The Broken Blade Read online

  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 unsay 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 ar
rive. 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.”

  “Yes,” Ilenia answered simply.

  “Have others solicited you?”

  “Yes.” The singer’s voice was quiet, and she looked away. Eamon felt his heart go out to her.

  “If any man apart from your husband asks you again, tell him that you keep company with me,” he said firmly.

  Ilenia looked at him uncertainly. “I will, Lord Goodman.”

  He watched her for a moment. “Are you hungry, madam?”

  “Yes,” she answered.

  “Then let us go to dinner.”

  Supper was a light but ample affair; there was soup, followed by some cold meats and cheeses with bread, fruit, and wine. As they ate, Eamon and Ilenia spoke about the theatre.

  “How long have you worked on the stage?” Eamon asked her.

  “Very nearly always, my lord,” Ilenia answered. “Mr Shoreham is a distant cousin and my parents both worked at the Crown. I was lucky that I enjoyed singing as I worked, that the director heard me, and that my parents had no objection to my joining the troupe.”

  “They might have objected?” Eamon asked.

  “It is not an easy life, Lord Goodman,” she answered. “My parents knew it well. My elder brother joined the Gauntlet,” she added. “He was stationed up River.”

  “Whereabouts?”

  “Clearwater, originally,” she answered. “It’s a small town in Barrowsgate province. He became a lieutenant very swiftly and was sent to command one of the Barrowsgate groups. I don’t know where he serves now,” she added. “It has been difficult to receive news since the wayfarers began harrying the countryside in earnest.”

  Eamon nodded. “What is his name?”

  “Lieutenant Helm,” Ilenia answered. “If he is still a lieutenant.”

  “And your husband?”

  A sad smile flickered almost imperceptibly across Ilenia’s face. “Captain Roe,” she said. “He is a good officer – perhaps too good. Were he a little less skilled, he might not have been sent to the north for so long. But the Master has needed good men to keep that border safe.”

  Eamon nodded. “It is a difficult border,” he said. “I was stationed there for a short time when I was a Gauntlet cadet. I do not remember whether I ever heard of your husband, though,” he added.

  “I believe, Lord Goodman, that Gauntlet cadets care less for distant officers than for their own,” Ilenia answered.

  “That is true,” Eamon laughed. “My own were far more pressing.” He looked at her kindly. “If I hear news, of either your brother or your husband, I will tell you.”

  Ilenia smiled. “That is kind of you, my lord,” she answered. “I daresay they will return to the city when they are able. They will know where to find me.” She paused to drink, then looked at him. “And you, Lord Goodman?”

  “As you may already have guessed, I joined the Gauntlet,” Eamon replied. “I would have been content to serve in my province, but I was stationed to the city where I managed, all un
wittingly, to distinguish myself. The rest you know,” he said, “or can see.”

  “You are modest, Lord Goodman.”

  Eamon laughed. “To tell the truth,” he answered, “there are many men who should have been handed in my place. It was because of such a man – a friend who now serves in Etraia – that I joined the Gauntlet. Were it not for him, I might have gone to the university.”

  “Or become a poet?” Ilenia asked.

  “A poet?” Eamon laughed, surprised and delighted. “What makes you say that?”

  “You are a man of many words, Lord Goodman.”

  “A good many of which need changing by some better hand,” Eamon countered.

  Ilenia looked at him through a disagreeing frown. “You speak with a measured tongue.”

  “A measured tongue? My tongue is a fountain that pours out saltwater one moment and fresh the next,” Eamon answered passionately. It had sworn him to the throned and to the King. What two things could be more different?

  “Yet you strive for measure,” Ilenia answered.

  “Yes,” Eamon told her. For one measure of which he could not speak to her.

  He drew breath and met her gaze again. “Were you in a meeting this afternoon when I came?” he asked, deciding to change the subject.

  “Yes,” Ilenia replied.

  “Was it an interesting one?”

  “Mr Shoreham was discussing various works we could bring out of the repertoire for performance in the following weeks,” Ilenia told him.

  “What were the choices?” Eamon asked, intrigued.

  Ilenia offered him a wry smile. “Mr Shoreham is quite fond of tragedies,” she said.

  Eamon frowned. “Last night’s performance was not a tragedy.”

  “Ah, but it had ‘tragic potential’, my lord,” Ilenia told him, mimicking Shoreham’s voice. She laughed. “He wanted a tragedy, like Lord Coriol, but the troupe thought differently.”

  “What did they want?”

  “A comedy,” the singer answered. “Maybe The Daughters of Elmgrove or All for Love.” Eamon nodded; he knew both plays.