Free The Broken Blade by Anna Thayer Page A

priorities of the preceding list have been restored.”
    â€œWho gave this command?” Eamon demanded.
    Rose cowered. “Lord Arlaith,” he offered quickly. “I believe that he seeks the favour of the knights, my lord.”
    Eamon fell wrathfully silent. He could not countermand an order given under such auspices, for he knew, as did Arlaith, that the knights would be needed in any forthcoming battle.
    For a long time he stood, still and silent, forcing his anger away. Rose seemed distracted, his eyes flitting from side to side and his hands trembling like the branches of an elm in the wind.
    â€œWe did complete some of the projects on your own list, my lord,” Rose offered, his voice strained.
    The words snapped Eamon from his mood. “I am sorry, Mr Rose,” Eamon said at last. “I understand that this is not your doing. Is Mr Lorentide here?” he added. “I would speak with him, about what was completed before the change in the list was effected.”
    Rose’s face grew paler. “Surely… you jest with me, my lord?”
    â€œWhen have I jested with you, Mr Rose?”
    â€œMy lord, he…” Rose squirmed. “My lord,” he said, “Darren Lorentide is dead.”
    Eamon stared at him. “Dead?”
    â€œL-lieutenant Taine found him a night ago,” Rose stammered. “I didn’t hear about it until the morning…”
    â€œBut what happened?”
    â€œHe was stabbed for his purse. What with the grain prices being as they are in the quarter…” He buried his face in his hands, then tore them away again. “For his purse, Lord Goodman! He only evercarried less than a fifth of a crown! It was well known. His poor wife…” Rose bit back a melodramatic sob. “The Serpent’s influence is growing, Lord Goodman, and it is everywhere!”
    Swallowing back his own grief, Eamon set his hand on Rose’s shoulder. “I am truly sorry for your loss, Mr Rose. Please… give my condolences to Mrs Lorentide, when you next see her.”
    Rose mopped at his eyes. “I will, my lord.”
    Eamon thanked him. Forgetting all else he left the office, lest he too should weep.
    Â 
    That evening Dunthruik was aflame with light, and the streets were filled with people. Swathes of them wore the Gauntlet’s uniform, and they followed behind their officers and captains and Hands in a long and jubilant stream towards the Royal Plaza to stand beneath the Master’s great balcony. Red cloth touched every post, and the light from the torches shook every shadow out of its solitary dark.
    It was to be a majesty like no other.
    Eamon stood in the throne room, his newly tailored robes gathered around him. The tailors’ work made Eamon look like the Master’s Right Hand and an embodiment of his glory. After helping Eamon dress that evening, Iulus Cartwright fell back in awe. Even Fletcher, who seemed imperturbable by nature, had genuflected to see the Master’s favourite in such raiment.
    Now the Master’s favourite was little more than a lone figure huddled against a pillar just beyond the great balcony. Eamon listened to the crowds and music below and drew his arms tighter over his breast as he shook. Though he had been bathed and perfumed to perfection at the Master’s command he felt haggard and harrowed. Each day brought new hurt and anguish. Each day, when he bowed, the touch of the Master’s hand and voice threatened to draw him away from Hughan.
    â€œHold to the King.”
    Eamon closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He was not holding; through grief and fear and rage, in the very depth of his being, heclung to the King as though for life itself – yet his grip loosened daily. He feared that the adulation of the majesty would claim one more part of his faltering heart for the Master.
    Footfalls sounded behind him. He turned and saw the Master’s shadow approach across the