The Traitor's Heir

by Anna Thayer

  “Sign!” he commanded.

  The cadets gave their company and full names in turn, following each announcement with a crisply uttered “sir”. Smiling, Eamon walked up and down in front of them.

  “Better,” he told them. “But you won’t have a second chance to make such a mistake with me. I am Lieutenant Eamon Goodman, late of Edesfield, and was escorted here by the Lord Cathair to speak with Captain Waite.” The young men grew paler. What kind of Hand was Cathair that he inspired such fear? “When a stranger enters this hall you ask him for his name and rank. If he is Gauntlet you ask his business and escort him to an officer. If he is not, you give him one chance to leave and then take him to the brig. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir!” The cadets gave the answer in chorus. Satisfied, Eamon nodded to them.

  “At ease.” The anxious line dropped their formal stances. “Now, Mr Manners, where shall I find Captain Waite?”

  The cadet looked ashen. “Behind you, sir.”

  Eamon turned and saw a man who might have been in his early fifties leaning against one wall. His Gauntlet uniform had five bright flames pinned at its collar. The captain began to applaud, slowly and with delight.

  “Well done, lieutenant, well done!” He was a tall man and his hair had receded into shades of grey. His sleeves were rolled up and there were long scars along his arms, giving the impression of a captain who had not only seen service but who liked to train his cadets himself.

  “Give these young bastards a taste of discipline,” the captain growled. “Hop to it, gentlemen! You’ll very shortly be late for parade and I’m in a foul mood this morning.”

  The cadets scarpered.

  “Manners, I want to see your boots as black as coal!” the captain bellowed after them, his voice following the fleeing cadets down the corridors. With a small laugh the captain turned back to Eamon. “They’re indolent pups, Mr Goodman, but good ones. Come with me to my office and we’ll talk.”

  Not sure whether or not to feel embarrassed, Eamon gave the captain a crisp salute (which made the man smile) and followed him to the officers’ quarters.

  The captain paused outside one door and opened it, revealing an office with a window that viewed a training yard. Through it Eamon could see a lieutenant drilling young men with bows. A long line of targets had been set up at the far end of the yard and the lieutenant was in the process of assisting a cadet with no strength in his arms to draw the bowstring fully.

  The captain watched for a few moments, one hand resting pensively on his chin, then turned back to Eamon. Smiling once more, Waite moved to his desk and ran his hands through a pile of papers.

  “That lordly rat Cathair just left you here, I take it?”

  “Yes sir,” Eamon answered, then, “I mean, no sir.”

  “I see,” Waite answered. “Now, would you mean by your beguiling statement that he didn’t leave you here but is a rat, or that he left you here but you would refrain from calling him a rat? One should be more precise in one’s responses, lieutenant.”

  “Perhaps I meant neither, sir. Perhaps the question was indistinctly phrased.”

  The smile on Waite’s face grew into a broad grin. He pulled some papers from his pile and laughed loudly.

  “Lord Cathair did say that you would introduce yourself,” Waite remarked, “though perhaps that is not what he had in mind.” Eamon saluted again and drew breath to announce name and rank, but Waite waved the gesture away. “No need, Mr Goodman. I think you introduced yourself well enough when you gave Manners and his motley collection a good seeing to in the hall. Typical third-year cadets: strutting about as if they own the place one moment, crawling about like the greenest recruit the next. Poor lads. They must have a fearful captain to instil such insecurities in them.” He shook his head sadly. Eamon smiled at the self-deprecating humour. “But they’ll make Hands, Mr Goodman. All mine do, in the end. Your poor Captain Belaal hates that! He never wanted to be posted to a backwater like Edesfield.” He looked up thoughtfully. “Isn’t it about as close to Backwater as you can get and still be in the River Realm?”

  “Yes, sir,” Eamon answered. The town of Backwater, which had garnered a reputation for being more than extraordinarily dull, was about two days’ ride from Edesfield.

  “Well, it’s Belaal’s fault, really,” Waite mused. “Was terribly insulting to a senior officer just after he made first lieutenant; they sent him to serve in Edesfield where all his superiors – old, balding men – eventually died off, leaving him in charge. Poor Belaal always did have a temper. Always hated me for getting this post. I worked my way up, too – didn’t start as a cadet – I was a militiaman-nobody before they put me to the Gauntlet. Let these be a lesson to you,” he added, gesturing to the five bright flames at his throat. “I distinguished myself, Mr Goodman; distinguished and made good.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The question, Mr Goodman,” Waite added, “is whether you will be a good man? Or not?” The captain smiled at his pun. “And, if you make good, will you go on Belaal’s Hand-scoreboard, or mine?”

  The thought of his name ranked on the board drew the breath from Eamon’s lungs; he eagerly desired it! But then Hughan’s face came before him, and the memory of the sword that had been bestowed on him. Was not First Knight a higher accolade?

  Waite laughed. “It appeals to your pride, does it, being a pawn in a competition between old enemies? Well, you were to be assigned to me once your holk came in. So was the other idiot.”

  Eamon started. The captain shook his head. “Meaning no offence to Mr Spencing, but I read his files; you were the only good thing on that rotten boat. I am very much looking forward to interviewing the cadet you rescued and hearing his account of what happened.”

  “Sir, please do not speak ill of Spencing,” Eamon began. “He would have grown into a better man than he was.”

  “Petty, snivelling, conniving, whining, overbearing guttersnipe? Maybe he would have done. One or two of Belaal’s did.” He fixed Eamon with a firm gaze. “But you were never meant for Captain Belaal. You, Lieutenant Goodman, were meant to walk these halls a little while, and then to walk those.” The captain gestured in the direction of the palace. “And I mean to send you there.”

  Eamon was overwhelmed. Did Waite really mean to make him a Hand? It would be the easiest way to get close to the throned and learn all he could – but there were ceremonies. If what had happened when he swore to the Gauntlet was any indication, then becoming a Hand would be perilous indeed.

  “Thank you, sir,” he stammered.

  “Tsk!” The captain pronounced the sound loudly, as though he were shooing away a large bee. “Lord Cathair has put you here to be babysat. But you will be weaned. Belaal made you a lieutenant for some good, if not outstanding, service, and perhaps he was right to do so – though his ornamental promotions have rarely turned out well. I think your actions in the days since your capture and escape qualify the promotion he so quickly gave you. You will join my officers, you will beat my men into shape, and you will learn, lieutenant, many things that Captain Belaal never had the wit to teach you. Then you will serve the Master. You look surprised?”

  Eamon felt it.

  Waite laughed again. “Do not be so. I have met from time to time with the Lord Ashway. He is the Lord of the East Quarter, and a seer. He has seen much of what you will become.” He lowered his voice, “Mr Goodman, Right Hand is not beyond you.”

  Eamon gasped. Right Hand? The Right Hand was closest to the Master and lord over all things in the Master’s name. The idea filled his veins with fire.

  Eben Goodman had been Right Hand.

  The fire of ambition turned to ashes and the gasp upon his lips to one of dread.

  “Sir –”

  “Lord Ashway also said you would make first lieutenant within two days of your arrival,” Waite added flippantly, “and get your name submitted for admission to the Hands within a week.” Eamon wondered if the captain was joking; perhaps h
e said the same things to all his new officers. “But let me be clear, lieutenant: there’s going to be a lot of sweat, some definite blood, and perhaps a tear or two before then.”

  “Yes, sir,” Eamon answered, smiling despite himself.

  Waite laid the pile of papers on his desk. Eamon caught sight of his name. He presumed it to be his file and wondered what it read.

  “Your room is the third down this passage on the right,” Waite continued. “You can go and array yourself there. Then you’ll join the parade. There’s a uniform on your bed that I hope will fit you; if it doesn’t you can go and see the seamstress. Within the hour you will drill the Third Banner cadets through the course and then we might let you have lunch with the officers. This afternoon you will attend the Handbook, which is a set of drills and classes that I run to prepare my officers for getting on that list. It’s a good name, isn’t it? This evening you will be posted to gate duty with some of my ensigns at the palace. You’ll be there until second watch before coming back here, smartening your uniform and sleeping to be up bright and early in the morning ready for a new day.”

  Eamon saluted. The security of the routine relieved him – but being posted to the palace disturbed him. He would be more exposed there, but perhaps he would be able to hear some news of Mathaiah.

  The captain looked at him. Eamon yearned to please him and rise to Right Hand as had been foreseen… But how could he be sworn to either throned or King when each cancelled the other out so entirely? Would it not be easier, simpler, to stay and obey this captain?

  His eyes passed over the paper that bore his name. Anonymous was the one thing that he would never be.

  With an order that Eamon barely heard, Waite dismissed him.

  Eamon moved quietly down the corridor, counting the doors. His room was small, and furnished with a bed, a desk and chair, and a window through which spiralled the shadows of a distant arch.

  A red uniform lay smartly on the bed, its collar marked with the two flames of his rank. Three flames would be first lieutenant, four draybant, and five a captain. Distinction at two or three flames could set him among the Hands. Beyond captains there were the Master’s Gauntlet generals, but to Eamon’s mind a captain’s five pins were the ultimate mark of authority. He had never seen six.

  Half in a dream he touched the flames. They were cool. The whole uniform seemed to call to him. His blood rushed in his veins and strange strength in his flesh; light touched his palm, answering the flames on the jacket.

  He had almost forgotten the mark. The sight was like a stab to the heart. He remembered Jovan Clarence and his dead wife, her throat torn by Cathair’s dogs.

  He had been in Dunthruik all of two hours and he had already seen things that he could never condone. And yet by wearing that uniform… How could he carry flames at his throat and serve the King? Could the King really save any man from the power that sat in the palace, surrounded by Hands and defended by hundreds upon hundreds of young men who knew nothing but the prestige of donning red?

  He snatched his hand from the uniform. He could not wear it. He would not. It would devour him; it would force him to betray himself.

  It had seemed so simple in the Hidden Hall: go to Dunthruik, pretend to be the lieutenant that the throned wanted him to be, and learn all he could. Stay hidden, like the hall. But how could he?

  They would know – of course they would know. Did he really think that he could keep his purpose from the throned?

  He felt on the edge of a precipice. He knew the path to escape – the inn on Serpentine Avenue. His limbs tensed, ready to flee.

  He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, forcing it through his body to calm his heart. Then, so quickly that he wondered if he saw it at all, he saw with other eyes.

  He saw what seemed to be a man riding on a field of battle before broad city walls. Rain poured down around him, clattering on helm and armour as he raised a shattered standard over his head.

  “King’s men!” he cried, his voice so strange and loud that it seemed the whole earth should wake and rally to that call. “The West Bank for the King!”

  An answering roar rose up; Eamon realized that the calling rider was a woman. More than that: it was Elaina.

  The vision was gone. Eamon opened his eyes. His heart still pounded with the clamour of battle but his hand now lay dull before him.

  He picked up the uniform. Hating himself, he drew the thing on and gathered his oath to the King about his unsteady heart.

  Outside he heard a trumpet call: parade was about to begin. Tucking the papers and the heart of the King safely away, he quickly put on the red jacket, buckled on sword and dagger, and hurried out into the morning light.

  CHAPTER XII

  Parade was something that Eamon had always enjoyed, for it showed the companies of the Gauntlet at their very best: prim, smart, a moving block of colour and strength. But as he made his way into the courtyard, still tugging at his jacket (which was slightly too big) and straightening his collar, Eamon saw that Edesfield’s parades had been a paltry affair where peasants and rogues played the roles of soldiers and gentlemen. In Waite’s yard the men, whatever their rank, were as crisp as dew-dotted blades of grass and stood in line just as silently. Swords were slung at their sides and the emblem of the crown blazed on every breast. No muddy boots, no tousled heads, no bleary eyes. It was an awesome sight.

  Quickly Eamon identified the column where the officers stood. A first lieutenant was at its head and many lieutenants stood behind him, each the master of a row of men. There was a gap near the front, next to Cadet Manners. Guessing this to be his place Eamon marched neatly over and took it. A worried look passed over the young man’s face. Eamon mostly succeeded in not laughing. He had not been in Dunthruik a day and he was already feared!

  “Present!” barked a voice. Like an ocean wave the whole body of men drew their swords and held them upright, cross-guards before their faces, in salute. The iron crop glistened.

  Captain Waite came down from a platform at the head of the courtyard and began inspecting each man, his years of experience allowing him to move quickly along the lines. He did this mostly in silence; there was little for him to complain about.

  Eamon watched the captain, thinking how much more a man he was than Belaal. Waite’s face was sincere and his manner, though impeccable, was not uncaring. The men in the yard were testament to the captain’s will and skill, and every one of them that went on to become more than a simple ensign would be an extra feather to his cap. There was more than pride and ambition to Waite’s careful inspection: it was a labour of love.

  The process took only a few minutes. Satisfied, the captain returned to his platform, thanked the men for their impressive turnout, and gave orders for the companies to file out, each to their designated tasks.

  As the first lieutenant led his row away it occurred to Eamon that he did not know where the course was. He felt the threat of panic, for the line in front of him was now moving away. With sudden inspiration, he turned to Cadet Manners.

  “Lead on, cadet.”

  The young man gaped, astounded, as though to question this apparent madness: it was a lieutenant’s job to lead the line. But an order was an order, and he had received one.

  Saluting, the cadet led the line away. Eamon took a step back and looked at each man – the Third Banner Cadets, Captain Waite had called them – as they passed.

  Edesfield had been a small college, with only one group of cadets taken in each year, and so the groups had been known by their year: first, second, or third cadets. But in Dunthruik each college would have scores of cadets in each year, and those cadets would have to be grouped together into smaller units for training. The Third Banner cadets would be one of many other college groups, each marked by their year and their own names.

  The cadets were all about the same age, fine young men who aspired to the captain’s enticing Hand-board. Their faces remained neutral, but he was sure that they all either wondered
about their new lieutenant or had already heard wildly inaccurate tales about him. News about new officers spread quickly, especially among cadets.

  He joined the end of the line and marched along with it, turning his gaze smartly towards the captain in an honorary salute. A smile crossed Waite’s face. He suspected that the captain had been waiting to see how he would deal with the gap in his information. Part of him was amused by Waite’s small test; the rest worried what consequence would follow the failing of any of them.

  The course was set in a muddy field at the back of the college and made up of a selection of obstacles: deep ditches and tunnels and a wooden frame hung with ropes to climb. There were potholes to avoid, a length of variable terrain to run at speed, and, at the far end of the miserable concoction, another group of cadets to beat in swordplay. The Banner cadets would have to do the course with a heavy pack (weighted, in Eamon’s own experience, with bricks). Only the best (or the luckiest) could stay the course and win the challenge that awaited them on the other side of “the river” – the wide, sodden ditch through which they would have to wade to reach their opponents.

  Eamon had always hated the course with an undignified and unbelievable passion, mostly because he had only once made it through and then only by the skin of his teeth. While he had been training he and Ladomer had often run it together, and though Ladomer had never failed it Eamon had ended up face down in the mud (usually from the crippling height of the frame) more often than he cared to remember. The frame in the West Quarter College brought to mind the many, many times that Ladomer had come, fairly doubled with mirth, to haul him out of the mud.

  The cadets had formed neat ranks at the beginning of the course. At the other side of the long field beyond “the river”, another group of cadets was lining up. They seemed a merry company – unsurprising, given that they had the morning’s easier task. Eamon wondered which group they were. Being riverside had always been his preferred place. He mused that he wasn’t going to have to crawl through the mud on this occasion. No, his task was to make fifteen young men crawl through it.