The Broken Blade

by Anna Thayer

  “Where is she?”

  Shoreham gestured down the hall. Eamon hurried to the room he had indicated, aware of Shoreham and a few others following him. Fearful at heart, he entered, and then stopped in horror.

  Ilenia was crumpled on the ground in a pool of blood. Servants and other actors crowded round her. A series of bandages had been wrapped tightly around her chest. Between the bobbing heads of those who tended her, Eamon saw a seeping red gash growing ever larger on her abdomen. A dagger lay discarded to one side. It was of standard Hand issue, with no distinguishing mark, bar the blood that splattered hilt and blade.

  Ilenia’s maid knelt at the woman’s side with a tear-stricken face.

  Eamon’s heart raced as he surveyed them. “From the room, all of you!” he commanded. “Leave me water and bandages, and go.”

  The actors and servants obeyed at once; a bowl of water and lengths of bandage were brought to him. They hurried from the room but the girl who clutched Ilenia’s hand remained. She wept.

  “Miss,” Eamon said, “you must go, too.”

  “Please don’t let her die, my lord!”

  “Leave the room,” Eamon told her firmly.

  Almost doubled over with grief, the girl staggered for the door. She drew it shut behind her. Anguished sobs filled the corridor beyond.

  Eamon looked down at Ilenia. Her face was pale and her hands pressed feebly on the blood-mottled bandages bound across her stomach. Her breathing was laboured, shallow.

  Eamon drew her hands away and cast the sodden bindings aside. He did not stop to think how he would explain the woman’s recovery, did not stop to think of anything at all but of saving her life. As he had done when a cadet lay dying on the deck of a ship bound for Dunthruik, and again in the wreckage of Tailor’s Turn, he pressed his hands into the wound. He closed his eyes, searching deep in his heart for the King’s grace.

  Almost at once he felt light washing through his hands. As it touched the singer, he opened his eyes and saw the light’s reflection dance in the blood on the floor. Ilenia did not move, scarcely seemed to breathe. Eamon was grateful that she could not see what he did.

  Almost as suddenly as it had come, the light ebbed and vanished. Eamon pulled his hands away and peeked under the bandage at the place of the wound. All that remained of it was a pale, jagged scar.

  Just enough of a miracle that it could be explained.

  Ilenia drew a shuddering breath and then fell into a steady rhythm once more. In silence, Eamon took the bandages and marked them with the singer’s blood before re-binding her.

  He rinsed his hands in the water and shook them out before rising. Crossing to the door, he opened it and leaned out.

  “Mr Shoreham?” he called.

  Shoreham looked up anxiously and came down the corridor. Dozens of others were behind him. “My lord?”

  “She should be carried to some chambers to rest.”

  “She lives?” Shoreham cried.

  “Yes,” Eamon answered. “Bring some to carry her.”

  The doors opened and a small crowd of people came in, the maid first among them.

  He caught a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye – whether the shape of servant or actor he did not know. A moment later it slipped from the room. The figure had not entered the room with the acting troupe.

  Eamon froze. He had been seen.

  Eamon ran towards the door, but Ilenia’s carriers blocked the way with their painfully slow progress. As calls of gladness ran round him Eamon’s stomach sank in terror.

  He had been foolish.

  Shoreham was at his side. The director turned and bowed to him.

  “Thank you, Lord Goodman,” he said earnestly. “This theatre could not have borne her death.”

  “If you had not taken action when you did, Mr Shoreham,” Eamon answered, “there would have been little that I could have done. Thank you.”

  Shoreham smiled and Eamon forced himself to return it. But his heart was cold: he was certain that the incident had been staged.

  Someone in Dunthruik suspected his allegiance and was following him to prove it.

  Eamon was grateful that he had ridden to the Crown. By the time he mounted Sahu, his legs were trembling so much that he could barely walk.

  Slowly he rode back to the palace, his brain stupefied. He had been seen, seen. The blue light could only be the mark of a King’s man, and he had wielded it. He had come so far…

  He could not resist glancing over his shoulder as he rode. Who had reason to suspect him? Arlaith? But Arlaith had changed, and there was the matter of the list. Eamon drew a deep breath. If Arlaith brought an accusation against his allegiance he would speak of the list and say that Arlaith was enviously spreading rumour that was debilitating to the city and the Master’s glory.

  His thoughts whirled. It had not been Arlaith or Febian – for Eamon also had a hold over Febian. Besides which, the Lord of the West Quarter had no reason to suspect him. Lord Dehelt was dead…

  Only Lord Tramist remained.

  Eamon began to quiver. It had to be Tramist. Dunthruik’s breacher had always loathed him and had never been afraid to express it. Eamon had no power over Tramist, and if the Lord of the South Quarter knew… then he was betrayed.

  The King’s grace will not betray a King’s man. Courage, Eamon.

  The gentle voice came to his mind. As he returned to the palace and staggered back to his own chambers he tried desperately to cling to it.

  If he had been seen, how could he not be betrayed?

  He paused and tried to reason through his situation. He did not know who had seen him. The people of Dunthruik rarely saw the mark of the throned – and the blue light that went with a King’s man was seen even less. Even if it had been seen, how could the spy have known what he saw? Was it not possible that his eyes had seen without seeing?

  It did not matter. The spy would go to Tramist and report that the singer had been saved. The thought chilled Eamon. The King was but days away. Were Eamon to fall there, then… the throned’s vengeance would be slow and terrible.

  There was nothing he could do.

  “Good evening, Lord Goodman.”

  He breathed deeply and looked up. He had entered his rooms and Cartwright waited for him. “Good evening, Mr Cartwright,” Eamon said quietly.

  “Shall I have supper sent to you, my lord?”

  “Thank you,” Eamon answered. “Has Fletcher left any other business for me?”

  “No, Lord Goodman.”

  “Then I shall eat and rest,” Eamon told him. “I do not wish to be disturbed until morning.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Supper was brought and the servants left. Eamon ate alone and then went restlessly to his bed. His command not to be disturbed was obeyed, so he was left to the torment of his thoughts until he drifted at last into a terrible sleep.

  CHAPTER XIII

  There was to be no breakfast with the Master that morning, for which Eamon was grateful. He dressed swiftly and did his best to wash the stains of wretched sleep from his face. He was not convinced by the result, but could do no more. Cartwright had provided a light breakfast for him of which he ate but little.

  “Are you well, Lord Goodman?” the servant asked.

  “I go to preside over a council of war in the Master’s name, and the Serpent is at our gates,” Eamon told him. It was answer enough.

  He went down into the palace halls; the meeting would take place in a council room in the West Wing. As Eamon made his way there footsteps approached from an adjacent passageway; looking up he saw Arlaith. He froze. For a moment he hung back in the shadow of the doorway where he stood.

  What if Arlaith knew? What if the Left Hand denounced him before the council?

  Courage, Eamon.

  Drawing a deep breath he stepped out into the light.

  Arlaith saw him at once and bowed to him. “Lord Goodman,” he greeted.

  “Lord Arlaith,” Eamon answered.
The Lord of the East Quarter smiled at him as he rose and there was no trace of any strange news in his dark eyes.

  “You seem tired, Lord Goodman,” Arlaith said.

  “I have never been to a council of war,” Eamon answered carefully, “much less presided over one.”

  Arlaith smiled at him. “You have missed little,” he answered. “It will take the whole day to discuss matters that could be resolved in a couple of hours. I know,” he answered, “for I have been to many. As for you, you need only preside over the debate. Do not trouble yourself with it too much, Lord Goodman.”

  Eamon almost dared to let himself breathe. “I am sure you are right,” he said, then looked up. “Has there been any news?” he asked.

  “Lord Tramist sent a report late last night,” Arlaith answered. Eamon’s heart almost stopped, but he forced himself to hold Arlaith’s gaze. “The Serpent’s allies have completed their little pontooning pastime. The army on the bank looks formidable.”

  “Formidable?”

  “Easters,” Arlaith replied. “Fools, the whole race of them! With them go whatever rabble the Serpent has drummed out of the hills and valleys of the River Realm.” He laughed. “They will not stand against this city.”

  They walked together to the council room in the East Wing; many others had arrived. The generals Rocell, Cade, and Waite were there, each accompanied by an aide armed with quill, ink, and paper. Febian and Tramist were present. The room bore a long table at its centre. Seats had been set round it and a map of the city and its surroundings lay on it. Eamon recognized it at once as one of Cadet Overbrook’s.

  As Eamon entered, the whole room bowed to him, then they moved to their seats. The Hands and their aides took one side of the table, the generals the other. To Eamon was left the table’s head, and an enormous carved chair.

  He sat and surveyed the long table, forcing himself to meet each gaze.

  “I preside over this council in the Master’s name,” he said, “and to him I will present our recommendations at the end of the day.” Tramist watched him strangely, but he matched that gaze with his own until Tramist faltered and looked away. “Please be seated; we have much to do.”

  The council sat. When the sound of shuffling chairs faded, Eamon looked to Arlaith. “Lord Arlaith,” he began. “Present the council with your report of the plains.”

  “Of course, Lord Goodman,” Arlaith answered, and turned to the table. “It is clear that we face a prepared foe. My force of Hands made two attempts to break the plain-line yesterday, riding even as arrows were loosed at them by counter-attacking wayfarer hobilars and Easters. Over both attempts we have lost nigh a score of Hands in total, while the enemy lost only two men that I saw. It is clear that the city is hemmed in from land and sea,” he added. “Lord Febian has dispatched various messengers to our allies, calling on them to break the blockade from the sea – but even if one gets past the Serpent it will take several weeks for any such aid to reach us.”

  “What effect is the blockade having on the city?” Waite asked.

  “We lost a good deal of ware in the harbour,” Eamon answered. In the two short days since the naval attack he had been examining the North Quarter records and those of the city at large. “Our spring stocking was critically interrupted, not to mention the loss of trade. Clearly our summer provisions will not reach us for some weeks, assuming aid comes. Our logistical situation has been fragile for some time and shortages will become very swiftly apparent. Disturbances have already been reported in the South and North, regarding the distribution and sale of grain. We are fortunate to have set so much aside,” he added quietly, “but we can expect these disturbances to grow in violence and frequency.”

  A discontented murmur ran about the table.

  “Advise us as to the level of reserve that we have, my lord?” Cade asked.

  Eamon did so, and wasn’t sure how long they then spent discussing various methods of maintaining calm in the city while feeding its many mouths. After what seemed forever, a strange silence fell. The situation, laid out in terms of mouths empty, was grim.

  “The city will endure this hardship,” Eamon said at last. “What reports from our allies?”

  “Etraia holds with us,” Febian said, speaking up for the first time. His voice grew in confidence as he continued. “I received word this morning that Galithia has turned from us –”

  “Again,” Arlaith snorted.

  Febian ignored the interruption. “She is driving out all River Realm forces stationed there,” he added.

  “Captain Roe had charge of them,” Waite said heavily. The name startled Eamon: was Waite discussing Ilenia’s husband? “He will attempt to lead his men back to the city, encountering the Serpent on his way.”

  “Yes,” Febian acknowledged. “I do not think they will reach us before we go to battle. The Serpent’s hand is certainly in this work, and there is rumour that other merchant states consider taking his cause.”

  Eamon nodded. “General Rocell?”

  “My lord,” Rocell answered. “The nobles and knights of this city are ever for the Master, but rumour has grown even among their ranks in these days. Some are showing disconcerting signs that they doubt his glory’s capacity to endure this battle. Some may go across to the Serpent if they think that it will serve them.”

  “He may have them!” Tramist said derisively.

  “They should be repaid according to their loyalty,” Arlaith hissed.

  Rocell looked at him angrily. “My lord, without the knights –”

  Eamon gestured for him to be quiet and turned to Arlaith. “Our efforts, Lord Arlaith,” he said, “should be towards ending this blockade. Striking the knights will only sow further discord.”

  Arlaith glared. “As you have seen, Lord Goodman, the Hands cannot and will not break this blockade.”

  “That is why we need the knights,” Rocell said with irritation.

  “We should consider committing our full force against this blockade,” Waite said. “I am confident that we would be able to break through the Serpent’s hobilars and scatter any reinforcements.”

  “What would the Serpent do then?” Tramist asked. Eamon thought the man glanced briefly at him as the sneering words slipped from his lips. “Fight, or run?”

  There was a moment of silence. “We cannot forget the bridge,” Febian said. “Without our ferry or any good number of working ships, I do not relish the notion of sending any kind of attack to the bridge.”

  Arlaith laughed. “We have no need of that, my lord!” he said. “The bridge is a minimal concern. This city has artillery; we are well capable of making the Serpent’s position uncomfortably untenable.”

  A long silence fell. Eamon stared openly at Arlaith, along with every other man at the table.

  “Artillery?” he repeated uncertainly. He had studied the principles of various siege engines while a Gauntlet cadet, but, despite many tours of the city to check its defences, he had seen no such engines at Dunthruik.

  Arlaith paused. “You did not know, Lord Goodman?” he said curiously.

  Eamon matched Arlaith’s gaze. “Speak of it,” he commanded.

  “It was a project under my command when I was Right Hand.”

  “You do not mean catapults?” Eamon tested.

  Arlaith smiled. “No, Lord Goodman: something rather more spectacular than that. I apologize not to have spoken of it to you. The Master will doubtless give you its particulars now that its use is near.”

  “Indeed.” Eamon felt shaken.

  “In brief,” Arlaith continued, “if we can deploy it effectively, we can damage the bridge and harass their camp – and if we cannot, it will still give the Serpent a very warm welcome should he reach our gates. Perhaps warmer than he would like,” he added with a long smile.

  Eamon felt a terrible foreboding. What kind of artillery did Dunthruik have?

  “Notwithstanding the advantage that the bridge grants the enemy, the River could also benefit us,”
Waite added, gesturing at the map on the table. “Once they have committed, if we can destroy their bridge and make them surrender the North Bank they cannot return to it without withdrawing and preparing for a new assault; they cannot cross the River for miles.” He smiled. “Withdrawing and recommitting would cost them the port blockade. They would have to move almost every ship there to enable them to come back over the River.”

  “I would like to see the Serpent’s allies remain loyal to him at such a time,” Tramist said crisply.

  “And if he fights?” Febian asked.

  “He will be crushed,” Arlaith smiled. It chilled Eamon to the bone. “Don’t you agree, my lord?”

  “Indeed,” Eamon answered.

  “If he fights he has a great advantage in the fact that he will be able to deploy his men more swiftly across his bridge than we shall through the Blind Gate,” Waite told them, his brow pursed with worry.

  “All the more to kill,” Arlaith replied in a sing-song voice.

  “A great victory at our gates would, as well as ending the blockade, restore confidence in the Master’s glory,” Rocell mused.

  “And bring our allies flocking back to us in droves,” Febian added.

  “And make the Easters rethink their reckless support for the whole venture,” finished Tramist.

  “The Serpent could not survive so massive a defeat,” Arlaith grinned. “He would be finished.”

  “So we hope to fight,” Waite said, sitting back.

  There was a long moment of silence, in which only the aides’ note-making could be heard. At last Eamon leaned across the table towards them.

  “How, then, do we fight, and what can we commit?” he asked.

  “Ten full-strength banners, my lord,” Rocell answered at once.

  “You have replaced your losses from earlier actions?”

  “This city does not lack noblemen wishing to become knights,” Rocell told him with a smile. The table laughed, and Eamon turned to Waite.

  “General Waite?”

  “Provisionally, we have one hundred groups from twenty-five of our regions,” Waite answered, glancing down at a set of notes he had brought with him. “We cannot expect to receive any men from those outstanding. Of those who have come to us, not every region sent four groups, but after some reorganizing most groups are at parade strength. Dunthruik itself has fifteen groups per quarter.” He looked up. “Full strength, my lord,” he said firmly.