The Broken Blade Page 5

  “Where is the water, Cartwright?” he asked blearily.

  “Lieutenant Fletcher told me to see that you were properly refreshed before your breakfast. The maids are drawing a bath for you.”

  Eamon’s face reddened. He remembered the scars on his back. “I will not be attended by them.”

  Cartwright’s answer was pristine. “No, my lord. I shall attend you.”

  Slowly, Eamon rose. He felt lightheaded and stiff-necked. He wondered if he had moved once during the night, and doubted it.

  Cartwright fell back a pace from him as he stood. “Come, my lord,” he said. “I will help you undress.”

  Memory of Alessia flew into Eamon’s mind. Angry, he pushed aside his longing.

  “I have not needed such assistance before,” he snapped.

  “It is your due, my lord. Yet, as you will it.”

  Cartwright duly dismissed the maids before leading Eamon into the bathing area. The chamber held an ornate bath hewn of black marble. Its feet were like eagle’s talons and it was filled with steaming water. Eamon wondered how long it had taken the maids to heat the water, let alone bring it to the vessel. He regretted then that he had dismissed them so quickly and without a word of thanks.

  Reluctantly, he permitted Cartwright to assist him in undressing. As the last layers of clothes fell from him, he drew a deep breath, knowing his scars were exposed.

  Cartwright paused uncertainly.

  “You must not speak of them, Cartwright.”

  “I will not, my lord,” Cartwright answered. “And I will be gentle.”

  Relief rushed through Eamon. “Thank you.”

  He allowed Cartwright to bathe him. It was a lordly service and yet it felt invasive to him. That, he reminded himself, was not the fault of his servant. The man barely spoke as he worked, being especially gentle when washing and rinsing Eamon’s back. When he had finished, Cartwright wrapped Eamon in the long towel and then brought him robes and cloak. Eamon numbly let the man dress him. As his servant’s hands passed over him, his thought turned first to Alessia and then, with growing horror, to the throned.

  “Does something trouble you, my lord?” Cartwright asked.

  Eamon broke abruptly from his thought. “What concern is it of yours?” he asked.

  Cartwright did not falter or pause like a man rebuked. He continued speaking as steadily as a man sure of his words, as though unconcerned that his audience was the second most powerful man in Dunthruik. “You are a burdened man, my lord.”

  Eamon looked at him in surprise. “You speak boldly. These are not the words of a servant. Do these words belong to you, or to another?” he asked.

  The servant faltered. “They are not mine,” he said, lowering his gaze.

  “Then whose words do you thus convey?” Eamon demanded.

  Cartwright did not meet his gaze. “Forgive me, my lord. It was Lady Turnholt.”

  Eamon glowered. “You will not mention her before me!”

  Cartwright flinched. Eamon forced himself to draw a deep breath. “I will not have her named before me,” he said, more measuredly. “Do you understand?”

  Cartwright bowed low. “Yes, Lord Goodman.”

  After a long moment, Eamon sighed. “Thank you, Cartwright,” he said belatedly.

  “You are summoned to breakfast, my lord,” came his servant’s reply.

  Eamon went back into his hall and took up his belt and dagger; he drew the latter from its sheath. The jagged writing on the blade grinned foully at him.

  There was a knock at the door. Fletcher strode in.

  “Good morning, my lord.”

  “Lieutenant.”

  “I am to advise you, my lord, that when you go to breakfast you are expected to attend by means of the south balcony,” Fletcher told him. “The Master’s doorkeeper will be waiting for you there.”

  “Very well,” Eamon nodded, standing still while Cartwright set his cloak over his shoulders.

  “There was a small disturbance at the South Gate during the night,” Fletcher added, holding out a sheaf of paper. “This is Lord Tramist’s report.”

  “Am I to be troubled with every skirmish and dispute in the city?”

  “No, my lord,” Fletcher answered. “This was not a skirmish.” With a sigh Eamon took the paper from him. “The disturbance occurred when two dozen stragglers came to the gate demanding entrance.”

  “For what reason?” Eamon asked, whilst skimming the report.

  “The stragglers had been in a column, my lord – one of the ones that was evacuated for the billeting of the regional units,” Fletcher told him. “They say that they came from the East Quarter. Initial checks seem to indicate that this is the case.”

  Eamon’s blood cooled. “The East?” he repeated. He had sent wayfarers from the city in such columns; what cause could they have to return to Dunthruik?

  “Yes.” Fletcher looked down at some notes on a separate paper. “They’re a splinter-segment from one of the first columns that you dispatched,” he added. “They say that they were viciously attacked by wayfarers up River and that they lost almost half the column near Hightown. They felt that the only thing they could do was return to the city. They were harried further on the way.”

  Eamon looked at him. Why would wayfarers attack wayfarers? Could it be true? Why should he trust a report from Tramist? “Casualties?”

  “Aplenty, I am given to understand.”

  Eamon glared. “Their names, Fletcher!” he cried. Cartwright stepped back from him.

  Fletcher looked at the papers and then shrugged. “I do not know them, my lord.”

  “And the survivors?”

  “In the report, my lord.”

  Eamon scoured it. The name of Grennil – whom he had entrusted to deliver his message to the King – was not listed. He realized that he could not hope to know whether any of them lived, nor whether they had delivered his message.

  Fletcher watched him. “Lord Tramist thought that you might wish to know of it.”

  “Thank him,” Eamon managed. “Have him send the returnees to the Crown Office in the East Quarter; Mr Rose and Mr Lorentide will re-house them.”

  “Such a measure will need Lord Arlaith’s –”

  “I command it, Fletcher,” Eamon growled. “Lord Arlaith will obey me.”

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

  For a long moment there was silence. Eamon stood and stared at the papers.

  “My lord?”

  “Mr Fletcher?” Eamon snapped.

  “Forgive me, my lord; you are awaited at breakfast.”

  Eamon sighed angrily. “So I am told,” he retorted. Thrusting the papers across into Cartwright’s astonished hands, he swept past Fletcher to the balcony.

  Eamon shook as he stepped out. The sun struck him, blinding him for a moment. As he passed down the length of the balcony he could see down into the throne room. It looked like a chamber of fire.

  He reached the far end of the balcony where it turned to follow the inner wall of the West Wing. The doorkeeper stood there beneath a curved archway. He bowed.

  “Lord Goodman. I will lead you to breakfast.”

  Terrified, Eamon responded with only a nod.

  The doorkeeper led him through the archway. Eamon expected to follow into a corridor or a passageway, but instead found himself in a long, light room filled with beautiful trees. Their branches reached up to twine overhead like beams and each tree was planted in an enormous pot.

  The doorkeeper moved through the room at speed, but the trees forced Eamon to a standstill. He recognized the fruits that they bore.

  They were western stars. The same fruit Anderas had once told him grew all around the city. The same fruit that the Master had destroyed when he claimed Dunthruik.

  “Lord Goodman?”

  Eamon looked back to the doorkeeper. Seeing that he was not followed, the man paused in the long gallery.

  “This way, my lord.”

  Eamon fo
llowed him.

  The chamber ended in another arch whose grand doors stood open so as to let in light. Eamon followed the doorkeeper to the threshold and the vast hall beyond.

  “Lord Goodman,” the doorkeeper announced. He gestured for Eamon to enter and bowed as he passed.

  An enormous oak table was the room’s centrepiece. It was decked with red cloth and bowls and platters. Men and women dressed in the throne’s colours moved silently about the room, setting dishes and pouring wine.

  At one end of the table sat the Master. A tall black chair was set to his right. As Eamon bowed in the doorway, Edelred smiled.

  “Your glory, Master.”

  “Good morrow, son of Eben,” the Master replied. “Come and break your fast with me.”

  Eamon walked the length of the room. The red-clad servants froze and bowed before him, all in absolute silence. One servant pulled the sable chair from the table.

  At the Master’s gesture, Eamon bowed once more and then sat; the servant set his chair closer to the table. Then another servant swiftly laid bread and cheese upon the plate before him whilst a third stepped forward and filled a chalice with wine, setting it by Eamon’s hand.

  Eamon watched them in astonishment, then managed to catch the gaze of the last.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly.

  The young man froze and watched him for a moment with wide eyes. He said not a word. Eamon offered him a small smile.

  “You serve well,” Eamon told him.

  The air rent with laughter.

  “You waste your thanks, Eben’s son!”

  Startled – for he had almost forgotten that Edelred sat by him – Eamon looked back at the Master in surprise.

  “Master,” he began, “surely all service is worth some thanks –”

  “Including ill service?” the throned asked, a baiting glint to his eye.

  “Master,” Eamon answered quietly, “I was not ill-served by this man.”

  “He cannot receive your thanks, Eben’s son,” Edelred replied, gesturing once to the servant. The man merely stood by them, watching. It disconcerted Eamon utterly.

  “Nor does he,” Edelred continued, “or any of these others, require it. You are so far above them as to be a flame at the mountaintop and they a carcass on the plain beneath. Even were that not so, still they would not receive your words.”

  Eamon drew cautious breath to speak once more, but the look on the Master’s face silenced him.

  “These about you neither hear nor speak, my Right Hand,” the Master told him. “It was the first condition of their service.”

  Eamon looked up at the man at his elbow. His stomach sank.

  The Master gave a sharp gesture and the servant bowed low before stepping away. Eamon watched him go, mouth ajar, and stared at another as a plate of cold meat was laid down at his right.

  “I see that you would join my servants’ silence, son of Eben,” the throned laughed.

  No words passed Eamon’s mouth. Had all the men and women in that room been born unable to speak, or had they been made that way? His chilling heart told him that some would have chosen their silent world so that it might revolve around the man who sat at the head of the red-clothed table.

  Edelred spoke again. “Your service is not so different to theirs, Eben’s son, but you, a man worth many jesters, tend to ample use of your tongue.” The Lord of Dunthruik looked down at him with an indulgent smile. “Use it now.”

  Eamon struggled to attend to Edelred’s words. “What would you have me do this day, Master?”

  “Always you turn your mind to my glory,” the throned said, and laughed. “You are a rare man, Eben’s son! It is that which makes the others loathe you so. But they do not see what I have seen.” Suddenly the Master’s hand was at his face, and the Lord of Dunthruik tilted Eamon’s chin so that he might look into his eyes. Eamon quivered. The touch was liquid fire.

  “Still I see it,” the Master breathed.

  The hand moved away. Eamon tried to steady himself as the throned leaned back. The Master gestured to another servant. This one, who was dressed more finely than the others, tasted the wine from the decanter on the table before carefully pouring some into the Master’s chalice.

  Eamon watched in terrified fascination as the Lord of Dunthruik drank, lowered his cup, and smiled.

  “Eat, son of Eben,” he said. “Eat, then speak out the whole thought of your arduous heart to me.”

  “Master, I am overwhelmed –”

  “Then you must content yourself with eating!” the Master answered him wryly. “There will yet be time to speak, Eben’s son. Much time.”

  Eamon bowed his head and gave his thanks. Then, under the Master’s watchful eye, he ate. With every morsel or sip that he swallowed, Edelred observed him like a favoured child.

  After Eamon had finished, a servant laid a dish of star fruit down beside them followed by a bowl of water.

  The Master gestured to the dish.

  “Is such fruit to your liking, son of Eben?”

  Eamon’s heart sank. “Yes, Master.”

  “Then you shall take of these.”

  He could not refuse. Eamon reached across to the bowl and chose the nearest fruit. It filled his palm. He placed it on his plate and took up his knife. Anderas had taught him what to do.

  Slowly, he cut down through the fruit. The segments split apart, revealing the fibrous shape at their heart. Beneath the incision, the star seemed to bleed.

  Edelred smiled. “My trees bear good fruit,” he said. “You will do the same.”

  Eamon looked at the fruit lying open before him. “Yes, Master.”

  He ate in silence. The fruit cloyed in his throat as, engulfed by the Master’s scrutiny, he swallowed. At his own table he might have taken wine to help him wash down the sickly mouthful, yet though his reddened cup glinted at him enticingly, he shunned it. He did not dare to take it. While he ate, Edelred did not; he only watched.

  At last Eamon finished the fruit. He carefully dipped his fingers into the water and dried them. Not knowing what else to do, he lifted his head and met the Master’s gaze.

  “Thank you, Master.”

  Edelred smiled. Suddenly he made a circling gesture towards the servants with one hand; several of them darted forwards. They cleared the table. As they whirled about him, Eamon felt tempest-tossed; his head spun with the deftness of their silent world.

  “Son of Eben.”

  The Master’s voice was by his ear. Startled, he looked up.

  “Master.”

  At another gesture from Edelred, a servant laid his hands to the back of Eamon’s chair so as to pull it back. A little clumsily, Eamon rose from it and was swallowed by the Master’s grey gaze.

  “Follow,” Edelred commanded.

  Eamon bowed. “Your glory,” he answered.

  As the Master turned to leave, the servants bowed and froze. Eamon moved in Edelred’s wake through the swathe of bent men.

  They stepped out of the dining room into a corridor. Eamon shivered as cooler air drove past him. The corridor was carpeted and great tapestries hung from the walls. He guessed that the Master’s own chambers were to the right and for a terrible moment he feared that he would be led there. But Edelred turned rather to the left, towards the deepest reaches of the West Wing. Eamon could not see where the corridor went, but he followed. They passed many windows and Eamon fancied that there might well be doorways hidden behind the tapestries. The windows to his left looked down over the palace gardens. He caught a glimpse of the Hands’ Hall, a brooding edifice among a sward of green. Windows on the highest level of the East Wing looked back at them, and Eamon wondered whether he saw figures following in them, engaged in a ghostly mimicry of his onward step.

  The corridor opened into a small antechamber. There were several chairs within, and at the far end, a monumental set of double doors boldly marked with red-eyed eagles. A sinister glint in the red stone indicated the passage was guarded by the m
ark of the throned; the doors were sealed. Eamon wondered whether only the Master could open them.

  Edelred paused before the doors. The glint in the eagles’ eyes grew stronger. Thrilling tension filled the air, throbbing and pulsing about the Lord of Dunthruik. The Master lifted one hand. The doors opened.

  Eamon felt as though he watched the yawning aside of gates that guarded the cavernous lair of a hidden beast; the sight filled him with terror. Yet as the doors swung back his jaw fell in amazement, for all beyond the portal was drenched in a drowning wash of ruby and of gold.

  Edelred crossed the threshold. Speechless, Eamon followed.

  The rooms beyond were a realm of riches. Each part was filled with stands bearing every imaginable jewel or gem, some cast into settings more intricate than the filigree threads of fine laces. By these countless objects – necklaces, rings, medallions, clasps – were other stands displaying hosts of figurines, their faces a dazzling mosaic of precious stones. There were gowns tailored with golden threads and garments doused with jewels, each prominently displayed. In places tables held richly bound books and stands, which supported finely wrought lances, spears, or swords. Enormous paintings with gilded frames covered the walls, each more exuberant than its fellow in its attempts to show the Master radiant with glory, and statues of marble or alabaster lined the length of the room. One showed a man with an eagle on one arm and a serpent crushed in his other hand. In each corner of each room stood enormous candelabra, their golden boughs littered with rubies. From marbled floor to towering roof above, the solemnly bejewelled chambers showcased the Master’s glory with all conceivable opulence.

  Eamon had never seen such riches; they staggered him. He faltered in the heart of the first hall, gawking and overwhelmed. The treasures of the West Wing gazed silently back at him. Edelred strode among them, more terrible in flesh than any likeness.

  Eamon was not sure how many chambers there were. Each one held more than he could comprehend, and those things that he did see and understand were nothing but poorly grasped details of the whole.

  Edelred led the way through each chamber, never pausing to look at what surrounded them. In one, Eamon saw a wall strung with banners. There were emblems and heralds there with designs that Eamon did not know, and there were banners from the merchant states; Eamon recognized those of Galithia, Lamiglia, and Breusklia. There were banners from the east, some known to him, and one, showing a purple and crimson sun against a yellow background, that he had never seen before. Beside these were the emblems of the River’s provinces – Eamon’s heart soared as he recognized the lions of his home, Edesfield, among them – and of Dunthruik and its quarters, some showing only the quarters’ leaf motifs.