by Anna Thayer
As the end of the watch neared, the sentries closed one set of the palace gates. Wrought from an interlaced weave of gold, they were clearly more ornamental than practical. The palace’s actual gates were enormous wooden affairs, thicker than the length of his arm. It gave him food for thought. He acquainted himself with the stairs that led from the gatehouses to the palace walls; when he glanced back towards the Master’s balcony he saw light dancing there behind curtained apertures.
Weariness seeped into every limb and he longed for the work to be done. Exchanging a few further words with the cadets under his command only helped so much to stave off the creeping fatigue.
Not long before the second watch a call from the gate brought him to look out onto the Coll. A lone carriage, drawn by two fine horses, was lumbering towards the gilt gates. A lantern hung from the carriage roof, illuminating a rich coat of arms.
“Open the gates!” called the coachman. “Open the gates for Lady Turnholt.”
Eamon turned to the gate’s men. “Open them,” he said. The soldiers moved to do so and the elaborate gates swung smoothly aside. The carriage came through, casting a strange shadow across the plaza’s cobbles. Eamon gestured for the gates to be closed again and for lights to be brought to the coach.
The coachman descended. He was a middle-aged man with a weathered face and the signs of long service on his hands. He went to lower the carriage step.
At that moment there was a crack followed by the sound of wood splitting. Eamon instinctively jerked back from the vehicle and saw at once that one of the axles had broken. A second later the carriage tilted awkwardly on its remaining wheels and then, with a lumbering groan, began to tumble onto its side. The horses neighed wildly, alarmed by the weight throwing them down. The coachman raced to calm them. A valise fell from the roof and crashed into the wet cobbles, spilling fine clothes. From inside the carriage Eamon heard cries.
He yelled a command to his men, who rushed to the carriage side to break its fall. With so many shoulders to bolster it the carriage never hit the ground but remained hanging at an untenable angle. The frightened horses reared and strained and Eamon heard the crack of growing pressure on the remaining frame.
“Hold it, keep it steady!” Eamon stepped from his place supporting the weight to the coach door; its passengers had to be got out.
Kicking the half-lowered step out of the way he pulled open the door. A woman fell through the doorway with a shaken cry. Not stopping to think, Eamon caught her in his arms and pulled her swiftly clear of the carriage before setting her down on her feet at a safe distance from the rocking coach. She trembled and he steadied her. Her breathing was ragged and she still had half a scream on her lips.
“You’re safe, madam,” he said kindly. He turned to offer her a reassuring smile and then merely stared.
The frightened face looking back at him was one of the most beautiful that he had ever seen. It was round and clear, bearing deep, dark eyes. Her brow was crowned with a cascading coronet of dark ringlets; these were drawn back to reveal a long neck adorned with a shining red pendant.
Eamon’s gaze might have gone further but modesty asserted itself in time and he belatedly realized that he still held the lady by the waist. Deeply embarrassed, he snatched back his hands and, shamed by his astonishment, turned away.
“And who might you be?” the lady asked breathlessly.
“Lieutenant Eamon Goodman,” he answered, his cheeks boiling. “Your servant, madam.”
“A role you performed well, Mr Goodman,” she said with a small smile.
Behind her, Eamon saw that his men had managed to right the carriage by forcing mounting blocks beneath the shattered axle. A couple of cadets were helping the coachman to free the horses; boots trampled the lady’s fallen dresses.
“I am sorry for your belongings, madam,” Eamon told her.
“My maid will see to it.” As she spoke a young woman appeared in the doorway of the carriage. The girl also shook, and she accepted the cadets’ offers to help her down. Once safely on the ground she went to scoop up the dresses. She was joined by the coachman, who knelt to assist her. He took both clothes and muddy valise from her while the maid came quickly to the lady’s side.
“Mr Cartwright will see to your things, madam,” she said quietly. Despite being smitten by the strange lady Eamon was able to gain an impression of the girl: no older than eighteen, dark-haired, slimly built, and bearing evident care for her mistress.
“Please come in, my lady, before you catch cold,” the girl added.
“I take my leave of you, Mr Goodman,” said the mistress, looking to Eamon once more. “Thank you again for your service.”
“I should be only too happy to render it again,” Eamon heard himself say. Could he really be so bewitched at a single look? The lady turned to go. “Madam, might I be so bold as to ask your name?”
She threw an enchanting smile over her shoulder. “Lady Alessia Turnholt. Perhaps we shall see each other again, lieutenant.”
Eamon watched her go, startled. He knew the name. His eyes turned to the maid who walked demurely by her mistress’s side. He remembered her name: Lillabeth Hollenwell, his point of contact in the palace. The young maid was a wayfarer.
It was not the only revelation that struck him: the lady left a fragrant floral scent in her wake.
CHAPTER XIII
He woke before the dawn and watched the clouded grey pass by in high swathes. The city’s shadows seemed to stretch through the casement, forming the bars of a grotesque cage.
Eamon stretched. There was still a searing ache in his back. He rose and dressed with the speed and enthusiasm of a snail. As he pulled on his jacket he felt the cool weight of the heart of the King fall and rest about his neck. The stone was of comfort to him. Hughan’s papers were still safe in his pouch, and as he stood in the half-light he drew them out, drinking in the noble script and remembering the hand that had written them. Both stone and papers were tangible reminders of a world that seemed a distant dream and so he clung to them. Would he be summoned that day to relinquish them to the throned?
In a slightly sullen mood he went to rouse the Third Banner cadets. He was unkinder to them than his guise of rough Gauntlet lieutenant warranted. But, being well accustomed to sleep interrupted by the bawls of irritated officers, the cadets rose swiftly and without complaint. The course awaited them again that morning and there was every possibility, Eamon told them, that they would have the satisfaction of winning. Overbrook told him that it was statistically unlikely. Eamon advised him to keep his opinion to himself.
He led the column of cadets to the field. There had been rain in the night and the grass was cold and slippery. The Third Ravens were already present at the other end of the course, swinging their arms in wide circles and laughing as they prepared for an easy task. Alben strode among them, encouraging them with japes at the expense of their foes. Catching sight of Eamon, the first lieutenant waved cheerily. Eamon scowled and commanded his cadets to sign. One man was absent, apparently gone down with fever and in the care of the college’s surgeons. Some officers might have demanded the cadet’s presence anyway, but Eamon doubted that being forced to haul himself through mud would do the boy any good. He gruffly acknowledged the absence.
The cadets took their packs and set off. He followed them.
The going seemed as slow and painful as it had the day before. Overbrook lagged but Manners, along with Ford and Ostler, took a definite lead, ripping down the course with impressive speed. Eamon was hard-pressed to keep pace with them, for all three were gifted sprinters. Once again Manners was the first to cross the river, take up a practice blade and charge at his opponents, fire in his eyes and mud up to his waist.
Blades met and crossed. Manners had adapted his strategy and matched his hand evenly to his opponent’s. As the meeting endured beyond the customary twenty seconds, Eamon began to wonder if Manners would do it. Every cut and thrust of the cadet’s was parried, but twice
Manners nearly bettered his opponent.
“Come on, Manners!” Eamon yelled. Other Banners, themselves defeated, took up the cry until the field fairly rang with it. Bolstered, Manners swooped in with a beautiful strike. The swords jarred and the Raven cadet was thrown down to his knees.
The field was torn with cheers and hisses. Manners whooped with delight then turned a radiant, muddy face to his peers, who applauded him wildly.
But in his moment of jubilation his fallen opponent reached out and suddenly hurled Manners down. The cadet was caught off guard; now it was the Raven’s turn to press the point of his blade close against his foe.
“Who’s won now?” he laughed. He was joined by the other Ravens. Manners grew red. Cries of outrage erupted from the Banners. They swarmed forward.
“It’s not fair, sir!” yelled Overbrook. “Manners won!”
Eamon agreed. He stormed forwards and grabbed the Raven cadet by the collar.
“Get off him!” he shouted, yanking the young man bodily away. With a swift move he disarmed the cadet. Manners crawled up out of the mud, his hand curled into a vicious fist and his arm ready to throw a punch; a dark glance from Eamon stayed him. Eamon turned his attention back to the Raven cadet.
“You are ungracious in defeat,” Eamon told him. “You will apologize immediately to Mr Manners and cede him the victory.” The cadet remained silent. Eamon stared at him hard. “Apologize, cadet!”
“He will do no such thing,” said a voice: Alben’s. “You go too far, Mr Goodman.”
“Cadet Manners won, Mr Alben,” Eamon replied through gritted teeth.
“Cadet Manners appeared to conclude the affair on his back; a most compromising position.”
Delighted, the Ravens began cat-calling Manners. His face creased with fury.
“Mr Manners,” Eamon barked. The situation could too easily go out of control and, much as he would have loved to take Alben down there and then, he knew that he could not. It was not the time.
The Banners were still hurling abuse at the Ravens. Eamon turned on them. “Form rank,” he commanded sternly.
The cadets fell silent at once and formed rank, all except Manners, who still glared daggers at his opponent.
“I said form rank, Mr Manners.”
Fuming, Manners stalked to his place. Eamon turned roughly to Alben. “Captain Waite shall hear of this, Mr Alben.”
The first lieutenant raised an odious eyebrow. “And whose word will he take?” he asked. “That of a man who surrendered his sword?”
An uneasy silence fell. Eamon turned his back on his antagonist. He called for his cadets to tighten their rank and led them away from the field.
He fell in step with Manners. The cadet flexed his hands angrily, as though mocking laughter still burnt in his ears.
“I’ll bloody throttle him!” he hissed.
“Tongue, Manners,” Eamon advised sharply.
“I won, sir!”
“I know you did,” Eamon answered. “You did exceptionally, and mention of it will be put on your record. I will discuss this incident with Captain Waite in person.”
The cadet stared at him. “You’d take this to the captain?”
“Yes, cadet. Dishonesty and foul play are never trivial matters.” Both were particularly unbecoming of a first lieutenant.
The cadets went on to law and swordplay. Eamon was just dispatching them to the care of more specialist instruction, with his congratulations on an excellent morning’s work, when a servant approached him.
“Lieutenant Goodman?”
“Yes.”
“Captain Waite’s compliments: you’re to report to him as soon as you can,” the servant told him. “There’s also a messenger for you in the hall, sir. You can take your message on the way to the captain.”
“I will, thank you.”
Bowing, the servant went towards Lord Cathair’s buildings.
Eamon dismissed the cadets and went swiftly to the hall, his thoughts tumbling one over another. Surely there was nobody in Dunthruik who could have any cause to send him messages?
He stopped in the hallway and allowed his sight to adjust to the shadowed entrance. Through the gates he could see the busy Dunthruik streets and hear a good deal of bustle. Preparations were underway for the majesty. With the Royal Plaza just along the Coll, a great number of artisans and Gauntlet were beginning to gather, either to go about their own work or survey the work of others.
A small figure sat on a bench under Waite’s Hand-board. Assuming this to be his messenger, Eamon stepped forward and then stopped in surprise. The messenger was the maidservant whom he had seen at the palace that night. What business could she possibly have at a Gauntlet college?
The girl rose and curtseyed impeccably.
“Lieutenant Goodman?”
Eamon nodded dumbly.
“I have an invitation for you from Lady Turnholt.” She offered him a sealed parchment. He opened it and cast his eyes over the curling script, trying to force them to focus on the words:
Lady Alessia Turnholt kindly requests the presence of Lieutenant Eamon Goodman at supper, a gesture of thanks for his service.
Eamon had to read the letter three or four times before he could look at the maid again. “This is for me?” He suddenly felt very warm.
The maid nodded. “Will you come, sir? I must take back an answer.”
“Yes,” Eamon said unthinkingly. Then: “If my captain will allow it.”
“Lady Turnholt will expect you this evening, at Turnholt House on Candeller’s Way,” the maid told him. “Please send word if you cannot attend.”
“Of course.” Eamon felt lightheaded and the parchment burned in his hand.
The maid bowed to him and then began to leave. Suddenly regaining his senses Eamon called after her: “Miss!”
“Sir?”
Eamon paused. “I wish to thank you for your trouble, Miss…?”
“Miss Hollenwell.”
“Miss Lillabeth Hollenwell?” How many Lady Alessia Turnholts, and accompanying maids, could there be in Dunthruik?
“Your servant, sir,” she answered, curtseying again.
“A friend spoke highly of you and of your service,” Eamon told her quietly. After a pause he saw her nod faintly, his meaning understood.
“Thank you, sir.” The girl curtseyed and left the college, drawing her cloak about herself as she stepped into the Brand.
Eamon watched her go, his heart beating hard. Beneath her tacit servility Lillabeth Hollenwell was a wayfarer, and his means of reaching the King. Both comforted him.
Lady Alessia Turnholt kindly requests the presence of Lieutenant Eamon Goodman at supper… Eamon read it again just to make sure. It seemed unreal. He breathed in the perfume of the lady – the page seemed suffused with it. What interest could she have in him?
All at once he remembered that Captain Waite was waiting for him. He turned to hurry towards the captain’s office and nearly stopped again. There, in the shadow of an arch, was First Lieutenant Alben. The man’s watching face was murderous.
Eamon tucked the parchment into his jacket. “Mr Alben,” he acknowledged, and went straight past. Alben could storm; they would settle their differences later.
Eamon followed the corridor to Captain Waite’s office. The door stood open and at Waite’s gesture he stepped inside.
“Mr Goodman,” Waite greeted him with a brief smile. Another lieutenant was in the office and Waite dismissed him.
“A good morning?” he asked.
“Thank you, sir,” Eamon answered. “Yes. But not, I’m afraid, for Cadet Manners.”
Waite raised an eyebrow and Eamon quickly explained what had happened.
“I would like Manners’ achievement noted on his record, sir. He gave a very impressive performance. Mr Alben’s response was, in my opinion, as unsatisfactory as the behaviour of his own cadet.”
“You want to lodge an official complaint?” Waite asked tactfully.
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��No, sir,” Eamon answered carefully. “I merely felt that you should be informed. Such behaviour hardly seems to befit a man of Mr Alben’s standing.”
“Hmm,” Waite grunted, steepling his fingers together. “I am aware that Mr Alben’s methods can be a little unorthodox, Mr Goodman, but he is my college’s first lieutenant and there is good reason in that appointment. You do not question that, I hope?”
“No, sir.”
Waite laughed. “You have a good sense of self-preservation, Mr Goodman.”
Eamon reddened; the remark carried the slur of cowardice. “With respect, sir, if I feel that Mr Alben oversteps the mark I will not hesitate to call him to account for it –”
“You’d duel him, lieutenant?” Waite asked, eyebrows raised.
“– through the appropriate channels, sir,” Eamon finished firmly. He met the captain’s look. “Notwithstanding such channels, sir, duelling has its place.”
“Ah yes!” Waite commented airily. “Where the honour of women is involved!”
“Mr Alben’s rank does not license him to do everything that he desires.”
The captain fixed him with an interested gaze. “And what of mine, Mr Goodman?”