The Broken Blade (20 page)

“And you for an exquisite evening.” Arlaith looked once to Anderas. “You need not hurry back, captain,” he said. “I will see you in the morning.”

Anderas bowed. “Thank you, my lord.”

Arlaith left the hall. Silence fell in the reception room. Eamon and Anderas stood alone in it.

“He is much changed,” Anderas commented, looking quietly after the door where Arlaith had gone.

“He is,” Eamon answered. “I hope that it is for the better.”

“I hope that it will last.”

“As do I.” Eamon turned to Anderas with a smile. “It is good to see you,” he said, reaching out to clasp Anderas's hand. “It has been a long time.”

“Too long,” Anderas replied. “You hold?” he asked quietly.

“Yes. By some grace, I hold. You?”

Anderas smiled – a wistful kind of smile that Eamon recognized. It was the smile of a dozen stories, thoughts, and adventures that could not be told in that moment, but that longed to be shared.

“I hold.”

“Did you enjoy the performance?” Eamon asked.

“Yes,” Anderas answered. “Particularly the one before the play began.” He shook his head. “I suppose one might call that a kind of last-first poetry in the flesh.”

“Do not say so in front of Lord Arlaith,” Eamon told him. “He will summarily explain to you his view on the worth of poetry.”

“I shall avoid the subject with him.”

“How is your servant, Toriana?” Eamon asked.

“Very well,” Anderas smiled, “and of invaluable support to me. Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” Eamon answered. The news pleased him. “And the college?”

“It misses you,” the captain told him, “but Lord Arlaith has, as you have seen, grown less fearsome.”

“I am sorry about what happened to Mr Greenwood,” Eamon said, then fell quiet. “I sometimes wonder whether, if I had put him forward to the Hands…”

Anderas shook his head. “It would not have changed anything, Lord Goodman,” he said. “He would still have had charge of the grain. And his death was not in vain; it has sown stores throughout the city. He would have been proud of that.”

Eamon nodded. He knew it was true. He had missed Anderas's counsel and wise words.

“I know I have said it once already,” Eamon told him, “but it is good to see you.”

Anderas smiled. “And you, my lord.”

A moment later there was a knock at the door. A servant, who bowed down deeply, followed it.

“My lord,” he said. “Shall I convey you to Mr Shoreham?”

“That would be kind, thank you,” Eamon answered. He looked once at Anderas. “Would you like to come, captain?”

A brilliant smile passed over the captain's face. “I would.”

The servant led them from the box and back to the reception hall. From there, they followed down the stairs towards the nether parts of the theatre. As they walked Eamon relaxed. He realized that his thought had strayed too little to Anderas and to how the captain-turned-King's-man might be faring beneath Arlaith's eye and hand. He remembered the list and drove down a shudder. How close the captain had come to being a name with strikes through it, he did not know.

The servant took them through several corridors, less ornate than those that Eamon had seen elsewhere, to a series of rooms that
were behind the stage. Some had doors and some did not, but all the rooms were filled with musicians, singers, and actors, dealing with the aftermath of the evening's work.

For a moment none of them noticed him. There were several bearing Hands' colours in the room, in various states of undress. Then one of the actors recognized him; he swiftly alerted those near him. A hush fell, and every man and woman in the room rose to bow.

“Lord Goodman,” they said.

“Thank you all,” Eamon answered, “for a wonderful evening. Is Mr Shoreham here?”

“I am, my lord,” answered a bearded man from the centre of the room. He came across to Eamon and bowed again.

“Mr Shoreham,” Eamon said, “thank you for your hard work in producing this event for me.”

“It was a pleasure, my lord,” Shoreham answered him. “Should you wish any such performance again, I would gladly do the same.”

Eamon's mind suddenly filled with a picture of the Crown bannered in blue, of a sword and star standing over the doorway. He smiled.

“I will be certain to ask for you, Mr Shoreham,” he said. “Please,” he said, surveying the room, “continue with what you were doing. I am sure you have a great deal of celebrating to get to this evening!”

Some in the room laughed, and with a further bow the troupe went back to its work. As he surveyed the room, Eamon saw Madam Ilenia sitting in one corner. A young woman brushed her hair. Eamon went across to them and Anderas followed him. As they stopped by her, the singer rose to her feet and curtseyed beautifully.

“Lord Goodman; captain.”

“Madam,” Eamon said, “please allow me to thank you again for your part in the performance.”

“I am but one part in a body of many,” Ilenia answered with a smile. She rose from her curtsey. As she did so, Eamon caught sight of a small ring caught on a thin chain about her neck. He smiled.

“You are married, madam?” he asked.

An odd expression passed across the singer's face. “Yes, my lord,” she answered heavily, “but my husband is far away.”

“That must be very difficult for you,” Eamon answered gently. Surprise erupted on her face. Eamon offered her a smile. “I hope that he will return swiftly to you, madam, as the captain in the play did tonight.”

“Thank you, Lord Goodman,” she answered.

Eamon thanked the actors again and went with Anderas from the rooms. Together they returned to the theatre's grand entrance hall, which stood still and quiet in the moonlight. Servants were busy inside the auditorium, tidying and dousing the lights.

They paused in the hall and Eamon breathed deeply. It was then that he noticed the grey look on the captain's face.

“Is something the matter?”

“Yes and no,” Anderas answered hesitantly.

“You cannot say both yes and no,” Eamon chastised.

“The singer,” Anderas began. “You said something to her that I think you did not intend.”

Eamon frowned at him. “I thanked her for her performance,” he answered. “Was that amiss?”

“No,” Anderas replied. “You asked after her husband.”

“Yes.” Eamon saw the look on Anderas's face grow serious. “I should not have done so?” he guessed uncomfortably.

“Like any arena, the theatre has its own language,” Anderas told him quietly, “and its own euphemisms.” He paused. “In Dunthruik, a Hand who asks after the husband of a performer is not genuinely concerned for him. Rather, his interest is in the performer, and his question enquires as to whether her husband, or any other man, is in a position to gainsay him in it.”

“To gainsay?” Eamon repeated. The sound of the servants working moved in the air. Suddenly the formality of Madam Ilenia's response came back to him in full force. “
He is far away
.”

Eamon blanched. “Oh,” he said. He felt his face going from white to red as he understood. “Anderas, I didn't know!”

“I know,” Anderas answered quietly.

They fell silent for a moment. Eamon sighed. He felt ashamed, both of his ignorance and of any distress he might have caused the singer. The thought of her misunderstanding him was haunting.

Anderas laid a hand on his shoulder. “Do not let it trouble you, Lord Goodman,” he said. “Dunthruik is a city that mothers strong daughters. She will endure.”

“No woman should have to endure such a thing,” Eamon answered, and suddenly Alessia was before him in his mind, kneeling and sobbing. She too had suffered and he had denied her…

He shook the thought from his mind, then looked back to Anderas. “I will apologize to Madam Ilenia.”

“Perhaps you should leave it till tomorrow,” Anderas answered. “She may already have left the theatre. It might be awkward to go seeking her now.”

Eamon felt the moonlight on his face. He nodded. “You are right,” he said. “You are very often right, captain.”

“A cruel and oft misunderstood misfortune laid upon me by the stars at birth,” Anderas answered with a smile.

“Perhaps we were both born under a strange, forgotten star,” Eamon returned.

“And a good one.” Anderas smiled at him, then bowed. “Good night, Lord Goodman. Hold fast.”

“And you, captain.”

Eamon descended into the theatre's bowels to the carriage area, where his coachman waited. The streets were quiet, and there were few to mark his passing – Dunthruik's denizens dwelt in taverns or in beds. As Eamon returned to his own quarters his thoughts turned again to Madam Ilenia. He grew hot and uncomfortable.

He climbed the stairs to his hall and greeted the Hands on duty. The doors opened before him. Cartwright awaited him.

“Good evening, my lord.”

Eamon smiled. “Good evening, Mr Cartwright,” he answered. “Did you enjoy the play?”

“Yes, my lord, very much.” Cartwright beamed from ear to ear. “I've not seen such a thing since I was a very, very young man… and that was some time ago! May I offer you thanks, on behalf of all your servants?”

Eamon laughed. “Only if you will thank each of them on my behalf in turn.”

“I will, my lord.”

Eamon stepped further into the hall and attempted to undo the clasp on his cloak.

“Let me help you, my lord,” Cartwright said.

Eamon brushed his hands away. “I shall see myself to bed this evening, Mr Cartwright. I require no more service tonight – and perhaps you, and the rest of the house, would benefit from not rendering more of it until the morning.”

Understanding at once that he could not be swayed, Cartwright stepped back and bowed. “Very well, my lord.”

“Good night, Mr Cartwright.”

“And to you, my lord.”

Bowing once more, Cartwright turned and left. With a cheerful sigh, Eamon went to bed.

 

The eleventh of May was a clear day. At breakfast the Master congratulated Eamon on the play and its success – leaving him exhilarated – and during the morning an unexpected invitation came to him from the East.

“Lord Arlaith asks if you would care to join him for lunch,” Fletcher told him.

Eamon looked up from his desk in surprise. “Let him know I would be delighted.”

So it was that he lunched with Arlaith.

“I must say, I do believe that you did yourself great credit last night,” Arlaith told him as they sat down to their meal. “Great credit indeed.”

“Thank you.”

“The Master was pleased?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Dunthruik can do nothing but sing your praises – and a couple of refrains – this morning.” Arlaith paused as a servant laid food before them, thanked him, then turned back to Eamon. “Would you believe that when I went to the Crown Office this morning I found Mr Rose in a full fit of song?”

Eamon stared. “Mr Rose?”

“Mr Rose,” Arlaith asserted.

They watched each other for a moment. Suddenly Eamon burst out laughing; Arlaith joined him. At that moment it seemed that there could be nothing funnier in the whole world than a Crown official singing. They laughed together until they nearly wept with mirth.

 

In the late afternoon Eamon took delivery of a new sword which Fletcher brought him. It was a simple blade meant for Gauntlet
infantry use. Only the previous day, the sword smiths had offered him elegant blades fit for a Hand, but Eamon knew what kind of weapon he preferred. The hilt and point of this one were finer than the one he had owned before, and the dark scabbard was skilfully crafted. When Eamon drew the sword, the steel glinted in the sun. Its balance, as he held it in his hands, was next to perfect. With such a blade he felt as though he could down a hundred Cathairs.

“It's beautiful,” he told Fletcher. “Will you send my compliments to the master smith?”

“Of course,” Fletcher answered.

“And would you send word to the stables to prepare my horse?”

“Of course, my lord.”

Eamon strapped the scabbard to his side, signed a few last documents, and left.

In the early evening he rode down the Coll. The Crown emerged before him, its great dome glistening in the westering sun.

He rode to the alighting point beneath the theatre and left Sahu in the care of some servants, advising them that he did not mean to be long. Then he took himself inside.

There were servants in the hallways, still cleaning the corridors and auditorium from the previous night. Eamon stopped one of them and asked after the troupe.

“In the back rooms, my lord,” the servant answered.

Eamon made his way to the rooms where he had been the night before. As he arrived he found the actors once again, though now they were ordinarily dressed and devoid of makeup. They seemed just to have finished a meeting of some sort, for as he arrived they began to leave; each bowed to him as they went. Eamon eased his way into the room.

“Mr Shoreham,” he said, spotting the bearded director. “I am looking for Madam Ilenia?”

“Lord Goodman,” Shoreham said. “She was just going into the vestry.” He gestured to it.

Eamon thanked him and followed his direction. The largest of the rooms gave way to several smaller ones, each filled with tidy stacks of props, costumes, wigs, and scenery. Some also held musical instruments. As Eamon entered, voices sounded through one of the open doorways. He followed them and saw Ilenia, accompanied by a younger woman. They were tidying dresses into a long trunk.

“Good evening,” Eamon spoke courteously. Both rose and curtseyed on seeing him.

“Lord Goodman,” they said in turn.

“Madam Ilenia,” Eamon began, “might I speak a word with you in private?”

“Of course,” Ilenia answered. Her companion gave her an odd look, but at a nod from the singer she curtseyed once more to Eamon and hurried away.

Eamon breathed deeply as he watched the singer across the room. He wondered whether she was frightened – the poise and grace of her posture showed no trace of it.

“What would you, my lord?” she asked.

“Apologize to you, madam.”

Ilenia looked at him curiously. “I do not think that the Right Hand has need to apologize to anyone.”

“Right Hand or no, a man must apologize when he has done wrong.”

“You have done me no wrong, my lord.”

“Would you tell me if I had?” Eamon countered. Ilenia did not answer him. “Madam, I wronged you yesterday evening, when I spoke words which I both meant and did not mean.”

“You spoke in a manner well befitting your station, Lord Goodman,” Ilenia answered.

Her impeccable formality frustrated him. “May I speak frankly?”

“As it pleases you, Lord Goodman.”

He looked straight at her. “I neither had, nor have, any desire to violate the pledges that rightly remain between you and your husband,” he told her. Ilenia blinked hard and looked at him with
surprise. “I am told that the words I used last night can be taken to mean quite the opposite.”

“They can,” Ilenia nodded slowly. “May I speak frankly with you, my lord?”

“Nothing would please me better.”

“Then I must say that it surprised me to hear you say what you said yesterday, and now it surprises me to hear you
un
say it.”

Eamon laughed. “Unsay?”

“Many things can be undone, Lord Goodman.”

“Not all things,” Eamon replied.

“I thank you for your apology,” Ilenia told him, “and I heartily forgive you for any wrong you feel you may have done to me.”

Eamon smiled. “Then you have more power than I, madam.”

Ilenia looked at him curiously. “How so, my lord?”

“Your forgiveness, not my apology, undoes what I did.”

“If you had not apologized, I might not have known that there was a matter to be forgiven,” Ilenia countered. “So, perhaps, unsaying or undoing is the work of two hearts?”

Eamon laughed again. “You are a wise lady, madam.”

“I have lived many lives,” Ilenia answered with a small smile. “Such is the nature of the stage.”

“I imagine that you can speak long on that,” Eamon answered. He paused. “I wonder,” he said, “whether it would offend you if I were to invite you and your husband to dine with me this evening?”

Ilenia smiled. “That is most kind, Lord Goodman. I would accept. My husband would decline, I fear, for he truly is far away. He is a Gauntlet captain, stationed on the Galithian border.”

“He was not recalled to the city?” Eamon asked.

“No,” Ilenia answered sadly. “The north is still a dangerous place.”

“Friends of mine are also stationed at distant borders, madam.”

“I am sure that you think of them often, my lord, and that they take solace from that.”

There was a moment of quiet.

“Madam Ilenia,” Eamon said, “I do not detract my words. You would be welcome to dine with me if you so chose. But
only
if you so chose.”

Ilenia smiled. “I would gladly accept your invitation, Lord Goodman.”

 

Eamon rode back to the palace and, much to Fletcher's confusion, sent his carriage to the Crown to fetch Ilenia. The intervening time gave him ample opportunity to tell Cartwright that there would be a guest to dinner.

While the preparations were being made, Eamon returned cheerfully to the Royal Plaza, where he startled the guards at the gate by engaging them in conversation while he waited for Ilenia to arrive. He laughed when one ensign was bold enough to explain that although duty at the palace was a great honour, it could also be somewhat tedious. Eamon agreed with him, and for a moment he could have been a first lieutenant once more.

The carriage soon arrived and came through the palace gates. Eamon saw Ilenia's face through the window. As the carriage stopped, Eamon stepped up to open the door.

“Welcome!” he called. “Did you enjoy your journey?”

“Perhaps it was not long enough to be called a journey, my lord,” Ilenia replied, “but I did.”

“Have you ever been to the palace before?”

“I played in the theatre once,” Ilenia told him.

“There's a theatre at the palace?” Eamon asked, surprised.

“Yes,” Ilenia answered. “In some part of the West Wing, I believe.”

“I have not seen it,” Eamon answered. “But then, you must understand that I did not know I had a carriage until yesterday.” Ilenia laughed and he held his hand up to her. “May I help you down?”

“Thank you, my lord.”

She laid her hand in his. Suddenly Eamon saw a dark night of months before; he heard the crack of a broken axle. A ghostly Alessia passed through his arms and heart. It stunned him.

Ilenia stepped down into the plaza. “Are you well, Lord Goodman?”

“Yes.” He forced a smile. “Just a memory.” His breast ached with it.

Thanking the driver, he led Ilenia through the palace grounds. Each tall building, every archway, every stone was lit by braziers and framed by the hues of the twilit sky. It dulled the gaudy glint of the crowns and gems, making them imposing and austere.

They went into the palace by the grand steps. From the entrance hall they followed into the East Wing and to the corridors that led to Eamon's own quarters. Ilenia gazed at everything in wonder.

“After I saw the theatre I always wondered if the whole palace was like it,” she said. “It seems that it is.”

Eamon remembered the dusty corridors that had led to Ellenswell, filled with charred walls and tapestries. “Not all of it,” he answered, “but a great deal of it, yes.”

“I wonder if this is what the River Poet had in mind: ‘High and deep those crimson walls, where eagles, palled thick in crimson or in sable, dared to nest, to rear in flame…'” She trailed off pensively for a moment.

“‘And to enthral',” Eamon finished.

Ilenia looked at him with surprised delight. “You know the River Poet?”

“Better than some,” he answered. “My father was a book-binder – as was I, when I was young.”

“When you were young?” Ilenia repeated. Suddenly she laughed. “I mean no offence, my lord, but you cannot have reached my two-score years!”

“No,” Eamon conceded. He was a good deal short of them.

“Then you are still young,” she insisted.

“I suppose that I must be,” he answered. He did not feel it.

They reached the colossal hallway, called the Round Hall, whose stairs and corridors led into varying parts of the East Wing, including the Right Hand's quarters. Suddenly Eamon heard the sound of approaching footsteps. He looked up to see the Master
and his secretary moving through the hall. Seeing Eamon, the Master paused then turned towards them. Eamon bowed and Ilenia curtseyed deeply.

“Master,” Eamon said. His veins pulsed hotly; he was terribly and awkwardly conscious of the lady at his side. “Your glory.”

“Son of Eben,” said the Master. Eamon saw the grey eyes flick to Ilenia and then back to him. “You go to dine?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Good. Madam, are you to be my Right Hand's company this evening?”

“Your glory, Master,” Ilenia answered. Eamon was stunned by the steadiness of her tone. “It is as you say.”

“I know that you performed delightfully yesterday evening,” the throned told her. “I trust that you will do as well for my Right Hand tonight.”

Eamon reddened, but Ilenia did not falter.

“Your glory, Master,” she said, curtseying still. “I will please him.”

“You speak well.” The throned looked to Eamon with a knowing smile. “And you choose well, Eben's son. I will not expect you to breakfast in the morning.” He spoke the words as one who gave a great indulgence.

“Thank you, Master,” Eamon replied.

Without another word the Master left the hall. Eamon quivered as he looked to Ilenia.

“Madam,” he began.

“I am well, Lord Goodman,” she told him, rising from her curtsey.

Eamon stared. “Not many can say as much when first they meet the Master,” he managed.

“Not many meet him first in the company of the Right Hand,” Ilenia countered.

“I do not know if you are fortunate in that,” he replied. As he looked at her he spoke again. “Are they many?” he asked. At Ilenia's questioning look he continued: “The Hands that solicit their evening's company at the theatre, I mean.”