The Broken Blade

by Anna Thayer

  It took a long time for Eamon to understand what he said. Suddenly he gaped. “Every quarter?”

  “We are to set it aside now, much as I am told Draybant Greenwood used to do on your behalf,” Manners continued, “but, to make the storage quota commanded by the palace, much is being withdrawn from circulation in the city as well. Lord Arlaith was here earlier this morning,” Manners added, “proclaiming that this command came from the palace on your initiative.”

  Eamon felt as though a blow took him from behind. He would be held to blame for the soaring grain prices once more, only this time not simply in the East Quarter, but in the whole city.

  “Do they speak ill of me?”

  “Mine do not,” Manners answered firmly. “Not every man will understand this command, my lord, nor that it came from the Master and not yourself.”

  “They will curse me for taking the food from their plates, and be justified,” Eamon answered quietly. The grain would go from the people to the Gauntlet. He could imagine Arlaith, riding through the East Quarter, tearing grain from those who sold or prepared their bread, and saying in a high and commiserating tone that the command had come from the Right Hand…

  Eamon pressed his eyes closed a moment. He should rejoice that the reserves would go back, that the whole city, not the East alone, would now be prepared against a siege. It was more than he had dreamed when he had first begun the hoard… But he felt no joy; he felt sick. The hoarded grain would feed the Gauntlet. His service to the people of Dunthruik would be as a blow to Hughan, when he came.

  He was silent for a long time.

  “Do not take it to heart, my lord,” Manners told him gently. “Rumour has trammelled many names, even your own, before, and no harm has come of it.”

  “This time she does rightly,” Eamon answered miserably. Manners frowned at him. “The Master gave this order for my sake, cadet…” He paused and shook his head. “Lieutenant,” he corrected himself bitterly.

  Manners saw the look on his face and bowed again. “My lord, might I speak frankly for a moment?”

  “Yes,” Eamon replied dully.

  Silently he dismounted. The quay was busy and Eamon felt as though every man stared at him, the hated grain-hoarder of Dunthruik; but as he looked about himself he saw that none watched the Right Hand as he held conference with a lowly lieutenant of the West Quarter.

  “My lord, I know what you see,” Manners began, “and I know why it should render you grief.” He gestured discreetly to the flames on his uniform.

  Eamon looked at him carefully. He remembered Manners’ promise of long ago, to serve whom he served… Did Manners now speak truly?

  He matched the lieutenant’s gaze. Could he risk believing what he had said? What if Manners was simply another piece designed to hedge him round with treachery? He had to hold to the King…

  Should that mean no more than static clinging? He had taken great risks every day since he had arrived in Dunthruik and yet, since he had become Right Hand, his courage had dwindled to near nothing.

  Did he dare risk it all on Manners?

  “Why should I be grieved at your appointment?” he asked at last.

  “It is not yet a formal appointment,” Manners replied quietly. “Captain Waite lost so many men at the quay, and in the collapse at college –”

  “Collapse?” Eamon asked, aghast.

  “Yes, my lord,” Manners answered grimly. “One of the walls in the ensigns’ dormitories collapsed early this morning.” Eamon stiffened, knowing that was where newly sworn Banners had habitually been stationed for rest.

  “You were there?” he asked.

  “No,” Manners replied. “My watch duties were changed late last night. Fielder was taken ill; Waite asked me to cover him.” Manners paused heavily and Eamon watched as he brushed a wisp of hair away from his face where it struck at his eye. “Fielder is dead,” he said bravely.

  Eamon was crushed. Was there nothing but death in the city of Dunthruik?

  “How could this happen?” he whispered.

  Manners had no answer for him. “I do not know, my lord,” he said. He drew a deep breath. “Captain Waite is looking into the matter, as is Lord Cathair, I believe. The architects maintain that there was no fault with the lodgings…” He trailed off, then looked up again. “Captain Waite needs to maintain college numbers and could not siphon any other man from any of the regional units stationed in the West. He asked me to assume lieutenant duties. He has no one else, my lord.”

  Eamon stared at him. If Manners had “assumed”…

  “Then…” he paused. “You’re not sworn?”

  “No,” Manners answered and a small smile touched his face. “My record still precludes that, I fear.”

  Relief flooded through Eamon. “I am glad, Lieutenant Manners,” he whispered. He could have embraced the lieutenant with joy but had the sense to restrain himself. “I cannot tell you how glad.” He drew a deep breath. “Mr Manners…” he began.

  Manners cast a glance across to the workers. Following his glance, Eamon saw Lord Dehelt on the quay. The North Quarter Hand saw them and approached.

  “Lord Goodman,” he said, bowing.

  Eamon swallowed down the words that he had meant to speak to Manners. “Lord Dehelt.”

  “The new grain edict comes at your insistence?” Dehelt asked quietly.

  Eamon met his gaze. “Yes,” he answered. There was no use in denying it.

  “The city shall tighten its belt,” Dehelt mused. Suddenly he looked at Eamon and smiled. “This edict was long overdue, Lord Goodman,” Dehelt said and bowed his head. “The North thanks you for it.”

  Eamon stared at him, bereft of words. Bowing once more, Dehelt excused himself and moved along the quay. He soon joined a group of merchants at the waterfront and began to speak with them.

  Eamon watched him go, feeling fear and joy clashing in him. Manners turned to him. When Eamon met the lieutenant’s gaze he saw fire in the young man’s eyes.

  “Courage, Lord Goodman,” he said. Then Manners bowed and returned to his work.

  Returning along the Coll towards the palace, Eamon felt strangely lightheaded. His grief at the news of the college collapse was immense; he could only imagine how Waite was handling the matter. To keep the West encouraged in the face of such a bizarre disaster would be no easy task. But in the great bustle of men in Dunthruik, he supposed the city would count them only as numbers that could not be fielded at battle. What mattered to the quarter was maintaining its parade strength.

  Against all odds Manners was safe – and he was not sworn. And Dehelt… he raised one hand to his head as he thought once again of the Hand’s words. Dehelt had confidence in him. Both were sparks of hope, small glimmers as of the spring sun rising against the dark wall of the world. They spoke quietly to him of things he had forgotten.

  Holding to the King was not simply about maintaining a grip, as a quarter sought to maintain its numbers, nor maintaining it so harshly that soon what was sought diminished and slipped from the man who grasped it. Holding fast to the King was about fearless, just, and loving service. They were things that Edelred could never command from him.

  As he rode he caught sight of the high roof of the Crown Theatre, closed like the petals of a flower. With a start he remembered that he was its patron and had not yet appeared there, though the Master had encouraged him to. To know of his authority over the place and look at the tall walls, the eagled gates, and the splendid doors… was an odd feeling.

  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 thea
tre, 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:

  Star beam of the heavens deep,

  Star-song strong and star-fire sweet,

  Rising, shining, ever true,

  Light these stones and make them new!

  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 a
nd 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:

  As roses smell their sweetest after rain

  So is your love, so deep and high and wide,

  Most dear when all my other comforts wane,

  And to my errant heart both staff and guide.

  For snares have bound me like a coiling chain

  A storm o’erwhelms me as a wrathful tide

  And yet the thorn reminds me in my pain

  You too have suffered and have been denied.

  So when I see the rose I cast aside

  The treasures, empty riches, I have stored,

  What place have I for boldness or for pride

  When I behold your crimson robe, my lord?

  Pray have compassion in your mercies vast,

  Turn not your ear from this my earnest plea:

  Though faithless once, now faithful to the last,

  I’ll wait beyond the wilting of the tree.

  Come forth! Let me behold your shining mast

  And carry me across the friendless sea!

  Exiled I am in homelands of my past

  For I am dead to them and they to me.

  Bound in your arms of love I shall be free

  And give you all I have; then my reward,

  My highest joy and only boast shall be

  That I am yours alone, my love, my lord.

  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.