They went back through carnival-crowded streets to their hotel, where the Commander, his daughter, and the young subaltern met them for an evening meal. By the time they finished eating, the streets had cleared a little, and they walked among a cluster of guards the short distance to the concert hall. Their place was at the side of the orchestra, at the same level, in comfortable chairs, two rows of three each, separated from the performance platform and the rest of the audience by a low, gilded railing. At their left was another, similar enclosure.
“The Queen will sit there,” the Commander said, pointing to a larger enclosure directly opposite the place they sat. The great lacquered and inlaid Gharm-harp stood between where they were and where the Queen would be, with the chairs of the orchestra arranged in a crescent to the right of it.
Saturday peered at the platform, a little giddy from the unaccustomed wine she had drunk at dinner. It seemed abandoned rather than expectant. The chairs were empty, the music stages turned off so that their lightless frameworks stood like angular skeletons. It was like a battlefield on which an army had fought and been vanquished, leaving only bones. Not a pleasant mental picture. She turned resolutely toward the audience. There, among people, was movement and life. She kept her attention on the movement, on the chatter, on the laughter.
Beside her, Maire watched her with a slightly troubled frown. “Are you all right?” she asked.
“Things keep pushing in,” whispered Saturday. “But Fm keeping them out.”
Maire squeezed her hand. Oh, yes. Things did indeed keep pushing in.
“We are being greatly honored,” said Eline. “These seats are always reserved for the Queen’s guests. I’ve never been so close to the stage. Usually I sit up there with my friends,” and she gestured toward the heavens. “Way up, where the students sit.”
High above them faces seemed to cluster against the ceiling like fruits on a tree, pale blobs, mouths opening and shutting among the rustle and flutter of paper programs.
“For this special occasion, the Queen ordered programs printed upon fine paper,” said the Commander, passing to each of them a folder with a golden cord and tassels and the great seal of Ahabar on the front. “They are to serve as souvenirs of the occasion.”
Sam was between the Commander and the subaltern in the back row, behind the women. Since afternoon, when the subaltern had taken him shopping, he had been delighting in the joyous hubbub of Ahabar. People everywhere. Vehicles everywhere. Laughter and music and
plauded. The conductor bowed as the orchestra settled itself. A door at the back of the Queen’s section opened, and Queen Wilhulmia was suddenly before them, standing between her two sons, her hands raised, smiling broadly. The audience cheered as it stood, the orchestra played the royal anthem, everyone sang. Then everyone sat down again, rustling, the lights dimmed, and Stenta Thilion came onto the stage.
How tiny she was. Like a child, and yet with nothing childish in her manner. Her walk was dignified, her face calm. Her dress glittered, throwing light into every corner of the hall. Her sleeves were deep banners that folded on the floor when she bowed to the Queen, then unfolded into glorious flags when she held out her arms and looked up, up at the highest seats, against the ceiling, where there were Gharm gathered by the hundreds, cheering.
They cheered, the audience cheered, applauded, Stenta Thilion bowed again, the deep sleeves falling in graceful folds upon the floor.
Silence then. She sat at the harp and held out her arms to either side, a beautifully theatrical gesture. A dark-clad attendant came in and unfastened the sleeves, folded them slowly, carried them away. Now people could see Stenta’s slender arms clad in scarlet silk, her gemmed bracelets, the narrow, long-fingered hands. She smiled at the conductor and nodded her head.
And began magic.
There was not a sound in the hall except the sound of music. There was not a cough, not a whisper, not the sound of a shoe scuffing against the floor. The audience sat as though enchanted.
The opening movement began, light as wind. Stenta’s hands and arms moved delicately, swiftly. The wind stopped and something slower, more somber began. Stenta’s foot went down, and augmented bass notes marched into the hall, an army, an army with the wind following, blowing it along.
A murmur went through the audience, a sigh of appreciation. Those who knew harp music knew what she had just done was impossible. Those who did not know harp music knew what she had done was beautiful. The Queen was leaning forward, her elbow on the railing, her hand supporting her head, unconscious of the royal dignity, her face soft.
The bass notes again, a horn announced a new theme.
I know that, Saturday thought. That’s a song Maire taught me. It was a battle hymn, martial and rousing.
The theme built toward a climax. The drums began. The horns in chorus, carefully, not for one moment drowning out the harp. A red-clad man picked up the great brass cymbals and held them above his head. Light danced across them, shivering.
The music built, and built, the cymbals shivered, and at last the climax came as they struck together with a great, brazen sound …
People rising, screaming, crying out at what they saw upon the stage. Maire breathed a word and was over the railing, running toward the tiny woman, the tiny woman who held out her arms and watched the blood fountaining from her wrists, the tiny woman who suddenly had no hands.
The Commander followed Maire. The Queen had been pulled out of her seat and drawn back through the door by watchful guards. The hall was on its feet, beginning to scream, beginning to flee. Maire turned toward Saturday and shouted for her to come, and Saturday was running, listening, the conductor was there, nodding, shouting to his
