The Broken Blade (19 page)

“I did not take you for a man of the arts, Lord Arlaith,” Dehelt commented, surprised.

“I am not one,” Arlaith replied, “but in my youth I had a well-read friend who fancied himself of that calibre.” He offered Eamon
a somewhat wistful smile and Eamon found himself wondering what the Left Hand had been like as a young man. Where had he lived and called home, whom had he known? What life had led him to Dunthruik and to the office of the Right Hand?

“Also, my lords, it has been my good fortune to discover the rich library of the East Quarter,” Arlaith added. “There is good reason why it was the object of Cathair's envy.”

The mention of the former Raven elicited an uncomfortable silence. Eamon was relieved when a servant came and bowed low beside them.

“Lord Goodman, Mr Shoreham advises that they are ready to begin, if you are content.”

“I am content,” Eamon answered. The servant bowed and scurried off. Eamon looked back to his guests. “Come, gentlemen,” he said, gesturing to the box. “Everyone has their seats; let us take ours.”

He led the way to the box. The great wooden doors were drawn open by two servants, granting admittance to places with a spectacular view across the theatre. As Eamon led his guests onto the broad balcony, the theatre erupted into applause. At every level of the great building men and women rose to their feet, looked up to him, and cheered.

Arlaith was beside him. “It would seem that Dunthruik is for the Right Hand,” he commented quietly. “It is ironic, Lord Goodman, but Lord Cathair's death has won them all to you.”

Eamon knew that he was right. He looked out across the deep well of faces. Then he raised one hand to them in greeting. The theatre hushed.

“Welcome!” he called. The theatre cheered; it poured infectious delight into his blood.

Eamon sat. Every seat in the theatre was filled after him.

The performance soon began; all went quiet as the great curtains drew back, revealing the Crown's enormous stage. Colossal scenery depicted the stone walls and ships of Dunthruik's port. It was
remarkably detailed and realistic. The crowd gasped. From the corner of his eye, Eamon saw Dehelt smile.

A troupe of actors came onto the stage, dressed as port workers. Coming swiftly to the front of the stage, they bowed low.

“To his glory!” they called.

The theatre answered them. The troupe bowed once more and then began to sing. The sound of the voices stirred something deep within Eamon. How long was it since he had heard so many voices singing together? He realized that he had last heard such a sound in the Pit.

The play, which was a mixture of prose, poetry, and song, told the story of a Gauntlet captain stationed to a city in Etraia. There, he fell in love with the daughter of a prosperous merchant, but after clashing murderously with her kinsmen, he was forced to abandon her without explanation of his departure. At the end of the first part she, seemingly betrayed and alone, was betrothed to another man.

All too soon the curtains closed, marking the end of the first half. Eamon rose to applaud, as did the rest of the theatre. Eamon knew that the story ended well: the daughter learned what had driven her lover away and rejected the marriage to the captain's rival while she waited, hoping against hope for the captain to return – which he would do at the end of the second half, taking her back to Dunthruik to marry her.

The actors and singers were faultless in their telling of the tale and no charge could be laid against any aspect of costume. Eamon wondered how long it had taken the theatre to put together such a show. A small army of servants appeared in the wings and corridors of the theatre; they went with tapers and candles and adjusted the lighting during the break.

Eamon rose and left the box with his guests. As they went back into the reception hall, the servants laid out a lavish selection of sweets and wines. He invited his guests to help themselves, then approached one of the servants.

“I would speak with Mr Shoreham following the performance.”

“I will bring him to you when it concludes, my lord,” the servant answered, bowing.

“No,” Eamon told him, “I would go down to him.”

The servant bowed again. “Then I shall have someone lead you, my lord.”

Eamon thanked him again. As the servant went to other business, Eamon found Arlaith at his side. The Hand held a tall chalice of wine while he nibbled on a biscuit. The sight seemed hugely comical to Eamon. As he restrained a laugh, Arlaith looked at him.

“May a Hand not eat, my lord?” he said.

“Are you enjoying the evening, Lord Arlaith?” Eamon asked.

“Indeed,” Arlaith answered, and sipped thoughtfully. “Puts my own inaugural performance to shame, if the truth be told.”

At once Eamon was reminded of the awkwardness of speaking to the Left Hand.

Arlaith saw the look on his face, and laughed amicably. “My predecessor had let the theatre go very much to waste,” he said. “I authorized its repair and maintenance but confess that I had little interest in it beyond that and my obligation, as patron, to be present from time to time. I had other matters to attend to. I commanded some performances,” he added, “but none so grand an affair as this. The effort seemed ill-rewarded to me.”

“You are not a great believer in the arts, then, Lord Arlaith?” asked Dehelt. The Hand joined them. Febian and Tramist followed after him, while the captains and Fletcher engaged in a conversation of their own, at a respectful distance from their Hands.

“The arts distract,” Arlaith answered. “I am afraid that storytelling, in whatever form, is always a distraction.”

“A distraction?” Dehelt looked intrigued.

“Being a man of the arts was of no help to Lord Cathair, in the end,” Arlaith answered. An awkward silence followed, but he seemed not to notice it. “Tales are of no great merit to any man, bar perhaps the very young,” Arlaith insisted.

“Surely, my lord, there are some tales that merit the telling?” Dehelt asked.

“What of the Master's taking of the city?” Febian put in.

Arlaith laughed. “That is history,” he replied.

“Surely, now that there are none from those times, it is reduced to the status of a story?” Tramist challenged.

Arlaith clucked his tongue in disagreement. “Do you see Dunthruik, Lord Tramist?” he asked. “It is the very fruit of history. It proves what is told. A book, a play, an opera – these things can be invented, woven about with words, and produced as though they were the very proof of the things about which they speak, but they are not. They are leaves of paper, utterances that are spoken once and then dissolve into the air, forgotten and unseen.

“History builds walls and lays foundations; story does not. Does story offer ground to till, grain to sow, stone to quarry? Will it feed a man, or keep him warm? Will it sharpen his blade? No, it fills his mind with nonsense until he neglects his field and house and loyalty. It will bring him to ruin and destroy him utterly.”

Arlaith's words were met with a moment of silence. He laughed once more. “This being my view of the matter, you will little wonder, my lords, why I neglected the theatre in my time.”

“Your view clarifies the matter considerably,” Dehelt conceded.

“And you, Lord Goodman?” Tramist asked. As he spoke all eyes suddenly turned to Eamon. “Do you share Lord Arlaith's assessment?”

“I do not,” Eamon answered simply.

“What is your view, Lord Goodman?” Arlaith asked, peering over the rim of his chalice with interest.

“I will agree that history is a vital part of who we are,” Eamon began. “No man can claim that he made his own flesh or blood; he is made of what came before him, though what he does with the blood in his veins is another matter.” He paused. “But we are wrought by more than history. I am not just flesh and blood – I am words.” The Hands watched him curiously as he strove to express his thought. Arlaith smiled.

“Every time I speak,” Eamon continued, “every time I listen, every oath I make; these make me and bind me to the world as surely as does my blood. A story, made from words, is the worked-for fruit of flesh and blood, just as the man who made it. Being, then, beings of words and blood, the telling of tales flows in our veins.” Eamon met Arlaith's gaze. “A story may not sharpen my blade, but a tale of courage may strengthen my hand when I strike. It may not till my field, but it might turn my gaze to the land I walk in; then I might see it, and myself, with renewed eyes, remember things that in the press of flesh and blood and history I had forgotten.”

Eamon finished speaking. The Hands watched him with varying expressions.

“Then you are enjoying the evening's entertainment, Lord Goodman?” Dehelt asked.

“Yes,” Eamon answered truthfully. “And perhaps it is time we went back to it,” he added. He gestured to the doors, which several servants drew open. The Hands and captains went back inside, though Eamon and Arlaith lingered for a moment.

Arlaith drained his cup and set it down. “From time to time you make good speeches, Lord Goodman,” he said, touching Eamon's shoulder with a small smile. The gesture warmed Eamon's heart by its friendliness. “Did you ever consider the university?”

Eamon laughed, a little sadly. “You are not the first to ask me that.”

“No?” Arlaith asked, surprised.

“No.” Eamon paused, his sudden tension dissolving. “Your lieutenant, Lord Arlaith, was a good friend of mine.”

“Mr Ladomer Kentigern?” Arlaith said with a frown.

“Yes,” Eamon answered. “He often jested that I should have gone to the university.”

“He was a man of mirth,” Arlaith nodded with a smile. “A very fine lieutenant.”

“Why did he go to Etraia?”

“No man ever serves as lieutenant to the Right Hand for long, Lord Goodman,” Arlaith told him. His face and tone became
serious. “It is a powerful position, and a man outside the ranks and disciplines of the Hands can be vulnerable to that power. He had already served in the post for long enough. Keeping Mr Kentigern to serve you would have entailed… unnecessary complications.”

“Such as?” Eamon asked, restraining the harsh edge suddenly in his voice.

“Divided loyalties,” Arlaith answered, “and the provocation of them. Mr Kentigern was a lieutenant before ever you joined the Gauntlet, Lord Goodman,” he said. “I would have you consider the complications that might have rendered you.”

“Ladomer Kentigern was a good man,” Eamon answered. “He would not have spoken of it.”

“Perhaps; even so, he could never have served you.”

“Then… I suppose it was right for him to go.”

“Yes,” Arlaith nodded. “It was. And Etraia was in need of a solid representative from Dunthruik.”

“Has he been recalled to the city?” Eamon asked.

“No,” Arlaith answered. “Nor shall he be. He is needed there.”

Eamon breathed deeply. At the mention of Etraia his mind wandered back to the play, and he suddenly remembered that the theatre waited for him.

“Let us go in,” he said to Arlaith. They did so, arriving in the box just as a shrill fanfare marked the air.

The whole theatre rose to its feet. After Eamon had sat, they did likewise.

The curtains drew back and the play began again. It was not long before Madam Ilenia took the stage and Eamon again heard the deep, stirring strains of music that had so touched him but days before. He watched, enthralled, as she drew breath to sing. His blood ran clear as the words poured across him. He glanced once at Anderas; the man's face wore the awe he felt.

Suddenly Eamon remembered Alessia; he almost felt her hand in his. He closed his eyes.

Some time later the play wound to its conclusion. Eamon watched as the Etraian lady and the Gauntlet captain were reunited and married in the port of Dunthruik. As the chorus and musicians gave their final note, there was a pause, and then the players trouped back onto the stage and broke into dance, which was matched by the delighted applause of the audience, beat by beat. As the dance concluded the audience applauded again. The players gathered at the front of the stage called at the tops of their voices:

“To his glory!”

Then, to Eamon's amazement, as the theatre's echoing call died away, the players turned towards his balcony and raised their hands.

“Lord Goodman, to the Master's glory!” they called. The theatre erupted with it. Eamon rose to his feet to accept their praise.

At last the players left the stage. The applause died down. As the guests dispersed, they sang snatches of the play which lifted through the theatre and hung in the air. Eamon turned to those with him.

“Thank you for your company, gentlemen,” he said. “I hope you have enjoyed yourselves.”

“Most assuredly,” Dehelt answered, and the others all expressed a similar sentiment. “Thank you for your kind invitation, Lord Goodman.”

Eamon smiled. “I bid you each good night,” he said. “His glory,” he added.

“His glory,” came the reply. The Hands and captains shuffled out of the box one by one.

“I will return to the palace, my lord,” Fletcher told Eamon with a bow.

“Of course.”

Anderas hung back as the others left, his furrowed brow giving the impression of a man deep in thought. He cast his gaze up towards the intricate carvings on the ceiling. Seeing him do so, Eamon laughed.

“Do they intrigue you, captain?” he asked.

Anderas looked back to him. “They do, my lord,” he answered. “Though you will be relieved to know that I can tell you little about these.”

Eamon laughed. As he did so Arlaith passed and bowed.

“Lord Goodman,” he said, “I take my leave.”

“Thank you for your company, Lord Arlaith,” Eamon answered him.