The Traitor's Heir

by Anna Thayer

  They soon reached the small square that held the Crown Office. It was the place where much of Dunthruik’s administrative work for the East Quarter was done, and where Benadict Lorentide worked. The small area hosted a number of affluent shops, but only the office flew the throned’s eagled banner.

  Eamon surveyed the square. On his right, by a water pump, were carts of fruit and, above it, the Lorentides’ decent home. He caught fleeting sight of Mathaiah coming into the square from the north. The cadet fell in step next to Manners and was welcomed heartily.

  “We’re in for some real action today, Grahaven!” Manners told him cheerfully.

  “I’m looking forward to it!”

  “Mr Manners and Mr Grahaven, keep yourselves in order,” Eamon commanded sternly. Both fell quiet at once. Eamon stole a glance at Mathaiah’s face: he read neither success nor failure from his ward’s eyes.

  He called a halt and split his cadets into several groups. Some he assigned to go through the Crown Office itself, others to block off potential escape routes, some to hold suspects in the square, and others to go through the nearby buildings and the Lorentides’ home.

  “Anyone deemed to be suspicious or of interest, and anyone who resists your enquiries, will be brought to holding in the square,” Eamon told them. “I will vet them before we perform any arrests. To your tasks, gentlemen.”

  “Sir!”

  The cadets dispersed. In the square and nearby streets men and women stopped. As the cadets hauled suspects out into the square the onlookers began to look alarmed.

  Eamon went boldly to the Lorentides’ home. As he had hoped he found nobody in the main hallway. He instructed the cadets with him to search every room before hurrying upstairs himself. He was trembling with hope. The house seemed empty. But as he reached the top of the stairs he heard a voice.

  Eamon froze. Mathaiah, who had followed him, looked at him in horror.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he whispered. “There was nobody here when I left; they said that the nurse wasn’t due back until this evening, that they would find her before –”

  Eamon glanced behind them. The other cadets were still searching through the lower rooms.

  “Stay at the stairs here. Don’t let anyone pass.”

  “Sir.”

  Eamon tracked the voice down the corridor. It sang with the contented oblivion of a child. Reaching it, his heart sank.

  A little boy sat in the centre of the end room, a wooden soldier in his hand. The soldier wore a red jacket and his smooth back was embossed with a painted crown. They boy looked up expectantly.

  “Daddy?” He frowned with disappointment. “You’re not daddy,” he stated crossly, before he glanced between the toy in his hand and the man before him. “You’re a Gauntlet?” His voice was terribly loud.

  Eamon stepped over to him, every muscle in his body tense.

  “Yes, I’m Gauntlet,” he said, crouching down.

  “Are you one of daddy’s friends?” the boy struggled a little over his words. He could be little more than four years old.

  “Yes, I am.”

  Grinning, the boy reached out and clasped Eamon’s hand. “I’m Dorien Lorentide,” he announced.

  “Good to meet you, Dorien,” Eamon answered, pressing the tiny hand in his own. He was horribly conscious of sounds downstairs and of people gathering – or being gathered – in the square. The only way out for this child was not to be found.

  “Dorien, I need you to do something for me,” he said. “Will you? It’s very important that you do exactly as I say.”

  The little boy nodded. “You’re daddy’s friend. All right.” The unquestioning obedience was unsettling.

  Eamon looked around for inspiration. “I want you to hide in this chest here,” he said, gesturing to the large chest in one corner. “You must be very quiet, Dorien! Nobody must know that you are there. You must not come out until we have all gone away. No matter what you hear, you must not come out. Do you understand?” His cheerful tone belied the fear he felt as the footsteps drew nearer.

  “Is it a game?” the boy asked, his eyes lighting.

  “Yes, a very important one.” Eamon rose and opened the chest; the smell of treated furs rose at him. “In you get, Dorien,” he added, shepherding him into the hiding place.

  The little boy clambered to his feet, clutching the soldier. The painted crown glistened as the boy climbed into the chest, complaining about the smell. Settled among the furs he seemed terribly small.

  “Are you comfortable?” Eamon asked.

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry. Don’t come out,” he repeated earnestly. “You must stay there.” He hesitated before adding, “And Dorien, if you stay quiet and still, then you will get a prize. Do you want a prize?”

  The boy beamed. “Yes!”

  “Good. Stay there.”

  Eamon smiled, laid a finger to his lips, and carefully lowered the lid. Manners’ voice called up the stairwell: “Clear downstairs, sir. We only found a nurse.”

  Eamon nearly swore. “There’s nobody up here,” he managed. He hurried down the corridor and stairs. Mathaiah followed him. Manners stood expectantly below. Was he suspicious of Eamon’s speed? He would have to hope not. “Let’s go and sift through whatever rabble we’ve collected.”

  Most of his cadets had returned to the square, herding an anxious group between them. Some of them were women holding food in their arms, a couple with a servant or maid to assist them – they had evidently been shopping. These Eamon dismissed immediately. It would not do to arrest such folk. No neighbours had been found; their only quarry was Lorentide’s nurse, who was hustled brusquely into the square. She was a young woman with dark hair. The majority of the remaining people were officials from the Crown Office. As they cowered he felt the strange – though not now unaccustomed – tug of power at his breast. What a thing it was to be feared!

  “Which of you is Benadict Lorentide?” he demanded.

  One man stepped forward. He looked pale but resolute. “I am.”

  Eamon fixed him with an unfeeling gaze. “Mr Lorentide, for the Master’s glory, I declare you under arrest for consorting with and conspiring to assist wayfarers in their operations against him.” He growled for the benefit of the onlookers, and spoke as though sincere. It alarmed him. “Where are your family?”

  Lorentide drew himself up proudly. “They left the city three days ago. Your cruel Master will not find them!”

  “We shall see what your tongue shall say to that once it has been loosened,” Eamon retorted. He glanced at the man beside Lorentide. He was large and had a puffed face. Eamon took him to be in charge of the office.

  “Please, sir!” the official whimpered. “We have nothing to do with this man! We merely serve the Lord Ashway, and we have served him well for many years. We have much work to do!” he added plaintively.

  “I will let you go,” Eamon answered darkly, “but know that if you have had illicit dealings with this man, then Lord Ashway will discover it and will exercise a less lenient judgment than I.” He nodded to the cadets who then permitted the office officials and servants to leave the square. Several of them cast fearful looks over their shoulders at their colleague as they went.

  Lorentide and the nurse remained in the Gauntlet circle. The woman began to sob. Lorentide laid one hand on her shoulder, a gesture from which she took little comfort – it tore Eamon’s heart to shreds. They had to be sacrificed – for the sake of the boy.

  But part of him watched the stalwart man and weeping woman and relished how their lives rested in his hands.

  Eamon turned to the cadets. “Third Banners, these two are under arrest. Take them to the West Quarter College and commit them to Lord Cathair. Meet any attempt at escape with force.”

  “Sir!”

  It was a ridiculous sight: fifteen Gauntlet cadets shepherding two prisoners. Eamon almost dared to breathe. Two prisoners should be enough to satisfy Lord Cathair, and the rest of the man’
s family was safe. Safe, that was, if Benadict Lorentide was a man who could hold his own before a Hand. But over that, Eamon had no power.

  As he led the cadets away he heard something that filled him with horror:

  “Daddy!”

  He turned. Dorien Lorentide was running out of his house as swiftly as his small, stumbling legs could carry him, his arms outstretched towards his father. “Daddy!”

  Time slowed. Eamon reeled. Lorentide turned grey. The boy pushed through the cadets until his tiny hands could grip his father’s knees. The child laughed out loud.

  “You’ve finished early today!” he said with delight. Then he looked up at Eamon. “Do I get my prize?” he asked.

  Eamon beat down the grief rising in his throat. Why could the child not have done as he had asked? Why?

  “Is this your child, Lorentide?” he demanded. He met the man’s gaze and willed him to disown the child. It would be a cruel heirloom – but all Lorentide need do was state it with enough conviction, and Eamon could command that the boy be left behind. How he wished the man would say it!

  They held each other’s gazes. Then, with the grace of a loving father, Benadict Lorentide stooped to gather his boy into his arms.

  “Hello, Dori,” he said. “I’m here – we’ll go together.” Tears quivered about his eyes; Dorien pressed them away with kisses.

  Eamon gaped at him. Would the man sacrifice his son? Now what could he do – surely not deliver them to Cathair?

  The cadets, now uncomfortable, watched him, and officials gazed at him from the Crown Office. He swallowed back his sorrow.

  “Take them to the West Quarter.”

  There was no question, no discussion; only the child’s laughing face as his father carried him away.

  For the second time that day, Eamon committed a father and his son to Cathair.

  The majesty began not long after the sun had set. Lights burned all over the city. Thousands of people lined the roads, trying to get close to the Royal Plaza, while Gauntlet patrols walked every street and dotted the long lines to keep the crowds in check. Crown-shaped lanterns ran from the Blind Gate all the way along the Coll to the palace, and in the harbour every ship flew a crimson banner in the Master’s honour; they snapped in the wind like drums. Every tower, every building, and every home had red cloth bound to its posts, declaring the ownership of the Master, and every man, woman, or child who lined the Coll bore red.

  The procession began outside the Blind Gate. It was there that Gauntlet companies, each led by their Quarter Hand, captain, and officers, were gathered. Drummers followed each detachment, filling the air with a heart-stirring beat.

  Eamon took his place among the West Quarter’s officer lines, waiting for the order to begin marching. He caught glimpses of men from the other quarters lining up behind them. Of course the West marched first – it was the Master’s own quarter.

  A shadow passed over him. He jumped.

  “Mr Goodman!” Lord Cathair was about to take his place in the first of the West’s lines, but changed his course to turn his smiling face towards Eamon.

  Cathair was the last person that Eamon had the stomach to see. “My lord,” he answered, bowing low.

  “I really must thank you for your excellent work today,” Cathair told him. “No, really! Excellent work. I’ll confess, I am disappointed that we did not take the whole Lorentide brood, but there is time enough for that. Bringing the boy was a stroke of veritable genius: rendered his father much more cooperative.” He laughed. “You have a very great – and wonderfully sinister – potential in you!”

  His mind was crowded with images of the tiny child in the Pit and the picture became confused with Clarence’s son and the smell of blood. He tried to force everything from his mind. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Mr Goodman, you will march in the first line,” Cathair added, “beside your draybant.”

  A shiver of fear ran through him. What new madness did this portend? “Yes, Lord Cathair.”

  Cathair nodded with satisfaction as Eamon shuffled through the line to Draybant Farleigh’s side.

  “Enjoy the majesty, Mr Goodman!” he called. Eamon doubted very much that he would.

  Trumpeters over the city gates began to play, calling the Gauntlet to march. The West was followed by the South, the East, and then the North. Lord Cathair walked centrally before the West Quarter’s men. By him walked another Hand, who carried a tall banner showing raven and vine. The other quarters’ columns were led by their own Hands, and similar banners: an owl and ash for the East, falcon and oak for the North, and a harrier and yew for the South.

  Drums answered the trumpets. The crowd cheered as the Gauntlet passed through the Blind Gate, then walked the length of the Coll towards the palace. The throned’s eyrie stood against the sky. Music and shouting filled the air, and streamers fell in the road all about them.

  The procession reached the Royal Plaza. Its beauty struck Eamon forcefully: the colonnades were lit with torches, and red fabric, bearing the Master’s eagle, had been wound about their pillars. The plaza stair beneath the balcony was littered at every step with candles – an enormous shining crown forged there in wax.

  The Gauntlet procession came to an ordered standstill, each group gathering in the quarter of the plaza which bore its token. As the jubilant music died away a figure appeared on the balcony. Eamon recognized at once the long steps of the Right Hand. He was vested in exquisite sable robes and his voice, powerful and obediently followed, rang out clearly across the crowded plaza. His words seemed uttered directly into Eamon’s own ear.

  “The Serpent is defeated,” he announced, “and the land is crowned.” The speech was heavy with the rhythm of ritual.

  “The land is crowned in glory,” came the cry. Eamon was astounded to find that his lips moved to the words of Dunthruik’s liturgy.

  “The glory is the Master’s, for he has cast down the Serpent’s brood. Serve him. Behold the majesty of him who delivers you from the broken house whose star has set. Behold him, and rejoice.”

  “His glory!”

  A great light erupted on the balcony, blinding all below. Eamon’s eyes were caught upward as the chant continued:

  “His glory! His glory!”

  Fire moved in the air, a burning crown on every palm exultantly raised, hungrily stretched towards the balcony.

  “His glory!”

  There, bathed in the light of the burning crowd, stood a figure in crimson with red hair, his brow a crown of living fire. As he raised his hand in benediction the chanting reached an untenable volume, yet still it grew:

  “His glory! His glory!”

  The fiery figure lifted his head and spoke in a voice like the roaring wind: “I call forth these strong hands to serve me.”

  A shiver cracked with crippling force down Eamon’s spine. He gasped: how often had that voice – that selfsame voice! – spoken in his mind?

  “Of the North Quarter Oldin, Tulloch’s son; of the East Quarter Richart, Dromel’s son; of the South Quarter Vintan, Grinward’s son.”

  Eamon’s heart quickened to an unbearable pace; he knew the eyes of the distant, flaming man were on him. Loving and mocking in their intensity, they pierced him through. Could it be? He desired – and dreaded – to hear what would be spoken.

  “Of the West Quarter Eamon, Eben’s son.”

  Eben’s son! And so he was. His whole soul burned and the jubilant crowd roared about him, their one voice universally acclaiming his worthy proclamation, and his alone. The Master had called him by name and he had answered.

  He had been nominated to become a Hand.

  The grey eyes saw and welcomed his skill, offering power in return for service. What else could he desire?

  The Master laid a benediction over the people and disappeared from the balcony, followed closely by the Right Hand.

  Eamon’s cadets whooped in delight and poured praise on him. Among the tiers of seated nobles in the plaza his eyes suddenl
y picked out Alessia. She smiled. The fire in his heart grew greater.

  “Congratulations, Mr Goodman,” said a voice at his side. It was Cathair’s; it no longer seemed hateful to him. “Did I not say that you would be rewarded?”

  Elation nourished strange thoughts. Congratulation was all around him and he barely had a moment to think. Yet in the web of his victory he was conscious of Mathaiah’s troubled face. Eamon scowled. What did Mathaiah understand of such reward?

  The procession soon devolved into a general party; many departed in search of wine and women. The candles burned bright on the steps and the music played into the night.

  Eamon found himself by Mathaiah.

  “Congratulations, sir.” The boy’s face was worn with worry. Eamon rolled his eyes.

  “Whatever’s the matter with you?” he asked, noting with only a touch of alarm that he did not really care for the answer. What did it matter, the voice asked him?

  “Nothing, sir.”

  Mathaiah did not approve. It was obvious. But he didn’t understand. “Don’t you see what an opportunity this will be? If I can become a Hand I will be able to learn much.” And what power he would have! He might even become Right Hand himself…

  “Yes, sir,” Mathaiah consented. His look remained. “Sir, doesn’t it worry you that –?”

  “Mr Goodman!”

  Eamon’s heart soared: Alessia! The wondrous lady was walking across to him, her crimson dress fluttering in the evening breeze. Reaching him, she kissed his cheek.

  “Congratulations, Mr Goodman!” she whispered, her voice close by his ear.

  “If you’ll excuse me, sir,” Mathaiah said quietly, “I think I will retire for the night.”

  Eamon glanced at him with guilty eagerness. “Already?” With Mathaiah gone, he would be free to go with Alessia. All he could think of was her touch on his skin.

  “I’ve seen enough for one day,” Mathaiah told him. Was that an agitated tone to his voice? “Goodnight, first lieutenant.”

  Eamon frowned. What should the word “first” mean to him?