Point of Dreams

Melissa Scott and Lisa A. Barnett

" Point Of Dreams: the second pointsman book ."

Points of Dreams

1

Philip Eslingen settled himself more comfortably on the padded stool, watching as the woman seated opposite made the final adjustments to her orrery. It was a standing orrery, tiny bronze planets moving on bronze orbits against a silver‑washed zodiac, and in spite of himself he shivered at the memory of another similar machine. But that one had been gold, the peculiarly vivid gold of aurichalcum, not solid, reputable bronze, and in any case, it was long gone, consumed by the power it had contained. This was just another astrologer’s tool, though no one would be foolish enough to call Sibilla Meening just another astrologer. She had a name in Point of Dreams, was revered by those actors rich enough to consult her, and feared by the ones who were poor enough to believe that she advised sharers on casting. Caiazzo’s household knew of her, too, and spoke well of her, even Denizard, which was what had finally induced him to part with five seillings–half a week’s wages–when he was about to lose his place and should be saving every demming. At second glance, he was less sure he’d been wise–the consulting room was a little too lavish, too much like a stage set of an astrologer’s room, lined with books and leather cylinders that could only hold scrolls, preferably rotting and mysterious, and Meening herself was portentous in the most formal of university robes, the enormous sleeves held back with gold pins in the shape of a scallop shell, a pearl poised carefully in each fan. Not the symbol Eslingen would have expected–the Starsmith was the usual patron of astrologers, not Oriane–but probably reassuring for the players and musicians and occasional slumming nobles who were her patrons.

“So, Lieutenant Eslingen,” Meening said, and Eslingen jerked himself back to the present.

“Magist.” He had no idea if she was actually a magist as well as an astrologer, but from the look of the room, it would do him no harm to assume the higher rank.

Meening smiled, and shook her head. “I’m only an astrologer, Lieutenant.”

“ ‘Only’?” Eslingen repeated. “I’ve never heard that word applied to you, madame.”

Meening blinked once, and then, unexpectedly, grinned. “Gavi warned me about you.”

Eslingen blinked in his turn, and allowed himself a rueful smile. “Of course you know Gavi.”

“And, forgive me,” Meening said, “but there’s not an astrologer in the city who doesn’t remember the names of the men who rescued the children not six months past. There’s no need to flatter me like some stumbling bit player who wants a lower fee.”

“My apologies.”

Meening nodded. “Now, are you familiar with astrological terms?”

“I read the broadsheets,” Eslingen said. Beneath the paint and the elaborate gown, he saw, too late, that she was sharply amused. “I’ve even read some of yours.”

Deliberately, he added nothing more, and Meening dipped her head, acknowledging the hit. “Then you’re aware of the current circumstances.”

“It’s ghost‑tide,” Eslingen said, and suppressed a shudder that he was sure she recognized. No soldier liked to think of his ghosts coming back to haunt him, no matter how benign.

“That certainly. The sun is in the Mother, and the moon is in opposition. That is the ghost‑tide.” She paused. “Anything more?”

Eslingen spread his hands. “Madame, I’ve come to you for guidance.”

“And you say you read my broadsheets.” The mockery was back in her voice, but only briefly. “Very well. In general, then, and then particulars.” She reached out, tapped the orrery gently, making the planets shiver in their courses. “In general, Lieutenant, there are only two planets in a day house, the moon and Seidos, both in the Maiden–the planet of the private person and the planet of tradition both in the house of finance, liberty, and the individual household. That’s good so far as it goes, but all the other planets are in the night houses, the interior world, impulse and intuition, largely unbridled, and their aspects drown this good influence. The sun is largely unaspected, and the aspects that do exist, a triple conjunction and a powerful opposition, tend to cancel each other out. The individual is without direction, particularly in regard to public, everyday affairs. And there is a four‑way conjunction”–she reached across the narrow table to turn the orrery on its carved stone base, so that the tangle of planets was obvious–“here, with the Winter‑Sun, Tyrseis, Sofia, and Oriane, that overbalances everything. That places the Winter‑Sun, planet of transitions and changes, together with the heedless fortune and fertility of Oriane, Tyrseis the trickster, and a retrograde Sofia–justice unblinded, seeing all too clearly–in the Sea‑bull, one of its exaltations, the sign of fertile chaos: this is an overwhelming desire to take chances, to gamble, to find a cause to back, a passion to pursue to the point of obsession. It’s also in sextile with Heira– the planet of contracts in the house of secrets and hidden treasures– which just encourages this folly. More, it’s in quincunx with Metenere, which suggests that these gambles and passions will be fruitless, but that’s the only negative aspect to the Winter‑Sun. It’s not usually this unaspected.”

She paused, considering, then turned the orrery again. “This also. The Homestar is in the Dolphin, the house of divine discontent, and it squares Oriane, which is in its exaltation. Again, the individual is without direction. Areton squares the moon: action will be difficult. In general, Lieutenant, Astreiant is primed for folly.”

“What sort of folly?” Eslingen asked.

“Ah.” Meening gave her thin smile again. “I thought you wanted a personal reading.”

“I should think it would have some bearing on my personal follies,” Eslingen answered, and Meening laughed.

“True enough. Have you seen The Drowned Island?”

Eslingen blinked, thinking for a second that it was a change of subject–that play had held the interest of almost everyone in Astreiant, from apprentice to merchants resident to the nobles in the Western Reach for almost two months now, unprecedented time, and he had not been able to understand the cause–then tipped his head to one side, considering. “You’re a critic, madame.”

“I’ve lived in Point of Dreams all my life, Lieutenant. The stars would have to be in a unique configuration before that piece of tripe could catch the imagination of the city. No offense to Gavi, of course.”

“Of course,” Eslingen echoed. Gavi Jhirassi played the lead, and was making a tidy profit from it, by all accounts. I’ll have to tell Nico, he thought. Maybe it would make him feel better about the play.

“And that’s only the beginning,” Meening said. “I’ll tell you that for free. There’s a folly coming that will make The Drowned Islandand its followers look like the wisest of women.”

I’ve read that broadsheet, Eslingen thought, suddenly. He’d bought it only a few days ago, and, yes, it had borne Meening’s name, though he’d been told often enough that mere names meant nothing to the printers, that it was common practice to attach a more popular name to an unknown work. The writer–Meening in truth, it seemed–had predicted foolishness to end all foolishness, and warned the wise to lock up their purses and their hearts until the storm had passed. In retrospect, it didn’t seem to be a good omen.

“And now the personal,” Meening said. She reached for a flat orrery, already set to mimic the stars of Eslingen’s birth. “It’s a pity you don’t know your time more closely.”

“Yes.” Eslingen felt the stab of a familiar pain. His mother had had too many children by the time she’d borne him, and been too poor to pay a real midwife; she’d given birth with the help of a neighbor and her own oldest daughter, and no one had thought to check the nearest clock until the baby had been cleaned and swaddled.

Meening went on as though it hardly mattered. “Still, there’s enough for me to work with. In short, Lieutenant, you think you’ve been through some changes lately, personal and professional, but the greatest of them is yet to come. Your world is about to be turned sideways, and with Seidos still in the Maiden, you’ll be without your usual armor until it returns to the Horse. You’re not immune to the urge to gamble, but you’ll have less to lose than usual, so you would be well advised to be very wary.”

Eslingen drew a shaken breath–there were very few astrologers who’d give so blunt a reading–and Meening smiled as though she’d guessed his thought.

“I don’t see disaster, though there is always the potential for it, but a mistake now will waste time you will someday regret.”

“Is this my private life or my profession, madame?” Eslingen asked.

Meening glanced up, then bent her head to the orrery again, “Are you in love?”

What a very good question, particularly since I’m about to lose my job over it. “Honestly, madame, I–”

“You’d better decide then,” Meening said. She straightened in her chair, her eyes suddenly hard, and Eslingen knew then why the actors worshiped her. “Great changes are coming for you, Lieutenant. And great chances, too.”

Wonderful, Eslingen thought, but couldn’t muster his usual distance. “I have reason to believe that I’m about to lose my position,” he began, and Meening smiled.

“You will.”

“And then?”

“I told you. Your life will be turned sideways. I also see the threat of delays. So you will find another position, probably of comparable worth. I do warn you, you have less to lose right now, so I wouldn’t take any unnecessary chances. And don’t gamble. You will lose there.”

Eslingen hesitated, knowing he shouldn’t ask, but couldn’t stop himself. “This position that I’m going to find–”

“You expect much for five seillings,” Meening said.

“Madame–”

Meening held up her hand. “My apologies, Lieutenant, truly. I simply don’t know more than I’ve told you. Without better times, there’s nothing more I can do.”

Eslingen bowed his head in acknowledgment, swallowing an older anger, less at Meening than at his own careless mother. “Then I thank you for what you have done, madame.”

Meening lifted a hand in casual, infuriating dismissal, and Eslingen was reminded again of the actors who were her most avid patrons. “The best I could, Lieutenant. And remember, beware of folly.”

It was a long walk back to Customs Point, where Caiazzo kept his house, and the wind off the Sier carried a definite edge. Eslingen drew his coat tighter around his shoulders, glanced at the nearest clock tower, its face bright against the dull pewter clouds. Plenty of time, he thought, he wasn’t due until the evening meal, or it would be if he didn’t dawdle, but in spite of himself, in spite of knowing better, he found his steps slowing. He didn’t really want to go back to Caiazzo’s house, where everyone knew he was on sufferance, Caiazzo only waiting for the right moment to be rid of him. The streets in their own way were warmer, particularly in the pocket markets where candy‑sellers vied with the hot‑nuts women outside the doors of the more settled stores. Shop‑girls and respectable matrons stood in line for both, and the air was heavy with wood smoke and the sharp smell of the roasting nuts. There would be hot cider in the taverns, better than warmed beer on an autumn evening, and he wished, suddenly, that Rathe was there to share a glass with him. It would have been nice to talk over Meening’s reading with the pointsman, let him turn his southriver common sense loose on it, and hopefully talk him out of the mood that was settling into his bones. Not a bad mood, Eslingen thought, and not a bad feeling, just a melancholy as tart as the smoke‑tinged air, and he hesitated for an instant, almost ready to turn on his heel and walk back to Point of Dreams. Then his own common sense reasserted itself–it was too far, too impractical, and besides, it was still wise to be discreet, to give Caiazzo time to bring about whatever it was he was planning–and he joined the line in front of the nearest sweet‑seller instead. They sold soft sugar candies this time of year, molded in the shapes of castles and horses and–this year– The Drowned Island;he bought four running horses, honoring his birth sign, and paused to nibble one in the doorway of the nearest tavern. The sugar melted on his tongue, sweet with the faintest undertone of bitterness, the taste of autumn itself, and he glanced sideways to see the tavern suddenly crammed with figures. He blinked, startled–he would have sworn there had been only a pair of old men, drinking by the fire–and then recognized at least some few of the faces. Dead men, all of them, old friends and one or two old enemies, and even the winter lover he hadn’t thought of in at least ten years, lounging long‑legged against the mantelpiece, laughing with Contemine Laduri, handsome as he’d ever been before a ball smashed his face in some nameless town ten leagues from Altheim. Eslingen caught his breath, turning fully to the door, and the shades vanished again. It was just the ghost‑tide, he told himself, nothing more, but in spite of himself he stepped into the cool shadows, and was disappointed when they didn’t reappear. He made his way to the bar anyway, feeling the ghosts gathering again behind him, and the barmaid came to meet him with the faint lines of a frown between her brows. She was no maid, more likely a grandmother, and Eslingen forced a smile.

“Is there hot whiskey, dame?”

She nodded, slowly, her eyes fixed on the room behind him, and it was all Eslingen could do to keep from turning. “Ay, soldier. Three demmings.”

Eslingen produced the coins, laid them carefully on the knife‑scarred counter. “How’d you know I’d been a soldier?”

The old woman laughed, a cackle that stirred the old men at the fire to look curiously at them. “You brought your company with you.”

And so I did. Eslingen nodded, seeing them again at the edges of his sight–companionable, really, a company on the verge of going into winter quarters–and slowly felt himself relax a little. It was the ghost‑tide, that was all, the ghosts and his melancholy and maybe even his fears, just the stars turning, opening a brief door, letting the ghosts of the timely dead walk where usually only the untimely could, or did. And the violence of the deaths around him had nothing to do with untimeliness. They had accepted the possibility when they signed on. None of these shades meant ill.

He watched the old woman pour a thrifty dram from the stone bottle warming in its simmering pot, wrapped his long fingers around the thick clay as it warmed to his touch. The liquor smelled of cloves and allspice, and he lifted the glass to the empty room before he drained it. The old woman nodded, grim approval, and he set the glass back on the bar, feeling oddly better. He’d been dreading seeing his ghosts, he realized; at least these weren’t the ones he feared.

Nicolas Rathe hesitated at the top of the stair that led down to the main room of the station at Point of Dreams, ready to offer a hand to the tiny woman at his side. She smiled abstractedly, recognizing the thought, but made her own way down without hesitation, her heeled shoes tapping on the wood. Even with them, her head barely reached his shoulder, and he was merely of middling height himself. In the room below, he could see the duty points watching them sidelong, with barely concealed amusement, and he frowned down at them, willing them to keep silent. Every ghost‑tide–when the shades of the timely as well as the untimely dead made their presence felt, from the greatest to the least–brought people to the points, afraid that their mothers or rich aunts or neighbors had been murdered after all, and most of those could be dismissed as either honest error or hopeful greed. But this one… He suppressed the desire to shake his head, schooled his face to careful neutrality. Sohier, the duty point, had warned him when she escorted the woman up to his workroom: Every ghost‑tide, she said, every ghost‑tide Mistress Evaly comes to say she fears her sister who died last spring might have been murdered after all, and every year for all the four years I’ve been here, it’s been last spring the sister died. They had had the same thing in Point of Hopes, a seamstress whose daughter died in childbed still convinced the girl’s lover had murdered her and the baby, and all any pointsman could do was listen to the tale and send her home again as kindly as possible. He frowned at Leenderts, who seemed inclined to say something, and the younger man swallowed the words unspoken. At least that had been the policy in Point of Hopes; he would make sure it was followed in Point of Dreams as well.

He opened the station door, miming surprise at finding it fully dark outside. “Mistress, do you need company home?”

As he spoke, he let his eyes roam across the waiting points. He was still getting used to Point of Dreams, a lateral promotion if ever there was one, but he’d already learned whom he couldn’t trust with such a delicate task. Leenderts, for one, the man had the sensitivity of a cargo barge; but Sohier was clever, could handle it, and Amireau as well. Voillemin, the other adjunct point, would probably make a decent job of it, had learned his manners from a merchant‑resident mother, but the door to his workroom was closed.

Evaly looked startled by the offer, and pleased, but then flushed faintly, and shook her head. “Bless you, Adjunct Point, no, I know these streets well. I was born here, just three streets over, my sister and I, and grew up here. But it was a kind offer.”

Rathe nodded, stepped out into the darkness with her, intending at least to see her to the station gate, and she made no protest, her shoes loud on the cobbles. At the gate, she put her hand on his arm and looked up into his face, and Rathe could see that she must have been something like beautiful when she was younger, not breathtaking, but what his mother would call heart‑lovely. “My sister. She wasn’t murdered, was she, Adjunct Point?”

Rathe took a careful breath, not knowing quite what to make of the suddenly lucid question. “I don’t believe so, mistress, no. But I will look into it for you.”

“After all this time.” Evaly shook her head, not a hair out of place under her neat cap. “Six years, come spring. It’s just lovely to have her back, but I can’t talk to her. I need to talk to someone.”

“I understand.”

Her hand tightened briefly, and then she was gone. Rathe watched her to the corner, a grey shadow quickly lost in the growing dark, then shook his head, and went back into the main room. The air was warmer than it had been: someone, Sohier probably, had built up the fire in the third stove, and he was grateful for it.

“That was kind, Nico,” Sohier said with a glance at Leenderts, and Rathe shrugged.

“It wasn’t much. Not if it brings her comfort.”

From the skeptical look on Leenderts’s face, the younger man didn’t accept the lesson–didn’t see the point, probably, didn’t think it was the points’ job to bring comfort, only law, if that–and Rathe sighed. No man, no leman, no child, just the ghost of a beloved sister: no one should be left so utterly alone. And she probably wasn’t totally alone, probably had staff and servants, but he couldn’t shake the chill of it completely. The clock whirred and struck the quarter hour, and he turned to collect his coat from its hook between the stoves. Sohier held the daybook open for him, and he glanced quickly over the entries before initialing them.

“Oh, Adjunct Point.” Voillemin’s door had opened, and the other adjunct made his way to the worktable, turning the daybook so that he could read the entries.

Rathe bit back a frown–that was really the duty point’s job, not Voillemin’s, particularly when Voillemin had been so quick to hide himself when Mistress Evaly appeared–but swallowed his automatic reproof. He and Voillemin were technically equal in rank, and it was no secret that Voillemin thought he should have had Rathe’s job when the former Chief Point DeChaix retired. It behooved them both to tread warily until the station had gotten used to the change of regime. “What’s up?”

“Well, sir.” Voillemin’s tone was stiff, and Rathe sighed. Voillemin was young, that was all, he told himself, young to be even a junior adjunct–his mother’s properties in Dreams had earned him quick promotion under DeChaix–and both his youth and his connections meant he should have been stationed elsewhere. It wasn’t that he was a bad pointsman, or even merely, ordinarily, corrupt, it was just that he hadn’t ever had the chance to find his own feet, instead behaved as though points’ service was some great game, the rules of which he hadn’t quite learned yet. And he was equally uncertain about Rathe himself: he knew the story of the stolen children, knew that Rathe had been one of the heroes of the summer, but also knew that the man was commoner than most, southriver born and bred and a leveller like most of that sort, and the two did not sit well together in Voillemin’s eyes. Or at least not until The Drowned Islandhad opened, Rathe amended, and admitted to himself that this was one of his greatest grievances against the miserable play. He didn’t know which was worse, watching Voillemin deplore his background, or seeing him look at him wide‑eyed, like the apprentices clogging the Tyrseia’s pit.

“There are people to see you. They came while you were with Mistress Evaly. I had them wait in my workroom.”

From the tone, he was on the verge of making a grievance of it, too. Rathe waited, but nothing more seemed to be forthcoming. “And?”

Voillemin shifted. “It’s the necromancer, b’Estorr. With another man.”

“His proper title is magist,” Rathe said. “Or master. As in fellow of the university.”

Voillemin ignored the rebuke. “He said he needed to see you, even if it was the end of your day. So I said he could wait. I know you’re close.”

Not the way you mean it. Rathe bit back the words, said, “You may have need of his services someday yourself, Voillemin.”

The younger man’s eyes widened in something almost like horror, and Rathe wondered if the boy’s father was Chadroni or a Leaguer, that he was so nervous about necromancers. More likely his nurse filled him with tales, he thought, and managed to smile as he initialed the daybook. “Send the boy to fetch some tea,” he said aloud, and moved toward the door of Voillemin’s workroom.

Istre b’Estorr was waiting as promised, together with a slim, plain man in an advocat’s scarlet robe that hung open over a plain brown suit. He looked vaguely familiar, and Rathe hid a frown, trying to place the stranger. Nothing came, and he nodded to the magist.

“Evening, Istre. Hope you weren’t waiting long.”

b’Estorr gave him a preoccupied smile. “Not too long. I’m sorry we’re here so late. I hate to catch you just at the end of your day.”

“It’s not a problem,” Rathe answered. In spite of himself, he glanced at the stranger, and b’Estorr picked up smoothly on the cue.

“Nico, you know Advocat Holles?”

Of course. Rathe nodded, gave a bow. “By reputation, and through the intendant, of course.” Kurin Holles was an advocat in the court of Point of Hearts, and a good one, by rumor, but he was also the leman of the late intendant Bourtrou Leussi, one of the better judges that Rathe appeared before–and one of the chamberlains, too, though he had died before the masque could be chosen, and Rathe didn’t envy the intendant who inherited the task. He sighed, remembering the last time he had seen Leussi–after hours, at the intendant’s comfortable, unlavish house, discussing the proper response to a case of forged licenses. Holles had been there, too, he remembered, a shadow in warm amber, formal robes discarded for a dressing gown, glancing through a door to find his leman busy, and withdrawing as quietly as he’d appeared. Rathe doubted Leussi had known he’d been there, so intent had the other man been on the problem at hand.

“I was very sorry to hear about the intendant,” he said aloud. “I had the pleasure of working with him a number of times–one of the fairest I’ve ever known. I’ll miss him.”

Holles inclined his head, the gesture not hiding the pain in his eyes, and Rathe wondered if it would have been better not to mention the man. But it was ghost‑tide, and Leussi must be all too present to his grieving friend.

“Thank you, Adjunct Point–and my compliments on the promotion. Bourtrou was pleased to hear of it, he always felt you would advance…” Holles paused, took a breath. “Which is why I presumed on Magist b’Estorr for the introduction.”

Rathe looked at b’Estorr, a chill settling in the pit of his stomach, not helped by the crackling stove. “Let’s go upstairs,” he said, and the necromancer nodded.

Rathe led the way back up the stairs to his narrow workroom. The stove was banked for the night, but the runner who had refilled the teapot was already stirring the coals to new life. Rathe nodded his thanks, and waved the others to a seat as the runner shut the door again behind him. “I take it there’s a problem?”

“Yes.” b’Estorr glanced at Holles as though seeking permission, and the older man nodded.

“Better he hear it from you, Istre. You know the–ramifications– even better than I.”

b’Estorr nodded, his arms folded across his chest as though the cold had reached him, too, and Rathe didn’t bother to hide his frown. Chadron was a cold place; winter never seemed to bother b’Estorr, so this was something more.

“Nico, I know you get a lot of people coming to you during ghost‑tide, telling tales of murder where there’s no such thing.”

Rathe nodded, warily. “We just had such a one.”

“Whereas the presence of a ghost during ghost‑tide is a likelier confirmation of timely death, rather than untimely. Though it has been known.” b’Estorr’s voice was momentarily tutorial, but then he shook the story away. “What would you say the absence of a ghost would mean?”

“During ghost‑tide?”

“During ghost‑tide,” b’Estorr agreed.

Rathe shook his head in turn. “Advocat–you’ve not touched Leussi’s ghost?”

Holles shook his head once, his eyes closing briefly over some sorrow too private to share. “And the ghost‑tide is more than a week old, Adjunct Point. And we had been lemen for almost twenty years.”

“Dis Aidones.” Rathe paused, imagining the other’s pain–gods, if he were to lose Eslingen, without even that much comfort–then forced himself to think rationally. There were a few other explanations than the obvious, and he took a breath. “Forgive me, Advocat, but there are a few questions–”

“I understand.” Holles managed a brief smile. “But I can tell you that we had not quarreled, nor was he expecting or looking forward to his death. It was–very sudden.”

And I will find out the details, Rathe thought, but not from you. The alchemists would have the records he needed, no need to cause the man further pain. “Those were my questions,” he said aloud, and didn’t add what they all knew. There were no reasons for Leussi’s ghost not to return. “Istre. You said the ghosts of the untimely dead walk at ghost‑tide, too, that it’s been known. Then why… ?”

“Because his ghost has been bound,” b’Estorr said flatly.

Rathe shuddered. He had seen b’Estorr bind a ghost once, tying it to the spot where the man had fallen–the magist who had orchestrated the theft of the children, mad and powerful–and it had not been a pleasant sight. Or, not sight, but feeling, like the sour smell of a house fire, a reminder of loss. The landame’s successor had had to build a stone cairn over the spot, to keep the horses from shying at it.

b’Estorr went on, “I can’t find it, whispers only. The only ghost that doesn’t make its presence felt during the ghost‑tide is an untimely ghost that has been bound–yes, I know, the points have to ask about either desire for death or some quarrel that would keep the ghost away, but that’s really not what’s happening. In those cases, the ghosts are there, but withholding themselves, and if that were the case, I’d have touched him. There is no other explanation. Especially not in a case like this, where the ties of lemanry were so strong.”

“All right,” Rathe said, “I’ll accept that. Was he bound at death, or could it have been malice after death, instead of murder?”

It was the first time the word had been spoken, even though they had all known it was lurking, and he saw Holles wince. b’Estorr shook his head. “Timing wouldn’t work. You’d have to be by pretty much at the moment of death in order to bind the ghost.”

“He was still warm when I found him that night,” Holles said, raw‑voiced.

Rathe scoured his face with his hands, as though he could wipe away the image Holles created for him. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “What do you want of me?”

The words came out as more of a challenge than he’d meant, but Holles seemed not to hear anything but the offer of help. “I want you to go to the regents with me. The death has already been signed as natural, he’s in the ground, and the matter’s closed. But I want it investigated. I want his murderer found and punished. So I need the regents’ warrant to reopen the matter and refer it back to the points. I thought if I brought a pointsman, particularly one of your reputation, plus a necromancer and anyone else who’d support me–well, I thought it could only help.”

“Am I your best choice?” Rathe asked, exchanging a quick look with b’Estorr. “Don’t mistake me, I consider–my professional opinion is–that you have grave cause for concern.” He used the judicial phrase deliberately, and was pleased to surprise a faint smile from the advocat. “And I want to help however I can, but…” He paused, wondering how to explain the situation, settled for, “I’m not best regarded by the regents.”

Holles frowned, and b’Estorr gave a thin smile. “The metropolitan took the points’ side against the regents last summer, largely on Nico’s say‑so.”

“And was proved right,” Holles said. He shook his head, suddenly obstinate. “I don’t care. Bourtrou held you in high regard, and you’re not afraid of necromancers and alchemists, not like some of your fellows–not like the one we were dealing with just now, to name names. I would take it as a great favor if you would stand with me in this. But I will go to the metropolitan herself if necessary.”

And use my name, which would just about seal my reputation with the regents, Rathe thought. “Of course I’ll do it, I just wanted you to be aware that my presence may–make things more difficult for you than it has to be.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Holles said, and smiled again, the expression briefly erasing the lines shadowing his thin face. “I would prefer you to handle the investigation, in any case.”

“Thank you,” Rathe said, and swallowed a sigh. If the folly stars were in the ascendant, there would be little he could do until their time was past. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill him?”

Holles’s hands clenched, then consciously relaxed. “He had enemies, no one is without them, especially a man in his position. But I can’t think of anyone who held him in such disrespect that they would–do this to him. Kill him, yes, but not bind him.”

“Or fear?” b’Estorr asked. “That’s a strong reason to bind a ghost, Kurin, stronger than hate. Who feared him?”

The advocat shook his head, almost helplessly. “No one. Rathe knows, you know, he was one of the fairest, and kindest, of the intendants, people would go to him for advice, and he was always willing to give it.”

And that was loss speaking, Rathe knew. It was never that simple, there was always someone who feared or hated the victim, or both, and Leussi would be no different–unless of course it was madness, and that was its own kind of fear. But there was no point in grieving the man further, not until they had the necessary warrant. “When do you go before the regents?”

“The day after tomorrow, in the morning. At ten o’clock.” Holles took a breath. “Rathe–”

“I’ll be there,” Rathe said. How Chief Point Trijn would react, he could not begin to guess.

Holles dipped his head again, almost a bow, “Thank you, Adjunct Point. I am more grateful than I can begin to express.”

b’Estorr touched his arm gently, and Holles managed a smile.

“I don’t speak of fees, I know your reputation. But I’m grateful.”

“We’ll leave you to your–more ordinary–business,” b’Estorr said, and led the other man away.

Trijn was working late herself, until second sunrise, according to her runner, and Rathe, bracing himself, presented himself at her door with more than an hour of her day to spare. She listened impassively, staring past him at the shuttered window. When he had finished, she sat silent for a few moments, then reached for her silver‑banded pipe. “They’ll never allow it,” she said.

“Allow which?” Rathe asked. “The reexamination of the death, the investigation–Leussi was important enough, they’d be fools to try to deny Holles.”

Trijn made a face, tamping the shards of tobacco into the bowl. “They might allow the reexamination, even the investigation, but as I understand it you’ve not endeared yourself to the grand bourgeoise, have you?”

“I told the advocat that, Chief, but he insists on having me there.”

“Do you really think they’ll give it to you?” Trijn’s eyebrows shot up, even as she gestured to the stove.

Rathe lit a twig from the bundle that hung ready, handed it to her. “That’s not the issue, Chief, though I won’t deny I’d like to have the chance to handle it. But the main thing right now is to get the death recognized as murder.”

Trijn gave him a humorless smile, and her black eyes were very dark indeed, little flames dancing in them as she pulled on her pipe. She spoke around its stem. “You know precious little of the magistracy, Rathe, if you think Holles will let it go at that.” Rathe opened his mouth to protest, but Trijn overrode him. “I know you liked the intendant, but Holles is going to want someone he can trust on this.” The pipe was lit, and she leaned back, releasing a cloud of smoke.

Rathe said, “Holles knows I’m not fee’able, I won’t find what’s not there, it’s not like he wants to own me.”

“No,” Trijn agreed, “and he’s one of the few who wouldn’t, I imagine. That’s exactly why he’ll want you, Nico. Almost anybody else is going to trip all over herself to find something, anything, but you won’t. You’ll go at your own pace, and probably by your own rules, until you find something like the truth.”

“And what’s wrong with that, Chief?”

“Rathe. An intendant is apparently murdered. An intendant who has lived happily with his leman for, what, seventeen years? So we can probably rule out a crime of passion. And that puts it squarely in the realm of the political. Someone there is likely to be who will not want the truth. Maybe not among the regents, maybe even not at the Tour, but somewhere. And that someone will make sure that an honest pointsman–worse, someone that all the broadsheets in Astreiant proclaim to be an honest pointsman–will not be assigned to this matter. And there’s damn little I can do about it. And even if by some miracle the regents were to agree, the surintendant won’t, because there’s no way you can win this one. Let me tell you that from the start.”

Rathe stared at her, disbelief turning to anger. “With all respect, Chief, I think you’re reaching.”

“Do you? Knowing the regents as we both do?”

She was right about that, if nothing else. Rathe knew the regents, and their temper, very well indeed. “But you can’t really think they’d be willing to let murder go, the murder of one of their own…”

Trijn smiled again through a cloud of smoke. “Have you read the astrologers’ sheets lately? The city’s primed for just such stupidity, and the regents have been primed for it for years.” She frowned at the window again. “If you make this plea, the regents are going to try to stall, just to spite you–and, I suspect, the metropolitan.”

“What’s she got to do with this?” Rathe demanded.

“She stood patronne to you over the children,” Trijn answered. “Don’t be dense, Rathe.”

“The important thing is the investigation,” Rathe said stubbornly. “Not who conducts it.”

“No.” Trijn released another cloud of smoke. “All right. I’m coming with you.”

“Chief?”

“I’m not going to let the regents eat my senior adjunct for breakfast simply because the metropolitan took his part against them once. The grande bourgeoise has a long memory.”

From the tone of her voice, Rathe wondered if she had some other motive as well, but put the thought aside. Her support could only help, he hoped, and pushed himself to his feet.

“With your permission, Chief, I thought I’d send to the alchemists first thing tomorrow, get the death signings.” He raised a hand. “Not as part of any investigation, of course, but there might be something there that would support our case.”

Trijn grinned. “Of course. Give Fanier my regards.”

Eslingen made his way back to Customs Point in good time, pushed his way through the garden gate just as the clock on the old Factors’ Hall was striking the quarter hour. He’d made better time than he’d expected, would have time to change before dinner if he chose, and he picked his way through the last drifts of leaves with some satisfaction. The garden was bare in the falling night, the tender plants already bundled against the coming cold, the last beds of vegetables piled with hay to keep the frosts at bay, and the light from the windows haloed the last spare sticks. Caiazzo was in his workroom, Eslingen saw without surprise–the merchant‑venturer tended to work late in any event, and with the winter‑sun rising later every day, after nine now, Caiazzo’s more discreet visitors tended to arrive in the hours of true dark between sunset and winter‑sunrise. No one had been expected, though–otherwise, he himself would not have been allowed the afternoon to himself–and Eslingen guessed the older man was just working on his books, allotting the capital for next year’s caravans. The loss of the de Mailhac gold mines had hurt, meant that Caiazzo had to be more careful than he had been, but recently the merchant‑venturer had expressed himself cautiously satisfied. Which would make me happier, Eslingen thought, if I were staying the winter.

The kitchen door was half open, one of the cooks leaning out to catch her breath; Eslingen lifted a hand in greeting, but kept on toward the side door, remembering a line from the last play he and Rathe had seen together. Magists by the front door, undertakers by the back, and the knife goes in at the side door. He thought it had been good, but they had had a box to themselves, and he hadn’t followed much of the story. Still, it captured his position well enough, somewhere between servant and colleague, and in any case, he liked the sound of it. He was smiling as he pushed open the heavy door, nodding to the runner who was sitting on the tabouret at the end of the short hall. To his surprise, the boy caught his sleeve as he passed. “Lieutenant. Master Caiazzo wants to see you right away.”

“Right away?” Eslingen repeated, a thrill of apprehension shooting through him. An unexpected visitor, maybe, one of Caiazzo’s less reputable agents from the Court of the Thirty‑two Knives, and him not here to offer backup… But Denizard was here, and she was effective protection in her own right, and Caiazzo would have no compunction about refusing to see someone, if he had the slightest suspicion of trouble.

“As soon as you came in,” the boy said, and Eslingen nodded.

“Show me up.”

Caiazzo’s workroom was warm and warmly lit, the polished stove in the corner showing bright tongues of flame to match the enormous candelabra. The candles were wax, too, all two dozen of them, and there were more candles in the sconces above the long counter. That surface was relatively clear, for once, the ledgers stacked, tallyboards turned face to the wall, papers tucked into folios, and Eslingen looked curiously at the stranger. There was no missing him, a big man, dark as Caiazzo, but older, his black hair streaked with silver under the candles’ light. The same brilliance reflected from a satin coat, bottle‑green striped with gold, and glinted from shoe buckles set with stones. The ivory lace at the thick wrists and neck seemed to glow as well. But there was no mistaking who was master here, Eslingen thought as he made his bow. Caiazzo might be plainly dressed, as plainly dressed as ever, but it was clear the big man deferred to him, and to the magist seated demurely in the corner.

“I’m glad you’re back, Philip,” Caiazzo said, and the big man lifted heavy eyebrows. There was something familiar about the gesture, gone so quickly that Eslingen couldn’t place it.

“This is the man you meant?”

“It is.” There was a warning in Caiazzo’s voice, and the big man lifted both hands in surrender, the lace flashing. “Lieutenant Philip Eslingen, currently of my household, formerly of Coindarel’s Dragons.”

“And the man who helped rescue the children,” the big man said. “No one will have forgotten that, Hanse.”

“Which hardly seems a problem, surely.” Caiazzo waved. vaguely in the direction of the sideboard. “Pour me a drink, please, Philip, and yourself one, too.”

Eslingen moved to obey, swallowing unworthy annoyance–it was one thing to introduce him as a lieutenant, a gentleman in name at least, and another to treat him like a servant–and turned toward the stranger. “And for Master–?”

“Master Duca’s been served,” Caiazzo said.

There was a glass on the end of the worktable, barely touched. Eslingen gave an inward shrug, and poured two glasses of the sweet, light wine. He handed one to Caiazzo, who took it smiling, and himself retreated, his eyes on both men.

“Prettily done,” Duca said, and sounded as though he grudged the admission.

“Done like a gentleman,” Caiazzo corrected. “Down to offering some to you.”

Duca scowled, and for a moment it was as though he were looking into a distorting mirror, the expression so perfectly mimicked Caiazzo’s own. Then the moment was gone, and the big man turned away, shaking his head. “He’s a soldier. I don’t need a soldier.”

“Forgive me, Gerrat,” Caiazzo said, “but I’d’ve thought that was exactly what you did need.”

Eslingen’s eyebrows rose in spite of himself. Whoever this Duca was, whatever he was, he, Eslingen, didn’t appreciate being talked about as though he were cattle in the marketplace. If this was the place Caiazzo had found for him, he’d have none of it.

Caiazzo’s eyes flicked his way, and too late, Eslingen smoothed his expression. The merchant‑venturer grinned, and set his own glass carefully on the edge of the long counter. “Forgive me, Philip, you must be wondering what’s going on.”

Eslingen considered several responses, contented himself finally with a short bow. “Yes.”

“We’ve had word today,” Caiazzo said, “as principal financier, that The Alphabet of Desirehas been chosen as the midwinter masque. The official announcement will be made tomorrow or the next day, but in the meantime, it seems to me that this may offer a–resolution–of our current dilemma. This is Gerrat Duca, senior master of the Guild of the Masters of Defense, who will be responsible for all the chorus displays–”

“For the fight displays,” Duca said.

Caiazzo sighed. “For the chorus’s fight displays. That’s the drills, the procession set pieces, and any duels, though those will probably be handled by actors.”

What does this have to do with me? Eslingen thought, and bowed again. “Congratulations.”

This time, both Duca and Caiazzo lifted an eyebrow at him, and he wondered if Duca was copying the younger man’s gesture. Duca was the first to look away.

“All right, that was good. But can he act?”

“Who knows?” Caiazzo answered. “Does it matter?”

Enough of this, Eslingen thought. “Excuse me, Master Caiazzo, but what–exactly–do you want me to do?”

To his annoyance, it was Duca who answered. “I need someone who knows how to run a drill, who can teach complete novices to handle weapons without hurting themselves or anyone else. It would help if that someone also knew the rudiments of military technique, more than what he’s learned out of a book.”

“I would have thought that the Masters of Defense had plenty of members with those qualifications,” Eslingen said. Even he had heard of the Masters of Defense, had even seen a couple of their fencing exhibitions–the only time he’d been to the Tyrseia before he saw The Drowned Island, in fact. They taught swordplay, and general use of weapons, and some of the masters had even published chapbooks on the subject. He’d read a few of them himself, when he was with Coindarel, hoping to learn enough to pass for a gentleman.

“They’re not, generally speaking, soldiers,” Caiazzo said. “And that’s not the only problem.”

“The chorus is noble,” Duca said. “Landames and vidames and even a castellan or palatine or two, for all I know, but all well born and used to having their own way. They’ll take orders better from one of their own kind than they would from any of us.”

Eslingen blinked, absurdly flattered–to be mistaken for gentry by an Astreianter of Duca’s rank and experience was novelty indeed– and Caiazzo sighed again.

“As you’ve pointed out before now, Philip, your rank makes you a gentleman. And you know how to run a drill.”

That I do. Eslingen blinked again, considering his options. He could do the job, that much he was certain of–it wasn’t that different from what he’d done as one of Coindarel’s sergeants, never mind as a lieutenant, taking new recruits and teaching them to handle arms and leading them through the basics of maneuvers. But whether he’d want to… Not that he was likely to have much say in the matter; he had known he was being kept on through sufferance since he had taken up with Rathe. Publicly, Caiazzo shrugged off the insinuations of his colleagues, maintained that the household of an honest businessman could consort where and with whom they wished. Privately, though…

“I can’t keep you,” Caiazzo said, suddenly silken‑voiced. “You’re becoming a liability.”

“The pay is decent,” Duca said. “We’ll each take home a share–no less than a couple of pillars, maybe as much as a petty‑crown if all goes well. Are you interested, Lieutenant?”

And to be fair, Caiazzo was under no obligation to have done this much, but it still rankled. “It seems like an–intriguing–position,” Eslingen said.

“Good,” Duca said. “We can arrange the trials.”

“ ‘Trials’?” Eslingen repeated, knowing he’d made a mistake, and Duca smiled, the expression a mirror of Caiazzo’s.

“Even under these circumstances, the formalities have to be observed. We can’t just let anybody in.”

“Just a moment,” Caiazzo said, and Duca spread his hands.

“It can’t be done, Hanse. I can make it as easy as possible, but that’s all.”

“What,” Eslingen asked, “are these trials?” He had a feeling he already knew, that he’d seen a stage fight that was supposed to prove the fitness of one of the contenders either to join the Masters, or to move up in rank, and he schooled himself to show no surprise when Duca answered.

“Everyone who’s admitted as a master has to prove her worth– his worth, in your case. Usually, it’s in a public subscription match, three bouts against three proving masters with three different sets of weapons, their choice, not yours, with at least one win and no killing touches in a lost bout. As I said, I can set it up, but I can’t eliminate the trial entirely.”

Wonderful, Eslingen thought. And is it worth it, to become drillmaster to a pack of half‑disciplined nobles? But of course that wasn’t the real question: the real question was whether Caiazzo would allow him any alternative.

“Mind you,” Duca went on, as though he’d sensed the other man’s unease, “you’ve got the manners for it, and the looks, too. In fact–have you ever considered changing your name?”

“What?”

“Lieutenant d’Esling, no, vaan Esling, since you’re a Leaguer.” Duca smiled. “It would look better on the broadsheets.”

Eslingen bit back a sudden peal of laughter. Folly, Meening had predicted, and here was a grand folly just waiting for him. Lieutenant vaan Esling, indeed, and him a whore’s son from Esling. The other men were looking at him expectantly, knowing what his answer had to be, and this time Eslingen did laugh. “Very well, masters, it sounds like–interesting–work, and I’ve no desire to make Master Caiazzo’s position difficult any longer. But what if I don’t pass these trials?”

“Oh, you’ll pass,” Caiazzo said, and his smile matched Duca’s. “Don’t worry about that.”

2

It was cold already in All‑Guilds, where the regents met. The heavy stones of wall and floor seemed to suck all warmth out of the air–pleasant enough in summer, Rathe thought, but hard to bear at this end of the year. The young women who bustled importantly about the lobby had buttoned their guild‑robes to the chin, and more than one had thickened her ankles with an extra pair of stockings. At least the guild mothers had allowed the ancient guard to light a brazier at his post, and when they were finally ushered into the long room where the regents sat, he was glad to see another pair of stoves, as well as the massive fireplace. All were lit, and he edged gratefully toward the nearest of the stoves, letting it warm him at least from the knees up. Holles spoke first, impressive in the black‑banded scarlet that contrasted so sharply with the regents’ sober black, relieved only by spotless lace and the silver and gold of guild badges at neck and sleeves. The grande bourgeoise was the plainest of all, every stitch proclaiming that her family had held its shop in the Mercandry for a hundred years, and had no need of additional finery. Rathe glanced along the row, was not surprised to see the gold‑edged lace and the frippery of black‑on‑black striping, satin on plain weave, only on the youngest woman. New‑rich herself, or a new‑rich merchant’s daughter, she seemed to have no qualms about setting herself apart from the others, and he hoped that was a good sign.

Holles spoke well–speaking on his own behalf must be strange to him, Rathe thought, and had to admire if not the cold eloquence then the simple emotional justice of his plea. He showed good sense in not trying to make this a court‑speech, downplaying the legal aspects in favor of the personal, and Rathe saw one or two of the regents nod in agreement as he worked his way toward his conclusion. Then, in spite of himself, he glanced toward the frieze that wound its way around the room, the carved figures centered above the grand bourgeoise’s chair. In any of the courts, high or low, that frieze would show the Pillars of Justice, the four deities who guarded court matters. Here in All‑Guilds, the theme was Heira’s Banquet, Heira herself presiding over the great gathering of the goddesses, from the solid, familiar figures pressing toward her for her gifts, to the lesser known, less loved, clustering behind them. And somewhere, Rathe knew, probably opposite Heira herself for the balance of the composition, Bonfortune, the god of the Merchants‑Venturer, would be at his tricks, persuading innocent Didion to give up her share in the spoils of the settled life. And that meant that Bonfortune stood above all petitioners, he realized, warning the regents against inevitable deceit. Unfair, he thought, but then, the regents were responsible for more than just the guilds now, and had good reason to be careful.

“Adjunct Point Rathe and Magist b’Estorr both worked with the intendant,” Holles said, and Rathe jerked himself back to attention at the mention of his name. “And Chief Point Trijn is an impartial witness. They have all viewed the evidence I’ve laid before you, and have agreed to stand with me today, in support of my plea before you.”

There was a moment of silence, and then the regents leaned toward each other, conferring in lower voice. The lines of their bodies mimicked the lines of the frieze above them, and Rathe wondered if they were aware of the effect. Finally the grand bourgeoise straightened, glancing to either side until the other women subsided. “It seems to me, with all due respect to the advocat, that there is no clear evidence of murder. Suggestions, yes, but nothing more.”

Someone gasped–not Holles, Rathe thought, the advocat had himself too well in hand for that, but perhaps one of the regents. He glanced sideways to see b’Estorr looking dangerously demure, studying a crack in the stone floor with the same intensity he would focus on a particularly interesting set of bones. Holles started to speak again, but Trijn spoke first.

“It seems to me, with all due respect to the regents, that the evidence in hand combined with the sanction–the agreement–of the points should be enough to satisfy the regents that murder, in fact, has been done, as well as violence after death. Even if the evidence were inconclusive, the matter must be resolved. The intendant Leussi was one of the brighter ornaments of the judiciary. His murder must not be allowed to go unpunished.”

The regents were staring at Trijn, Gausaron with particular disdain, and Rathe knew he was staring with them. It wasn’t like Trijn to make speeches, even less like her to antagonize the powers that be–even in the short time Rathe had served with her, he had learned that she was more likely to get her way by bowing and catering to people’s pretensions. But this… There was a particular ring in the chief point’s voice, triumph almost, or sharp attack, that made him suspect there was more here than he knew. Which might explain why she volunteered herself for this, he thought, but it doesn’t mean it’s going to help us.

A woman with a softly lined face under a starched cap said, “Forgive me, Advocat, but isn’t it possible that there was some–quarrel, some anger between you, perhaps even something petty of which you weren’t even aware, that’s holding his ghost from you?”

“If I may, madame,” b’Estorr said, and Gausaron waved her hand in permission. “A ghost may withdraw itself from the people and things she was most concerned with in her lifetime, but at the ghost‑tide she will still be present, if unfelt, until those people and things have no more presence in this world. If that had been the case, I would have felt the intendant’s presence, and indeed, that was what I expected to find. But there was nothing.”

“The lack of a ghost is hardly decisive evidence,” Gausaron said.

“In any other time of year,” b’Estorr said, “the lack of a ghost would hardly be evidence, indeed. There are many who die untimely who don’t feel they’re–worthy–of the attention their ghost would draw. Who feel, for one reason or another, that it was, however violently, their time to die. However. We are well into the ghost‑tide. The only time of year when the timely dead are felt. The city–this very room–teems with them. And Intendant Leussi and Advocat Holles were lemen for close to twenty years. The only possible reason that neither the advocat nor I have touched the ghost is that his ghost has been bound. And by the person who murdered him.” He tilted his head to one side, and smiled, a singularly sweet smile that Rathe had learned to mistrust. “I hope that’s sufficiently clear to the regents.”

Gausaron glared at him, and leaned back in her chair.

“With respect,” Rathe said, “the alchemist’s report also suggests that there were–anomalies–involved with the death.” He had received the report the previous afternoon, hastily copied but legible, and he’d worked with the chief alchemist Fanier often enough to recognize when the man was hedging his bets. Fanier had noted changes consonant with “external influences,” though no internal evidence of that influence: not enough on its own, but coupled with the absence of a ghost, enough to raise questions in the mind of any pointsman. He only hoped it would be enough for the regents.

“And there have been similar cases in the court records,” Holles said, “both precedents for reopening an investigation such as this, and for ghosts bound at death. I have taken the liberty of compiling a summary list of those cases, and my court clerks will be happy to bring any related documents the regents would like to see.”

“A generous offer, Advocat,” one of the regents murmured, and Gausaron’s frown deepened.

“And one I see no need of.”

“Madame,” Holles said. “Do you deny me?”

Gausaron hesitated. “I do not see evidence–”

“I will have this murder investigated,” Holles said. “I would prefer with your blessing, madame, and the blessing of the regents, but I will act without it if I must. The points bear the queen’s authority, the regents oversee their activities only in that the points operate within the walls of the city. I am the queen’s advocat, the points serve the queen’s law. And the queen’s law has been violated, and that takes precedence over the city’s dignities.”

Gausaron shook her head, but Rathe thought he saw defeat in her eyes. “You are determined to proceed in this course? Despite the scandal, the notoriety, that will inevitably ensue?”

Trijn made a noise in her throat, but her face was impassive. Holles’s head lifted. “Being murdered is not a scandal, it is a tragedy. It is certainly not a disgrace. I’m not afraid of scandal, because there will be none. There will be truth.”

“Even if you have to pay for it?” Gausaron snapped. “Be very wary, Advocat, that what you get is truth. You are at least entitled to value for money.”

Her eyes were on Rathe as she spoke, and in spite of himself, his fists tightened. “As Madame has doubtless heard, I don’t take fees.”

Gausaron smiled thinly. “No. Nor will you in this case. Because it will not fall to you, pointsman.”

“He’s my senior adjunct,” Trijn said tonelessly. “Address him by his proper rank.”

An angry flush rose in Gausaron’s cheeks, but she inclined her head. “My apologies, Adjunct Point. But this is a matter that needs to be handled with a certain amount of delicacy, of diplomacy, since the advocat insists that it be pursued. And such are almost unknown southriver. Point of Hopes, that is where you were last stationed, is it not, points–Adjunct Point?”

As you damn well know. Rathe controlled his temper. “Yes.”

Gausaron smiled at the Regent on her right. “And southriver is so recently popular, at least on the common stages. However, the unfortunate events of last summer–an honest guildsman shot dead, near riots in the streets–we cannot have a repeat of that, not with the midwinter ceremonies almost upon us.” She paused, glancing along the line of women, gathering nods of agreement. “This, then, is our official word. The regents will not tolerate such misrule as went on in Point of Hopes last summer. If this is to be a points matter, then it will be handled with the respect due to the persons of birth involved in it.” She looked at Trijn, and this time there was triumph in her eyes. “I believe you have at your station an adjunct point named Voillemin, a man of respectable parentage. It shall be his responsibility to investigate this–murder, and bring it to a satisfactory conclusion.”

“Satisfactory to whom?” Holles demanded, and Rathe saw him bite his lip as though he’d betrayed himself.

“It is not your place to tell me how to run my station,” Trijn said.

“This or nothing,” Gausaron answered. “Our responsibility is to the well‑being of this city and its people, and that will not be served by another rout like last summer. That is our decision.”

The dismissal was palpable. Holles hesitated for an instant, as though he wanted to say more, but then swept a bow that was a hair too deep for sincerity. Straightening, he turned on his heel and strode from the room, the scarlet robe billowing around him. The others followed, less gracefully, but no one spoke until they were outside All‑Guilds. Rathe glanced up at the massive doorway, carved with yet another version of Heira’s Banquet, and couldn’t suppress a wry smile. Heira was one of the Pillars of Justice, but in this place, that incarnation was far from honored.

“So, Advocat,” Trijn said, “what in hell has the advocacy done to earn the enmity of the regents?”

Holles rubbed his eyes as though they pained him. “I thought that was done with years ago–Gausaron wasn’t even on the Council then.” He shook himself. “It’s not the advocacy, it was Bourtrou. The queen determined that the chamberlains should be chosen from among the judiciary, not just among the regents, since the position has a direct effect on the health of the entire realm, not just the city. Bourtrou wrote the brief in support, and the regents blamed him for it, instead of the queen.”

Rathe grinned. “So we can maybe look for suspects among the regents?”

Trijn held up a hand. “No, Voillemin can look for suspects among the regents, and by Sofia, I am inclined to set that particular dog to hunt.”

“This Voillemin,” Holles said. “Is he any good at all?”

“He wouldn’t be one of my adjuncts if he weren’t,” Trijn snapped, “I don’t care who he’s related to.”

Holles’s eyes sought Rathe, who shrugged infinitesimally. It was the kind of case that could make a pointsman’s career, or destroy it, and from what he’d seen of Voillemin, he wasn’t suited to that kind of pressure. If anything, he felt sorry for the man–and sorrier still for Holles, whose leman’s murder was being used to punish the points.

“I just don’t want it made–convenient,” Holles said, almost helplessly, and Rathe wished he could reassure him. But anything he could think of, any words of comfort, sounded sour, almost hypocritical in the face of the regents’ evident reluctance, and he could see the same thought in both Trijn’s and b’Estorr’s faces.

“No,” Rathe said quietly, when no one else spoke. “I’ll do what I can to keep an eye on Voillemin, Advocat, that’s my proper duty, and I can at least promise that to you.” It wasn’t much, but it would have to be enough– at least for now, at least until he makes a mistake–and from the look on the advocat’s face, relieved and grateful, it might be. Rathe sighed. So long as he was able to make good on the promise.

The Masters of Defense had their own hall, a long, low building that might once have been a rope walk or a sailmakers’ loft, hard by the river at the western end of Point of Dreams. The ground floor was broken up into a warren of rooms–classrooms on the river side, where the light was best, but also what looked like a students’ commons and even a small library, where a lace‑capped woman frowned over a stack of foolscap. She glared at them as they passed, and rose, skirts rustling, to close the door against intrusion. Caiazzo ignored her, as he ignored the crowd of students chattering outside one of the practice rooms, and Eslingen copied the merchant’s carriage, bowing gracefully to a young man who seemed to want to take offense. That was one complaint the broadsheets made against the Masters, that their students, once half trained, spent too much time looking for an excuse to test their skills, and it was, Eslingen thought, probably true enough. The same thing happened in every regiment he’d ever served with–he’d probably done it himself, if he wanted to think about it; the only difference was that your fellow soldiers were quicker to beat those pretensions out of you, if only to save their own necks.

At the end of the long hall a stairway rose to a second floor, framed in a window that must have cost a young fortune. Caiazzo slowed his pace, and a scrawny, grey‑haired woman–no, Eslingen realized, with some shock, a man in skirts and a woman’s square‑necked bodice, carrying a bated sword–appeared in the doorway of the nearer classroom.

“Master Caiazzo.” He bowed, magnificently unconscious of his strange dress. “Master Duca says you should go on up.”

“Thank you,” Caiazzo answered. Eslingen blinked, schooling himself to show no reaction, but the merchant‑venturer’s gaze flicked toward him anyway, and the dark man smiled.

“Don’t worry, Philip, I’m sure they won’t waste you in dame’s parts.”

So presumably the man was rehearsing for, being trained for, one of the midwinter farces, short, silly plays for the short, cold days, Rathe had called them, where the players played against type and women dressed as men–and vice versa, apparently. Eslingen had been looking forward to seeing one, but it had never crossed his mind that he might be expected to participate.

The stairway opened onto a massive open space, a room that ran the full length of the building under the ceiling’s arched beams. Light streamed in through another wall that was almost entirely windows, not good glass, green and bubbled, but glass all the same, and Eslingen was reminded instantly of a billet he’d once had south of Ivre. The town–it was a newly freed mercantile center–had offered them the use of the former landame’s hall, and they’d discovered too late that the townspeople had already removed everything that was portable, including the wooden partition walls. The company had spent most of the summer sleeping in the single long room without even shutters to close the emptied window frames. It had been surprisingly comfortable–the weather had been ideal, the ventilation superb even in Ivre’s heat–but the lack of privacy had become tiresome in the end.

This hall wasn’t as big, but it was almost as empty, except for the rank of weapons that filled the far wall. There was a wild mix of blades, heavy cavalry swords and daggers long and short and lighter dueling weapons, as well as spontoons and a set of halberds and a handful of oddities like old‑fashioned bucklers and mailed gloves, all seemingly in perfect condition, and Eslingen wondered just how much it had cost the Masters in fees to keep them all here, and not locked away at the Aretoneia. Outside the window, sunlight glittered on the river, the water cold and grey as steel, and the roofs of Point of Hearts on the far bank glowed red and blue in its light, but from the look of the sky, already filling with clouds, the light wouldn’t last much longer. The air smelled of a cold stove and the river, tar and damp, and Eslingen flexed his shoulders under his coat. It was almost too cool now, but not once the fights began.

The admitting masters were already there, talking quietly at the far end of the hall, and there was a drummer, too, tuning her paniers in the farthest corner. The soft, dull notes filled the damp air like a live creature calling. Duca saw them coming, and moved to meet them, the other masters hanging back a little. There were three men and a woman, each one dressed as though for a different play, and Eslingen wondered again what he was letting himself in for. There was still time to refuse, to apologize politely and say that a mistake had been made, that he wasn’t the man they were looking for. He could stand the embarrassment–except that Caiazzo would lose face, and that, Eslingen thought, was a responsibility he could not afford.

“Lieutenant,” Duca said, and Eslingen sketched a bow, knowing he was committed. Caiazzo fell back a step, leaving him to his fate, and Eslingen glanced back to see him smiling faintly, as though the situation amused him.

“Master Duca.”

“Welcome to our hall.” Duca gestured widely, bringing the other masters forward. “My colleagues, proving master Sergeant Peyo Rieux, challenging masters Janne de Vicheau, Verre Siredy, and Urvan Soumet. My masters, the candidate Lieutenant Philip vaan Esling, formerly of Coindarel’s Dragons.”

The woman–Rieux–blinked once at that, but there was no other response. She and Duca would be the arbiters of the match, and Eslingen eyed the three men, wishing he knew more about the guild’s rules and regulations. Soumet was short, but built like a young ox, with an ox’s flat, expressionless face and liquid eyes, hair tied back under a sailor’s kerchief that went oddly with his good linen. Of all of them, he was dressed for a match, coatless and barefoot; the other two were slim and elegant in well‑cut coats and careful paint, but there the resemblance ended. One–de Vicheau?–was two fingers’ breadth the taller, lean and severe, pale hair pulled back with a black ribbon that matched his breeches and the trim on his dark grey coat. He looked like a young landseur, and Eslingen wondered fleetingly if he was one of the Vidame of Vicheau’s numerous progeny. She had at least half a dozen sons by as many fathers, all dropped as lightly as a dog whelps; she took ferocious care of her only daughter, and reportedly had settled a farm on the man who had sired her. But that was probably what he wanted people to think, Eslingen added silently. More likely he came from the town of Vicheau, and added the article to match his looks– or Duca added it for him, the way he did for me. The third man was dressed like a fop, his long hands painted with tiny golden suns to match the embroidered ones scattered across the wide skirts of his coat, but there were corded muscles beneath the paint, and Eslingen was not deceived. None of them were going to be easy opponents; about the best he could hope for was that they would choose styles that he could handle.

“Any objections?” Duca’s tone made it clear the question was mere formality. “Then let’s begin. Lieutenant, you understand the rules?”

Eslingen schooled his face to neutrality. “I’ve had them explained to me.”

Duca smiled slightly, and Eslingen blinked. The trick of gesture really was very like Caiazzo himself. “Then you’ll excuse me if I explain again.” He gestured to the woman at his side. “Sergeant Rieux and I will be the judges of the match. It’s our business to call the points, but we’re also assessing style and performance. You’ll fight each of the challengers–they’re all full masters of the guild, in good standing–with their choice of weapon. If they choose a weapon you don’t know, you may refuse, and another will be chosen, but two refusals will disqualify you. Do you understand?”

Eslingen nodded, newly aware of the stillness in the hall. Even the drummer had brought her pans to absolute silence, both palms flat against the drumheads. Duca might have agreed to Caiazzo’s plan, but not all the masters were happy with it.

“Normally this is more of an event,” Rieux said. “A public event. But, under the circumstances…”

“There are precedents,” Siredy said easily, and the ox‑faced man scowled.

“Performance is the test.”

“Which is something that we, us here today, are more than capable of judging,” Rieux said. It sounded like an old argument, and Soumet dipped his head.

“I’m not denying that, Sergeant. What I’m saying is we’re not testing how the man will fight with a crowd looking on–no offense to anyone, Sergeant, to the lieutenant or to Master Duca, but we all know how different it is onstage.”

De Vicheau sighed. “May we remember the reason for this test? He may never go onstage.”

“But he’d be one of us,” Soumet said.

“The point is that Gaifier’s dead,” Rieux said.

“He was hardly well last year,” Siredy murmured. “And look how that went.”

“But he’d won his place fairly in public battle,” Soumet said. “Not like this.”

“I can’t do it alone,” Rieux said. “And you, Urvan, are hardly the man to help me.”

“I know my skills,” Soumet said. “No one’s ever complained of me.”

He looked more than ever like an ox, and Duca lifted his hand.

“Enough.”

Instantly, Soumet fell silent, but Duca gave him a long look before he finally spoke. “The match continues. Have you decided your order?”

“Siredy won the toss,” de Vicheau said.

“Very well. What weapon?”

“Dueling sword and dagger.”

That was a relief, Eslingen thought–those were weapons he knew, even if he was hardly a duelist–and he risked a glance at Caiazzo. The merchant‑venturer stood with his arms folded, visibly withdrawn from the occasion. I brought you this far, the stance seemed to say. Now make the most of it.

“Is that acceptable to you, Lieutenant?”

“Yes.” Eslingen nodded.

“Then choose your weapons.” Duca waved a hand at the racks against the wall, and Siredy moved smoothly toward them, already scanning the available blades. Eslingen took a quick breath, wondering when–or if–he could discard his coat, and moved to join him. The master gave him a soft smile from behind the mask of his paint, barely politeness, and gestured for him to choose first.

The very ordinariness of the movement did much to dispel the haze of ritual. This was something he knew, weapons and their use, and Eslingen scanned the racked blades with growing confidence. “May I try them?”

“Go ahead.” It was Duca who answered, no surprise there, and Eslingen drew the first sword that looked suitable. It was good in the hand, heavy but well balanced and a little longer than he liked, and he slid it back in the rack to see if he could find a better. Its neighbor, a slightly lighter blade with the traces of silver inlay in the guard, was almost as good, but after a moment’s hesitation, Eslingen went back to the heavier blade. Siredy looked like a finesse fighter; the weight could be an advantage. He chose a dagger as well, and then Siredy stepped up to the rack, pulling sword and dagger from among the ranked blades. De Vicheau came forward to take both sets of weapons, and Siredy quickly stripped off his coat, hanging it carefully over the shoulders of a target dummy. He removed his long bronze wig as well, placing it on the dummy’s head, and in spite of everything Eslingen had to suppress a smile. For all his paint and vanity, Siredy’s own hair was hopeless, far too red to hope that lemon‑water would bleach it gold.

“Plastrons,” Rieux said, and Eslingen stripped off his own coat to accept the padded jacket, let the woman fasten the straps at waist and shoulder. Duca did the same for Siredy, then motioned the two men into the center of the floor. Eslingen obeyed, swinging his arms to get the feel of the plastron and the weight of the weapons. The sun had vanished, but enough light streamed through the enormous windows that they would have no fear of shadows. Across the hall, Siredy stretched easily, and met his eye with a quick, almost conspiratorial smile.

“The bout is to three,” Duca said, “unless the sergeant or I see a killing blow.”

Behind him, Soumet made a face, but said nothing.

“Are you ready?”

“Ready,” Siredy said, and Eslingen echoed him.

“Commence.”

Siredy lifted his sword in a salute that swept instantly into a running attack. Eslingen had seen the move before, and swayed easily out of the slighter man’s way. He parried the return stroke, and let himself wait to find the rhythm of the match. As he’d expected, Siredy fought with finesse, all quick strokes and clever bladework, but he lacked the raw strength that would allow him to bull his way through Eslingen’s defenses. Eslingen let that guide him, let his own style shift to match the other’s, meeting delicacy with strength, abandoning all his own favored moves for sheer brute force. Siredy won the first touch, and the second, but Eslingen took the next one with the return stroke, and took the next two in quick succession.

“Halt!”

Eslingen instantly grounded his blade, but Siredy flourished a salute. He wasn’t really breathing hard, Eslingen realized, and felt the sweat running under his own plastron. So much for the cool air.

“Creditable,” Rieux said, and Duca lifted a hand.

“Who’s next?”

“I am.” That was the ox, and Eslingen suppressed a groan, already guessing the other man’s choice of weapon.

“What weapon?”

“Sword and roundshield.” Soumet folded his arms across his chest.

“Lieutenant?”

Eslingen hesitated, then spread his hands. “I’m allowed a refusal?”

“One refusal,” Duca said. He paused. “Do you refuse?”

I haven’t fought with those weapons in– oh, it must be ten years, not since I was a common pikeman. One of us would get hurt, and that is certainly not the point today. Eslingen tried a polite smile, searching for the right words, and Soumet snorted.

“Even soldiers know sword and roundshield. Or don’t you think you can win?”

I could take you. Eslingen swallowed the words, recognizing folly when he heard it, looked at Duca instead. “I haven’t used sword and roundshield since I left the pike line. If this is a test and not a blood match, I must refuse. I can’t promise your man’s safety.”

Rieux nodded, almost approvingly, but Duca’s expression didn’t change. “That is your one refusal, Lieutenant. Be certain.”

Eslingen bowed, guessing the formality wouldn’t hurt him. “I’m sure.”

“Very well,” Duca said. “Master Soumet, the candidate has refused your weapon. Choose another.”

“Halberds,” Soumet said, and behind him de Vicheau rolled his eyes. Duca frowned ponderously, and Soumet met his glare squarely. “It’s a fair weapon–a listed weapon, and one we’re actually going to use in this foolish play. I stand by my choice.”

Duca’s look did not bode well for the younger man’s future career, but he turned to face Eslingen. “Lieutenant?”

“Halberds, then.” Eslingen did his best to suppress a smirk. He’d been a sergeant far longer than he’d been a lieutenant, and the halberd was a line sergeant’s weapon: this was a fight he knew he could handle. Apparently Soumet had been misled by the gentleman’s name.

“Padding,” Rieux said, and Siredy and de Vicheau brought out thickly quilted coats, the stuffing so thick from neck to groin that they looked liked oversized, swaddled infants. Eslingen let Siredy help him into the coat–the man had retrieved his wig, if not his coat, Eslingen saw with amusement–and secure the straps that would keep it in place. There were padded gauntlets as well, ungainly things like stiff mittens, and a padded hood, but all in all, Eslingen thought, one good blow from a regulation halberd could still break bones, even through the layers of felt and wadding. Then Siredy handed him the tasseled weapon, and Eslingen understood. It was only a stage copy of a halberd; the shaft was lighter, and the tiny ax‑head at the peak–he tapped it to be sure–was only painted wood.

“Don’t break it,” Siredy said softly, and stepped away.

And that, Eslingen thought, might be harder than it looked. He was used to the real thing, a heavy oak shaft as thick as his wrist, with an iron sheathing running from the ax almost down to the grip. He swung it once, then again, trying to get the balance, and Duca said, “Ready?”

“Ready,” Soumet answered promptly, and Eslingen nodded.

“Ready.”

Soumet came at him in a rush, using the halberd like a quarter‑staff, feinting low and then high before landing a solid blow in Eslingen’s ribs. Even through the padding, and even with the lighter weapon, it hurt, and Eslingen danced back, struggling to block the other man’s blows while he caught his breath. He was looking bad, he knew, and failed to block a second painful strike. One more, he thought, one more and I’ve lost, but he couldn’t seem to get the feel of the too‑light weapon. He struck once, missed, landed a glancing blow off the block, and saw Rieux lift a hand, giving him the point. Soumet turned away, swearing under his breath, and Eslingen backed away, hardly able to blame the man. He needed a flashy way out, either by winning–not likely, not with Soumet outfighting him at every step–or by losing well. The halberd was light in his hands, too light, and he danced away from another rush, stumbling on the even floor. And then, suddenly, he knew, and shifted his grip on the shaft, sliding his hands apart as he lifted it to block another attack. Soumet’s stick crashed between them, and the wood splintered under the blow. Eslingen dodged back, throwing away the pieces, and Soumet checked his follow‑through barely in time.

“Halt!”

“A killing blow,” Soumet cried, turning to Duca, but the big man shook his head.

“No. To the body only, if it had landed–”

“Which it didn’t,” Siredy said, to no one in particular, and Duca glared at him.

“The third hit, and the end of the bout. That’s all.”

“Sergeant–Master Rieux,” Soumet said. “You can’t stand by this.”

“I can and I do,” Rieux answered. Soumet looked as though he would have said more, but the woman drew herself up to her full height. “Enough! The match is ended. Be content with your victory. Though I for one will have words with you about weapons later.”

Soumet subsided, scowling, and Eslingen submitted to having the padding pulled away from his body. He would be bruised, all right, he could feel half a dozen spots that would be agony in the morning– but with luck, he told himself, he wouldn’t stiffen until after this final bout. Siredy bundled the heavy coat away again, and Eslingen ran his fingers through his hair, loosening strands that clung to his forehead. Caiazzo was still in his corner, but sitting now, all at ease, and Eslingen wondered briefly who’d thought to fetch the stool.

“Water?” That was Siredy again, holding out a cup, and Eslingen took it gratefully. It had been on the stovetop–the masters clearly subscribed to the notion that cold water was dangerous to a fighting man–but he drank it down, glad of the relief.

“Master de Vicheau,” Duca said. “You have the last bout.”

De Vicheau bowed gracefully in answer. “I do, Master Duca.”

“And your weapon?”

“Master Duca.” De Vicheau bowed again. They all know what’s going to happen, Eslingen thought suddenly. They’ve got something planned, and I don’t know what it is.

“I cede choice of weapon, and replace it with a different challenge.” De Vicheau waved a hand, and Rieux pulled open a cabinet that stood against the wall beside the drummer. There was something in it, a table on wheels, but a table covered with tiny, brightly painted figures that chimed softly as Rieux rolled it out into the light. Toy soldiers, Eslingen realized, a tiny–regiment? no, a company–all strung on wires in perfect rank and file, complete with flags and fife and drum, and in spite of himself, he glanced toward Caiazzo, to see the merchant‑venturer frowning in what seemed to be honest confusion.

“Lieutenant Eslingen is called to our company to teach drill.” De Vicheau smiled thinly. “I challenge him to put our little company through its paces.”

Duca bowed in return, and looked at Eslingen. “Lieutenant?”

“I have a question first.” Eslingen took a breath. He’d boasted once, years ago, that he could drill pigs if he had to; he’d been drunk, but it seemed that the words were coming back to haunt him. “I’ve never seen such a thing. How is it done?”

Soumet sneered at him, but Duca said, “No great trick to it, Lieutenant. The figures are set on wires and moved by gears and levers. Sergeant Rieux will work the mechanism, and move them as you call.”

And she could destroy him if she wanted, Eslingen realized, but doubted somehow that she would cheat him. As if she guessed the thought, she smiled crookedly, and settled herself behind the table.

Eslingen looked back at Duca. “I accept, then. Will your drummer there give the cadence?”

“She will.”

“Then set the figure.” Eslingen looked at de Vicheau, whose fair head lifted in answer.

“To a hollow square, and then back to ranks.”

Not the easiest figure, but not the hardest–and mercifully not one of the drillbook figures, stars and moons and octagons, that amateurs made up in winter quarters. Eslingen took a deep breath, marshaling old skills, and looked at the drummer. “Sound the march.”

Instantly, the familiar beat filled the room, the heavy music almost palpable, and Eslingen said, “Forward march.”

Instantly, the metal figures began to move, the mechanism clinking in time to the drum, and Eslingen realized there wouldn’t be enough room if they kept going straight ahead. “About‑face.”

The figures turned, not quite as one–the machine was as real there as most regiments he’d served in–and he gave the next command. “Files to the right hand double.”

There was a louder clank, and the lines lengthened and thinned. It was almost easier, seeing them from above like this, and he gave the next commands automatically, bringing the lines out still farther, hollowing out the column until he could turn them all outward, then brought them back again into column, finishing with a flourish as he turned them to face de Vicheau again.

“Silence, the drums.”

The music stopped instantly, without the usual ruffle, and de Rieux straightened from the table. “Neatly done, Lieutenant.”

“Indeed.” Duca stepped forward, holding out his hand. “Master Lieutenant vaan Esling, allow me to be the first to welcome you as a Master of Defense.”

So it was real, Eslingen thought, automatically accepting the other man’s hand. It had really happened, and he was really one of them. In spite of everything, there was a part of him that felt like laughing, and he hoped this wasn’t the folly he’d been warned against. Rieux nodded briskly, offering a calloused palm, and then de Vicheau and Siredy and, finally, Soumet. At least the ox had the grace to swallow his temper, Eslingen thought, and braced his fingers against the other’s grasp. Caiazzo had risen to his feet, and came forward now, his smile matching Duca’s.

“Congratulations, Philip. I can count you well bestowed, then.”

“And I’m grateful, Master Caiazzo,” Eslingen answered automatically, and then wondered how much time he’d have to get his belongings out of Caiazzo’s house–and where he’d be living, for that matter.

“This is much more suitable for someone of your station,” Caiazzo answered, and there was laughter in his black eyes. “So I’ll leave you to it.”

“Master Caiazzo–” Eslingen stopped, not quite knowing how to ask, and the merchant‑venturer’s smile became an open grin.

“Oh, you can send for your goods as soon as you’re settled, Philip. There’s no hurry, I’m sure.”

“No, none,” Eslingen repeated. Particularly since he didn’t actually know where he would be sleeping. Oh, Rathe would give him house room until he found something else, but he didn’t like to assume that he was that completely welcome. He shoved the thought aside, knowing Caiazzo had seen and was amused by the hesitation, and the merchant‑venturer nodded to Duca.

“And I leave him to you. Good day, masters.”

“And a good day to you,” Duca answered, but Caiazzo was already starting down the stairs. The senior master sighed, and looked back at his people. “Under the circumstances, my masters, I trust none of you will object to starting at once to work.”

Eslingen shook his head, recognizing an order when he heard it, and the others murmured their agreement. The panier rumbled as the drummer slacked the heads and covered them, and Duca put his hands on his hips.

“Right, then. The sides are ready, so we’d better take a look at them.”

“I’ll take the lieutenant,” Rieux said, “and Siredy, if I may.”

Duca nodded. “Janne, you’ll work with me, and you, Urvan, can see what Mistress Gasquine wants for her people. And bring back something in writing, this time, if you have to draw it up yourself.”

The flat‑faced man scowled, but made no protest. Eslingen wondered briefly just how his manners were going to be received in the playhouse, and then Siredy tapped him on the shoulder.

“This way. And again, congratulations.”

Eslingen followed the slighter man back down the stairs and into the library. The lace‑capped woman was still there, still frowning over her stacks of papers, but as the others entered, she set aside her pen and tapped them into order.

“The sides are done, Master Duca, and one full copy.”

She wore a Scriveners badge on her bodice, Eslingen saw, with some surprise–he would never have expected the Masters of Defense to employ a copyist–and Duca nodded absently. “Thank you, Auriol. We’ll try not to disturb you too much.”

“Not at all, master,” the woman answered, demurely, and scooped up one of the stacks of paper. She retreated with it to a smaller table in the corner, and a moment later light flared as she lit a lamp and resumed her work, pen scratching over the paper.

“Now, my masters,” Duca said. The papers were odd cuts, Eslingen saw, long and thin like the broadsheets that listed upcoming plays. Duca flipped through one, and then methodically handed a stack to each of the others. Eslingen took his curiously, skimming the half dozen pages. Each one held a few lines of dialogue, and then a description of an action–a battle and a dance, on the first page, and more of the same on each of the others. He looked up, confused, and Duca cleared his throat.

“Understand, my masters, I say this only because we have a newcomer among us, one who isn’t familiar with our ways–and you, Lieutenant, understand I mean no disrespect, and don’t touch on your honor at all. But the play is not yet published, will not be published until after the masque, and it is our bond to keep as much of the plot secret as we may. I hope we all understand that.”

Eslingen murmured his agreement with the rest, wondering how much good it would do. The Masters might keep their mouths shut, but there were still the actors to consider, and the scenerymen, and, worst of all, the noble chorus. The playwright was going to be lucky if there was only one pirate copy circulating by midwinter.

“So.” Duca paused, and Siredy lifted his head, shaking the strands of his wig back over his shoulders.

“So how bad is it, master?”

“Bad enough.” Duca glanced down at his papers, though Eslingen doubted the man needed to refer to them. “There are five battle‑pieces, and six drills, plus a sword‑dance that may or may not become our responsibility, and, of course, the individual duels.”

“How many of those are part of larger battles?” de Vicheau asked.

“About half.” Duca rustled his papers again. “Including a climax that will have to stay in the piece, so it’ll have to work with and without chorus.”

Eslingen looked at the top sheet again. The familiar sloping letters ran across the narrow page, two lines of dialogue, then a call for trumpets, and then a battle in which one side had to seem to win, but be defeated at the last possible moment. Below that, the scrivener had drawn a neat line, and begun again with dialogue, an unnamed queen calling for entertainment. The script called for a company of Hasiri, the wild nomads who lived on the roof of the world, to show their skill with weapons. Eslingen blinked at that–from what he knew of the Hasiri, showing their skill meant hiding behind rocks to pick off stragglers from the caravans, not exactly the kind of drill that the script seemed to want–and he looked up to see Siredy grinning at him.

“Better you than me, Lieutenant.”

“Right, then,” Duca said. “Siredy, Janne, you break down the duels. Sergeant, you and the lieutenant and I will take a look at the drills. Just to see what we’ve got in hand.”

Siredy nodded, rising easily to take a seat next to de Vicheau, and Rieux edged her chair closer.

“All right, Lieutenant, what do you think of when you think of Hasiri weapons?”

“Bow, slingshot, the occasional lock,” Eslingen answered warily, and Duca chimed in heavily.

“And a taste for ambush. But we can work with bows, I think.”

“If you can train the chorus not to use them,” Rieux said.

“No bowstrings, maybe,” Duca said. “But bows are a good start. And the first battle.”

“Sashes for the chorus, to tell the sides?” Rieux asked, and Duca shrugged.

“Probably. Depends on how much they want to spend on it.”

“And how big is the chorus this year?” Rieux frowned at the paper in front of her, then reached into her own wide sash for a set of wax tablets.

“Three dozen,” Duca answered.

“Thank Seidos we have the Tyrseia, then,” de Vicheau said, and earned a glare from the senior master.

“Fifteen to a side, then,” Rieux said. “That leaves half a dozen for other work, and shouldn’t crowd things too badly.”

Eslingen rested his elbows on the table, wondering again what he’d gotten himself into. There was nothing he could contribute to this discussion, at least not so far, and at the moment he was inclined to think that Soumet was right, maybe he didn’t belong in this company. He was a soldier, not a player, he had no idea what would look good onstage, only of what would be effective in an actual battle… As if she’d read his thought, Rieux grinned at him.

“Oh, don’t worry, Lieutenant, you’ll earn your keep later. At the drills.”

By the end of the day, Eslingen was exhausted, more from trying to absorb too many new ways of thinking than from the earlier fights, though the bruises he had earned earlier were making their presence felt. He paused outside the guildhall’s main door to ease them, and stood for a moment, abruptly at a loss. It was strange, strange and a little unnerving, to be suddenly without a place again, perhaps even more at sea than he’d been when he’d first come to Astreiant. A shadow moved to his left, and he turned, not sure if it was a passerby, or a ghost, or even a late‑working pickpocket. For an instant, he thought he saw something, recognized if not a face then the set of the shoulders, but then the door opened again behind him, spilling light into the street, and the foppish master, Siredy, paused, holding the door open for Rieux. He smiled, seeing the other man.

“Join us, why don’t you, Philip? We’re going to Anric’s to drink and curse Chresta Aconin’s name.”

Eslingen laughed out loud. “That sounds very tempting, but I need to–regularize my living arrangements.”

Both the other masters nodded in sympathy, and Siredy tipped his head to one side, the wig falling in precise curls across his chest. “If you need a place,” he offered, but Eslingen shook his head. He was not precisely out of doors, if he would just admit it to himself.

“Thank you, but I think I’m settled. I just need to make arrangements to have my things brought there.”

“Ah. Well, a good evening to you then, Philip,” Rieux said, kindly enough. “I hope you get yourself sorted out.” And then they were gone, arm in arm, Siredy bending gracefully to listen to the older master, heading up the street that led away from the river, into the closer environs of Point of Dreams. Eslingen watched them for a moment, not sure if he envied them, until the chill breeze from the river stirred his hair. The sun was down, and it would be cold. And he needed to let Rathe know that he had company.

Point of Dreams came alive at sunset, actors released from their day’s labor or heading to small‑shows joining early lovers on their way to Point of Hearts and pleasure‑seekers from all over the city. Eslingen dodged the crowds, trying not to laugh at the way that fate seemed to be making the move neither he nor Rathe had been able to, at least to this point. Despite Meening’s warning, he felt sure this was not folly. But neither was it the way he would have seen them living together, not as this chance throw, without warning, or even an offer made, and certainly no time to let Rathe know until he appeared on the man’s doorstep. At that thought, he paused, scanning the stalls of the night market, mindful of his finances, but also remembering what Duca had said about their potential earnings from the masque. A share should be substantial, if he understood it correctly. And if he was going to move in with Rathe, and he fervently hoped that was the case, he was determined not to give folly a foothold, but come bearing gifts, or at least provisions. The stalls here were mostly broadsheets–and of The Drowned Island, at that, not the sort of gift he needed at all–and he looked in vain for a cookshop. Maybe wine would be better anyway, he thought, and wished for the first time that b’Estorr were around to advise him. The necromancer knew wine, give him that, was as much the gentleman as Duca had been looking for… He smiled then. b’Estorr bought his wine from Wicked, and Wicked would know what Rathe liked. He would throw himself on her mercy, and she would see him safe.

The tavernkeeper was as good as he’d hoped, finding the right wine and throwing in a decent loaf for good measure, and he made his way back to the Dreams point station as the city clocks struck six, the chimes filling the air with discordant music. The station showed its military past more than most of the points stations, almost like an ancient castle, something out of the Leaguer hills, heavy‑walled and short of windows, blocking the end of the street like a slumbering beast. It had been a garrison and an armory, he remembered Rathe mentioning, just as the other stations had been, and it was probably just the darkness that gave it an eldritch look.

There were half a dozen runners in the yard in spite of the cold, bundled in oversized coats and jerkins that looked as though they’d been handed down from mothers or older siblings, dodging from base to base in an intricate game of chase by the light of a half‑dozen lanterns, and he half expected them to ask his business. The runners at Point of Hopes would have done so, he thought, or maybe that was just because they’d known him; one of the boys glanced at him, but a girl shouted, and he turned back to the game. Eslingen suppressed a wry smile. Dismissed, for the second time today.

The station’s main room was much bigger than the room at Point of Hopes, and the air was warm and dry, smelling of herbs and smoke and tobacco instead of the points’ reheated dinners. There was the familiar row of jerkins hanging on the far wall, ready to hand, and the low bench opposite where malefactors or those in trouble could sit and wait the points’ pleasure, but the tall case‑clock that stood beside the stairs was something unexpected, a beautiful piece that showed solar and lunar phases as well as the time. Tiny gilded huntresses and their dogs chased each other around the box where the block itself stood, and a forest of vines climbed the edges of the case, creatures peering out from among the leaves. Eslingen blinked, wondering where that had come from–surely the points couldn’t afford that fine clock on their own–and someone cleared her throat behind him.

“Can I help you, master?”

It was a young man, Eslingen saw, turning, a young man shaved to perfection, whose spotless linen and sober coat were badly at odds with his rough jerkin and pointsman’s truncheon.

“Yes. I was wondering if Adjunct Point Rathe is available,” he said, and saw the other man’s eyes travel quickly over his own clothes, visibly assessing quality and cost. Whatever he saw made him come forward, waving for a less fashionable pointswoman to take his place behind the station’s daybook.

“Yes, he is, master. Allow me to show him to you.”

“I wouldn’t want to interrupt,” Eslingen offered, but the other shook his head.

“No interruption at all, sir.”

“I meant to Rathe,” Eslingen murmured, but softly enough that the young man could pretend he hadn’t heard. Out of the corner of his eye, Eslingen thought he saw the woman hide a grin behind the tip of her quill, and schooled himself to follow the pointsman with due decorum. The man led him up the stairs and around the bulge of the massive central chimney, paused there to knock on a closed door. There was an indistinct mumble in response, which the pointsman seemed to take for permission, and pushed open the door. “Someone to see you, Adjunct Point.”

Rathe was sitting at a worktable set to catch the best light from the now‑shuttered window, and looked up with a frown that faded as he saw who was with the pointsman. “All right, Voillemin, thanks. I’ll see Lieutenant Eslingen.”

Voillemin stepped back with a movement that was almost a bow, and Eslingen edged past him into the little room. It was warmer than he’d expected, given the expanse of window, and he realized that there was another little stove in the far corner. He held his hands out to it as the door closed behind him, wondering if Rathe would offer him some of the tea that stood steeping on the hob, and realized that his own smile was distinctly nervous.

Rathe leaned back in his chair. “And to what do I owe the pleasure, Lieutenant? Have a seat, you look tired.”

“Thank you,” Eslingen said sourly, but his muscles were stiffening again, and he was glad of the chair. Not for the first time that day, he wished he’d practiced harder while he was in Caiazzo’s service. “Well, in one of those whirlwind changes of fate that seem to be my lot in life, I am officially no longer Caiazzo’s knife.”

“Not precisely unexpected,” Rathe said. In the lamplit shadows, it was hard to read his expression, but his voice was dry.

“No, but sudden. Caiazzo finds his opportunities and takes them, let me tell you. Though you’re probably the last person I need to tell that,” Eslingen added, shaking his head. “Nor has he precisely cast me out into the streets..

“You’ve got to stop going to the theatre,” Rathe murmured. “Where’d he find you a place, then?”

Eslingen took a breath. “You are now looking at the newest member of the Masters of the Guild of Defense.”

Rathe whistled soundlessly, the chair returning to the floor with a definite thump. “Gods, that’s–well, it would be unbelievable, if it weren’t Caiazzo.”

“Because he seems able to get whatever he wants?” Eslingen asked. Rathe cocked his head, was looking amused.

“Because Gerrat Duca is his cousin, actually, as well as the other. Did you have to try for a place?”

Eslingen nodded. “Three bouts, at the guildhall today. Apparently I performed creditably enough.”

“Which means,” Rathe said slowly, “you’ll be involved with the masque–Aconin’s damned Alphabet.”

“You know about that,” Eslingen said, and didn’t know why he was surprised.

“They told us two days ago, actually,” Rathe said. “As soon as the chamberlains made their decision.” He tipped his head to one side, slid a sheet of paper a little larger than a broadsheet across the tabletop. “What do you actually know about the masque, Philip?”

Eslingen reached for the announcement–it proclaimed Aconin’s play the winner in two short lines, then went on to give a series of orders for the points stations, and Point of Dreams in particular– and set the sheet back on the table. “Mostly what I’ve heard from Caiazzo, which isn’t much, and most of that was scathing. And what little I heard about the guild’s work today. Hasiri, demonstrating their abilities with weapons, proving once again, I suppose, that Chresta Aconin has an outstanding imagination if he thinks rock throwing is a particularly difficult skill to master.”

“Not his chosen weapon,” Rathe muttered. Eslingen glanced curiously at him, wondering what had provoked the unmistakable bitterness of his tone, but the pointsman was already hurrying on, his voice consciously lighter. “It’s supposed to be better for the masses than the usual run of play–”

“Like The Drowned Island?” Eslingen asked, and was pleased to see Rathe grin.

“It also reinforces the health of the country and the health of the queen. It’s not so much the subject matter, but you’ll see certain patterns appear in every single masque, esoteric ones–that’s why there has to be a noble chorus, or so I’m told. That’s in addition to the displays and drills you’ll be working on, and that’s why it takes all day, to get things done in more or less the right signs.”

Eslingen sighed, trying to imagine fitting magistical workings into a show that already felt unwieldy. “Sounds like a very uneasy mating of Tyrseis and Seidos.”

Rathe nodded. “Yeah, to my thought, but…” He shrugged. “It’s a holiday at the darkest day of the year, and it reinforces the queen’s rule. And every single point station in the city is expected to offer support to Point of Dreams.”

“So it’s no holiday for you, either,” Eslingen said.

“Afraid not.”

They sat silent for a moment, Eslingen wondering uneasily how he was going to raise the subject of his presence. Something scraped against the windowpane, and he jumped, knowing it had to be a tree branch. Rathe frowned, opened his mouth, and Eslingen spoke first, not wanting the other to have to ask what he’d come for.

“The thing of it is, Nico…” The last thing he wanted was to beg space from the other, when what he wanted was something more. He didn’t want to phrase it like that, either; this was a bad time for declarations, when it would sound like mere expedience. “Nico, I’m out of doors, and this is not the way I would have wanted to handle it, but would you be willing to have me–living with you?”

Rathe sat very still for a moment, his expression suddenly sober. “I think I could tolerate that, Lieutenant,” he said at last.

Eslingen hesitated, wary of the other man’s tone, and did his best to keep his own voice matter‑of‑fact. “It needn’t be for long. Just until I can find a place of my own.”

Rathe looked up sharply, glass‑green eyes widening in the lamplight. “That wasn’t–” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Philip, it’s been a trying day. We went before the regents first thing, and it hasn’t improved much since, with all the preparations for the masque.”

“What did the regents want?” Eslingen asked, and Rathe grimaced.

“No, they didn’t summon us, it was Holles who went before them.” He shook his head. “I’m not making sense, am I?”

Eslingen shook his head in answer. “Not really.”

That raised the ghost of a smile. “Holles was the leman of an intendant who died recently–Bourtrou Leussi, I don’t know if I’ve mentioned him, but I tell you, I missed him today. He was the senior chamberlain, and no fool, not like the man they put in his place. Tyrseis help the actors, with him in charge instead of Leussi!” Rathe stopped, sighing. “But that’s not to the point. The point is, Leussi’s dead, it’s ghost‑tide, and his leman hasn’t felt his ghost.”

Eslingen frowned. “I don’t–had they quarreled?”

“Holles believes he was murdered,” Rathe said flatly. “And the ghost bound. Istre concurs, and the two of them–with me and Trijn for support–spent this morning trying to persuade the regents that the matter should be reopened.”

“It sounds as though there’s cause,” Eslingen said cautiously. He didn’t like to think about the implications, about the pain of death redoubled by the absent ghost, and was relieved when Rathe nodded.

“Oh, yes, I’d say so. Which is what I was there to say to the regents, for all the good it did me or Holles.” He grimaced. “You didn’t hear me say that.”

“Hear what?” Eslingen paused. “You weren’t–no, the matter was given to someone else, wasn’t it?”

“Just so.” Rathe smiled again, without humor. “The man who brought you up here, in actual fact.”

Eslingen made a face in turn. “Not that I know anything against him, but–”

“You’d be guessing right just from the cut of his coat.” Rathe sighed. “And there I’m being unfair. He’s not a bad man, just not– proved, I suppose.”

“Like a back‑and‑breast.” Eslingen nodded, and Rathe reached for the scattered papers, tapping them into an untidy stack. He set a slate on top of them, letters imperfectly erased from its surface, and pushed himself to his feet, stretching.

“So, you can imagine, your arrival–your staying with me, since it’s come to that–is the best thing that’s happened all day.”

Eslingen grinned, relieved in spite of himself, and Rathe nodded to the basket at the other man’s feet.

“And if that’s a bottle of wine, I’m at your service forever.”

“And if it’s a bottle of good wine?” Eslingen asked. Rathe, damping down the fire in the stove, grinned.

“Then we’ll have to see, won’t we?”

3

« ^ »

rathe edged into the crowded room, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible until he tested the wind of the surintendant’s temper. Oh, he was supposed to be there, along with the forty‑some‑odd senior points from all the districts, plus a few fellows of the university, but he was supposed to be there in company with his own chief point, and Trijn had flatly refused the summons. You go, she had said, handing him the much‑sealed paper. If I have to deal with Fourie this morning, I’ll be kicking dogs by noontime.

And I would hate very much to be the one who relays that message to our good Surintendant of Points, he thought, and found a place in a shadowed corner. Of course, that would probably be the first place Fourie would look for him, but maybe he could catch a brief nap, if the stars favored him.

He sighed softly, letting his eyes roam over the crowd. Not just senior points and the fellows mentioned in the summons, he saw, but a cluster of advocats resplendent in full scarlet robes and tall black caps, and he wondered what they were doing here. Probably to discuss prosecution of any points called, he decided, and wished he could afford a nap. The new play, based as it was on the so‑called verifiable edition of spring‑time rumor, was bidding fair to become a major headache for points and university alike–already, according to the summons, at least four printers had registered their intent to reprint just that edition of the Alphabet, and that meant that at least a dozen more were working on similar volumes without bothering to ask for license. Not to mention the flower merchants, who were happy to raise the price on every bulb or corm mentioned in play or book, and to force blooms out of season at equally exorbitant prices… Someone, probably a lot of someones, was bound to cry fraud, and the surintendant wanted to discuss their options in detail. Personally, Rathe was inclined to let the buyers settle it among themselves, but he knew that was mostly exhaustion speaking. He had not quite adjusted to having Eslingen in his rooms on what seemed to be a semipermanent basis–and, frankly, this wasn’t the way he would have chosen to acquire a new lover, not out of necessity and the sense that he owed the other man a place, since Eslingen had lost two positions because of him. But I do want him living with me, it’s just–He shook his head, not quite able to articulate his disappointment. I want him on my terms, not these. And that is damned foolish, and I’d do very well to get over that, stop mooning over romance like something out of a bad play.

“So, Nico, how are you enjoying life at Dreams?”

Rathe looked up in honest pleasure, recognizing the voice of his former chief at Point of Hopes. “It’s interesting, I’ll say that for it. How are things in Hopes?”

Tersennes Monteia shrugged, her long horse‑face wry. “That ass Ranaczy managed to fall down a ladder at the Maiden. Probably collecting his fee.”

Rathe choked at the image–Ranaczy had never been a favorite of his–and struggled for a suitable comment. “Not dead, I hope.”

Monteia snorted. “Not that one. But he’ll be out of my hair for a while, at least. And everyone else’s. It’s just a pity he didn’t land on something more vulnerable than his head. I’ve moved Salineis up, and with luck I can make it permanent.”

A familiar voice called her name–Guillen Claes, the chief at Fair’s Points–and she touched Rathe’s shoulder in apology, moving to answer. Left to himself, Rathe looked around for further distraction, and to his mild surprise spotted Istre b’Estorr ducking through the heavy doors. The magist wasn’t wearing university robes, and Rathe suspected the ghost‑tide was beginning to wear on him already. Accustomed to ghosts the necromancer might be, but the sheer numbers during the tide could overwhelm even the best of them, and the strain was showing in b’Estorr’s face. The dark grey robes would only accentuate his pallor, and the Chadroni was just vain enough to dislike the notion. Instead, he wore a dark red coat trimmed with embroidered wheat sheaves that matched his pale hair, and Rathe hid a smile, thinking that Eslingen would have snarled with envy. He lifted a hand, beckoning, and the other man moved to join him, his grim expression easing.

“The sur’s in an ugly frame of mind,” Rathe said, “if he’s calling you lot in already.”

b’Estorr glanced around. “And overreacting, surely.”

“Fourie never does anything by halves,” Rathe answered. He glanced sideways at the Chadroni, realizing he hadn’t seen the man in weeks– not since I started seeing Philip–and winced inwardly at the dark circles under his eyes. “You all right?”

b’Estorr nodded, his eyes closing briefly, and Rathe realized that, in this room and at this time, there had to be a clamorous presence of ghosts. Bad enough outside the ghost‑tide, the room was full of pointswomen and advocats, all of whom could be expected to have their own dead, but with the tide on the rise, there would be the timely dead to face, as well. He had felt his own Mud scurrying at his feet on the way into Dreams that morning. He was only vaguely aware of the presence of b’Estorr’s own ghosts, usually an almost tangible presence, today damped down almost to nothing by the pressure of so many others.

“My students are, as usual, clamoring for me to cancel classes,” b’Estorr said. “As are a few of the other masters. As if closing the shutters and going to bed with your head under a pillow for a week will help. It doesn’t.”

Rathe did his best to repress a grin–the thought of the elegant Chadroni cowering in his rooms was almost too good to bear. “It’ll be over soon,” he said. That was true enough; the lunar conjunctions were never long‑lived, and the ghost‑tide had only a few more days to run. Less than the current climate of foolishness, he thought, and b’Estorr nodded as though the other man had spoken aloud.

“This madness won’t, though.” The necromancer’s voice was unwontedly grim.

Rathe nodded in commiseration, just as the door at the far end of the room opened abruptly, admitting two of the Tour’s ushers, elegant in forest‑green livery. One held the doors open while his senior slammed his heavy staff on the floor, drawing all eyes. He struck again, unnecessarily, and Rathe’s eyes were drawn in spite of himself to the royal emblem that topped it. It was identical to the one that capped his own truncheon, his badge of office, and he ran his thumb over the worn metal. He was part of the royal household, in a sense, just as the ushers were.

“Masters all,” the usher announced. “Rainart Fourie, Surintendant of Points.”

Fourie swept in before the words were quite out of his mouth, lifting a hand in acknowledgment of courtesies already begun. He was dressed in his usual narrow black, unrelieved except for the flawless linen at neck and cuffs, and as usual he had forgone the wig that would look so foolish on his long and melancholy face. A clerk scuttled at his heels, tablets ready, and a young woman in a judicial gown followed him, eyes downcast, her hands folded in her sleeves. Behind her, another liveried usher held a brass orrery at the ready.

“Masters all,” Fourie began, and the silence seemed to deepen as each one of them came to attention. “We’re faced with an unusual situation. A midwinter masque that promises to become a popular hit.”

That broke the silence, a ripple of laughter running around the room, but Fourie continued as though he hadn’t heard. “Based on a work that seems to catch the popular imagination on a fairly regular basis. Combine the play with last year’s rumor of an authentic Alphabet, and we have the possibility for massive fraud and more in the marketplaces. That is why I want the university to consult with us on this, and possibly in particular the college of necromancy. There are, by what is admittedly a rough count of a fluid situation, thirty‑five licensed printers in the city. Licensed. There is an unofficial count of another forty or fifty unlicensed printers working at any one time. And all of them, my masters, will be printing copies of the Alphabet of Desire.”

Rathe rolled his eyes to the painted ceiling, wondering why Fourie was telling them something they all already knew. A painted gargoyle peered back at him through a painted hole in the roof, its expression as disapproving as Fourie’s, and he dragged his attention back to the lecture.

“They will be printing copies of the Alphabet because the people of this city will want, already want, to buy it, and this play will only feed that hunger.” Fourie’s long mouth drew down in a frown that rivaled the gargoyle’s. “Many will want it as a curiosity, because it’s the must‑have of this particular season, and their copies will gather dust and be sent for kindling in a twelve‑month. Some, however, will buy it because of what they believe it can do, the knowledge it can impart.”

Rathe pulled himself up a little straighter at that. Of course, that was why Fourie wanted the university there, and the necromancers in particular. The Alphabet of Desire was just that, a book of formulae arranged in the order of the letters, formulae for flower arrangements designed to give the maker the desire of her heart, from true love to lust, to money, to power, to death. There was no way to tell, to certify, that the arrangements in any given edition would work at all, or work the way they were supposed to, without trying each one, and it would take a university‑trained magist to make the assay without causing more harm, unless the necromancers could read the possibility of power the way they read the possibility of ghosts. But it was interesting to see that there were no university phytomancers present. He glanced sideways at b’Estorr, made a note to ask him about that.

“The timing,” Fourie continued, “is unfortunate. May I remind you all that Her Majesty has promised to name her true successor after the turn of the year?”

As if we hadn’t been hearing that for the last three years, Rathe thought, looking up at the gargoyle again. Although this time, it seemed to be true: with the Starchange approaching, the Starsmith moving from one sign to the next in its ponderously slow transit of its zodiac, the queen was finally running out of time to delay. The change of sign always signaled upheaval, or so the old text claimed; for the health of the kingdom, the queen would have to name her successor before that transit began.

“I am not one to doubt the wisdom of the regents,” Fourie went on, and there was another ripple of suppressed laughter. The surintendant had a deserved reputation for quarreling with the regents, usually in defense of his own people. “But Her Majesty’s decision has brought many of the potential candidates to Astreiant at a time when the madness for the Alphabet has sprung back to life, and we cannot ignore the conjunction.” He paused, his eyes skimming over the audience. “On top of that, I’m concerned about keeping the peace in the marketplaces, especially those districts with large markets. There were some squabbles last spring over the corms–”

“Squabbles,” a pointswoman standing in front of Rathe said, under her breath. She leaned close to a colleague, shoving up her faded sleeve to display a long white scar. “That’s what one of those ‘squabbles’ got me, a knife in the arm.”

“–but I’m afraid those will be as nothing compared to what we’re likely to see now. We’re in an unfortunate sign right now.” Fourie paused, beckoned to the usher and the young woman in the judicial gown. “As you well know. The ghost‑tide keeps us busy enough, but we also have to contend with a figure that seems to enhance the inherent foolishness of people.”

“He’s a loving soul,” b’Estorr murmured, and Rathe stifled a laugh.

“Believes the best of people, Fourie does.”

“And there’s your explanation for The Drowned Island,” the necromancer went on, closing his eyes as the younger astrologer made final, minute adjustments to the orrery.

“A question, Surintendant.” The voice came from the front of the group, where the chief of Temple Point and the chancellor of the university sat side by side in matching chairs. That was a little daring of Fourie, Rathe thought. Under no other circumstances would even the most senior of the chiefs rank equal to the university’s head. It was Temple Point who had spoken, her voice even and cultured, and for an instant Rathe wished Trijn had been forced to attend. Only the chiefs were expected to speak at these gatherings. “Do we have any chance of calling a point on the factors, if there’s trouble, or are we left to deal with the petty dealers?”

Fourie’s severe face relaxed into something like a smile. “The advocacy has been consulted on that, Chief Point. They hold that the factors are within their rights to take whatever the market will bear, and so the smaller dealers may–and will–do likewise.”

“If they make claims outside the ordinary,” Temple Point went on, “may we call it fraud?”

“If you think you and yours can make the point,” Fourie said, “by all means.”

Rathe laughed at that, knowing the sound was rueful, heard the same note echoing in the room. It was unlikely any of them could get such a point upheld, given the nature of the corms and the nature of the book, but at least the surintendant had given a qualified sort of approval.

“That does raise an interesting question, Surintendant.” This was the chancellor, her voice deep and smoky, vivid contrast to the grey robes and pale lace. “An arrangement that turned out to be harmless–would the points call that a fraud, if it did no harm when it was designed in fact to kill?”

Fourie bowed slightly. “That, Madame Chancellor, would be a matter for the advocacy to decide. But the point could be called, I believe.”

“Wonderful,” Rathe said, and didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until b’Estorr jogged his elbow. But the surintendant’s decision put all the burden on the points, on the individual pointswomen and ‑men, not on their chiefs–though to be fair, Rathe thought, he was probably right about the advocacy having the final say. And from the look of them, the row of women resplendent in scarlet and black, professionally inscrutable beneath their tall caps, they weren’t prepared to give an opinion until they had an actual case before them.

There were more questions then, one from each of the chief points–restating Temple’s questions, mostly, Rathe thought, with another glance at the ceiling–and then from several of the university officers, before Fourie finally nodded to the usher.

“I think that’s all that needs to be said on the matter. For my people: be aware. Make sure all the printers in your districts are aware, as quickly as possible. And I want peace kept in the markets, I don’t want trouble marring this masque.”

“All rise,” the usher called, and Temple Point and the chancellor rose gracefully to their feet. The second usher swung the doors open with a flourish, and Fourie swept out, the two women following him in a rush of satin. Rathe stretched surreptitiously, watching the other chiefs and adjuncts clustering around the orrery, a few of the advocats peering over their shoulders. It was early yet, and they were glad of the excuse to linger, like schoolchildren on holiday. Unfortunately, he needed to be back at Dreams, to give Trijn her report as soon as possible, and he turned toward the door, suddenly aware that b’Estorr was at his heels. The Chadroni smiled.

“Mind if I walk with you?”

“Of course not,” Rathe answered, and felt lighter for the company.

They left the Tour by the side door that opened onto Clockmakers’ Square, crossed the faded stones that had once sketched the face of a clock across the open marketplace. A lot of them were missing, or their colors had faded beyond recognition, but in the far corner a trio of laborers was working under the supervision of a clockmaker’s journeyman, pulling up stones to replace them with another. A cold day for it, Rathe thought, and drew his own coat more closely around his shoulders. The wind was strong, from the north, not the river, and the sky was the pale flat grey that meant snow was coming soon. An early winter meant a long one; it seemed the almanacs were in accord this year.

“How’s Philip?” b’Estorr asked, and Rathe started.

“He’s well–ah. I haven’t had a chance to tell you. He’s no longer with Caiazzo.” He could feel his face heating, hoped b’Estorr would take it for the wind, but the Chadroni was minding his steps on the uneven cobbles, and at least pretended not to notice.

“That must be a relief for both of you,” he said. “Where has he fetched up this time?”

“I think Hanse has done better by him than I did,” Rathe answered. He remembered all too well b’Estorr’s appalled reaction when he’d first found Eslingen the position with Caiazzo. “He’s got a place with the Masters of the Guild of Defense.”

“Really?” b’Estorr looked impressed. “I may see him there some time, then; I exercise there. When I can.” He smiled. “So he’ll be involved with the masque as well.”

“Yes,” Rathe said slowly, and b’Estorr shook his head.

“Never mind. I should be surprised by this, but I’m not.” He grinned suddenly, the movement transforming his rather sober face. “In the midst of all this–folly–this feels like something else. Congratulations.”

And in the midst of everything that was going on, he felt reassured, trusting b’Estorr’s knowledge the way Eslingen trusted the better class of broadsheet astrologers. He matched the taller man’s stride with automatic ease, at once like and completely unlike the ease he felt with Eslingen. There were no demands here, no complex expectations on either side, just an unlikely friendship that had sprung full‑blown from the first moment he’d asked for a necromancer’s help to make a difficult point. And, speaking of that…

“Do you think we’re likely to see an increase in ‘accidental’ deaths because of the Alphabet?” he asked.

“Alphabets,” b’Estorr corrected, accepting the change of subject without surprise. “It’s hard to say. My own understanding is that the Alphabet is at once extremely precise and rather vague. You would have to read it carefully, and fully, to make anything in it work. I don’t know if it can–go off–like a badly charged gun. I do know that I doubt the ability of the general populace to read anything that carefully.”

“Snob,” Rathe said, without heat. “People might want to prove their version’s the real one, make tests and so on.”

“Which opens up a whole new line of business for actors not good enough to work in the theatres: faking tests for printers.” b’Estorr grinned. “Like false necromancers, conjuring up ghosts that can be fully seen, and can speak, and accuse their murderers.”

Rathe matched the grin, remembering the play that had dealt with ghosts in just that way. b’Estorr had liked it about as much as he himself had liked The Drowned Island.

“We’re lucky in one thing, though,” b’Estorr went on. “It’s not going to be that easy to put arrangements together this time of year. Oh, the people who bought corms in the spring will be able to do some of it, but what you have right now is trouble in potential, I think. And not that many people are going to have the patience to buy a copy of the Alphabet now, and the corms, and then to wait the six to eight months for the corms to come into bloom. And they won’t all want the same stars, or bloom at the same season.”

“I think you underestimate some people’s determination,” Rathe said.

“I think it’ll weed out the–casual villains,” b’Estorr answered, and the pointsman nodded.

“What about flowers available from succession houses?”

b’Estorr shrugged. “Then it’ll be people who can afford to buy the flowers themselves. Even odds whether they’ll be more expensive than the corms, or less. I would wager on more.”

“Yeah, but you remember last spring. Hell, you saw what people were buying around The Drowned Island, spending money they can’t really afford to have a broadsheet copy of the ballads, or a working model of the stage machines. It won’t just be the people with money, Istre. If they want it badly enough, they’ll find a way–they’ll find the money.” b’Estorr paused. They had reached the Hopes‑point Bridge, Rathe realized, but the necromancer kept pace with him instead of turning back toward the university. As though he’d read the thought, b’Estorr shrugged. “I don’t have a class for a while yet. And I think you’re going to have your work cut out for you.”

“Especially in Dreams,” Rathe agreed, and in spite of himself quickened his pace. Plenty of work, that was certain, the morning’s news to pass to Trijn, and then a few hours’ thought as to how they could apply it, fairly and without favor, and then on to the rest of the day’s labor, and whatever else the ghost‑tide had brought them. He paused again at the edge of the market, put an impulsive hand on b’Estorr’s arm. “I’ve been a rotten friend of late, haven’t I?” b’Estorr lifted an eyebrow, but his smile was gentle. “You’ve been busy.”

“Like a love‑struck apprentice,” Rathe agreed.

“Well, it can’t have been easy,” b’Estorr said, reasonably.

“No…” Rathe would have argued more, but a movement in the crowd caught his eye. A new‑looking painted banner snapped from a pole over one of the larger stalls, Bonfortune’s stylized face offering fresh goods, and the market‑goers were already six deep and still coming. A nearby food stall was owned by a big, raw‑boned woman with a Leaguer voice and a soldier’s past, a rumor that had served Graeten well in the past. She was scowling now behind her counter, more than the usual first‑of‑the‑day ill temper on her face, and Rathe started toward her, b’Estorr trailing easily behind him.

“What’s up, Graeten?”

“Just Bonfortune smiling on the corm‑sellers again,” the woman answered. “A ship came in yesterday evening, and Wymar–that’s his–managed to get his hands on some of the damned corms.”

“Sweet Sofia, it’s started already,” Rathe said, and out of the corner of his eye saw b’Estorr’s wry smile of agreement. “Silklands, I assume?”

Graeten nodded. “Just the ones. He’s one of the worst, always has whatever the latest madness is. And I wouldn’t mind, Nico, except he’s stupid.” She squinted against the sunlight, judging the crowd, and pulled the pot that held her morning’s brew to a more stable central position on the counter. “He’s going to have a riot on his hands one of these days, and sooner rather than later, the way he’s selling them, and not bothered to hire a knife or anyone to keep order.”

Rathe looked at b’Estorr, an unwilling smile on his face. “Fourie always calls it, doesn’t he?”

“He seems to,” the Chadroni answered. “What would this be, insufficient… ?”

“Inadequate attention to the queen’s peace and public safety,” Rathe quoted, and Graeten grinned openly. “Who’s his factor, Graeten?”

The woman shook her head, still smiling. “No idea. There’s a dozen venturers and the same number of residents he could be buying from.”

Maybe half that number, Rathe amended silently. If Wymar was as much of a fool as Graeten said, there would be those who wouldn’t want to deal with him–a stallholder who failed to keep order was dangerous for business. Still, it was a moot point. There was nothing in law, as Fourie had pointed out, to prevent the merchants from selling what was a common commodity at this time of year, and certainly no law would keep them from taking what the market would bear. And it was Wymar who was the immediate problem. He swore under his breath, seeing a woman’s head and shoulders rise above the crowd–stepped up onto a box, most likely–face flushed under her neat linen coif.

“Come along, my ladies, there’s plenty to buy, but don’t damage the goods, we’ve corms here worth a week’s housekeeping, all for your pleasure.”

“No knife, and he hires a shill,” Graeten said, with disgust, and Rathe nodded, already taking a step toward the stall. Wymar’s clientele didn’t look like the sort who could afford to spend a week’s house money on corms, not by the look of their clothes, but that was a folly he couldn’t mend. And then he saw it, the movement he’d been dreading, bodies swirling aside from two potential combatants, and this time he swore aloud.

“Excuse me, Istre,” he said, and the magist leaned back against Graeten’s counter as the woman reached to sweep her better goods out of sight and reach.

“You’re not on watch,” b’Estorr said.

“See any other pointsmen around?” Rathe called over his shoulder, but b’Estorr’s words followed him.

“Never do, when you need one.”

Rathe grimaced, drawing his truncheon, and flourished it to clear a path through the crowd, the less‑involved bystanders falling back as they recognized a point’s presence. Wymar himself was sprawled across his front counter in an effort to protect his goods, and his head from the two women, householders both, by the look of them, grappling and sparring over a corm, their market baskets spilled and the contents already half‑trampled against the worn cobbles. The shill, of course, was nowhere in sight, her stand empty, and Rathe caught the eye of a thin woman who was starting to reach across the undefended space. She ducked back out of sight, but another, bolder, grabbed anyway, and he brought his truncheon down just short of her fingers, the blow loud against the wood. She shrieked as though he’d hit her, and Wymar turned, still flat on the counter, trying to drag the rest of his goods under his body. Rathe grabbed the nearer of the two combatants by the collar of her short coat and hauled her bodily back, wailing as her fingers finally left the corm. She was smaller than the other, but seemed to have a keener sense of how to succeed in a close‑quarters fight: the other woman already had a split lip. Bloody mouth or not, she crowed in triumph, holding up the corm, and Rathe lifted his truncheon at her.

“Leave off, mistress.” He released the other woman, careful to stay between them. “Brawling in the market, and without the excuse of drink?” He saw other, avid faces behind them, the thought that Wymar’s goods were all but unguarded vivid in their eyes, and raised his truncheon again. “The rest of you, stand back unless you want me to call points on all of you for a mob.”

“She cheated me,” the taller woman said.

“No!” The other stiffened indignantly in his grip. “I had my hand on it first, had drawn out my money to pay Master Wymar–”

“Sweet Sofia, dames, it’s one corm,” Rathe said, and knew it was pointless even as he spoke.

“It is rather spectacular, pointsman,” Wymar offered, almost apologetically, and Rathe saw to his relief that the merchant had managed to tidy most of his goods away out of reach. “It’s in the rose style, but doubled, and yellow with the faintest of pink tracings–”

“That’s the flower,” Rathe said. “The corm–” He broke off, knowing it was pointless from the look in the women’s eyes. The corm was only the flower in potential; each one had to be treated properly, allowed to winter over in its own time, or kept cold and then warm to force an early bloom, if the variety allowed it. His own mother was an herbalist, had taught him to keep his own small garden even though his stars had taken him a long way from her profession; she grew some of the corms as well, and he knew how tricky the showier varieties could be to coax to full majesty. But these–none of them were buying with that in mind, wanting only to have and to hold the source of the possible beauty. The thought was suddenly painful, a vision of wasted corms, misplanted, blooming blind, or left drying and neglected once the folly was past, sharpening his tongue.

“I can’t tell you not to buy it, that’s your own folly, and so be it. But brawling in the market, that is a points matter, and I’m inclined to call the point next time. Master Wymar.” He took a breath. “I leave the judgment to you, master, as to which of these women is the rightful purchaser, and, frankly, I don’t envy you. But give judgment now.”

Wymar blinked, his face going even paler than before, flung out his arm to indicate the shorter woman. Her face split in a ferocious grin, and the other woman flung back her head.

“No! Gods above, he lies–”

“Shall I call the point?” Rathe demanded, and the woman faltered.

“You can’t–it would be a disgrace. Unless you call it against this fool, this blind calf’s‑head, who only gives it to her because her son’s in his guild–”

“Mistress,” Rathe said, sharply, and the woman fell silent, controlling herself with an effort. “I didn’t intend to call the point, I think you’re both well paid for it, but if you insist, I will.”

The smaller woman, he was pleased to see, had had the sense to get her money out smartly, and was already fading into the crowd, the corm clutched close beneath her skirt. The taller woman took another breath, shaking her head, but by her expression, she was far from appeased.

“If there’s any more trouble,” Rathe said, raising his voice to be sure he was heard, “if I or any other from the points sees another disturbance, I will call a point, and close this stall down. Is that understood?”

There was a murmur, ambiguous at best, but Wymar bobbed his head in rapid agreement. “Yes, pointsman–forgive me, Adjunct Point, anything you say.”

I hope so. “And my warning to you is to keep order at your business,” Rathe said. “That’s one of the conditions of your bond, as you very well know, one of the terms of the license you hold for this spot. I’m sure I don’t have to remind you of that, or check your license, do I?”

Wymar shook his head, paler than ever, and Rathe’s eyes narrowed. Something wasn’t right there, and he made a note to send Sohier around to check on the stallholder’s papers. He thought he could guess what she would find.

“Then, Master Wymar, I wish you a–peaceful–day.”

“Pointsman!” There was still no color in Wymar’s face, but he made an attempt to smile, licking dry lips, and reached under the counter, came up with a small, heart‑shaped corm half wrapped in a sheet of printed paper. “Might I not offer… In gratitude for your discretion… ?”

Rathe turned back, aware of the envious stares from the crowd around him. He had thought he recognized the corm, was sure of it when he saw the name on the smallsheet that wrapped it, and gave in to an unworthy impulse. “Thank you, no. I don’t take fees, no matter how they’re called. Those are pretty, though. My mother grows them in her garden.”

And she’d probably smack him for taking such a mean pleasure in the fact, he thought, shouldering his way back through the crowd. b’Estorr had moved on from Graeten’s stall, he saw, had found his way to a printer’s, stood idly flipping through a folio. Rathe recognized the whispering gargoyle that adorned the banner as belonging to Bertran Girodaia, and allowed himself a sigh of relief. Not only did Girodaia hire some of the better astrologers to provide her forecasts, she had the wit and the coin to keep all her licenses fully up‑to‑date. Girodaia herself was working the booth today, keeping an eye on two apprentices and a journeyman while chatting politely with a customer, a round‑faced matron with the badge of the embroiderers’ guild on one voluminous sleeve. She managed a nod and a half smile as Rathe approached, and Rathe’s smile in return was honestly friendly. Girodaia might look all to sea, cuffs frayed, hem sagging, brilliant blue eyes wide set beneath grey hair cut short and ragged as a fever victim’s, but she knew her business better than most, and kept a firm control of its every aspect. From the look of her eyes, Seidos was strong in her stars; maybe that, Rathe thought, had taught her the wisdom of keeping matters under close rule. He edged close to the counter, b’Estorr sliding sideways to give him room, and couldn’t help glancing at the embroiderer’s purchase. An edition of the Alphabet, he saw, without great surprise, according to the superscript newly revised and amended based on recent discoveries, and he wondered how many hours ago that had been completed. And b’Estorr was looking at one as well, and Rathe groaned aloud. Damn Chresta Aconin.

“I suppose,” b’Estorr said, without looking up, “the university could demand to see each printer’s master copy, and stamp it once we deemed it–harmless. But then, would we be liable for fraud if the formulae didn’t work at all?”

Rathe looked at him. “Have you ever considered going into the advocacy?”

“Not ever,” b’Estorr answered, and Rathe snorted.

“How does this one look?”

The necromancer shrugged. “I’m no expert, in printing or phytomancy.”

He slid the volume across the counter, and Rathe took it, turning the pages carefully. If he remembered correctly, it looked much like the versions that had been circulating in the spring, when the verifiable Alphabet was first a rumor, a slim volume with crude plates accompanied by text that gave the desired effect and the formula for creating them. This one gave the stars under which the flowers should be gathered, something he didn’t remember from the last editions, and on second glance the plates were less crude than old‑fashioned. Probably taken from a much older edition that had been cannibalized for the plates in it, he guessed, and couldn’t suppress a smile. First the printers had torn the old books apart, and now they were frantically trying to put them back together. He turned to say as much to b’Estorr, who was reading a broadsheet prophecy, and his eye was caught by a notice fluttering from one of the stall’s supporting poles. The Guild of the Masters of Defense announces a new master, prize played for and won… There was more, but it was the name that struck him silent, printed in enormous letters so that the words ran almost the width of the sheet: Philip vaan Esling, lieutenant, late of Coindarel’s Dragons. He blinked, puzzled and then, slowly, annoyed– what, you liked the play so much you had to cast yourself as the noble lover?–and b’Estorr looked over his shoulder. He heard the necromancer’s soft intake of breath, and then the sigh as it was released.

“He’s working on the midwinter masque, Nico, with scores of nobles who have to be told what to do. I imagine it’s rather easier for the guild to get them to cooperate if they can believe he might be something closer to their own class. It probably wasn’t his decision. It looks more to me like the hand of Gerrat Duca. He’s a master at keeping the nobles happy–he has to be.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” Rathe shook his head, the annoyance fading to something like amusement–Eslingen was going to have his hands full keeping up the pretense in that company–and turned back to the stall.

“Hello, Nico, what can I do for you?” Girodaia had finished with her customer, waved away an apprentice to smile at Rathe herself.

“I see you’re flogging a version of the Alphabet,” he said.

“Not the play,” Girodaia said hastily. By law and custom, the play could not be printed until after the masque had been performed, but in other years a few, favored printers had found themselves with copies some weeks earlier.

“No, I can see that,” Rathe said. “And I know you’re not on that good terms with Aconin.”

Girodaia made a sour face, her big hands miming resignation. She had been on good terms with the playwright, Rathe knew, until she had refused to print something she considered too scurrilous about one of the playwright’s former lovers. Aconin had taken his undoubted talent elsewhere, but it hadn’t been too great a loss for Girodaia, as Aconin’s first stage successes had followed closely. As he made a name for himself as a playwright, he’d eschewed the broadsheets altogether–or had he? Rathe wondered suddenly. Could Aconin, of all people, resist the temptation to let his wit run rampant under another name, while keeping his own pristine for the theatres? He shook the thought away–a speculation that might be useful at another time–and turned his attention to the matter at hand.

“I just wondered if you’d thought about the liabilities that might attach to you for selling it.”

“Liabilities?” Girodaia frowned, her eyes going from Rathe to the man behind him, lingering on the Starsmith’s badge at the knot of his stock.

“It’s a practicum,” Rathe said, “or at least anything that purports to be the Alphabet of Desire purports to be a practicum. You’re putting recipes in unpracticed hands–like giving the procedures to making aurichalcum to people who don’t have the wisdom to handle it.”

“And we all know you’d know about that,” Girodaia said, with a quick grin.

Rathe sighed. The affair of the children had turned out to involve the making of aurichalcum; he’d hoped to make her think he was serious, not angling for praise. “It’s no joke, Bertran. Truly.”

“It’s a work of fiction, Nico.” Her eyes slid again to the necromancer, visibly assessing the university’s role in the matter. “Isn’t it?”

“Probably,” Rathe answered. “But suppose somewhere there was a copy that wasn’t. And even ruling that out, because I admit it’s unlikely, there could be something in here that would work. And without the imprimatur–the university’s imprimatur–you could be liable.”

It was thin, and they both knew it, an awkward point to call and even more difficult to prove, and Rathe silently damned Fourie. Without more solid authority, there was nothing he could do but go one by one to the printers and make these veiled threats that the brighter of them would know instantly were pointless.

Girodaia looked down at the book, ran a finger down the spine. “But you’re not forbidding me to sell it?”

Rathe sighed. “You know I can’t. Just consider it a friendly warning.”

Girodaia frowned, shook her head. “I’ll take my chances, I think, Nico. You understand.”

“I understand,” Rathe answered, and touched b’Estorr’s arm. “Istre?”

The magist started slightly, turned to follow the other man with a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”

“What is it?” Rathe asked.

“Verifiable is an interesting word,” b’Estorr said. “Verifiable by whom, is what I’ve been wondering. Not by the university, we haven’t seen anything of it.”

“No copies in the great library?”

b’Estorr snorted. “Even if someone donated a copy at some point, I wouldn’t know where to find it. The cataloging in the older sections leaves much to be desired. But my point is, it’s not the word we would use.”

“How about certifiable?” Rathe asked, and b’Estorr laughed.

“You’re likely to become so, with all these flooding the market. But, no, the word the university would use is provenanced.”

“So?”

“So,” b’Estorr said slowly, “if it exists, it’s unlikely to have ever been proved by the university. Which means that even this ‘verifiable’ edition may in fact be more dangerous than we thought.”

“Everybody knows how to make gunpowder,” Rathe said.

“Do you?” b’Estorr answered. “Do you really?”

Rathe blinked. “Charcoal, nitre, and saltpeter…”

“In what proportions? And how do you mix it?”

“Very carefully,” Rathe answered. “All right, point taken.”

“And to use gunpowder once you’ve made it, generally speaking you also use a gun and ball or shot of some sort, and you stand there and take your chances, seen or unseen.” b’Estorr shook his head. “This would be something very different.”

Rathe blinked again, looked up at the taller man, seeing the breeze ruffle his straw‑pale hair. “Istre, do you believe in the Alphabet of Desire?”

“I’m very much afraid that I’m afraid not to.”

There was nothing to be said to that. Rathe looked away, kicked a stone from his path with more force than was needed, wishing the other hadn’t put into words what he himself had already begun to fear. Fourie was right, as he so often was; the Alphabet was potentially very dangerous–if, he reminded himself, it actually existed. But b’Estorr was right, they couldn’t afford to believe it didn’t.

The market clock struck then, a fraction before the larger clock at the guildhall, and b’Estorr swore, more violently than Rathe could ever remember hearing him. The Chadroni shook his head, looking utterly disgusted. “Sorry, Nico, I lost complete track of the time. And I have a class in less than an hour.”

Rathe couldn’t repress the grin. “Let me guess in what subject.”

“Don’t bother. Look, if you learn anything more about this, let me know, all right?”

“If you do the same,” Rathe answered. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?” b’Estorr paused, looked honestly curious.

“The look that says you’re going to track down a puzzle and strangle it.”

“Must be why it’s like looking in a mirror,” b’Estorr answered, and turned away.

Rathe made his way back to Point of Dreams, pausing twice more to check printers’ shops for the Alphabet of Desire. There were at least two further editions, and a promise of a third, more elaborate volume keyed to the play itself, and all of them, Rathe thought, with disgust, equally likely to be harmless. But not guaranteed, and that was why Trijn, and every other chief point in the city, would be spending hard‑earned favors or even the stations’ close kept funds to make sure they had copies of everything.

Dreams was dark and chill in spite of the fires in three of the stoves, and he freed himself only reluctantly from the bulk of his jerkin, hanging it with the others beside the fireplace. The duty point cleared her throat uneasily, and Rathe controlled his annoyance with an effort. Yres Falasca had been passed over, at least in her view; she was doing her best to live with her disappointment.

“Yeah?”

Falasca pushed a package wrapped in brown paper across the desk toward him. “This came for you, this morning.”

Rathe suppressed a sigh, recognized Gasquine’s seal: the script, then, of The Alphabet of Desire. Just what he needed to finish a perfect morning, he thought, and tucked it under his arm. His own workroom was mercifully warmer–the duty runner had remembered to light his stove, and there was a fresh pot of tea on the hob–and he settled himself at his table with cautious relief. The package, unfortunately, was still there; he sighed, and broke the seal, peeling back the wrapping. The script was there, loosely bound with what looked like kitchen string, a copyist’s tidy hand filling the pages, but he put it aside for the second item. This proved to be a list of the lottery winners, the nobles who would take part as members of the chorus. After the morning, he could hardly read the script with any equanimity; the nobles were far preferable. He read the list through once, then again, more slowly, and a third time, more closely still. He refolded the paper, and tipped his chair back so that his head could rest against the rough plaster wall. He could not, he told himself, couldn’t possibly be seeing what he thought he was seeing. On the other hand, sheer luck could not possibly account for it, either. He took a deep breath, unfolded the paper again, and stared at the names, making the connections explicit in his own mind: yes, at least half of the dames and seurs were somehow related to a claimant to the throne.

“Sweet Sofia,” he said, and started for Trijn’s office at a pace just short of a run.

Trijn met him on the landing, anger turning to understanding as she saw what he held. “My workroom,” she said. “You, Hina! Go to Laneten’s, get two plates of whatever’s going for lunch, and a jug of beer. A large one.”

The runner bobbed a curtsy, eyes wide, and Trijn waved her away. “My workroom,” she said again, and Rathe obeyed.

The chief point said nothing more until the door was closed firmly behind them, then shook her head. “All right,” she said, “you first.”

Thanks. Rathe took a breath. “Dumb chance couldn’t possibly account for this,” he said, and held out the paper. “More than half of the members of the masque chorus are directly related to one of the claimants to the throne.”

Trijn waved for him to take a seat, and he obeyed automatically. Trijn’s copy of the list lay facedown on her table, and she turned it over again before she spoke. “Half? I make it more like three‑quarters, myself. Shit.”

“What do you think it means?” Rathe asked cautiously. He was still wary of Trijn’s temper. “It’s not making a lot of sense to me. If the lottery was rigged, why? And by whom?”

“By whom is probably the easy part,” Trijn said with a snarl. “There’s only one person in Astreiant–hells, in Chenedolle–who could manage it, and that’s Astreiant herself.”

“The metropolitan?” Rathe shook his head. “Why?”

Trijn gave a humorless smile. “I know you like her, Rathe, but she’s a consummate politician. At least, I would have thought so. This–” She lifted her copy of the list, and let it fall heavily to the tabletop. “I would suspect this was done at Her Majesty’s behest. As to why… Rumor’s a wonderful thing, Rathe. It runs on so many levels. There are rumors you hear that I probably never get wind of, even in this station, to say nothing of the rumors that run in your part of southriver, as opposed to my part of northriver. The rumors in Point of Knives will always be different from those running in Temple Point, or anywhere else in the city. And University Point rumors are like no other in Chenedolle. Neither are City Point rumors. And the most recent City Point rumors are extremely interesting.”

“I’m not going to like this,” Rathe said.

“The most recent City Point rumor is that the queen finally means to name her successor at midwinter. The time is finally propitious, they say.”

“Fourie said that she might,” Rathe said. “But I didn’t believe it.”

“They’re betting on it in City Point,” Trijn said, and Rathe nodded.

“Which means they’re all hostages.”

“For their families’ good behavior.” Trijn nodded in her turn.

Did Fourie actually know? Rathe wondered. And if he knew, why couldn’t he say–did anyone know officially, or had the news simply been whispered in the right corners, the word trickling out through the familiar channels of gossip? And how wise was that? The worst of it was, if this was completely unofficial information… “What the hell are we supposed to do about it?” he said aloud.

Trijn gave a weary shrug, and Rathe wondered just when she had gotten in that morning. Dreams was new for both of them, they both had come from districts where the problems were more commonplace. “There’s not a lot we can do,” she said. “I’m thinking of calling Fourie on it, see if we can’t get some kind of warrant for action, permission to keep an official eye on the Tyrseia, but until then, Rathe, I confess I’m relying on your connections in the theatre.”

For a second, Rathe thought she meant Eslingen, but then realized she meant his friendship with Gavi Jhirassi. He had had connections within the theatre world long before he met Philip Eslingen. His eyes dropped to the cast list again, to the professionals, this time, and with a sick jolt he saw the name he had somehow avoided before. Guis Forveijl: yes, that was a connection he could well have lived without.

“Rathe?”

He shook himself. “Sorry.”

Trijn nodded. “As you’ve nothing more pressing at the moment than these damned Alphabets, I’d take it kindly if you could manage to keep the Tyrseia under your eye. Unofficially, to be sure. Unless you can find an official reason–preferably one that’s not too dire.”

Rathe smiled faintly. “I might be able to concoct something. If nothing else, Chresta Aconin’s responsible for this new craze for the Alphabets. I wonder if we mightn’t score a point for inciting civic disquiet.”

“Enjoy your dreams, Rathe,” Trijn said. “Now, I want you to go over this chorus list again. If I’m right, they’re all connected to claimants somehow or other, and I want to know exactly how–to what degree, and how many quarterings. You personally, not an apprentice.”

“Yes, Chief,” Rathe said with a sigh. He understood the need for secrecy, but he was duty point this afternoon; the assignment would mean several hours at the Sofian temple, or possibly the university, all in his supposedly free time. At this time of year, the libraries were particularly cold and dank, and he wished he could send an apprentice. The Sofians in particular never bothered to light fires until the first snow, a precaution against fire, they said, but, Rathe believed, more as an outward sign of their general perversity. He had spent more than enough time in both places, taking on assignments designed to prove that an apprentice could, in fact, read and write; it was hardly a job that suited his age and rank.

Trijn lifted an eyebrow, as though she’d guessed the thought. “Unless you’d like the task I’ve set myself, which is persuading Astreiant to at least make this information official to the points.”

Rathe blinked, wondering how the chief point could be so free with the metropolitan’s time, but shook his head. “I’m more than happy to leave that to you.”

He made his way back to his workroom, stopping only to collect another pot of tea, and settled himself behind his table to frown at the list of chorus members again. He knew at least some of the connections, and he reached for a charcoal, began noting them down to save some time at the temples. Eslingen would know more, he thought, and wondered if he dared ask the other man. Trijn had made clear that she wanted it kept secret– and wisely, too–but Eslingen was hardly an apprentice pointsman. He grinned to himself at that: Trijn would agree, but hardly come to the same conclusion. And perhaps it would be less than wise to take the list out of the station.

A knock at the door interrupted his train of thought, and he flipped the list over automatically. “Come in.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Adjunct Point.” It was Kurin Holles, his formal robes discarded for a drab suit that did nothing to flatter his ivory coloring.

“Advocat, I’m sorry. Please, have a seat.”

Holles hesitated for a moment, then shook himself and sat uneasily on the chair nearest the stove. He was carrying a paper‑wrapped parcel, Rathe saw, and set it awkwardly on his knee, seemingly at a loss for words.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” Rathe prompted, and the other man managed a flinching smile.

“Not really. Reassurance, I suppose. It’s been–days–and this pointsman, this Voillemin?”

Rathe nodded.

“Hasn’t yet been to the house, or sought me at the courts. Will he really do his best to find Bourtrou’s killer?”

Not spoken to the leman yet. Rathe suppressed his own anger– Voillemin might have been trying to spare Holles’s feelings, pursue other leads before troubling a man bereaved, but somehow he doubted it–and fumbled for the right words. “Advocat, I–”

“I know,” Holles said. “I’m sorry, the question wasn’t fair. But, gods, Rathe! I expected better than this.”

Rathe bit down anger again. “You heard the decree yourself. I can’t intervene, or the regents will revoke their warrant.” He lifted his hand to forestall Holles’s answer. “And even if that weren’t the case, I would have no right to interfere in another’s case unless and until there were some concrete reason, some obvious failure, that had to be corrected.”

“And not talking to me isn’t an obvious failure?” Holles asked.

He had found the body, Rathe remembered, but tried for a conciliatory tone. “He may have been trying to spare your feelings, Advocat.”

Holles took a deep breath and gave a jerky nod. “It isn’t necessary. All I want–”

He broke off, and Rathe finished the sentence for him. “Is to know what happened, and why. And even that may not be enough, Advocat. You know that.”

“I know.” Holles’s voice was almost a whisper. “Sofia’s tits, I don’t know where to set him looking, don’t even know where I’d start if I were him, but I want justice. There’s nothing else left for me.” He shook his head, straightening. “I’m sorry. But I don’t know who else I can come to with my concerns.”

“It’s a matter for the chief point,” Rathe said, and Holles smiled again.

“Trijn has her own agenda in this, I think. I feel confident in you.”

That matched Rathe’s impression all too well, and in spite of himself Rathe nodded once. “He’s not a bad pointsman, not corrupt, I give you my word on that. And I will pass him the word that he need not worry about your sensibilities. And if anything else happens to concern you, you can come to me, and I will speak to Voillemin about it. I’m the senior adjunct here, my job is not to undermine the points under me. Do you understand that?”

Holles nodded, a rueful smile on his face. “That’s one of the many reasons I wish you were handling this investigation, Adjunct Point. I’ve said my piece, I won’t trouble you further.” He looked down at the parcel, and the smile twisted out of true. “Except one thing. A kind of jest, and probably in poor taste, but I thought you might appreciate it; Or an irony, at least. I found this at Bourtrou’s office in the Tour, and thought you might want to add it to your collection.”

Rathe took the package, frowning slightly, and unwrapped the paper to reveal a plainly bound octavo volume, the corners bent from hard use. There was no title stamped on spine or cover, and he opened it warily, only to laugh as he saw the title page. Well, why not? he thought, gazing down at it. It seemed a part of the way things were going these days.

It was a copy of the Alphabet of Desire.

Holles rose, bowing. “Thank you for your time, Adjunct Point. And for your help.”

“Thank you for this,” Rathe answered, but the other man was already gone. Rathe sighed, staring at the book he had been given. He should look at it, study it the same way he would study all the others that they’d collected, but his mind was on Holles’s complaint. The man knew how the points worked, that was the trouble, saw it day to day in Hearts, and could be forgiven if he was suspicious of anyone he hadn’t come to know personally. And in this case… Rathe sighed, and shoved himself away from his table, heading back to the main room to consult the daybook.

“Anything of interest?” he asked, flipping back through the day’s notations, and the duty point shrugged.

“A couple more editions brought in.”

And one more that I should log, Rathe thought, then stopped, frowning. He had reached the previous day, and one of the entries did not make sense. “Is Voillemin about?”

“He’s got the bridge shift,” the duty point answered, and Rathe’s eyes went to the clock. Yes, the man should be here, was due to go off watch shortly.

“Has he done anything about this?” he asked, and pointed to the book. The duty point craned her neck to see, and shook her head.

“Not that I know. What me to check?”

“No.” Rathe turned the book back toward her, moving carefully to hide his anger. “No. I’ll ask him.”

“Up to you. How were things at the Tour?”

“Fraught,” Rathe answered, and the woman smirked.

“I can imagine. It’s not a dull life, give us that.”

Rathe murmured something in answer, turned away to stare at the station clock. The story was that it had been a gift from one of Dreams’s greatest actresses, Herren Dornevil, in gratitude for the points’ quelling the student riots and thus keeping the theatres open. Another story said that a former chief point had liberated it from one of the few pleasure houses operating in Dreams instead of Hearts– that Dornevil had, in fact, given it to the proprietor of that house, for services rendered. Whatever its origins, the movements were near perfect, and Rathe let himself watch for a few minutes, let the steady swing of the pendulum clear his head so that he could think. He hadn’t thought that Voillemin was a fool, a coward, or lazy, but there was evidence of one of those in the daybook. One of the stallholders in Little Chain Market had sent a runner, claiming to have information about Leussi’s death–and, yes, Little Chain was in Hearts, but it was merely a matter of making a courtesy call on the chief there, and Voillemin would be free to proceed. But he hadn’t made any notation that he had, or planned to do so. In fact, there had been a line through the entry, indicating it had been considered and written off. And maybe there was cause, he told himself, damping down his anger, maybe there was something in the message that made it patently untrue, but if there was, he should have noted it. He took a breath, and started back up the stairs.

Voillemin shared a workroom with Leenderts, but the other half of the long table was empty, its surface swept clean of everything except a basket of slates weighting down a stack of papers. Rathe allowed himself a sigh of relief–he wanted no witnesses, if he had to interfere in this matter–and tapped on the door frame. Voillemin looked up with a fleeting expression of annoyance at the delay.

“Can I come in?” Rathe asked.

Voillemin nodded. “Yes, of course, Adjunct Point.”

Rathe closed the door carefully behind him, reached for Leenderts’s chair, and swung it to face the other man. “Tell me about the runner from Little Chain.”

Voillemin shrugged. “Not much to tell, really. One of the market brats came and said her mistress wanted to speak with me about the intendant’s death. She wouldn’t say who the mistress was, just that she was a stall holder, and she wanted to know when the intendant died.”

“And you did… ?”

Voillemin looked honestly startled. “I made a note of it, but frankly, I thought it was, well, just a prank. To get the death‑time, cast a horoscope, something like that.”

Possible, Rathe thought, striving for fairness, but not likely. “For what purpose?”

“You don’t know this district very well yet, Adjunct Point.” Voillemin’s voice held a note of grievance. “There are printers in Little Chain, same as everywhere. I suspected this one wanted to get information his competitors didn’t have, to bring out a scandal‑sheet claiming Sofia knows what about the intendant’s death. And we have a policy here–I think it’s city‑wide–of not feeding the broadsheets.”

“I understand that you haven’t yet spoken to Advocat Holles,” Rathe said.

Voillemin blinked, caught off balance by the change of subject. “Well, no, I thought–” He stopped, tried again. “I didn’t want to add to his burdens at such a time.”

“He found the body,” Rathe said gently, and a faint blush rose on Voillemin’s cheeks.

“There was plenty of information in the alchemist’s report…”

His voice trailed off, and Rathe sighed. “You haven’t questioned the first person to find the body. You didn’t follow up on a potential source of information about Leussi’s murder. You don’t even use the word ‘murder, ’ I notice. Very well, that’s your prerogative, though prejudging a case is always dangerous, as you should well know. But you’ve been given this job, and it’s your responsibility as a pointsman, your responsibility to this station, never mind to the advocat, to do it right. Valuable information has come from the unlikeliest sources, as you should know–as an apprentice learns in her first year.” He took a breath, swallowing the rest of the lecture–Voillemin was an adjunct point, after all–and said carefully, “Advocat Holles sent word that he appreciates your scruples, but they’re unnecessary. As for the other, you will look into it. Today.”

“I’m about to go…” Voillemin realized his mistake as soon as he started to speak, and closed his mouth tightly against the words. Rathe nodded.

“To Little Chain. Good.”

The stage of the Tyrseia was set for a banquet, long tables placed in a square so that everyone could see and be seen, each one draped in spotless linen and set with dishes that gleamed in the doubled light from the mage‑lights and the enormous candelabra that hung center stage. The newly chosen noble chorus glittered in their second‑best– none of them would have put on best for this meeting, and none would wear less than that, to show themselves among their peers– and the black robes of the marshaling chamberlains, bustling back and forth among the various groups, set them off to perfection. It was like a scene in a play, Eslingen thought, except that the food and the wine was real, the smells savory enough to make his stomach growl. Presumably they would be free to eat at some point; for now, he would wait with the other Masters of Defense, and hope that no one took too much notice of the stranger among them.

He recognized a few of the actors, women and men he’d seen a dozen times onstage, the best of Astreiant’s theatres, recognized, too, Rathe’s upstairs neighbor, the object of a hundred glances, and looked away to spare him at least that stare. He felt distinctly out of place in this bright company, and knew he couldn’t match the other masters’ ease, fell back on the stance he’d practiced as a new‑made lieutenant–after all, he told himself, they’d hired him as a soldier, and a soldier he’d be. Siredy quirked a smile at him, very fair today under a black wig, and Eslingen returned the smile unspeaking. Siredy seemed to take that as encouragement enough, and edged closer, tipping his head toward the cluster of the chorus.

“They look very fine, our noble amateurs. I wonder if any of them can act.”

“What’s the usual way of it?” Eslingen asked, genuinely curious, and the other man shrugged.

“Oh, maybe one in ten has some talent, or at least experience, most of that from the university. But the hard part is persuading them to do what they’re told.”

That was no surprise, Eslingen thought, watching the landames greet each other with kisses and cries shrill as a seabird’s. Their skirts caught the light, the occasional silk overskirt hissing against fine linen and better wool, and their brothers and husbands, left behind, greeted each other more discreetly.

“At least you have the looks for it,” Siredy said, without jealousy, and Eslingen glanced at him.

“Does that really make so much difference?”

“You’d be surprised,” Siredy answered. “Though to be fair, it’s less the looks than the manners.” He smiled, this time with malice. “Soumet, now–he’s never been able to persuade a single one of them to do what he wants, for all that he actually does know what he’s doing.”

No, Soumet wouldn’t be to their taste,. Eslingen thought, and shook himself. This was no different, or not much different, from serving with Coindarel. He’d drilled enough young nobles to know exactly how to handle them, how to flatter, when to drive, and how to make them proud to serve, even if it was a play this time, and not a regiment. He drew himself up, aware of a landame’s smile, hidden instantly behind a flourished fan, and Siredy said softly, “See, now? You’ve already won them.”

“Let’s hope so,” Eslingen answered, and Gasquine stepped out from among the actors. The movement was planned, drawing all eyes, and instantly the senior chamberlain moved to meet her, bowing with punctilious courtesy. She curtsied in answer, not deeply, and the chamberlain slammed his staff against the stage floor, calling in the same instant for silence. To Eslingen’s surprise, he received it, and Gasquine turned slowly, one hand outstretched, welcoming them all. She had dressed for the occasion, not in finery–she must have known she couldn’t compete with the chorus, Eslingen thought–but in a good, well‑cut skirt and bodice, the sort of fine dark red wool that the city’s best merchants wore. It was high‑necked, the collar closed beneath her chin, and she wore a simple gold chain, ornamented with a single flower. With a real flower, Eslingen amended, one of the winter corms forced to early bloom, its long stem woven into the links so that its pale, pink‑tipped bell lay along the curve of one breast. A perfect touch, Eslingen thought, and repressed the urge to applaud.

“My friends and colleagues,” Gasquine said, “and the landames whom I hope will soon become our colleagues, welcome to the Tyrseia, and to our play. We are fortunate this year in our play, and in our noble sponsor, who has so generously pledged not only his name but his gift of flowers to make this piece the success it deserves to be. I ask you to begin by greeting him as he deserves: I present to you all the landseur Aubine, our patron and sponsor.”

Eslingen clapped politely. The actors were more enthusiastic, the noble chorus distracted, still whispering among themselves, and he had to look twice before he could pick out the landseur. He was an older man–well, perhaps not as old as he looked, Eslingen amended, but certainly dressed like an old man, all in grey wool and white linen, without even a line of braid to trim his coat. Even his buttons were plain jet, expensive but undemonstrative–there were actors who were better dressed than he, and the chorus outshone him without effort. His brown hair was equally undistinguished, and it had to be his own, hanging loose without curl across his shoulders as he made his bow.

“The flowers are really nothing,” he said. He had a good voice, Eslingen thought, surprised, low and resonant, and he knew how to project to be heard in the Tyrseia’s cavernous space. “A small thing, from my succession houses. But I hope you will all take them as a tangible sign of my hope for our success.”

“He has the most notable glass houses in the city,” Siredy said softly.

So of course he’d sponsor The Alphabet of Desire, Eslingen thought. Why not? Though it did make a certain amount of sense, given how obsessed the city seemed to be with flowers. He said aloud, “He doesn’t look like the sort to get involved in the theatre.”

Siredy gave a knowing smile. “Oh, that’s another story.”

Gasquine stepped forward again, introducing the senior chancellor, who in turn would introduce the noble chorus, and Eslingen couldn’t suppress a sigh. It was little to no surprise to him that Caiazzo was not present. He did not get involved with these things for the sake of either his name or reputation, he got involved with them because they were reasonable–and legal–investments. For a brief moment, he envied the merchant’s absence, though his acerbic comments would have been amusing. Siredy touched his arm, took a careful step backward. Eslingen copied him, and realized that they had stepped into the shadow of one of the massive set pieces, out of sight of the majority of the chorus, and the few actors waiting on that side of the stage. It was a giant triangular column, painted on each side with a different part of The Drowned Island’selaborate scenery–there were at least five of them on each side of the stage, and glancing up he thought he recognized part of the buildings lining the Sier. The columns must turn, he decided, presenting a new side to the audience with each new scene–and the gods forbid that the scenerymen get their signals crossed or, more likely, the mechanisms were somehow linked, to make sure the proper images came into view.

“Leussi would never have done this,” Siredy said. “Introduced each of them, I mean. Sweet Tyrseis, we’ll be here an hour.”

“Leussi?” Eslingen repeated. The name was somehow familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

“He used to be the senior chancellor,” Siredy answered, “but he died, oh, not three weeks ago, poor man. He wasn’t old, either– younger than this one, at any rate.”

Rathe had mentioned the name, Eslingen remembered. That was the connection. And had seemed sorry at the loss himself, which was probably why it had stuck in his mind. He said, “Tell me about Aubine.”

Siredy smiled, visibly gratified. “Ah, well–and I’m not sure I should tell you this, since I understand you’re a friend of the points.”

“Of at least one pointsman,” Eslingen corrected. Siredy seemed to know entirely too much about everything–but then, it hardly mattered anymore. He wasn’t likely to lose this place for sleeping with a pointsman.

“So one hears.” Siredy glanced over his shoulder, lowered his voice until the other could just make out the words. “The landseur is the grandson of the Soueraine of Ledey, who was a lady of great pride in her lineage.”

“Sixteen quarterings and not a demming in her pocket?” Eslingen asked.

“Thirty‑two, actually, and the money to back them,” Siredy answered. “And all the pride of the Ile’nord behind that. So the story is that, her daughter being sickly and unsuitable, she sent her grandchildren to court–the landseur and his sister, the present soueraine–to uphold the family name, and while they were there, young Aubine took a fancy for a life of learning. It being winter, and the roads into Ledey being blocked, the sister gave permission for him to enroll at the university–I understand he really is rather clever– and then to take lodgings in University Point. And of course while lodging with the common herd, he met another young man, a brewer’s boy, I think, or at least so I’ve heard, and they fell to a liking and then to love. They swore lemanry by midwinter, the sister turning a blind eye to the matter, but with the spring thaw, the word went out to the Ile’nord, and the next thing anyone knew, the soueraine herself descended on Astreiant and snatched both grandchildren out of the city. And the brewer’s boy was found beaten to death in an alley.”

“At the grandmother’s behest,” Eslingen said.

Siredy shrugged. “The points–and here is where I don’t wish to offend–the points said he died in the aftermath of a tavern quarrel. But, yes, that’s the story.”

“A sad one,” Eslingen said, and craned his neck to find Aubine. He was standing well back, not quite part of either the noble chorus or the little knot of officials, a quiet, sober man to be the center of such gossip. And not really handsome enough, either, or even striking, utterly without the kind of physical presence that would go with such a story. “Like The Drowned Island, only–sideways.”

Siredy suppressed a laugh, and earned a frown from Duca, standing to their left. “I suppose it is, at that. I wonder if Mistress Anonymous had the story in mind.”

“Anonymous?” Eslingen asked. There had been no playwright’s name on any of the copies he had seen, but all of them were pirated editions, would hardly be expected to credit the author when the printer could flaunt her cleverness at obtaining a copy.

“Oh, that’s a scandal for another day,” Siredy answered. “No, no one knows exactly who wrote it–though everybody has their suspicions–but it hardly matters. Tell me, what does your pointsman think of it?”

“Of The Drowned Island?” Eslingen stifled a laugh of his own. “We didn’t see it together.”

“What a pity.” Siredy looked more amused than sympathetic, however, and Eslingen let his eyes wander back to the tangle of nobles, bowing one by one as the senior chamberlain called their names. He’d seen this many nobles gathered on one spot before, but only once, during the winter he served with Coindarel, and then they had been mostly younger sons, penniless landseurs and armigers and bannerets, striving to make their way, not daughters of good families. This–this was something different, impressive in spite of his willing it to be nothing more than another post. Rathe would laugh, he knew, but he remembered seeing Chenedolle’s queen–only a few months before, but seemingly a lifetime–a bright shape stiff as a doll under a parasol, there to see them properly paid off. And now he would have a chance to see her again, closer than before, maybe even genuinely amused by the performance, which was more than he could say for her appreciation of the previous summer’s muster. One of the boxes would be hers, if he understood the matter correctly–the masque was given in her honor, ostensibly for her entertainment and the health of her and her realm, even if the real purpose these days seemed to be to keep the city happy. Surely he would have a chance to see her more closely. He glanced at Siredy, wondering if the other master would think he was a fool if he asked which was the royal box, and a movement among the watching actors drew his eye.

He recognized the man instantly, to his own surprise, and took another soundless step back into the shadows, not yet ready to face this particular part of his past. Chresta Aconin had hardly changed in the intervening years, still boyishly slim, and still vain enough to increase his moderate height by a pair of red‑heeled shoes. He leaned now on a tall walking stick, a cluster of embroidered ribbons frothing over hands that were probably painted to match, and there was a dark blue flower, another of the corms, tucked into the buttonhole of his rust‑colored coat. The warm color flattered his sallow complexion, as did the bay‑brown wig, rich as polished wood. He had always known how to dress, Eslingen thought, remotely, remembering a time when he had copied his then‑friend’s graces, and was suddenly aware of Siredy’s eyes upon him.

“I see you’ve spotted our playwright.”

“He’s made a name for himself,” Eslingen said. And that name was an ambivalent one at best: Aconin was counted one of the best male playwrights in the city, but he was also known as Aconite for his merciless pen. He had enemies to spare, and a dozen reluctant supporters among the theatre managers. Could he have written The Drowned Island? Eslingen wondered suddenly, and in spite of himself bit back a grin. If Aconin had written it, there would have been more irony–or perhaps there had been, and that was why the playwright wouldn’t claim it.

“He hasn’t made friends this autumn,” Siredy said, “coming out of nowhere with this play. Even Mathiee had to think twice, but it was too good to turn down.”

“Is it so unusual for a professional to write the winning masque?” Eslingen asked.

“Unusual for one to bother,” Siredy said, frankly. “The masque– unless you’re very good, which I have to say Aconite is, it plays once and is forgotten. Not that the money’s that bad, for the playwright, at least, no one else gets anything out of it, but it’s very hard to write something that can stand having all the set pieces added in, and still be worth performing later, and the fact that Aconin actually did it– well, it hasn’t exactly endeared him to his peers. I heard Juliot Sedaien said that she’d cheerfully have knifed him, if she’d known he was at work on a play. She’d have won the masque, too, if it hadn’t been for the Alphabet, and her with a new baby to keep.”

“Not that Aconin would care,” Eslingen said.

“You sound as though you know him,” Siredy said, and Eslingen shrugged.

“Is there anyone in Astreiant who doesn’t?”

Siredy gave him a speculative look, but the senior chamberlain finally called the last of the noble names, and anything else he would have said was drowned in relieved applause. Gasquine stepped forward again, hands raised, to announce the beginning of the dinner. The nobles were as quick to the table as the actors, Eslingen saw, with amusement, following at the deceptively swift pace he’d learned as a hungry sergeant, and wondered how many of them were as poor as he had been.

He accepted wine from a goggling servant, a boy all of twelve whom he suspected was usually a theatre runner, found a way to snag half a chicken pie from between two landames’ sleeves, and stepped back again to enjoy his booty, trying to lose himself in the shadows between the turning columns. Siredy seemed to be enjoying himself, flirting cheerfully and impartially with a landseur and a landame in shades of peacock blue; beyond him, Aconin seemed lost in conversation with the noble patron. They made an odd pair, Aconin by far the showier, and yet more willing to defer than Eslingen remembered–but then, it was the landseur’s name–and Caiazzo’s coin– that made this particular triumph possible.

He stepped back again as a pair of actors slipped by him, laughing, and stumbled against a rope that stretched taut from a bolt in the floor. He caught himself instantly, not even spilling the wine, glanced up to see the rest of the cable vanish in the shadows of the stagehouse. The lights on the stage didn’t reach to those heights, two stories, perhaps even three, above his head–easily the height of a town clock–and he wondered what the rope controlled. It was as thick as his wrist, and utterly without slack, like the ropes on a sailing ship. He swallowed the last of the pie and reached out to the cable, not quite testing it, and a voice from behind him said, “Don’t touch that.”