Free The Traitor's Heir by Anna Thayer Page B

hall. The ornate floor was a stone mosaic with the Master’s eagle at its centre. The hall itself was circular with gilded arches running round it like coronal summits. Each keystone glistened red.
    â€œYou should go and see Captain Belaal,” Ladomer told him. “He’s been looking for you this morning.”
    Eamon nodded, remembering all too well the stern, dark eyes that had commanded him the night before. “Is he in his office?”
    â€œI imagine so; he’s just finished inspecting some of the new recruits. They always come in in droves just after a swearing. Like bees to a hive. And what a hive!” Ladomer turned his grinning face upwards and Eamon saw it illuminated by the glow of the hall. Following his gaze Eamon noticed for the first time the shadowy spaces between the arches of the crown.
    â€œI’ll see you later, Ladomer,” he said.
    His friend smiled. “Of course. I look forward to hearing all about your posting, Ensign Goodman!” Ladomer added, and waved as he departed.
    Left alone in the middle of the hall, Eamon tried to compose himself. With all the talk of Hands and wearing black and Dunthruik and lieutenantships, he found that he wasn’t thinking straight. He had only just become an ensign; it was far too soon to be thinking about anything else.
    Besides which, he would need all of his wits when it came to dealing with Captain Belaal.
    With Belaal’s lieutenant nowhere to be found, Eamon decided to venture on to the captain’s office. As he passed down the corridor he tried to smarten himself up.
    The door to the office stood open and he could hear voices inside. A young-faced cadet was leaving so swiftly as Eamon approached that they collided in the doorway. The young man was pale and seemed shaken; he tripped and fell over Eamon’s foot with a yell. There was a thud as the young man – whom Eamon recognized as the one who had wished him luck before the swearing the previous day – hit the floor and narrowly escaped driving his head into the wall as he rolled to a stop.
    Filled with sympathy, Eamon went to help him up.
    â€œI’m sorry, sir,” the boy managed.
    â€œIt’s my fault – I tripped you! I’m sorry,” Eamon added, helping him to his feet. The boy – for it was a boy and not really a man at all – turned his face away in shame as Eamon steadied him.
    Suddenly Belaal’s voice barked from the office: “For Crown’s sake don’t apologize to him, and don’t help him, either! A whingeing maggot like him doesn’t deserve the place he has been given here, whoever’s blood he has. Kick him down the corridor, Goodman, and get in here.”
    The cadet tore away and disappeared down the hallway. Eamon watched him go for a few moments before stepping inside. A curt gesture of Belaal’s hand indicated that he should shut the door.
    â€œSir,” Eamon began.
    â€œIt’s none of your business,” Belaal answered. “Your salute, man! Is all decorum to go out the window?” The captain gestured irately to the large pane of glass behind him; it obligingly cast his formidable shadow forward. As Eamon drew his hand flat over his heart in the Gauntlet’s swordless salute, he suspected that the whole room had been designed with the sole function of casting formidable shadows.
    â€œThat’s better,” Belaal told him, laying aside a quill. He drew a breath and seemed to put whatever the cadet had done behind him. “Very fine work at the pyre last night, Goodman; showed your determination in service. I appreciate that the circumstance was not an easy one for you.”
    Eamon wasn’t sure what to say. There was an odd glint to the man’s eyes. “Thank you, sir.”
    â€œIt is in recognition of that service that I’ve called you here this morning.”
    A thread of lightning anticipation ran through him. He watched as Belaal