The Broken Blade Read online

  “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.

  And yet the thorn reminds me in my pain

  You too have suffered and have been denied.

  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 intrig
ue 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.

  “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.

&nbs
p; 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.”

  CHAPTER X

  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.”