The King's Hand

by Anna Thayer

  Dipping the quill into the inkpot he signed his name and laid the instrument aside. He remained still for a long moment. Anderas watched him.

  “Forgive me, Lord Goodman,” the captain said at last. “Your seal is needed.”

  Eamon took the candle and allowed some of the wax to drip down onto the paper. It was thick like blood. Awkwardly, he turned his hand and pressed the ring down. He felt heat in his hand, and for a moment caught sight of the red light between it and the paper.

  He pulled sharply away to see an owl embedded in the wax. Eamon stared.

  Slowly, Anderas took the paper. “I’ll see to this, Lord Goodman. Shall I have the servants see you to your bed?”

  “No,” Eamon answered weakly. He could not endure anyone watching him. The papers that had condemned Mathaiah had been signed and sealed just as this one. His hand shook. He set it discreetly beneath the desk.

  If Anderas saw his hands, he said nothing. Instead, the captain nodded. “Very well. Good night, Lord Goodman.”

  “Good night, captain.”

  Eamon watched as the captain left, his heart silently begging the man to stay. He needed solace; he needed the freedom to speak out everything that had tormented him since he had seen Ashway bound and Mathaiah blinded.

  But Captain Anderas could not hear him. Even if he could, even were he to ask for his ear, Eamon knew that he could not speak. The man served the Master by filling pyres.

  The door closed. Eamon stared at it.

  He seized the quill. With a cry he crushed it in his hand before hurling it brutally across the room. It struck the painting, disfiguring a soldier’s face before falling pathetically to the floor.

  Eamon sank back into his chair. His chest heaved and sobbed, but still no sound came from him and no tear touched his eye. He curled his limbs together in the high-backed, deep-seated chair, and drove his face down into his shaking hands and arms.

  He would not go to a bed. In her bed had he been poisoned and betrayed.

  He did not sleep that night. When the dawn stirred him, he was still in the chair, his cheek marked by the ring against which it had lain.

  CHAPTER XII

  The days that followed seemed interminably long, the hours of light marked by a hundred things he could not grasp, and those of night by memories he could not bury. He could not eat, he could barely sleep, and during the nights he sat in the tall-backed chair until he could no longer feel his limbs.

  Anderas showed him the quarter’s streets and buildings, many them steeped in significance. He met the Hands who worked for him and answered to him in and beyond the quarter. They stood in relation to him much as he had stood in relation to Lord Cathair. Seeing them fawn filled him with disgust. Eamon met First Lieutenant Greenwood and the quarter’s officers, as well as many of the cadets and ensigns. He heard their names as Anderas introduced their faces. Each seemed anxious to please him but he seemed unable to keep hold of them; they turned into so many staring faces which meant nothing to him, unless it was to remind him of the face that he had lost, and the one that had caused him to lose it.

  When he walked through the Handquarters he sometimes heard the servants flee before him. Where once he would have sought them out, he now preferred their absence. He often sat alone, a prisoner of his thoughts. No escape came to him unless it was the hated voice that counselled him to bury his grief and rage all the deeper, to turn them against the Serpent that had allowed Mathaiah to die.

  One evening it grew unseasonably cold. Eamon sat in his office, staring at the papers that he should sign, seal, and mark. Anderas usually came to collect them in the evening, and signed any that were left on his behalf.

  That night Eamon had neither read nor signed any of them. His cold, vacant eyes saw nothing. He barely heard the captain when he entered. He did not even know if the man had greeted him, for he saw and heard nothing until a sudden smell touched him. It drove him to his feet with a furious cry.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  Anderas was standing by him, checking various papers, and a small boy knelt in the corner by the fireplace. He had stacked some logs together and a fire now licked at the dry wood. The boy had frozen, his hands suspended by the grate that he was setting back. He cowered before Eamon’s anger, but Eamon did not see it: he saw only the fire – the all-consuming, man-eating fire.

  “It is cold, Lord Goodman,” Anderas spoke quietly. “I think if you feel your hands, you will find that you are, too.”

  “Do not presume to tell me whether the temperature is to my liking, captain!” Eamon’s voice quivered with rage. He turned ireful eyes on the boy. “Put it out!”

  The boy hesitated. Eamon’s voice rose almost to a scream.

  “Put it out!”

  Anderas laid down the papers he held. He moved to the boy and touched the child’s shoulder to send him from the room. Eamon did not know whether either of them spoke; all he knew was that he shook, grief writhing inside him like a wild beast. The smell of the flames threatened to draw it, retching and clawing, from him.

  Anderas doused the flames in silence, his face pale. Eamon knew that fear had to be in the man’s mind, but he did not care. He drew his cloak up around him and strode from the room, out, out into the garden where the servants and stars fled from him. He needed air, space, help…

  Help? Eamon drove the word away in disgust. There was no help for him, and he needed none. Silence was all that could cover him.

  He pressed deeper into the garden’s inky dark. Captain Anderas did not follow him.

  It was mid-March. Eamon sat, as was his custom, in his chair. It had been six days since he laid himself down in a bed to sleep – his whole body ached for it. Each day the lines about his eyes grew broader, thicker, deeper. But there was no peace for him, no rest. There was nothing for him anywhere but in his chair. It was the only thing that could hold him and the only thing that could bear the whisperings of his virulent, wretched heart.

  At about mid-morning there was a knock at his door. Wearily he granted entrance. One of the servants came in and bowed low. Eamon recognized the man, the major-domo in charge of ensuring the smooth working of the Handquarters’ many servants.

  “Forgive my intrusion, Lord Goodman.” He was tall and thin, with grey wispy hair and a timid face. “I wondered if I might ask you a few questions about the supper?”

  “Supper?” Eamon looked at him, struggling to gain any memory of either his name or the supper he mentioned.

  There must have been anger in his voice, for the servant flinched. “The formal supper to welcome you to the quarter. I believe that Captain Anderas –”

  “What does that require I do?” Eamon said more brusquely than he meant. The servant froze. Annoyed, Eamon sighed heavily and gestured for the man to approach. “Tell me what I have to do,” he repeated. The man held a piece of paper on which a list was written in rough script. He laid it gingerly in front of Eamon.

  “My lord, it is not often that the quarter has the honour of celebrating a new Hand. It is traditional for the one being feasted to choose the meal. If it is too much trouble, I can –”

  “I will choose,” Eamon answered. He swooped the paper up from the table and steadied it in front of his eyes. He had to squint at the script to make any sense out of it, but eventually words suggested themselves from the tangled strokes.

  “There are five services to choose, my lord.” The butler, emboldened by Eamon’s taking of the paper, continued. “There’s the starter, soup, principal, dessert, and cheeses, and of course wines.”

  Eamon peered at the different suggestions for each service. A frown creased his face.

  “I want to change the order of the courses.” The major-domo looked alarmed. Eamon ignored it. “I have never held with this odd notion that cheese should be eaten after something sweet,” he said flatly, setting the paper down again. “Put it before.”

  There was the briefest hesitation on the butler’s part. “Yes, lord,”
he said, hastily making an amendment to the paper. He pointed to the starters. “Would you prefer dried fruits or nuts to begin?”

  Eamon sighed. Surely there could not be much fruit in the city to dry after a harsh winter? “I have no preference,” he answered.

  “But, my lord –”

  “I have to choose? Very well: nuts.” He watched as the major-domo made a note.

  “For soups –”

  “The thickest one,” Eamon answered, jabbing at the paper. “I cannot abide the thin, watery kinds of which this city seems so fond.”

  “I’m sorry that you feel that way, my lord. It will be the Crown Medley – a seasonal speciality of this quarter.” The butler made another note. “And for your principal?”

  Eamon looked hard at the menu, wanting nothing better than for the torture to be concluded. His choice was between various red meats – a selection called the “Crown Platter” – and dozens of different kinds of fish. He chose one of the former.

  “My lord, wouldn’t the fish be a higher complement to –?”

  “I have made my choice,” Eamon interrupted, aggravated. “Please make sure that it is well cooked,” he added as the butler jotted once again on the paper. His face paled slightly.

  “My lord, it is supposed to be served rare; it then more closely resembles the Master’s colour –”

  “Well cooked,” Eamon insisted. “Followed by the cheeses and then dessert, which you may choose yourself.” The major-domo’s jaw dropped, but Eamon carried on. “What wines are there to choose from?”

  “They are all Ravensill.” The wines came from land that belonged to Lord Cathair, and the revenue from the trade was fed back into the West Quarter and maintenance of the port; Eamon had seen the numbers and the details when he had served as a quarter’s Hand under Cathair. Ravensill wines were highly sought after in the merchant states; he wondered what the Easters made of it. He remembered the red that he had tasted as a first lieutenant in the West Quarter, and the way that Lieutenant Fields had cooed at him while he poured.

  He had enjoyed that wine. But he did not want it.

  “The white,” he said, tapping the page. The major-domo looked horrified, then vaguely distasteful.

  “The white?” he asked, as though he hoped repeating it would change Eamon’s mind.

  “The white.”

  “Let me see if I have understood correctly, my lord.” The major-domo drew himself up. “You want the nuts, followed by the Crown Medley, then the Crown Platter – which, despite being red meats, are not to be red. This is to be served with a white wine, to be followed not by dessert but by cheeses, to be followed by something to be chosen by someone other than yourself?”

  Eamon nodded. “Yes,” he said.

  “My lord… you realize that you are choosing a two-crown dinner? In many circles this will be considered an ins –”

  Eamon didn’t care how many crowns were involved. “That is what I command,” he said slowly.

  The major-domo bowed swiftly. “As you wish, my lord.”

  “When is the supper?” Eamon asked.

  “Tomorrow evening,” the man answered. “The invitations will be seen to. Thank you, Lord Goodman.”

  That evening he sat at his desk. It had come to be his entire world. He stared out of the window over the garden. Anderas came earlier than usual and checked the day’s papers. Eventually, Eamon noticed that the man watched him. He turned to face him.

  “Captain?”

  “Forgive me, Lord Goodman,” Anderas inclined his head, then matched Eamon’s gaze. “Mean you to look at these papers?”

  “Aren’t you already doing that?”

  “Lord Goodman…” Anderas closed his eyes, then drew a careful breath. “Lord Goodman, I cannot authorize them all.”

  “Have you not done so thus far?”

  “I should not authorize them.” He paused. “I am but the captain of the East Quarter. My men want to see the hand of their Hand on these papers. You must –”

  “Must, Anderas?” Eamon’s tone was virile.

  The captain fell silent. Eamon watched him. Why did he suddenly feel so estranged from this man?

  His haunting thoughts returned to him. He raised his hands to his head with a deep breath.

  Anderas watched him. Then he gathered up the papers, bowed, and left.

  The heavens stayed clear during the day, and as the evening set in, a chill breeze blew in from the sea.

  In the late afternoon, Anderas took Eamon to the grand dining hall in the Handquarters. The room was long though not too narrow, and great tables lined it, meeting a high table at one end on a dais. The room had been prepared for over a hundred guests, among whom would be the quarter’s officers, some selected ensigns, the Hands under Eamon’s jurisdiction (whom he had met several times, but remembered none of them), and representatives from each of the other quarters, accompanied by their own men. Eamon saw the guest list and was relieved to learn that the other Quarter Hands did not intend to put in a personal appearance. This fact should perhaps have perturbed him, but he did not rue their absence, nor take any hint of warning from it. The only names on the list he recognized were those of Waite, who would be coming on behalf of Lord Cathair, Anderas, and a handful of officers from the North Quarter whom he had met when working at the port.

  Eamon stood in the hall with Anderas, watching as the servants laid the places to the tables and set carefully written name tags by each place. The cutlery was impeccably polished and arranged, and the glasses shone where they stood; he had caught scent of the cooking when they had passed the kitchens earlier and it had boded well.

  “As you are aware, my lord, this supper will be your formal reception as the Lord of the East Quarter.” Eamon allowed his attention to be drawn by Anderas’s words. “You greet your guests in the hall outside when they arrive, and after the servants let you know that all is ready, you can bring everyone in. They find their seats. There is a toast to the Master, then the meal. At its end you bid farewell to your guests as they leave by this door.”

  “Is that all?” Eamon didn’t feel much intrigued by the description of his evening’s activities. He wanted to sit in his chair and stare at the familiar, gaunt hollowness inside himself.

  “Yes, my lord, it is.”

  Eamon looked across at the captain and almost allowed himself to be concerned by the man’s pale face and tense tone. The moment passed.

  Anderas bowed. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord.”

  “Of course.”

  The evening came swiftly, and Eamon again donned the ceremonial robes that had been given to him by the Master. He hated them, just as he hated the ring on his finger, and he hated that he could not sit alone with his grief and rage but must instead put himself on show to scores of people whom he also hated. He consoled himself that it was but one evening and that they would have to leave when he told them to.

  The sun sank below the horizon when he made his way into the reception room. Some of the quarter’s lieutenants and two draybants were already there, their uniforms smartly presented. A couple of token ensigns walked with them, their uniforms even more sharply primed and their eyes wide as they took in the great alternate banners bearing the owl and Master’s eagle. Servants passed among those gathered there, serving drinks. As soon as he appeared, Eamon was greeted by a room of rustling fabric and silent, bowing men.

  Eamon greeted them but stood aloof as they resumed conversation. He barely heard what was being said, his mind far away. His glass chinked against the ring in his hand as he moved.

  “Lord Goodman, good evening.” Eamon turned and saw Waite. The captain rose from a deep bow and stood at his elbow. He smiled. “How are you, Lord Goodman?”

  “Well, thank you, captain.”

  The captain’s perceptive eyes rested on him for a moment. “I bring you Lord Cathair’s regards, but, unfortunately, not Lord Cathair himself. He has sent a case of wines for your cellar, by means of an apology and as a tok
en of his esteem.”

  “Were they poisoned?” Eamon asked abstractly. Waite blinked in surprise, then laughed.

  “No, Lord Goodman – at least, not that Lord Cathair told me. He did, however, ask me to advise you that the wines come from a noble rot crop, and that he felt these would be most fitting for your feast.”

  Eamon looked at the captain. He saw the insult and Cathair’s intent, but he could not feel it. There was nothing left in him capable of feeling.

  Waite spoke again. “So far as it concerns me, a good wine is one that sits well in the stomach, and it can rot or not as it chooses.” He smiled. “How do you find yourself as a Quarter Hand, my lord?”

  “I find myself well, captain.”

  “I find you much changed.”

  It was a sudden and unexpected stroke.

  Eamon looked at him sharply. “I find you much too bold.”

  Waite smiled, a small smile, then laughed quietly. “I found you as a lieutenant,” he said. “You had a strange look to you in those first days, Lord Goodman. It was after Alben died that I first noticed it.” The captain fixed him with a firm stare. Eamon felt hideously vulnerable, as though the angry casings of his grief would crack under the gaze of the man before him. “I see that look again now,” Waite added, “and I wonder why it is you bear it.”

  Eamon’s hand clenched tighter about his glass. He willed the captain to dissolve into the ground, and to take his wretched curiosity with him.

  He was saved by a servant who came forward and bowed beside him.

  “When you wish to go in, Lord Goodman,” he said, “we are ready.”

  Eamon summoned them all to dinner.

  The long dining hall was brightly lit and welcoming. Not a thing was out of place. On the wall over the high table hung a banner bearing the owl and ash. The Master’s eagle framed it. Eamon felt its regal gaze on him as he took his place at the high table. Waite was to sit to his left and Anderas to his right. Neither man met his gaze as they took their places, and part of him thought less of them for that.