The Dramatist

Chapter 1 - The glory of the archon

It was a day of rejoicing that mingled with its night the shouts and laughter of a populace whose breath had not run through the streets of the capital for many months, those even before the long winter. Everywhere children were feeding on sweets, without the eye of their parents who were too distracted and drunk to prevent their petty theft. The days of deprivation were over and the return to rest of the Goddess, the outraged Mute who had made the winter so long and terrible, was celebrated. With the return of the grain in the silos of Isthmoseol, the archon Irremene, the highest magistrate of the capital and a very influential member of the Cult to the Goddess, had organized this great feast of abundance where people sang, drank and shouted in the streets. It was especially in front of the great hotel of commerce, the highest point of the city which threw its shadow on the lake, below the cliff, that the crowd gathered. The archon, it was said, had ordered a play from the Puisatier and his troupe. Fires lit up the black sky with silver edges and a dark mask, invisible in the gloom, stood at center stage. The children gasped, the adults sighed, and every word of this introducer was punctuated by a thousand lights that made the stage look like a coliseum and the audience feel like dwarves. Many here had seen the troupe perform in their theater deep in the suburbs, but no one had ever seen such a display of grandeur, color, light shows, and fireworks that delighted all hearts. With a common gesture, one mourned the death of the heroine, one shouted against her assassin and one celebrated Time, the only allegory, which, under the glance of the mask survived the play. And, from behind his balcony, sitting in the shadows like a monarch on his throne, as a spectator overlooking the scene, Irrémène was happy. The archon had financed the show, allowed it to be put on, and behind the song of history, it was a praise to his action that was celebrated. He was a man of faith, of art but above all, of politics. It was his decrees that put an end to the famine. The spoliation of the great exchange houses, banks and creditors of Isthmoseol, in the name of the common good, had given the peasantry a breathing space in the face of archaic repayment and taxation systems. The granaries had been modernized, large warehouses built. Less waste, less pressure on the peasants and soon bread was coming out of the ovens, the food cycle was resumed and the cheeks of the populace ceased to be emaciated.

"The feast of plenty will be an annual feast that celebrates the sleep of her who howled from our stomachs," the prelate murmured to himself, watching the shadows of the crowd dance at the torches. Goddess, your servant is grateful and your sleep is blessed."

The quietist branch of the religious order had done so much to try to silence the reformist impulses of Irremene. Too much uproar, too much noise, too much godlessness. Surely the Mute would be awake.

"That's one interpretation," Irrémène muttered as she gazed from her full height at the shadows of the monks of that radical order, who, amidst the festivities, were protesting the opulence and orgiastic follies of the people of Isthmoseol. "The first spiritual manifestation of our impiety is not in laughter and song but in the last breath of a lonely child who dies with his hand on his stomach."

He raised his glass to the quietists, who, jostled by the crowd, were already disappearing, muttering their deadly imprecations. He had used them to become an archon. He did not need them to remain one. Soon, Irrémène would walk on the balcony and the people would listen to him praising their humility, their efforts. He would celebrate so many months of constraint, of suffering and the just reward of the pitiless Goddess, who knows how to close her eyes when her people bend to her will. Their happiness was the happiness of the sleeping Goddess and it was not a privilege, it was divine justice. An act of justice. Justice. He would insist on this word a lot.

And while Irremene let the honey of her words intoxicate the streets, there was congratulation behind the scenes, and behind one of the sixteen columns of the entrance to the Hotel du Commerce, the mask found a dignitary. The man was middle-aged, wore a grey goatee, skilfully groomed and with the vanity that befits a nobleman. He was dressed in yellow and azure striped robes that mixed the colors of the Third of the Triumvirate and those of the House of Engal, the historical patrons of the Puisatier troupe. The mask bowed to the man who clapped his two large leather gauntlets.

"Master Deltor, allow me to congratulate you. This play was exquisite and the success is great.
- Duke," said the mask in a purring voice, "it is a pleasure to see that you have been faithful to our appointment. Your wife?
- My wife is always upset that your master has been unfaithful. In one way, I understand her, in another, it's your business and we belong to a faction where, normally, one knows how to pay more when there is a need to enjoy exclusivity."

The duke's piercing eyes pierced through the black mask of Mrokhir Deltor, who did not flinch. He shrugged his shoulders and said:

"I don't want to know what means the archon may have used to convince your master to write his most ambitious play. Debt has never been a concern of Lord Irremene, and at least he is not stingy like the other minions of the Second.
- It was a one-time order, says Mrokhir, from behind his mask, the Duchess of Engal knows the esteem in which Leander holds her, but even knowing of this party, she did not come forward.
- Rightly so, it seems to me. Even for free people like us, this profusion of means, food and wine seems indecent. We would have liked to save you from it by leaving you on the side of the spectators.
- And deprive us of the opportunity to shine? You don't know Leander very well.
- Your master, Leander, the Puisatier. I thought him more measured, more modest. A man of ideas more than showmanship. Tell me Master Deltor... What has changed?

Mrokhir remained silent. Then, slowly, he removed his mask. The duke turned pale, took out a handkerchief and passed it over his nose. This face was only reconstructed flesh, deformed lips, pale and without hair. Only two green eyes shining with a terrible gleam seemed to animate this figure. Mrokhir said:

"Do not look away, Duke. Leander and I had some scores to settle with the Mute before he became the Puisatier and I the Mask. You don't get told in the warmth of your palaces what the Quietist monks do to country children and stateless people."

Mrokhir put his expressionless black mask back on his face:

"Nothing has changed. We just came across a man of faith who had an interpretation of the texts that allowed for a concordance between the sleep of the Mute and the happiness of the human race.
- Do you think that Irremene is a man of faith, Master Deltor? That he is not an upstart who thinks only of power?
- Look at the facts, duke," said Mrokhir, reaching out to the city lights that snaked up and down to the port. The famine is over, there is jubilation and the people are happy. Actions have followed words. The people love the archon.
- The people love the Mute. Irremene is not stupid. He knows that none of the members of the Triumvirate likes to be overshadowed by one of their subjects. Every one of his deeds is turned towards the Goddess. Thus, he keeps his power and the people are submissive.
- You have little faith in men, duke.
- Faith? The people, even if they are in the streets, have never been so pious since the archon told them that the Goddess is just and that it is thanks to her and not to their labor that they had succeeded. I am a man of the Third, Master Deltor, a materialist. Work, money, do not betray and make men less zealous. They satisfy, they disappoint, but one knows what to expect. The mute, forgive my blasphemy, is not a value on which one can base predictions. What do you think will happen if our Goddess suddenly decides to wake up and become capricious again?
- The answer is simple, Duke. Neither I nor Leander believe in the Mute, and we both find that Irremenes uses her name very well."

The duke, shrugged, annoyed and turned on his heels to return to the hotel of commerce. Mrokhir held him back and said:

"Tell the Duchess that Leander is angry at having shaded her. To beg her forgiveness, Mahïk will be at her house tomorrow to paint her portrait. He requires no other compensation than to obtain an audience with her in order to regain her trust."

The duke stopped and turned around, his eye dark. He finally nodded:

"That's good. The Puisatier's daughter is always welcome with us. However, she will receive her wages. We are not yet beggars."

They greeted each other and Mrokhir returned to the stage where only a few remnants of scenery remained, while the troupe was already singing its cheers of the success of the performance. Neither Mahïk nor Leander were present. He was claimed and sung in his honor as onlookers entered through the curtains to ask the troupe questions about the sets and pyrotechnic effects. Mrokhir grumbled; having noble patrons taught you the art of responsiveness, and whimsy was one of their luxuries that should not be disappointed. And since the Puisatier was not present in person, it was to the Mask that the glass was raised. These good fellows, these suburban cutthroats, this band of bandits, scoundrels, rejects, they had put them out of their misery, Leander and him. They had made them into a group of loyal people, and by offering them a roof over their heads, money and words, they had given not only a meaning to their lives but above all, a quest that he and his dear friend had always sought: beauty.