The Broken Blade (12 page)

He remembered Mr Grennil speak of his love for the “commoner” theatrical performances that any citizen of Dunthruik could attend. Eamon knew that the theatre would throw an inaugural performance for its new patron. Indeed, Fletcher had told him that the theatre already prepared it.

He had no other duty to attend to that morning, so with a gentle tug he turned Sahu and directed the animal down the Coll to the theatre.

Rather than ascend the broad marble steps at the front of the theatre, where tall eagles bore serpent-twined talons, he took his horse down past the western sweep of the building to the passage that ran beneath it to the alighting area for carriages. This was a great stone hollow beneath the body of the theatre, designed to receive traffic coming from one direction and feed it back out onto the Coll in another. There was space for the keeping of horses set further back.

The carriageway was still and silent as Eamon halted in the hollow. The theatre's floor arched, roof-like, above his head; the ceiling was
painted with a great portrait of the city of Dunthruik which was held at its corners by the feet of stone eagles, who soared outwards towards the branching stone arches that supported the roof.

As he stood marvelling at the work, footsteps rushed towards him. Several pale servants arrived.

“Lord Goodman,” one panted, coming to a hurried stop and bowing. “We meant you no disservice or displeasure. If we had but known –”

“It's quite all right –”

“– you would have found more fitting welcome.”

“I did not myself know that I was coming,” Eamon laughed kindly, “and will not fault you for my vagaries.”

The servant fell silent, though whether due to surprise or his heaving chest was hard to tell. One of his fellows brought a mounting block.

Eamon thanked him and dismounted. “May I go in?”

The servant looked astounded. “Of course, my lord,” he replied. “Would you have me guide you?”

“I shall find my way, thank you.” Eamon gazed at a tall, circular stairwell that wound up into the theatre's entrance hall. Smiling once at the gathered servants, he went in.

The stairwell had a handrail running up to its top, on which were carved a long line of animals caught in an endless run and, where the stair met a doorway, two birds with huge, colourful tails had been painted. Stepping beneath the fanned arch of their stony plumage, he entered a grand hall.

The hall was octagonal in shape and rimmed with dark wooden doors. The floor bore a grand mosaic and there were painted trees carved into the lintels between the doors. They alternated between vine, ash, oak, and yew, and their hewn boughs intertwined over each doorway. The doors bore alternating black and gold eagles whose brows were crowned with golden diadems pierced with red.

Eamon hazarded a guess as to which door he should take: the one across from him stood open. As he passed over the central stones of
the chamber floor, his footsteps were magnified by the domed roof over his head. He paused and looked up into the ceiling. At the dome's cap, a shining painted sun dropped rays to the leafy arches of the doors.

Unable to resist, Eamon called up into the dome; his voice came back to him wondrously grand. Leaning his head back he dared to lift his voice in song, singing words and a tune that came unbidden to him:

The beams and arches of the dome sang back to him. He laughed; the whole hall filled with it.

The open door led into a reception hall lined with magnificent candelabra. As he strolled past its huge windows, Eamon caught a stunning glimpse of the Four Quarters. Each window in the hall was strung with red drapes and he saw himself, a moving shadow, pass before the elegant glass.

He turned and looked at the hall. It was made from wood and marble and to either side ran tall staircases. It was where he had entered the night he had come with Alessia. His eyes traced the stairs, following those that led up to the private boxes. He saw what marked the grand doorway: the keystone was embossed with a great black eagle, bearing a golden crown at its breast.

Eamon stared at it. The black eagle was the mark of the Right Hand. At its very door, the theatre proclaimed that it was in his keeping.

He heard sounds beyond the doors and fell still. Sounds of singing, stopping and starting, drifted in the quiet air, barely discerned incantations.

Another servant approached him. She curtseyed deeply.

“My lord,” she said. “What a great honour it is to have you
here!” She clearly meant it, for she smiled warmly. “How may we be of service?”

“Is the master of the theatre here?” he asked.

The servant laughed. “He stands before me, my lord!”

Eamon smiled. “Its director, then?”

“Within,” the servant gestured towards the auditorium. “What would you, my lord?”

“I would arrange a commoner. In fact,” he added, a great smile flooding his face, “I would like my inaugural to be a commoner.”

The servant watched him for a moment. “Your inaugural, my lord?”

“I too am a citizen of this city.”

“Shall I have the director, Mr Shoreham, come to you?”

“Is he indisposed?”

The servant gestured to the doors of the auditorium. “They are rehearsing, my lord, but –”

Eamon nodded. “I do not wish to disturb them,” he said. “Perhaps you would speak to him on my behalf?”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Thank you.” Eamon looked up at the closed doors and listened to the music that moved behind them.

“You can go in, if you wish it, my lord.”

Eamon paused. It was tempting. “I should not disturb them,” he said at last.

“There is a passage here that leads to the back of the auditorium, my lord. You may enter from there without disturbing them.”

Eamon smiled. “I would like that.”

He followed her as she passed across the hall to a passage beneath one of the sets of stairs. It wound about in a semicircle for a short distance until it reached a small wooden door. Voices and music sounded on the other side of it.

The servant quietly opened the door and bowed again as she stepped aside to grant him passage. “My lord,” she said.

Eamon smiled gratefully. Without a word, he stepped through.

It was much cooler inside the theatre than in its hall. Eamon had
forgotten how enormous a space it was; the crimson-clad seats rose in tiers towards boxed walls and the great ceiling. He knew that the roof could be opened, and indeed it stood partially open so that the stage and pit were lit by the May light. Musicians in the pit tweaked their instruments and followed on the words of a bearded man who moved his hand to demonstrate the melody of a passage of music. Eamon assumed this man to be Shoreham.

Gathered on the stage were a number of men and women. They spoke together in lowered voices and fell silent as the director moved into their midst. He indicated a spot at the front of the stage with radiated arms, then gestured up to the highest boxes. Eamon could not catch what he said, but guessed the director's meaning well enough.

He was certain no one in the rehearsal had seen him, a black shadow in the darkened recesses of the theatre. He slipped down the seating area towards the stage. When he was close enough that he could hear clearly, but far enough away to avoid being seen, he stepped to one side and sat down.

The director finished giving notes to the musicians, and turned to the actors and singers on the stage. “Ilenia, can we have your piece, please?”

One of the singers looked through her notes. “The third lyric?”

“No. I'm sorry. I meant the promise piece.”

The singer stepped forward. She was an elegant woman with bright eyes. While she may have worn her hair long in her youth she now had her dark tresses drawn neatly back behind her head, accenting the features of her face. She wore no makeup or costume, simply her ordinary garb, and her figure did not seem imposing; but as she stepped up to the front of the stage a strange hush fell on those around her.

The director swooped by the lip of the pit to check a last-minute matter with the musicians. The conductor tapped the air with his hand. On the third tap the musicians began to play.

The music was low and gentle at first, barely audible, pitched through with notes of sorrow and melancholy.

Eamon's mind slowed, and in that slowness something deep within him stirred and answered the music as it lifted in an earnest passion before growing gentle again. Then the singer drew breath, and sang:

The words poured through Eamon, touching every part of every sense he had, filling them with keen, heart-splitting sorrow. But
there, the music formed a waxing hope that stole away his breath: to suffer, and yet to hold and strive, was not his lot alone.

He felt tears in his eyes. Suddenly they were free, and freely fell, flowing in silence down his cheeks. He did not seek to hinder them. For a blissful moment he sat in the darkness unseen, and the music replenished and comforted him. He too had but one lord.

The singer fell silent, the music faded. She stood for a moment, wrapped in fading song, then opened her eyes and smiled. The director beamed and clapped his hands with sheer delight.

“I have no words, Ilenia,” he said, shaking his head. “That is marvellous. Why, the Right Hand himself would weep to hear you!”

Ilenia curtseyed.

The director called up a pair of other actors and took them through various spots on the stage, taking care to indicate where the light from the candelabra and braziers would fall. While he gestured, the singer descended the stage steps into the rows of seats. She walked a good distance into the seating area and as she came closer, Eamon could not help but smile.

Suddenly she stopped. Seeing him, she cocked her head at him.

“The master propsman has excelled himself!” she laughed; her voice was as beautiful in speaking as it was in singing. “You look just like a Hand! As good as true. Isn't the dress tomorrow?”

“I am afraid I do not know,” Eamon answered her.

Hearing his voice, the singer peered forward at him.

“I am so sorry! I mistook you for Marcus,” she said, watching him. “Are you the new singer for the chorus of Hands?”

“I would covet the opportunity,” Eamon told her truthfully, “but alas! I am not.”

Carefully, he rose from his seat and stepped into the aisle. She gasped.

“My lord,” she said, and curtseyed deeply before him.

“Madam Ilenia,” Eamon told her, “you have done me honour beyond my dues by your song.” He reached out, took her hand, and pressed it in his own. “I thank you.”

The singer stared. “Are you Lord Goodman?” Her eyes took in his features with surprise.

“I am, madam.”

“Then the honour, my lord, is mine alone.” She smiled. “I am glad if the song spoke to you.”

Eamon felt a great laugh in his heart and beamed at her.

“Please tell Mr Shoreham that I very much look forward to the fruits of his labour,” he said. “I have already spoken to one of the servants, but perhaps you would convey to him that I would have my inaugural performance made a commoner?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you again, madam.” Eamon let go her hand and walked down the aisle to the great doors. They opened before him, flooding the room with light, revealing him to the whole stage.

Not since he had sung with Mathaiah in the Pit had he felt such joy.

 

That evening he asked his servants to bring him supper in his quarters; as he dined, his only company were the papers from the day's work. Among the Hands' reports were also papers from two of the Master's generals: Rocell, who had charge of the knights, and Cade, who had responsibility for the thresholders – the non-Gauntlet men who would be called up from the Four Quarters to defend the city. Eamon had met neither general but suspected that would change in short order. Madam Ilenia's song went round and round his mind as he read, rendering the task more bearable.

As a maid raised a flask of wine Eamon looked up. “Excuse me,” he said. The maid nearly dropped the flask in surprise.

“My lord?” she recovered swiftly.

“Are you able to tell me where Mr Cartwright is?”