In Hrumma, "ladies" were not necessarily "lady-like." Its noblewomen felt no class compulsion to be driven in a carriage, and Juliassa Hanorissia was far more likely to do her traveling in the saddle or, for short distances, afoot. As was her aunt and newly-appointed chaperone, Torissia Korillias, who was only six years older than the namirrna, though somewhat more decorous.
But to take Brokols to the theater, even a bare half-mile from the palace, it seemed to Juliassa that a carriage was more appropriate.
"Do they have theaters in Almeon?" she asked as they drove down a stone-paved street.
He smiled. "Of course. We're not totally uncivilized."
"What are your plays about?"
He shrugged. "Historical events." What else would plays be about? "Kings and crises, mainly," he elaborated. One popped into his mind, but he was not about to mention it: The hunting and capture of the infamous "Contemptible Darmol," a Kelthian "holy man" who'd slunk from village to village on Kelthos, being hidden by the people and preaching religion. General Falthis had finally been forced to a distasteful but necessary extreme—he'd held a village hostage and prepared to kill its children one by one. Darmol had given himself up then and been beheaded in the square in the play's final scene, babbling idiocies until almost the last minute.
It hadn't been the final act in the historical reality, Brokols knew. The execution had triggered the last serious revolution in Almeon. The Kelthians had never recovered from their punishment: to this day they were sullen and worthless, and Brokols wondered if separating the man's head from his shoulders had been worth it. Certainly religion here didn't seem especially noxious, or noxious at all, though perhaps on Kelthos it had been.
"We have historical plays too," Juliassa was saying. "But the one today is a romantic comedy. To make people laugh."
"Hmh! That'll be quite a novelty for me, a play written to make people laugh."
The carriage stopped, and the footman climbed down to open the door for them and help them dismount. The theater was at one end of the park where he'd attended Festival. There was a shallow bowl-like depression, terraced with steps green with grass, a wide paved oval at one side as a stage. Silvery curtains, patterned with gold, hung behind it to conceal the waiting players. Facing it on the sloping sides, occupying the steps, were curved concrete benches in 120° arcs, spaced well apart on contours. They might have held a thousand, but just now they were little more than half full, and he wondered if many spectators would come late, as so many were inclined to do in Larvis Royal. It was a business day though; that may have been it.
The royal party started down one of the aisles carrying their own cushions, as was the custom, the namirrna and Brokols leading, Reeno and Torissia following. The crowd was chattering and laughing, a light and pleasant sound, Brokols thought. As he and Juliassa passed the first few arcs of benches though, the sound faded.
Then someone shouted, the words somehow failing to register on Brokols. A second, close at hand, reached him with a shock.
"Foreigner go home!" It was picked up quickly, growing, taking on a unity. Near the foot of the aisle, Juliassa stopped, at first not turning. It was a chant now: "Foreigner go home! Foreigner go home! Foreigner go home!" His hair crawled at the sound. She did turn then, face at first bewildered and shocked but stiffening quickly into anger. Sensing her reaction, their effect, the crowd shouted louder: "Foreigner go home! Foreigner go home!" Gripping Brokols' sleeve, she started back up the aisle, striding now, Reeno and Torissia separating to let them pass, then closing to follow.
"Foreigner go home! Foreigner go home! Foreigner go home!" The chants followed them out of the bowl and into the carriage. Actually, the shouting didn't bother Brokols that much, after the original shock. He could understand it. But he almost cringed at what it had done to Juliassa. Tears of rage rolled down her cheeks. As they drove away, the chant began to break, to be replaced by a cheer, the last sound they heard from the theater.
Inside the carriage, the atmosphere was like a block of ice. No one spoke; one scarcely looked at another. The driver drove into the palace grounds and let them out at the main entrance. Brokols took Juliassa's hands and turned her to face him.
"Namirrna," he said, "it is best for you, and certainly for the amirr, if we do not see one another again. At least until this"—he gestured as if to indicate the theater crowd—"until this situation is over."
"No!" she cried, and stamped her foot. "I will not be dictated to by a crowd of ignorant fools!"
For a moment she glared at him, then abruptly her anger was gone. "I'm sorry, Elver," she said quietly, and putting her arms around the startled Brokols, kissed him on the mouth, ignoring her staring chaperone and the bemused Venreeno. Then she stepped back from him.
"You are wiser than I," she said, then added, "this time anyway." She grinned, taking him further by surprise. "And we will not attend another public function for now. In a little while this 'situation' will be over. Father told mother and me a little of what you're doing; it's why he agreed to let me see you today. And I can help you in your work! You'll see! I've often worked with Aunt Zeenia; it's been a condition of my staying with her. I've even helped pull a calf from a gleebor in difficult labor!"
He was overwhelmed by this girl, this not much more than child, it seemed to him. They talked for a minute or two more, then she had the carriage take him and Reeno home.