The Traitor's Heir

by Anna Thayer

What kind of First Knight was he, who so willingly served – and saved – the King’s enemies?

  Mathaiah seemed to read his mind. He chinked his mug against Eamon’s, rousing him from his reverie.

  “It’ll be all right, sir,” he encouraged. “You’re doing all right.”

  Eamon laughed gently. “What would I do without you, Mathaiah?”

  “Goes both ways, sir.”

  They took a little while to finish their drinks, watching people going about their business. Upon seeing a three-flamed uniform most men gave them a wide berth, but some came and stared at them. Mathaiah found this amusing, but Eamon hated feeling that each man was impressing the details of First Lieutenant Eamon Goodman’s face into their minds. Those moments when none watched him were moments that he indeed relished. The irony of this did not escape him.

  As they drank, Eamon became aware of a young woman watching him particularly intensely. Huddled in a far corner of the inn, away from the light of the window, she had a tiny child cradled in one arm, which she rocked from time to time. Her dirty hair was tied back and her eyes were sunken with fatigue. The longer she watched him the more disconcerted he became.

  “Do you see her, Mathaiah? The one staring at me.”

  Mathaiah glanced up, then took another drink. “I don’t think there’s any harm in her, sir.”

  “It’s as though… as though she expects me to do something.” He felt irritated by the attention of the stark eyes. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that the woman’s gaze was still resolutely on him. “What could she possibly want?”

  “Perhaps you could ask her, sir.”

  It seemed a mad suggestion. Eamon stared at the herbs in the bottom of his mug, listening to the murmur of nearby voices. The others in the inn were cadets, ensigns, merchants, and all of them had looked at him from time to time, but none had stared as this woman did. Eamon tried to shut out the sense of the piercing gaze upon him. The baby began to cry. The girl tried to quieten it, her voice trembling.

  Suddenly he rose. His chair scraped back across the floorboards; everybody looked at him before swiftly pretending to look away.

  Eamon turned angrily to the young woman. She watched him warily as he approached, but made no move to leave. The baby whimpered. The young mother rocked it and watched him.

  The cry grated. “Is there something the matter, Miss?” Eamon asked roughly.

  The young woman started. “N-no sir.”

  Eamon looked at the child. Its face was deathly pale and the tiny fingers were blistered and yellow with cold. The sight filled him with pity.

  “Is something the matter with your child?” he asked, more gently this time.

  “Please, sir,” the woman whispered, “are you First Lieutenant Goodman?”

  Eamon did not see how her question answered his own, but he nodded.

  Her face lit like sun over a winter sea. “Sir, my boy is sick. Snakes cursed him, so my husband says – they have terrible power! I want my boy to live. They say that you are favoured by the Master, and that you have power in you; that the snakes can neither harm nor stand against you.” She brushed a tear from her lowered eyes. “They say that you can undo what the snakes do.”

  Eamon stared. How had he gained so fearsome a reputation – he, work against Hughan? His heart sickened at the thought.

  The woman’s voice was desperate: “Sir, I beg of you – take the curse off my boy.”

  Eamon gaped at her. Remove a curse? He could not – there was no curse. The baby was unwell and likely to die swiftly in the coming cold. Many lost children to the combination of the winter’s cold and the fevers that frequently accompanied it. It was not an unusual occurrence – yet the mother had not resigned herself to it. She held Eamon in a plaintive gaze, moving the babe in her arms as it cried. Eamon felt a desire growing in his heart: he wanted to see the baby well.

  Slowly he reached out and laid his finger by the baby’s hand. After a few moments the tiny fist latched on to him and the child grew quiet. Eamon looked down kindly at the boy and felt warmth welling inside him. He remembered how, on the deck of the cold holk, he had pressed his hands hard against Mathaiah’s wound and called for help he had known could never come. He tucked the tiny palm that he held between his own. Now he knew differently.

  Eamon felt the King’s grace at work. He thought that maybe, just maybe, he caught a momentary glimpse of blue light passing from his fingers into the tiny hand that he held. He knew then that the boy would live.

  The child smiled at him. With a yawn and a stretch, he fell asleep.

  Eamon loosed his finger from the child’s grasp and looked back to its mother. She gazed at her child, and him, in amazement.

  “He’s sleeping,” she whispered. Tears came to her eyes. “He’s… sleeping…”

  “He is not cursed,” Eamon told her, wondering at his own confidence, “nor has he been cursed. There are snakes and wayfarers about, Miss; that much is certain. But keep your sight clear and you will distinguish snake from man and true man from false.” He paused, the heart of the King burning at his breast. “As for your boy, he will be safe all winter long.”

  Tears ran down the woman’s cheeks. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “His glory!”

  Curtseying awkwardly she ran from the inn. As she hurtled past the window and disappeared into the labyrinthine streets Eamon heard her joyously squealing her husband’s name.

  Then he became aware of the others in the inn. The barman stared at him openly.

  “Well,” he exclaimed, “who would have thought it! And in my inn, too.” He raised the glass he had been cleaning. “His glory!”

  The other men in the inn took up the bartender’s call. How Eamon wished that he could tell them how the child had truly been saved! Swallowing the desire, he strolled to the bar and laid a handful of coins on the table.

  “Some drinks for these fine gentlemen, innkeeper,” he said, hoping it would help witnesses forget what they had seen.

  The bar resounded with a cheer.

  Eamon returned to Mathaiah. While all in the inn were otherwise occupied, they left in silence.

  They walked quietly through the street, the sun barely warming their faces. Eamon’s mind raced. He was plagued by Alben’s death and distraught at saving Cathair’s life. Now he had used the King’s grace to heal a child. What kind of man was he? He could not be indistinct in his loyalty. He had to choose – why did he delay?

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  Explaining his turmoil to Mathaiah would help. Eamon drew breath, but the thoughts never left his mouth.

  “Well I never!” cried a sudden voice behind them. “Well I never! Can it be? Is that Eamon Goodman, the fearsome Ratbag of Edesfield?”

  Eamon halted mid-pace. He knew the voice – knew that its owner was miles away. But there was only one person in the whole of River Realm who would call him “Ratbag”.

  With bated breath, he turned. On the street corner stood his old lieutenant and dear friend.

  “Ladomer!” Eamon cried. Filled with laughter, he raced forward and heartily embraced his friend. “You’re a sight for sore eyes!”

  “You didn’t expect to see me here, did you?” Ladomer grinned.

  “No indeed! You must tell me everything!” Stepping back, Eamon remembered Mathaiah. The cadet hung a few paces behind them. “Oh, this is Cadet Mathaiah Grahaven, my ward.”

  “From Edesfield College?” Ladomer said, eyes narrowed in recollection.

  Mathaiah nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Ah, that’s right! The banner-renderer.” Mathaiah pursed his lips uncomfortably but Ladomer only laughed. “Fear not, Mr Grahaven! It had been mended when last I checked.”

  “That’s good to know, sir.”

  Ladomer turned back to Eamon. “And you – you’re a warder already?”

  Eamon beamed. “Have you counted the shirt burns?”

  Ladomer gazed at him, making a show of looking to Eamon’s throat. His da
rk eyes widened in astonishment.

  “Three shirt burns?” he said. “In less than a week?”

  “You expected less of me, Mr Kentigern?”

  Ladomer threw back his handsome face and laughed out loud. “They snapped you up quickly, Ratbag!” He thrust out his hand to clasp Eamon’s. “Mr Goodman,” he said, raising his hand as though he held a sword for his formal gesture, “I salute you!”

  “Don’t be an ass!” Eamon retorted, shaking his hand free with a laugh. “I’m just the same as I always was.”

  “Conceited, ill-dressed, doubly left-footed, physically challenged, and scared of women?”

  Eamon’s jaw dropped. “You’re a harsh, cruel man!”

  “They are such undervalued skills in the modern age,” Ladomer answered, bowing, “and I thank you.”

  Eamon dealt him a playful buff on the shoulder. “What are you doing in Dunthruik?”

  “Belaal sent me up to liaise with one Captain Waite over some paperwork or other,” Ladomer replied flippantly.

  “Waite?” Eamon was delighted. “He’s my captain!”

  “Really?” Ladomer grinned. “Then perhaps I shall see you for a few days while they sort the papers.”

  “What kind of papers?”

  “As I promised you I would, I came looking for a city appointment,” Ladomer told him. “Belaal said there were a few positions available, and my record is good for the city, so he and Lord Penrith agreed to send me up.” He lowered his voice. “There are several lieutenantcies vacant across the quarters, including one in the West where you are, but it seems that I am being considered for a role in the palace.”

  “The palace?” Eamon knew of no lieutenants serving there.

  “They want to assign a new lieutenant to the Right Hand.”

  Eamon gaped, remembering the darkened face and mesmerizing words of the throned’s closest. “The Right Hand?” The idea of Ladomer binding himself to the man chilled him. He could not bear it – how could he warn his friend to keep away?

  Ladomer laughed. “You needn’t look so concerned. In all likelihood they will take one look at me and send me straight back home. But moving paper for such things always takes a certain amount of time so, even if they do, I expect to be in the city at least a week.”

  Eamon smiled. “Well, then, I shall enjoy your company while I have it.”

  “I have to go – they’re expecting me at the palace.” Ladomer drew him slightly aside. “Listen, I heard about the holk and your capture. I was so relieved, Eamon, when I learned that you were safe. Do you know if Aeryn made it?”

  Eamon paused for a fraction of a second. He couldn’t take any risks. “She was alive, last I saw.”

  Ladomer relaxed. “Thank the Master for small mercies! Belaal seemed to think that she was connected to the snakes. Can you believe that? Shows the kind of man he is! Aeryn was far too sophisticated to be allied with such simpletons. Now, if he’d told me that you knew something,” Ladomer added, a mocking twinkle to his eye, “I might have believed him…”

  Eamon forced a loud laugh. “What nonsense!” he cried, terribly conscious of the stone at his neck.

  “My very thought,” Ladomer agreed. He took Eamon’s hand and clasped it firmly. “I’ll see you soon.”

  “I hope so,” Eamon replied. He meant it. “Take care of yourself.”

  “You too, Ratbag!” Ladomer winked and then hurried off along the road, his uniform pristine in the afternoon light.

  Eamon watched him go. He felt the weight of his treachery falling anew on his shoulders. Becoming a King’s man meant leaving Ladomer behind him – and he did not know that he could.

  “You were going to say something, sir?” Mathaiah watched him earnestly.

  Eamon shook his head. “It was nothing,” he said.

  Later that afternoon Eamon was summoned to Captain Waite. He went obediently, and wasn’t surprised to find that Lord Cathair also awaited him.

  “My lord; sir.”

  “At ease, first lieutenant.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Eamon looked at the Hand. The darkly swathed man looked paler than ever that afternoon. Green eyes flashed brightly in the dwindling light.

  “Mr Goodman, I came to offer to you my personal thanks for the service you rendered me several evenings ago,” the Hand said, laying one hand against his breast in a delicate gesture.

  “It was my duty, both to you and to the Master. You need not thank me for performing my duty, my lord.”

  “Still I am, as you may imagine, pleased with your intervention.” Cathair smiled. “How does it feel to be back in your right uniform, Mr Goodman?”

  Eamon shuffled uncomfortably. “Perfection itself, my lord.”

  “You should have seen him, captain!”

  “I did,” Waite answered quietly.

  “Ah, your first lieutenant cut a very gallant figure at the masque, captain. He has created an indelible impression on us all. Unfortunately, due to the little ruckus that followed Mr Goodman’s election as winner of the evening – a most prestigious award! – his prize was overlooked.” The Hand looked back to Eamon. “With the notable exception of that occasion when Lord Rendolet came as a woman – a matter to which, I must add, he owes any and all notoriety he may possess – the masque prize usually goes to a lady and so tends to take a floral form. However, the Right Hand felt that such a gesture, regardless of its good intent, might not be so well received by you, Mr Goodman. He has taken the liberty of arranging for a few extra coins to find their way to your wages for this month.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Don’t spend them all at once, Mr Goodman!” Cathair told him with his accustomed smile. “Now, to return to the matter of the assassin.” A sudden chill ran through him, as Eamon remembered the furious wrench that had torn sword and star from his breast.

  “Following your various administrative and patrol duties for Captain Waite, you are to accompany me to the Pit this afternoon.” Eamon paled: the Pit was Dunthruik’s most notorious prison, and Eamon had no desire to see it. “Are you fond of poetry, Mr Goodman?”

  Struck dumb, Eamon could only stare. Poetry? “Yes, my lord,” he managed.

  “I am myself very fond of the lyrics from the first days of Dunthruik,” Cathair told him. “‘Round, around my lady went, round around my lady fair; about her brow a crown of stars, an eagle’s flower in her hair.’” He recited the words softly but watched with an intensity that seemed to go beyond the verse. Eamon swallowed. “Do you know it, Mr Goodman?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “You are a man of little learning, Mr Goodman!” Cathair tutted. “Perhaps you should ask Cadet Overbrook; he has the look of a scholar to him.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “I ask you whether you like poetry because, as you halted this man’s attempt at my life, I felt that it would be poetic for you to inquire of him what he intended.”

  The chill went deeper – the delicate word “inquire” could only mean one thing…

  To the Hand he could only show a smile. “Nothing would please me more, my lord.”

  The wind buffeted him as he walked to the palace, his steps swallowed by Cathair’s shadow. Mathaiah followed them. Cathair chatted to them and sometimes broke spontaneously into song. He had a fine, deep voice, and seemed distressingly cheerful.

  He led them to the Hands’ Hall and through a string of stone-guarded passages. Eamon was too anxious about what was to follow to really note where they were going, but Mathaiah looked everywhere. Seeing the strange writing on post and doors, the cadet’s eyes widened, and Eamon wondered what new revelation had reached him.

  The corridors halted in a small hall at a single staircase. The stairs led down into interminable darkness, only broken at irregular intervals by torches. The steps came at last into a subterranean hall filled with doorways. Cathair led them through one of these.

  They emerged into a cavern lit by a dying brazier. A strange, slight breeze disturbed
Eamon’s face.

  There was a hole in the middle of the cavern floor. It was about the width of three men standing together and a terrible stench – sweat, fear, blood, and excrement – issued from it. A long ladder and a trellis stood by the hole. More ominous doorways circled the whole chamber. Only Hands stood guard there.

  Cathair stepped up to the brazier and kindled it to life. Gasps and groans leapt pitifully from below. Eamon exchanged anxious glances with his pale ward. It was a place of terror. It was where they would both end up if their treachery was discovered.

  “Welcome, gentlemen, to the Pit,” Cathair proclaimed cheerfully. “It affords most affable accommodation to dozens of wayfaring whores and bastards.” Unadulterated horror flooded him. “Oh, it’s much bigger down there than it looks up here,” Cathair added. “We drop them in for a little while, to reflect most seriously upon what they are. Sometimes we leave them there. More than one unhelpful person has died in there, I am sorry to report. And it is so very difficult to efficiently remove cadavers.” He shrugged lightly. “But we get by.”

  Eamon gagged. At a command from Cathair, the Pit’s Hands moved to the edge of the chamber’s ghastly crevice. They stretched out their arms. A red glow formed about them; it spread down into the hole. A scream answered it. Eamon watched, aghast, as a body rose up, hoisted as though on strings. He understood then that this red light came with the throned’s mark. The fiery levitation was more painful than rope or chains would ever have been.

  The body was disgorged and Eamon recognized the young man whom he had stopped at the masque. The boy’s face was swollen and purple, his naked torso pocked with ugly welts.

  The Hands dropped their prisoner by the mouth of the Pit. His cut arms barely had the strength to support him and he collapsed at once, gasping.

  Striding forward, Cathair reached down and took disparaging hold of the boy’s chin. Yanking the head backwards almost farther than its neck could bear, the Hand turned to Eamon with a smile.

  “Do you see, Mr Goodman, what happens to those who betray the Master? But this is just the beginning of payment for that coin.”

  Was this message not also for him?