The King's Hand (58 page)

“You will be the youngest, Eben's son.” The throned's voice was quiet, and Eamon wondered if it was not also a little wistful. The words chilled him to his very core. “And yet, none will have been as you will be.”

“How may I serve you, Master?” Eamon asked.

The throned smiled. “Son of Eben,” he said, “you will become my Right Hand.”

Eamon's breath was torn viciously from his lungs as at a blow. He reeled. With startling suddenness Waite's words, spoken at their first meeting, came back to him: “
Right Hand is not beyond you.
”

Eamon remembered how much he had longed for it, how he had hankered after it when he had lain awake night after night in Alessia's bed; how Ladomer had encouraged him to yearn after it, though it had seemed far beyond him…

Now, it was freely given to him from the hand of the Master himself. The hand that gave it lay on his cheek in a dreadful tenderness that he could scarcely endure.

“You have shown yourself trustworthy with little; now you will be entrusted with much.” The Master's voice seeped into him through every pore.

Shaking from head to foot, Eamon sank down to his knees before the kindly smile of the throned.

“Master,” he breathed, “I cannot of my own merit accept what you offer me. Only if it is your will shall I dare set my hand to such a thing.”

There was a moment of silence, broken at the last by a laugh. It was a rich, round, deep-chested laugh, and it shook Eamon through his very bones.

“Few have been offered this task, Eben's son; none have taken it with such words.” He laughed again. “You show promise, my son.”

“I hope to make good on it, Master,” Eamon replied. “But Lord Arlaith –?”

“In seven days, Eben's son, you shall take his place,” the Master answered, and as he finished Eamon's heart sunk into a petrifying mire. “And, on that day, he shall take yours.”

 

When he left the palace, Eamon could barely walk; he was glad that he needed only mount his horse. The creature proved cooperative and went slowly, not minding that the reins trembled in his fingers. Dunthruik passed by him in a daze. The Master's last words ran through his mind again.
One week
: a single week, and Arlaith would take the East Quarter. The thought cut at his heart like a deathblow. His servants, his college, the streets and people that he had come to know and love… they would be taken from him.

And the work that he had done? Arlaith would undo it. He would do so out of spite against Eamon. His hatred would do nothing but grow more terrible. Eamon did not know if he would be able to stop it, even if he was the Right Hand. And what of the servants? They could not be as free as they had been with him. They had to be retrained to be as they had been under Lord Ashway, trained again to tread in silence and in fear.

He came into the Ashen. “Lord Goodman!” called a voice. The earnestness of that voice dealt him a further blow.

“Good morning, captain,” he answered.

In seven days he would lose Captain Anderas, his dearest friend in the entire city. Eamon was sure that Arlaith knew it too.

“I see you have been riding already,” Anderas commented cheerfully.

Eamon could not answer. He felt as though he restrained tears by a thread. The captain looked at him in concern. “Are you well, my lord?”

“Yes,” Eamon answered.

“You're lying,” Anderas told him quietly. It was too bold a statement for a captain to make to a Hand, and to say as much to a
Right
Hand…

“Yes,” Eamon replied. “I am.”

“You're very bad at it. It's as well that you never thought about becoming a spy; they'd have rooted you out in seconds.”

“Yes,” Eamon answered, his throat terribly dry. “They would have.”

But they had not.

 

He decided to go to bed early that night. He tucked his papers away into neat piles and stood at the window in his office, letting his hand rest on the wooden frame. There was a knock on his door.

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” said a voice – Slater's. “Mr Bellis asks whether you will take supper in your office this evening?”

Eamon sighed. Cook had fallen ill that morning and so Marilio had taken charge of the kitchen in his stead, and seemed determined to run it in a manner of which the cook would approve.

“I do not think that I will sup tonight,” he answered.

“He'll make you take an enormous breakfast in the morning,” the servant warned with a smile. Even Slater had become relaxed in his role. Eamon swallowed nervously. How was he to tell these people that they would, for all their kindness and service, reap Lord Arlaith in place of Lord Goodman?

“I know,” he answered with a tiny smile. “Tell him that I look forward to it.”

“Very good, my lord,” Slater replied, and disappeared.

Eamon made his way wearily upstairs to bed. He had told no one of the news he had received that morning, and it weighed on him. Whom could he tell? He knew that they all had to know, but he would first need to have a hold of himself. It was something that he very much lacked.

He climbed into bed. The sheets trembled about his shaking limbs as he tried to read. It was a lost cause, and he soon doused the lamp and lay staring at the dark window. He stared for a long time before slipping into a troubled sleep.

 

He did not know how long he had been asleep when a loud banging at his door woke him. Someone called his name.

“Lord Goodman! Lord Goodman!”

Eamon stirred and then bolted awake. The voice was Slater's and it sounded terrified.

“
Lord Goodman!
”

“I'm coming, Slater.” He got quickly out of bed and pulled his thick cloak on over his night-shirt; there was not the time for any further attempts at decency.

He pulled open the door. Pale and trembling, Slater fell back a pace. He held a slender candle in his hand. It was still pitch dark outside.

“Mr Slater, what is the matter?”

His servant could not answer him, but gestured for Eamon to follow him and led the way back down the stairway into the corridors of the Handquarters. Eamon followed, growing increasingly nervous. The candle threw their shadows in arches over the walls. They approached the kitchens. As they neared the doorway, traces of firelight struck up the walls from the kitchen fires burning low in the grates. With the smell of smoke mingled something else; something which made his flesh crawl.

Blood.

“What has happened?” he asked.

Slater stepped, trembling, through the kitchen doorway and then shrank back against the wall and pointed. A ghastly cry left his lips. Eamon followed the direction of the gesture and then felt his heart stop.

Slumped in the corner of the kitchen was a figure. It was crumpled in a pool of its own blood and glistened hellishly in the firelight. There was no sound other than Slater's cry.

“No,” he breathed, but then even his breath was taken from him.

It was Marilio Bellis.

C
HAPTER
XXXII

T
he dawn came grey and mournful to the city, bringing with it gritty drizzle that struck the stones like so many beating hands. Eamon stood in the courtyard of the Handquarters with his cloak drawn thickly about him against the rain. The drops slid down over his face and through his hair, rendering his cloak futile, but still he held it about his dripping throat.

In a line behind him stood his household. Several cadets were with them. Wilhelm Bellis's ravaged face was clear among them. Cara stood by him, her fingers knotted tightly through his own as he tried to keep back his tears. Many of the household wept. A cart had been brought into the yard where they stood. Two ensigns guarded it like graven images.

The beat of the rain was broken by the sound of footsteps coming down from the doors, from which four servants emerged solemnly. They stepped out into the rain, bearing a stretcher between them.

The stretcher bore Marilio's body; it had been swathed in a funerary pall, hiding the devastating violence of what had been done to him. Tears burned the back of Eamon's eyes. His mind was filled with Slater's anguished howls. When he blinked, he still saw the bloody kitchen.

Silently, he stepped forward to face the household. The stretcher and its bound load were set down before him. He could not look down at the body upon it; the swaddled mass bore no resemblance to the man he knew. Eamon lamented that it was the last sight Wilhelm would have of his father.

He looked up at the servants and their pale faces, blurred by the rain. The words he spoke came haltingly and the sound of pounding rain vied with his quavering voice.

“In life and in death Marilio Bellis served the Master. As was his coming, so is his going to the Master's glory. Let ours be also.”

“To his glory,” the household answered. He barely heard them.

Eamon nodded once to the pallbearers. The stretcher was raised from the wet ground and delivered safely onto the cart. Eamon trembled as he watched. Tears streaked his face. There would be no noble resting-place for Wilhelm's father; all the city could offer to a servant was a place in the pyres.

The cadet in charge of the cart urged the horse on, and it stepped into a slow pace. The whole household watched as the cart ran out of the yard, into the Ashen and the rain.

Eamon looked back to the servants. “Return to your duties,” he told them. They obeyed him.

Turning, he stepped quietly across to Wilhelm. Cara pressed the young man's hand in encouragement before she followed the other servants into the house. The cadet stared in anguish through the empty door to the Ashen, no doubt seeing his father's last journey over and over again in his mind.

“Mr Bellis,” Eamon said softly.

The cadet looked up, his eyes red with tears. “My lord,” he answered. He had to force himself to speak, and his voice shook as he tried to make it sound stronger than he felt.

“I am deeply sorry for your loss, Mr Bellis. Your father was dear to me.”

In his memory, Eamon felt Marilio's blood thick on his hands as he checked the body for signs of life; felt the grief that lodged in his breast as he realized that he had come late – too late to do anything but weep…

“Who did it, my lord?” Wilhelm's voice trembled with anger. Vengeful grief filled the young man's eyes. “Who did it?”

“I don't know,” Eamon answered.

But it was not true. He believed that it had not been just any hand that had slaughtered his servant. He believed it to have been the Right Hand, or at least someone in his service. Arlaith had every reason to loathe Eamon, and Eamon knew all too clearly that the Right Hand would come back against those near to the Lord of the East Quarter.

He looked back to Wilhelm. “Mr Bellis,” he said gently.

“My lord?”

“I need you to promise me that you will not take this matter into your own hands.”

Wilhelm shook, whether with rage or the surfeit of some other emotion Eamon did not know.

“You have been violated and I appreciate your desire for justice, even for vengeance. But when a man strikes against my servants he strikes against me. It is therefore right that I deal with this matter. For a man to strike against me he must be powerful indeed, and I would not have you pit yourself against such a man.”

“With all due respect, my lord, I couldn't care how powerful the villain is.” Wilhelm's eyes flamed as he spoke. “I wouldn't care if he were the Right Hand himself –”

“Mr Bellis,” Eamon spoke firmly and the cadet quieted before his tone. “You have lost much this day, but by pursuing vengeance you stand to lose even more.” The young man's eyes glanced up to the household where the last of the servants entered the building. “You must think of those who love you.”

Wilhelm drew a shuddering breath. “Yes, my lord.”

“Your father was indisputably faithful to me, and he was a good man. I see his heart in you, Mr Bellis. I will do everything in my power to bring whoever did this to justice,” Eamon told him. “Promise me that you will let me do that. I will not lose your life as I have lost your father's.”

The cadet was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded, giving his tacit agreement. “Yes, my lord,” he said.

Relief coursed through Eamon's veins. “Do you want to take some time off duty?”

“No, my lord.”

“Very well, Mr Bellis,” Eamon replied. “You can return to the college. Report as normal.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Wilhelm bowed low and left by the doorway through which his father had lately gone.

Eamon stood for a long time, thinking, until the rain penetrated through his cloak to his skin.

It had been Arlaith. He was certain of it. As he shivered in the cold, Eamon wondered whether it was a strike of vengeance or a warning, and whether Marilio would be the last to die.

 

Later that day, the rain still falling in sheets, Eamon visited the kitchens to see how the servants fared. The place where Marilio's body had been discovered was impeccably clean and fearfully avoided.

Despite still being unwell, Mr Cook returned to duty. He stood over the fire, fixed on his task with concentration that betrayed fraught nerves. Eamon joined him, watching as Cook's hands steadily plied the pots and pans of his trade.

“Mr Cook?” he said at last.

“My lord.”

“Do not bear something beyond what is yours to carry.”

The cook set down his ladle with trembling hands, and closed his eyes. “If I hadn't been ill…”

There was a long pause.

“What happened isn't your fault,” Eamon said gently.

“How will his son ever forgive me?”

“He does not blame you. Neither do I. Do not blame yourself.”

The cook looked over at the corner where the body had lain; tears filmed his eyes. “He was such a good man, my lord. There is no justice in it.”