he had done. He spoke of how he had been to the King's camp and endeared himself to them, how the pontoon bridge had been destroyed – for which he claimed the credit – creating a rift between the Serpent and his allies which, even if it did not destroy the alliance, would severely damage it. Last of all, he told how he had used that rift to kill Feltumadas and then forced the Serpent to trade the life of one of his own men for the head which now so richly adorned the Blind Gate.

“You let this man live?” the Right Hand asked quietly.

Eamon met his gaze, sensing that the incident at the village on the way back from Pinewood lurked in the Right Hand's mind.

“Yes, my lord,” Eamon answered, and smiled. “He will be of no trouble to us again. He has been bettered by me, and cannot hope to overcome that shame, either for himself or to those under him. As for the Easters, I do not expect them to maintain their crumbling alliance too long, given how short-sighted their ally proved to be.”

“Is it so, Lord Febian?” the Right Hand called.

The summoned Hand emerged from the shadows where he had hidden throughout the meeting. Eamon felt a chill go through him.

“Lord Febian.” He allowed himself to sound surprised – Cathair looked it. So the Lord of the West Quarter had not known of Febian's mission. Like Cathair, Eamon turned to the Right Hand as though to ask how it was that Febian could give any answer. The Right Hand smiled. Eamon tried hard not to do the same. He surmised that Febian had not spoken of their encounter in the woods near the King's camp: so much the better.

Febian did not blink. Instead, he bowed to the Right Hand. “My lord.”

“What say you, Lord Febian?” the Right Hand asked. “Is it as he tells it?”

“Yes, my lord.” The Hand's answer was firm. “It is.”

The Right Hand gave a satisfied nod before turning back to Eamon. “I believe that Lord Cathair has some matters of business this morning. You will accompany him, Lord Goodman.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Eamon bowed once more; Cathair did the same. In silence, they left together.

Outside the hall Eamon welcomed the cool morning air, inhaling deeply to clear his head. He paused and glanced at Cathair. The Lord of the West Quarter matched his gaze. He smiled icily.

“It seems that you have been pressed into my service, Lord Goodman,” he said.

“I would not say pressed, my lord –” Eamon began.

“What happened in the Pit?”

The question was ferociously direct. Eamon stared.

“My lord?”

“I am reliably informed that before you went head-hunting you went down to the Pit. It may interest you to know, Lord Goodman, that since that day the Pit has been rendered somewhat inoperable.”

“I surmised as much when I left it,” Eamon told him. In his mind he heard again the singing, felt his joy at Mathaiah's forgiveness, saw light cracking along the walls…

Cathair glared at him with a look that might grind blood from a stone. “Learn this, and learn it well, Lord Goodman: none descend to the Pit without my foreknowing.”

“I am sorry, Lord Cathair,” Eamon answered demurely. “It was late, and I had need of information before I left.” Though tempted, he did not add that with the Pit inoperable, there was no danger of a repeated offence. “I had no wish to disturb you at such a time.”

“The Pit is half collapsed,” Cathair continued bluntly. “I am told this occurred after you descended into it.”

“What are you suggesting, Lord Cathair?” Eamon demanded.

Cathair stared at him, saying nothing. Then he smiled.

“Tell me, Lord Goodman; have you seen your ward since you returned?”

The shift in subject almost caught Eamon off guard. He laughed nastily. “No, my lord.”

Cathair smiled – a long, creeping, spine-chilling smile. “I think you should.”

 

It was to the Pit that Cathair led him. Fear crept into Eamon's limbs as he followed down the long, familiar steps. The torches guttered, the air thick with dust. It was not long before the smell reached them and Eamon nearly retched. How could he have forgotten that smell in so short a time? It had only been a week. It felt an eternity.

The Pit was as he remembered it, with rubble strewn everywhere. The narrow hole through which he had initially been lowered was a gaping orifice. The apparatus for the lowering and retrieving of prisoners hung brokenly to one side.

Eamon noticed Cathair shudder, but euphoria touched him as he remembered his visit with Mathaiah. It was almost as though some echo of the song lingered in the walls. The stones, forced so long to witness torment, could do nothing but witness to the strength of the blue light.

A couple of Hands on duty made their respectful greetings to Cathair. One of them stared at Eamon – was it one of the Hands who had been there a week ago?

Cathair took him to one of the rooms off the central chamber, one that he had not been to before. A red stone guarded its entrance. It was cracked and singed. Had the blue light done that, too?

The door opened into a room that might hold two dozen people, its walls dimly lit by torches. Between the torchlight, Eamon glimpsed the angular writing that also marked the doors to the throne room and the Hands' Hall. It turned his stomach. The harsh words seared his eyes, imprinting themselves in his mind so that when he looked away he could see them still.

The same letters marked the Nightholt.

Near the centre of the room was a table covered in sheets of parchment, an inkwell and quill perched on one side. There were a couple of chairs but only one, on the far side, was occupied. In it sat Mathaiah, his arms bound to the arms of the chair and his legs to its legs. The cadet was deathly pale. Deep marks rimmed his eyes like enormous bruises; slashes and cuts covered his bare arms. Eamon's dream – of Mathaiah, crying out – returned to him.

Around Mathaiah several Hands were gathered. One held the cadet's head, forcing him to look at the papers scattered on the table. A couple of Hands were positioned at either side of him, armed with small blades that glinted red – as did the fresher wounds on Mathaiah's arms. Blood laced the floor and table.

As Cathair entered, one of the Hands towered over Mathaiah. The cadet's eyes were pressed shut as he fought to wrest his head free from the Hands.

“For the last time, you wretched snake!” the Hand yelled, his voice swollen with rage. Eamon realized with a start that it was Ashway. “Or I will tear your eyes out!” The Hand holding Mathaiah's head wrenched it sharply to the side. For a horrible moment, Eamon feared that the cadet's neck would be broken. But the Hand knew his trade: Mathaiah only gasped.

“If there is any gouging to be done then I think you will find, Lord Ashway, that such delights fall under my jurisdiction,” Cathair interrupted soberly. Eamon wondered at the perilous tone to his voice.

Ashway rounded on him. “This whole wretched affair is your jurisdiction! If you hadn't –”

“Lord Ashway,” Cathair said.

Ashway fell silent. The Hand looked paler than usual. As Eamon watched, Ashway pressed a hand to the side of his head; his fingers shook where his dark gloves encased them. He glared darkly at Cathair.

“I'll not waste any more of my –”

“Outside.”

Cathair's rage was a serpent, coiled and ready to strike.

Ashway glared. “You would dare to –?”

“I said outside.”

Panting a little, Ashway drew himself up straight and strode from the room. Cathair followed him. Both Hands went into the main chamber and pulled the door closed behind them. Eamon heard raised voices, but could not make out their words.

He looked at Mathaiah. As Ashway had stormed out of the room the Hand holding the cadet's head had thumped it hard against the back of the chair. Now he laughed as the cadet moaned. The Hand moved to strike the young man again.

“Hold!” Eamon commanded. As he spoke he saw Mathaiah's eyes drawing open. Pale and bloodshot, as they rested on Eamon a glimpse of light returned to them.

The Hand looked up at him. “Hold?”

Eamon strode over. “This is no way to use a prisoner, lord,” Eamon told him. “This is a matter requiring a certain finesse.”

“Lord Ashway has tried finesse,” the Hand retorted testily. As he spoke, Eamon saw the other Hands retreat from him.

“You are Lord Goodman,” one of them said.

“Yes, I am.” The eyes of the Hand before him grew wide with trepidation. “And I shall show you why my name is feared.”

Slowly he leaned himself against the table to look squarely into Mathaiah's eyes. “Mr Grahaven, I find you in a somewhat poorer condition than when we last met.”

“I am no poorer,” Mathaiah answered simply. Eamon idly scooped up the papers on the table and scoured them. It was clear to him that Mathaiah was being made to read something. But what?

The pages all bore the same thing – the hideous lettering from the Hands' Hall. As Eamon nonchalantly perused it, foreboding crossed his heart. The papers had the look of something copied, the letters rushed and misshapen, as though scribed by a less expert hand. They had none of the bold and angular incisiveness of the letters he knew.

The answer came to him like a blow: the Nightholt. They were copies of pages from the book that they had found in Ellenswell – the book that, on Eamon's insistence, they had delivered to the Hands. Mathaiah had said then that he could almost read it; Eamon had said as much to Alessia.

She had told the Right Hand.

He looked up at Mathaiah, saw his unscathed face – his
untouched
eyes – and understood. They needed the young man's eyes because they were making him read the Nightholt. But why would they need him to?

In silence Eamon laid the papers down. “Have they told you of my latest exploit, Mr Grahaven?”

Mathaiah did not answer, but Eamon saw the other Hands staring at him. He laughed arrogantly.

“You may well be the last person in the city to hear of it,” he said, “but I relish the telling to you especially. I have destroyed the Serpent's alliance with the Easter houses. The head of Feltumadas, heir to the house of Istanaria, even now stands impaled upon the Blind Gate. But you are, perhaps,” he added indolently, “uninterested in that?”

“You cannot destroy the King,” Mathaiah retorted fiercely. “Nor can you extinguish the light brought by the house of Brenuin!”

The other Hands seemed startled that he had spoken. They glanced at each other and then at Eamon nervously.

“Do not let him sing, Lord Goodman!” one of them hissed.

Eamon looked back to Mathaiah. “Always you think of the house of Brenuin. But what of the house of Grahaven?”

Mathaiah fell still. It was not how he wanted to bring such news to his friend, but there was no other way. He laughed. “Your father is old, your brother is dead. Only you remain, and on my travels,
snake
, I had the pleasure of meeting your charming wife.” Mathaiah's eyes widened, but he remained silent. “She bears the last heir of your line. Be assured, Grahaven,” he said, lowering his voice, “that unless you render unto Lord Ashway everything that he needs, I will hunt down your wife and base-born child and, finding them, will serve them suffering, torment, and death.”

“Then you may bear my wife a message,” Mathaiah said weakly.

Eamon fixed Mathaiah with his most arrogant glare.

“You would make a messenger of me, snake?” he sneered.

Mathaiah met his gaze with a small smile.

“Tell her that if my son is to be base-born, then she shall name him Eamon.”

Breath failed him.

“What?” His voice came as a whisper, which the Hands, judging by their faces, took to be deep anger.

“You are not deaf, Lord Goodman,” Mathaiah answered. As Eamon stared Mathaiah gave him a simple, slight nod.

The door opened. Cathair entered, eyes flashing. He took in the room at a glance.

“Lord Goodman.”

“My lord?”

“There is work to be done.”

“Yes, my lord.” Eamon looked at Mathaiah one last time.

The cadet's eyes were steady. Eamon wondered that such a heart could be in one so young and marvelled that he had the honour of calling such a man his friend.

Cathair called his name again. Without hesitating, Eamon followed.

 

Back in the open air, Eamon realized just how hot he felt. He was flushed with emotions that he didn't understand, with senses of obligation and foreboding and the sudden memory of a promise he had made to Lillabeth.

He had to try to get Mathaiah out, but how could he? He could not go down to the Pit without Cathair knowing of it. Even if he could, he did not know how he might get Mathaiah out of it or whether it would be safe to take him to the Serpentine…