The Broken Blade Read online

  “My duties preclude it, my lord.”

  “Which duties are those?”

  “The house must prepare for your return,” Cartwright told him.

  “The house may leave the theatre as the performance ends, and I will dally at the Crown as long as the house would deem necessary to return before me,” Eamon replied. Cartwright stepped back from him, appraised the hang of the garment, and then met his gaze.

  “It can be done, my lord,” he said.

  “Yes it can,” Eamon answered with a smile, “and it will. I have already made Fletcher set aside passes for all of you.”

  Cartwright smiled warmly. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Enjoy the evening, Mr Cartwright,” Eamon answered, dismissing him with a gesture.

  Cartwright bowed and left the room. Eamon paused a moment to glance at himself in the mirror then went into his hallway. Fletcher stood there and bowed as he approached.

  “My lord.”

  “Mr Fletcher. All the invitations were delivered?”

  “Exactly as you asked.”

  “Good.”

  “The Lords Arlaith, Dehelt, and Tramist exchange their greetings and will attend you.”

  “And the Master?”

  “Will not be in attendance. The commoner is for you. Your event has caused quite a stir in the city, my lord.”

  “Indeed?”

  “The general passes were gobbled up swifter than they might be handed out.”

  “Is the play so spectacular?” Eamon laughed.

  “The one it honours appears to be.”

  Eamon smiled. “It will be a good evening, Mr Fletcher. Let us go down.”

  Fletcher accompanied him to the Royal Plaza. A carriage stood there. Its whole body was red and a great black eagle marked the doors. Eamon stared as the coachman descended and lowered the mounting step.

  “I have a carriage?” Eamon asked, turning to Fletcher.

  “Yes, my lord,” answered his lieutenant, bowing. “Lord Arlaith made little use of it. It has been re-upholstered and painted in your honour. It will bear you to the theatre.”

  Eamon looked at it again; the black eagle had a scroll beneath its feet. Goodman was lettered in gilt across the door.

  The coachman drew the door open with a bow. The coach’s interior was draped with red and black, and golden crowns were etched boldly over the doorways, which themselves formed the fronts of painted golden eagles. The coach might be Eamon’s, but it displayed the Master’s colours.

  Eamon climbed inside. The coachman closed the door and moved back to the driver’s seat. Four enormous horses awaited his commands. Eamon sat back on the cushions, marvelling at the craft which covered every part of the carriage, wondering how long it had taken to paint each detail. The door had a window covered by a small set of curtains. He drew them aside and saw Fletcher through the window.

  “I will also make my way to the theatre, my lord,” Fletcher told him with a bow.

  “I will see you there, Mr Fletcher.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Then the coach lurched into motion.

  They went smartly from the palace gates and down the Coll. Eamon gazed through the window with a child’s delight, watching Dunthruik become a series of pictures framed between the red curtains. The city passed. Men and women in the lantern-lit streets cheered as he went by.

  Soon he caught sight of the Four Quarters. Its eagles glistened in the night. The streets were thick with people who parted before his passage.

  The coach drew up before the theatre and stopped. A rush of cool evening air penetrated the carriage’s cushioned interior, carrying promise.

  Eamon rose and alighted. As his foot touched the ground, he looked up and saw the theatre. The steps of its front gate were lined with row upon row of smartly uniformed Gauntlet and Hands. The square behind him was the throat of the city, a sea of faces that, at his appearance, crested in cheers and applause.

  Drawing a deep breath, Eamon walked up the steps. As he climbed, the applause grew louder. Hundreds and hundreds of faces smiled at him, the words on their lips lost in the noise. They bowed and laughed as they waved their entrance passes in adoration.

  Eamon reached the top of the stairs. The theatre’s great, black eagle gazed down at him, lit by enormous braziers. Servants stood at the doors, formally attired and ready to check the passes for the evening; a task which Eamon did not envy. As he approached, they bowed. He recognized one of them as the woman to whom he had spoken when last he had visited.

  “Am I to be first in?” he asked her.

  “It is traditional, my lord,” the servant answered with a bright smile. “After you will go your guests, then the Hands, nobles, officers, Gauntlet, and people.”

  “The seats and standing room are all arranged?”

  “With numbers, my lord,” she told him. “You have no pass, but you would see the numbers if you had one.”

  “If all have numbers then let the people go first,” Eamon said. The servants gaped at him.

  “My lord?” asked one.

  “Would that complicate things?”

  The servants exchanged looks. “It might ruffle the feathers of a few birds, my lord,” the woman answered.

  “I have a reputation of the like, I am told.” The servants smiled a little uncomfortably. Eamon laughed. “This is a commoner!” he cried. “Let the last go first.”

  “And the first?” the woman asked uncertainly.

  “Shall go last,” Eamon smiled.

  The servants bowed. “It shall be done, my lord,” the woman told him. A couple of the other servants hurried off, no doubt to give notice of his directive.

  Grinning from ear to ear, Eamon turned to look at the cascade of people that lined step and quarters.

  “Welcome!” he called. “A commoner this is, and so shall the people, the very heart of the city, enter before me.”

  There was a strange hush. The men along the steps – the nobles, Hands, and officers – fixed him with astonished, even outraged, glares. No man moved.

  Eamon laughed. In a moment of exhilaration, he went lightly down the theatre’s steps to its gates, where the men and women of Dunthruik stood and stared at him.

  He came to a halt before the first man he saw. Aghast, the man fell into a bow.

  “My lord,” he breathed. All the men and women by him bowed as he did so.

  “Do you have a pass?” Eamon asked.

  “Yes, my lord.” The man held up a small tile.

  Eamon smiled. “Then go in.”

  The man looked at him uncertainly. Eamon laughed, stepped forward, and gently tugged the man, and several of his fellows, through the gate.

  “Go in,” he told them. Then, laughing once more, he turned to the astonished crowd. “Dunthruik,” he called, “go in!”

  At last the people understood his sincerity. Nervously, they came forward through the gates and, with some encouragement from the Right Hand, climbed the steps.

  “His glory,” breathed one man as he passed. It was not long before the whole crowd was awash with the cry:

  “His glory!”

  With a great smile, Eamon stood at the gate and watched while the people of Dunthruik went up the steps and into the theatre. The Hands, the knights and nobles, and the Gauntlet followed in their wake.

  Eamon stood and waited until every man had gone in before him. Then he too climbed the steps.

  The hallway was bright and richly adorned. The buzz of excited men and women welcomed Eamon into the auditorium.

  A servant approached him. “Your reception hall has been prepared. It is behind your box, my lord, so that you and your principal guests may enjoy some private company before the performance.”

  “Thank you,” Eamon replied. Those principal guests would be the Quarter Hands and captains, and Fletcher. Had Eamon had full choice he might have included servants and ensigns from East and West in that number, but he could not yet be so bold. “I will go up.”


  “Your guests felt that it would be inappropriate to go up before you,” the servant added. “They are waiting in another room. Now that you are here, shall I send them up?”

  “Please do,” Eamon told him.

  The servant bowed and Eamon passed from the hallway to the stairwell that led to his reception hall. The stair was grandly paved with marble in red and black, and a great set of dark wooden doors stood at its head. But Eamon passed rather into a side passage; his entrance to the hall was, he knew, from the other side of the corridor. Right Hands, he supposed, did not use the same doors as their guests, even when the hall was their own.

  At last he came to his door and went into the reception hall. It was awash with dark wood, its seats were couched in red, and banners bearing the eagle of the Right Hand hung upon the walls. Before him was the room’s main door, by which all guests were admitted. To his right Eamon saw a curtained doorway that led to the box.

  He listened in delight to the sound of the people in the theatre below.

  It was not long before the first of his guests arrived: Febian and Waite, the latter looking significantly more confident than the former. Fletcher was with them.

  “Lord Febian, Captain Waite,” Eamon called cheerfully. “A pleasure to see you both. I trust that the wait did not tire you at all?” He turned to his lieutenant. “Welcome, Mr Fletcher,” he added.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Fletcher answered.

  “The wait was entirely endurable, Lord Goodman,” Waite said, bowing. A smile was on his face.

  “Lord Goodman,” Febian greeted civilly.

  “I have always wanted to see this part of the Crown,” Waite said as he rose. “Thank you kindly indeed for your invitation. May I be so bold as to offer the college’s thanks also?”

  “Of course,” Eamon replied, “and I receive them with pleasure.” He turned to Febian. The Hand fidgeted absently with the heavy ring on his finger. “How do you find yourself in the West, Lord Febian?”

  “I find it well enough. As you are aware, I served many years under Lord Cathair, so I know well the duties required of the post.” For all the Hand’s bravado, the way he bit his lip and twisted the ring on his finger belied his insecurity. His eyes flashed. “Not that Cathair made me privy to any of his private dealings. You did well to dispatch him. Had I any suspicion of his betrayal I should have attempted to deal with him myself –”

  “Good,” Eamon answered, smiling. “I’m sure you would have.”

  It was then that the doors opened again, admitting Dehelt, followed by Captain Longroad, Lord Tramist, and the captain of the South Quarter – a man whom Eamon had not previously encountered. Eamon welcomed them and they gave their thanks for his invitation. On the matter of who had entered the theatre first, they remained silent.

  Arlaith arrived last of all, with Anderas following behind him. The Lord of the East Quarter had barely stepped through the door before he tumbled into a bow. “Lord Goodman, my apologies for my tardiness,” he said.

  “That’s quite all right. All is well?”

  Arlaith smiled. “You will not believe it, gentlemen. It but drizzled yesterday – barely enough to wet a whisker – and yet I manage to find a puddle big enough to ruin a very handsome cloak. I was obliged to change it,” he added, “thus waylaying me, and one or two servants.”

  The room laughed generously. As the laughter died away Fletcher and the captains congregated together at one side of the room, the Hands on the other. Eamon surveyed them, the lords and captains of Dunthruik garbed in black and red. As he looked at them he longed to see them in other colours and their hands turned to other service.

  It was then that his eyes fell on Tramist. The Hand watched him with a dark look that was quickly veiled. Eamon resolved to ignore it, but even so he wondered whether Tramist, or any of the Hands, could become King’s men.

  You are foolish to think it, Eben’s son.

  Eamon blinked. Tramist’s hating gaze still rested on him. Was he the only one who could see it?

  “My lords, good captains,” Eamon said. “Will you come with me to the box? I believe that the performance is soon to start.”

  “What work is it?” Febian asked.

  “It’s called The Thorn,” Eamon answered. He was about to add that the work dated to a period after the founding of Dunthruik when another voice spoke before him.

  “By Miller – a writer better known for his lively discussions on the period’s law. The work is, however, a very fine piece indeed.” The voice was Arlaith’s, and he smiled as he spoke.

  “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 t
ale 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.”