The Broken Blade Page 3

  “Thank you.”

  Eamon followed him. The Handquarter was similar to the Ashen, but the corridor was lined with broad pedestals. As the hall was dimly lit Eamon barely distinguished them at first, but as they passed a window he caught a glimpse of one of them. A bird stood on it; its eyes were sinister and dead in the light, and Eamon realized that it was stuffed. The whole hall was lined with them, their empty eyes glinting in the dark. Eamon’s cheer was dampened by a feeling of being watched. Whilst serving under Cathair as a Hand of the West Quarter, he had spent time with Tramist, and he reminded himself that, even if he did not like sunlight, the city’s breacher was a formidable man.

  Tramist opened the door to his study. This too bore various pedestals and stands. Of those in the room, the creatures that struck Eamon the most were a wolf and some kind of great cat, the likes of which he had never seen. Its tawny jaws were drawn back in a fierce scowl.

  It was as he looked at the stuffed creatures that Eamon was suddenly, and horrifyingly, reminded of the bookends that Cathair kept at Ravensill. Had the Lord of the South Quarter been party to that deed?

  The study’s desk was covered with ordered papers. Tramist selected a pile.

  “These are the South’s reports, Lord Goodman,” he said. “Nothing out of the ordinary. All of the additional Gauntlet given to me have been housed. We still struggle a little to keep our horses and mules fully stabled, but most of the Quarter’s remaining peasants have been persuaded to assist in that. My logistics draybant is handling the matter well.”

  “Good.”

  “We are yet to fully draft the South’s thresholders,” Tramist told him, “but in all other matters we are well prepared, as the reports show. The culling groups have turned out some impressive results of late,” he added, “especially along the Serpentine.”

  For a moment Eamon froze, his thought suddenly on the innkeeper who had helped him escort Mathaiah’s wife Lillabeth to safety. His troubled thoughts shifted to the East Quarter, on his servants and friends there, and to the cadets – now ensigns – in the West…

  “Good news indeed,” Eamon answered, resolving to drive down his sudden fear. “The Master has given me overall charge of preparing this city for any forthcoming hostility.” A task, he realized, to which he did not feel entirely equal. Although he had learned much while serving the West and East Quarters he knew but little about defending a whole city, and Dunthruik had been placed in his hand as though it were some sweetmeat.

  “Clearly,” he added, “I will require your support in this matter. You will make your reports to me thorough and regular.”

  “Of course, Lord Goodman,” Tramist answered, extending the group of reports towards him. As Eamon reached across to take them Tramist’s hand suddenly faltered, and the papers dropped in a flurry to desk and floor.

  Tramist hissed with quickly veiled annoyance. “My apologies, Lord Goodman,” he said, stooping so as to gather the sheets. Eamon moved to assist him. “Do not trouble yourself, my lord,” Tramist added.

  “It is no trouble.”

  They both picked up the papers, Tramist concentrating on those upon the ground. Eamon stacked the others back together on the desk.

  “Here are the others, my lord,” Tramist said, setting them down upon Eamon’s pile. Their hands brushed past each other.

  At that touch Eamon felt a sharp and sudden pain run through him, so swiftly that he wondered whether he imagined it. He closed his eyes, and for the briefest of moments he was convinced that he saw the breaching plain.

  It went as quickly as it had come. Before he knew it, Tramist’s hand was far from his own, folding some other papers away. The Hand’s gaze was lowered and unaffected.

  Filled with gnawing misgivings, Eamon looked sharply at him. “Lord Tramist?”

  Tramist matched his gaze with a querying look. “Are there papers missing, Lord Goodman?”

  Eamon did not even glance down at them. He was sure that he had seen the plain. He held the Hand’s gaze.

  “You touched me,” he said quietly. He knew that he could not prove it and realized that, even if he had the right of the matter, he did not know what the Lord of the South Quarter had done to him.

  “I gave you the papers, my lord,” Tramist answered levelly, casting one hand at them in a gesture. His fingers came near Eamon’s own once more. Involuntarily, Eamon flinched.

  Tramist looked at him with mock concern. “Is something the matter, Lord Goodman?”

  Eamon continued to watch him. “You touched me.”

  Tramist assessed his manner for a moment, as though he did not comprehend Eamon’s words.

  “By the Master’s own writ, Lord Goodman, you have been proclaimed this city’s finest Hand,” he said. “My lord, you are untouchable.”

  The statement unnerved him, for against such praise Eamon knew that he could not press the matter. He also knew, and knew too well, that Tramist had been a breacher since before he had himself been born. He wondered then what skills the Lord of the South Quarter had declined to teach him.

  “Lord Tramist,” he said, “I have no reason to bear you enmity. I would not have you give me one.”

  Tramist shook his head with a smile. “Why should you think such a thing of me?” he asked. “Lord Goodman, I have always admired you and it grieves me that you might think me your enemy. I have only fine words for you.” He paused. “I think, my lord, that you are tired. Perhaps you should find some time to rest this afternoon?”

  Unconvinced still, Eamon matched his gaze. “Thank you, Lord Tramist, for your concern. Good day to you.”

  Tramist bowed. “And to you, Lord Goodman.”

  Sweeping the papers up into his hands, Eamon left the office.

  He handed the papers to Fletcher and the lieutenant tucked them securely away in a saddlebag. He did not speak to the man. As he mounted his horse, his thought returned over and again to the hand that Tramist had brushed against; it ached, but he was unsure whether the pain was a concoction of his imagination.

  Breathing deeply, he resolved to cast the matter as far from his mind as he could.

  They crossed the city from the South Quarter and into the North, passing the great gates of the university and lodges of some of the city’s guilds, notably the armourers and drapers.

  “You should have gone to the university!”

  Ladomer’s voice suddenly entered his mind, resplendent with loving mockery. For a moment the memory of Edesfield was so sharp that Eamon felt transported; then, like a shadow, it dissipated.

  The North Handquarters were situated nearly on the Coll itself, so as to have easy access to the port – for Dehelt occupied himself not only with the quarter and the university or guild politics, but a large portion of the port’s business. In that business the West Quarter was an assistant, seeing mostly to the roads and waterfronts. The West’s main, and most noble, concern was with the palace.

  Eamon left his horse with the stable hands and enquired after Dehelt from Captain Longroad, who happened to be passing through the hall.

  “He’s at the gate, my lord, inspecting portions of the north wall. He had hoped to return before you arrived. Would you have me send for him?”

  “No, but send after him, and have him know that I will meet him there,” Eamon answered. The captain bowed and hurried off to do as he had asked. Eamon recovered his horse.

  They took to Coronet Rise once again; Sahu needed no urging to canter up to the North Gate. Eamon quietly advised the beast that he had best not get too hopeful; there would be no riding the plains that day. Whether the creature understood him or not, he did not know, but when they halted at the gate and Sahu was given over to the gate men, the horse cast a mournful look out beyond the great lintels.

  The same men who took charge of his horse told him that Lord Dehelt toured the nearer part of the wall with some city engineers. Thanking them, Eamon made to climb the stair to the full height of the wall.

  “Shall I wait for y
ou here, my lord?” Fletcher’s voice called after him.

  “Do so, Mr Fletcher.”

  A strong wind whipped across the ramparts that day. As he reached the topmost part, Eamon was driven against the stonework by its force. Sentinels were posted at regular intervals along the long walls, splashes of red against the grey, and in the near distance a figure in black, accompanied by a couple of others. Eamon went towards them.

  “Lord Dehelt,” he greeted, arriving.

  “Lord Goodman.” Dehelt greeted him cordially and bowed. The men with the Lord of the North Quarter did likewise.

  “His glory,” they said in unison.

  “I would speak with you a moment,” Eamon said.

  Dehelt nodded, then turned to the men with him. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said. “Please advise the quarter’s architects of the necessary adjustments, as we discussed.”

  The men bowed once more to both Hands and then moved off along the wall. Dehelt turned to Eamon again.

  “I am sorry that I could not meet you at the Handquarter, my lord.”

  Eamon smiled. “It was little trouble for me to come to you.”

  “But I should have come to you, Lord Goodman,” Dehelt replied. He looked at the stones all around them, his eyes caught by something that only he could see.

  “How is the wall?” Eamon asked him.

  “It needs but minimal repair,” Dehelt answered. “I have always been attentive to it. It will hold for the North. As for South, East, and West, I do not know. Doubtless, my lords the Quarter Hands will have seen to that.” He looked up. “Have you ever seen the full might of these walls, Lord Goodman?”

  “No.”

  “The South is weakest – I understand that it is not the original city wall. From what of it I have seen, it seems to have been too swiftly built when the city was taken.”

  “I am sure that Lord Tramist has such matters in hand.”

  “He has my trust also, Lord Goodman. These walls have repelled strong foes in their time, and this city has weapons that may do so yet.” Dehelt laid gloved fingers to the stone. For a long time he gazed north across the plains, towards the foothills of Ravensill and, beyond that, the northern mountains. He breathed deeply, then turned to meet Eamon’s gaze. “You also have strong foes, Lord Goodman. I would bid you to be wary of them.”

  Eamon tried to assess the man’s quiet face; it betrayed nothing.

  “Will you speak no more clearly, Lord Dehelt?”

  “I am not a politic man, Lord Goodman,” Dehelt answered. “I am a watcher. There are deep currents in these Four Quarters.” He turned to look out across the city, and Eamon saw that the man’s gaze encompassed it all, from Blind Gate to port breakers.

  “The currents go back long years,” Dehelt added at last. “You are but young, Lord Goodman, and yet to the currents you are like a long-forgotten stream, emerging from deep places and feeding into churning waters. You trouble them.”

  Eamon looked out at the sea, to where the River’s mouth gorged on waves. The crests of the high waters swirled beyond the breakers, and the tall masts of the purple-bannered merchant ships were gliding into port.

  “You would counsel me, Lord Dehelt?”

  “I would not, my lord.”

  Eamon met his gaze again. The eyes that watched him were not hostile, but neither did they speak of that love and support which he had known from every man in the East.

  “The quarter’s reports?” he asked.

  “Here.” Dehelt drew them from a pouch beneath his cloak. “You will find everything in order. Were the Serpent to come tomorrow, Lord Goodman, the North would offer him fitting greeting.”

  “It pleases me to hear it.” He held the man’s gaze for a moment. “Thank you, Lord Dehelt.”

  “His glory,” Dehelt replied, and bowed.

  From the North they went into the East Quarter. It had been only a couple of hours since he had last been there, and yet years uncounted could have passed.

  “I did not have the opportunity to say so this morning, but it is a lovely quarter, my lord,” Fletcher commented as they passed into the Ashen. “You must have been proud of it.”

  “I am,” Eamon answered.

  Despite the messages that he had sent with Fletcher earlier that day, it was not Arlaith who met them. As they prepared to alight at the Ashen, a familiar figure came to meet them.

  “Lord Goodman,” it called.

  Eamon smiled. “Good afternoon, Mr Lancer,” he said, remembering in time not to call the man by his nickname of “Lieutenant Lackey”.

  “I’ve been asked to deliver these to you, my lord,” Lancer told him, holding out a collection of reports, “though I daresay you know their contents well enough.”

  “Thank you,” Eamon replied. It was true; he had written the papers himself, with Anderas’s assistance. He had Fletcher stow them with the others. “Where is Lord Arlaith?”

  “In a meeting with the captain,” Lancer answered readily. “He charged me with giving these to you.” Eamon could not help but glance up at the Handquarter with a flicker of fear in his heart. What kind of meeting did Anderas endure?

  He could not allow himself to linger on it; he had to trust Anderas. Had he not done so before, even with body, life, and faith?

  “Thank you, Mr Lancer. Please give my regards to Captain Anderas.”

  “And to Lord Arlaith?”

  After only the slightest hesitation, Eamon nodded. “Even so.”

  The lieutenant bowed and, with Eamon’s permission, returned to the college. Eamon breathed deeply and turned to Fletcher.

  “Take these reports back to the palace.”

  “And those for the West Quarter, my lord?”

  “I will bring them myself,” Eamon told him. “I would like you to tally these together while I do so.”

  “Of course, my lord,” Fletcher answered. After bowing he turned and spurred his horse back towards Coronet Rise.

  Eamon sat for a while in the saddle, watching the East Quarter’s college and Handquarters.

  Sahu shifted beneath him and tossed his head to dislodge a fly resting on his nose. The movement called Eamon back to the present. Patting the horse’s neck fondly he turned and prepared to go into the West.

  He passed once more through the Four Quarters and there, at the heart of the city, he stopped. Dunthruik pulsed all about him, its strength drawn up the Coll towards the walls of the palace. The movement was in every stone, in every gesture, and every gaze.

  How could Hughan hope to stand against it?

  As he paused there he heard the sound of many approaching feet. A large contingent rolled down Coronet Rise, flanked by men from the North Quarter. To judge, both from their bearing and the wagons and mules that bore them, the group was being evicted from the city to make room for Gauntlet reinforcements, the last of which arrived from the north. As they approached, the officer at the column’s head noted Eamon and paled.

  The officer brought the entire column to an uneasy halt, bowed, and stood still. Calls and cries from further back in the grinding mass demanded to know why it had stopped.

  Eamon gently urged his horse to the column and the sweating officer. Eamon counted the flames at the man’s collar.

  “Is something the matter, lieutenant?”

  “My lord,” the man stammered. “I had no wish to impede your crossing of the Quarters.”

  By reflex, Eamon laughed; it did nothing to aid the pallor of the man’s face.

  “Crossing!” Eamon said good naturedly. “I agree, lieutenant, that my horse is more impatient than I, but I rather think that I was stationary at the time you arrived. You would not have impeded a thing.”

  The lieutenant bowed again. “Yes, my lord.” His knees shook.

  “At ease,” Eamon told him. “You may take your column on, lieutenant.”

  The man rose uncertainly. “Thank you, my lord.” At a gesture he set the column moving again. It trundled back into motion like a weary ox at t
he ploughshare.

  Eamon retreated back into the shadow of the Four Quarters and watched the column go. The pale faces in the line could not meet his gaze, though they knew he was there; murmurs of “the Right Hand!” ran through the line.

  Manoeuvring the line through the Four Quarters was no easy business. Carriages and people had to hold back at each of the roads leading into it, which caused a great amount of confusion and an indeterminate number of bruised egos. Eamon watched as the Gauntlet herded the passing populace and drove back those waiting their turn to pass. Group after group went by.

  Suddenly a face caught Eamon’s attention; it belonged to a middle-aged man whose back was bent beneath a tattered wicker basket. His eyes watched Eamon. As soon as his gaze was met, he looked quickly away.

  Eamon started. He knew the face. As the realization washed over him the man shuffled further into the belly of the line.

  Eamon pressed his horse forward. He struggled to remember the man’s name. He had served in Alessia’s house. Eamon was sure of it. But what was his name?

  “Mr Cartwright,” he called at last.

  The hunched, half-hidden man fell still. At Eamon’s gesture the man came forward. He bowed low.

  “How may I serve you, my lord?”

  “You may do just that,” Eamon replied.

  The man looked confused. “My lord,” he said, “I was bidden to leave the city –”

  “And I bid you to stay in it.” He was the Right Hand – he could do as he pleased; and here was a known face. His encounter with Tramist, Dehelt’s words of warning, and the smile with which Arlaith had left him that morning had shaken him. “You served Lady Turnholt well,” he added gently. “Now you will serve me.”

  Cartwright bowed. “As you wish, my lord.”

  “Go to the palace and ask for Lieutenant Fletcher,” Eamon told him. “Tell him that I sent you and that you are to join my servants.”

  “My lord.” The man hefted the basket onto his back and climbed the Coll. The line continued moving, and he was lost from view.

  It was only then that Eamon realized he had not asked for service; he had commanded it.