Piol had written better poetry, Eleal thought, but she had never heard any of it better spoken, and in a fine Joalian accent, too:
Of what may sometimes be...
And so on, in forty or fifty lines of rousing verse. It built to a satisfying climax with a local Sussian reference or two. All the time old Trong was recovering, rising with the poetry—to his knees, to one knee, until at the end he was erect and defiant, brandishing his sword at the stars and roaring out an echo of the final line, inspired to die bravely.
The audience was on its feet also. The hollow rang with cheers. D'ward had to come out again and repeat the entire thing twice. Then he and Trong had to take a special bow, while the audience screamed hysterically and threw gold coins.
Never had Eleal seen such a triumph! Later she limped around through the crowd with a bowl. Money clinked into it like rain until it became unpleasantly heavy. The others’ bowls were filling up as well. She saw smiling faces everywhere. There was a huge throng around D'ward—mostly women, she was annoyed to notice—and she hoped he was managing the conversation successfully. Probably none of it was very subtle. She could not even get close to him.
Eventually she sidled up to Trong, to hear what was being said by all the admiring citizens clustered around him. Many of them were old friends she recognized from past years, who might have a kind word to say about her own debut. One of the others was an ancient priest from the temple, conspicuous in his splendid yellow robe. He seemed to be somebody special, for everyone was deferring to him.
Then Klip came lounging by, empty-handed.
"Here!” she said, thrusting the weighty bowl at him. “Some more loot!"
Klip whistled as he took it. “You've done well, Eleal!"
The old priest turned around. “Eleal? Is your name Eleal, my daughter?"
She curtsied. “I am Eleal Singer, Your Holiness. You heard me earlier, in my role as the gods’ messenger. I have an onstage part in our other play where I—"
He must have sharp ears to have overheard Klip. He had very sharp eyes, too. His hair was silver, his shaven, wizened face had a snowy texture. “And this remarkable young actor we witnessed this evening ... D'ward?"
"D'ward ... Scholar, Your Holiness.” Staring into that needling gaze, she felt a sudden uneasiness. “He's from Rinoovale."
"Is he, indeed?” The old man glanced around at his companions. “Excuse us a moment.” He laid a spidery hand on Eleal's shoulder and urged her back a few paces, away from onlookers. He bent over, putting his face very close to hers, and he smiled in a grandfatherly sort of way. “There is an Eleal mentioned in the Filoby Testament. There is a D'ward mentioned there, too. What can you tell us about this strange coincidence, child?"
CURTAIN
57
EDWARD WAS SCREWED—SCAMMERED, CORNED, FRIED, paralyzed, and plastered. Intoxicated, in other words. He had not been drinking. First there had been that explosion of adulation from the audience. Now he had been backed against a bush with worse thorns than a wait-a-bit by a gaggle of gabbling, animated women. Some of them were old enough to be his mother; some of them weren't. Some of them couldn't keep their hands off him; some of them weren't. He wasn't wearing much more than a lace doily and terrible things were starting to happen. “Thank you, thank you, that's very kind of you, well, I'd love to, but...” They kept peppering him with invitations to parties, dinners, dances until his head spun—he thought he'd already accepted at least three for Thighday. And somewhere deep down inside, under all the fizz, if he could only have an instant to think about it, lurked the certainty that he'd made an epochal blunder.
Rescue arrived in the shape of old Trong, who came barging into the melee, thundering apologies while parting the crowd like a charging bull. Assisting him was Ambria. Behind them came a bent, elderly man in sumptuous gold vestments. The admirers fell back.
"Here he is, Your Holiness!” Ambria declaimed. “D'ward Scholar. D'ward, we are greatly honored by the presence here tonight of the Holy Kirthien Archpriest.” Ambria was never serene, but she seemed more genuinely agitated now than he had ever seen her—why?
Having no idea how to greet a senior clergyman in Sussland, Edward merely bowed low. When he straightened up and saw the razor glint of mind in the age-ravaged face, his head cleared with a rush. Epochal blunder! And there was Eleal, at the old man's side. She was so flushed that her face looked fevered in the firelight; she was hopping up and down on the grass, up and down, up and down ... Worse than epochal?
A word from the Archpriest worked wonders. Trong and Ambria shepherded the spectators back, aided by a couple of younger, lesser clerics. Edward was left alone with Kirthien Archpriest and Eleal. Sweat dried cold all over him.
"D'ward Scholar?” the old man murmured. “That is, of course, merely your stage name?” His withered lips wore a smile, but his eyes were as deadly as snakes'.
"It is, er, Your Holiness. I have reasons for not divulging my identity.” He took another glance at the effervescing Eleal and knew that she had blown the gaff. She was precocious, but she would be no match for that sly Kirthien.
The priest chuckled softly. “Your performance tonight was a revelation to us, my son."
"Er, thank you, Your Holiness.” Oh, damn! damn! damn! Why had he ever been such an idiot?
"Such virtuosity can only be a blessing from the Lord of Art.” Kirthien was playing with his prey. “It behooves you to give thanks to him in person, my son. You have visited his temple recently?"
Edward stammered. “I do intend to go there ... come ... very shortly. Tomorrow, or ... Soon ... Thighday?"
"You will be welcome to ride back with us in our carriage—now."
That was an order.
"Er..."
"Oh, yes, D'ward!” Eleal cried, clutching at his hand. “You must come and give thanks to Tion and he will cure my leg!"
"What?"
"His Holiness says so!” She was beside herself with excitement and hope, terrified that he would not cooperate.
Kirthien tut-tutted. “Now, child! I made no promises! I merely said that I thought there was an excellent chance that the noble god would look with favor upon you for your assistance to the Liberator."
"Please, D'ward! Please? Oh, please!"
"I must change just a minute excuse me I will be back directly...” Edward ran.
He dodged past more of his starry-eyed admirers and hurried along the path to the shack that served as the men's dressing room, as fast as he dared go in bare feet.
Why had he been such a muggins? He should never have taken part in the play. It had felt like a way of repaying the troupe's kindness to him, even good camouflage, making him seem like one of them. He had not intended to create a sensation. The audience's enthusiasm had struck him in a tidal wave and swept him away. A rank novice had upstaged Trong Impresario, an old trouper with considerable talent and more than thirty years’ experience—but only because that novice had the charisma of a stranger. Did the old priest know of that vital distinction, or had he merely made a shrewd guess? It didn't matter now, because he had obviously extracted the truth from Eleal.