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As Vëandur listened to his great-uncle's rapid discourse on his troubles as Master of Revels, he couldn't help thinking that the old man was right: much of the problem did lay upon his own shoulders.
Why would he assume the King wanted the actors to fail? If the King didn't want them, Vëandur mused, why would they have been allowed to come? And had he really thought dismissing the old carpenter was fair, or helpful?
Vëandur was quickly coming to the conclusion that his newly found kinsman was a man who lived for his office, for prestige, and for order, and that he thought those Players were somehow a threat to all those things. Why? At the end of the day a job was a job, and one had to take the bitter with the sweet. Vëandur had certainly had occasion to learn that truth.
The smoky plumes ahead of them grew as they rode swiftly toward them. What in the name of Ossë was going on now? Vëandur had not considered before that seafaring was a peaceful life, but this madness he had stumbled upon in the Capital gave him a new appreciation of the pleasure of being at Sea, away from these political intrigues and fancies of the highborn.
"Well, my uncle, I would say this: I see not why the tide cannot be turned. Could you not take back the carpenter into your employ? It may gain you some trust with the Players, and I think you must have that first."
Vëandur paused, as Cirdacil slowed his steed. They must be nearly there.
"Then," he went on, "it seems these Players need a place where they can practice their art in peace, and yet be under your guidance. Could they be housed in some other place, where the perils of drink and distraction may be checked? Maybe you could take them into your own house, lord. I know it seems a horrible intrusion, but I think it could help, and the King might look upon it as a token of your earnestness to see his will in this matter carried out."
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