Point of Dreams

Eslingen controlled his start, and turned to see a stocky man frowning at him from the shadows. By the badge at his collar, a white, star‑shaped flower on a blue ground, he belonged to Savatier’s company, but unlike the other actors, he’d done nothing to dress for the occasion, was plainly workaday in a sailor’s knit smock over drab breeches and mended hose.

“Don’t you know anything? Never touch any of the stagehouse ropes, you don’t know what they do. Leave it to us who made them.”

A sceneryman, then, Eslingen thought. He said, “I’m sorry. I don’t know all the rules yet.”

“No. He’s new to this game, grant him that.”

Eslingen swore under his breath, recognizing the voice, turned again to greet Chresta Aconin with a sweeping bow. “Master Aconin.”

“Lieutenant–vaan Esling?” Aconin lifted an eyebrow in delicate inquiry, and Eslingen suppressed another curse. Aconin had known him when they both carried their mother’s names, knew better than almost anyone else in the world how little he deserved the noble prefix. He could see Siredy coming up behind him, followed by the landseur Aubine, and braced himself for the inevitable exposure. And the worst of it was, he couldn’t blame Duca–even being true, it would sound petty, make thing even worse…

“Late of Coindarel’s Dragons,” Aconin went on, and smiled. “Or so Siredy tells me. The prince‑marshal always did have an eye for service.”

Eslingen drew a careful breath, not quite believing in the reprieve, and thought Aubine blushed.

“You mustn’t touch the ropes,” the sceneryman said obstinately. “That’s a first rule backstage, I don’t care who you are. Don’t touch anything. Especially not in this house.”

“That’s a rule I’ll be careful to obey,” Aubine said with a smile that included all of them. “But please, master–”

“Basa,” Siredy said hastily. “Lial Basa, of Savatier’s Women. My lord.”

Aubine dipped his head. “Master Basa. Why in this theatre in particular?”

The sceneryman hesitated, eyes darting from Aubine to the playwright as though he’d just realized the company he was in. Aubine nodded again, his smile encouraging, unoffensive, and the sceneryman took a breath. “It’s the engines, my lord. They’re bigger than most, and they’re new. For The Drowned Island.”

“Really?”

All of Astreiant knew it, Eslingen thought, but Aubine’s tone was honestly interested.

“What does this rope do, then?”

“Opens the trap, if we’re particularly unlucky,” Aconin murmured, almost in Eslingen’s ear.

Basa heard, and slanted him a glare. “Not the traps, thank you. They’re understage, so there can’t be that error. This is for the clouds–it brings in the big bank of them, that comes in at the end of the play.”

Eslingen frowned for an instant, then remembered. It had been a small effect, almost lost in the more elaborate sinking of the island itself. “When the island sinks,” he said aloud, “and the waves come in. How is that done?”

Basa gave him a look that was balanced perfectly between approval and suspicion. “You must be new to the Masters, then.”

“I am.”

“And utterly changed,” Aconin said, and laughed.

“Do you think so?” Eslingen asked. He was beginning to lose his patience with the playwright, dangerous though that might be.

“Changed enough,” Aconin answered, still smiling. “The brave soldier, and now–a player, one of the Masters of Defense. Gods, it’s been more years than I care to recall since I saw you last. Since before you left Esling, I think.”

“I can recall how many,” Eslingen said mildly, and the playwright lifted his hand. It was elaborately painted, Eslingen saw without surprise, a bouquet of black and gold flowers running up from his wrist to twine around each finger.

“Please don’t. That literal habit of yours is one thing that hasn’t changed.”

“Master Basa,” Aubine said, and Aconin’s mouth closed over whatever else he had been going to say. The landseur smiled again, looking almost embarrassed. “The lieutenant asked a good question, and one I’m curious about. How is it done? Have you worked on it?”

Basa shook his head. “Not on the Island, no, I’m with Savatier, and that’s Gasquine’s piece. But I know how it’s done.”

“Tell us, please.” Aubine folded his hands into the sleeves of his coat like a schoolboy, an unexpectedly charming gesture, and Eslingen felt himself warming to the man.

Basa glanced from one to the other. “I can show you, if you’d like. The machinery.”

“Not me,” Aconin said. “I know how it’s done.”

“No one asked you, Chresta,” Aubine said. His tone was more indulgent than anything, but Aconin bowed.

“Then I’ll leave you to it, my lord.”

Aubine turned back to the sceneryman, still smiling, and Eslingen wondered for an instant just how well Aconin knew him. But then, Aconin had written the play that Aubine sponsored; that was enough of a connection.

“I would like to see,” Aubine said, and glanced at the others. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

“I’d like to see myself,” Eslingen said with perfect truth, and Basa blinked as though the interest startled him.

“You’ll miss the food.”

Most of it was gone already, Eslingen saw, glancing over his shoulder to see a few actors still clustered around the last, least‑favored dishes.

Aubine looked instantly contrite. “And I daresay you haven’t had the chance to eat yourself, Master Basa. If you’d permit me to buy you dinner–”

“That’s not necessary,” Basa said gruffly, and Aubine held out his hand, something clasped in it.

“At least let me pay you for this treat.”

“If you insist, my lord,” Basa said, and over his shoulder Eslingen saw Siredy struggling to hide a grin. “If you’d like, then–this way.”

“Will you come, Siredy?” Eslingen asked, and the other master nodded.

“Absolutely. I like to know what’s under my feet.”

“And very wise, too,” Aubine murmured.

Basa sketched a kind of bow. “If you’ll come with me?”

He led the way to a narrow stairhead, banded with iron, where a stairs so steep as to be little more than a ladder dropped into darkness. Eslingen eyed it warily, and the sceneryman slid down it like a sailor, his feet barely touching the side rails, to reappear a moment later with a mage‑fire lantern.

“As few lamps as possible backstage,” Siredy said. “That’s another rule of most houses.”

Between the painted canvases and the stacked furniture that served to dress the sets, the risk of fire had to be enormous. “I’ll bear that very much in mind,” Eslingen said, and followed the others down the narrow ladder.

The space under the stage was dark and low, so that a tall man had to stoop beneath the cross beams. It smelled of oil, too, and tar, and polished metal, and Eslingen blinked hard, trying to force his eyes to adjust to the lantern light. Something bulked large behind Basa’s shoulders, a dark shape that caught the light in places, and there were more ropes and strangely shaped pieces of wood and metal hanging between the beams. Basa lifted his lantern, did something to the aperture, and the light faded and spread in the same moment. The thing behind him resolved into a massive windlass, with six poles projecting from it like the spokes of a wheel, and for an instant Eslingen had a mad vision of tiny ponies, specially theatre‑bred, brought down to turn them. But that would be the scenerymen’s job, of course, and that windlass would drive the brass‑toothed gears that rose from it, and those gears, it seemed, turned an enormous shaft that ran off into the darkness toward the back of the stage.

“This is the main engine,” Basa said, and in the close space his voice was hushed, unresonant. But of course sound would be damped down here, Eslingen realized, to keep the noise of the machinery from spoiling the play. “It turns the versatiles–it’ll do anything else you want, too, but that’s what it’s set for now.” He pointed. “See there? Those are the cables that take the power off, and bring them around.”

“There must be a stop,” Aubine said, peering up into the darkness, and the sceneryman nodded.

“You have to release the lock first, of course, before you start to turn, and then it locks again at the next scene.”

They were talking about the triangular columns, Eslingen realized, and filed the word in his memory. Versatiles… well, they were certainly that. “How many men does it take to move it?” he asked, and was startled again by the deadness of the sound.

“There’s eight men working on The Drowned Island,” Basa answered, “but you can work an ordinary play with three or four.”

He lifted the lantern again, beckoning them with the light, and they followed him past the windlass into an area crowded with square‑shapes. Eslingen blinked, confused, then recognized the towers of the bannerdames’ island. Up close, the colors were cruder than he remembered, the shapes overstated–but they were meant to be seen from the pit, from the balconies, not from close up. Beyond them, he could see more massive gears, ready to lift the island up, and drag it down again, and Basa glanced at him.

“Now that takes all eight on the windlass, bringing it down slow and safe–and putting it up at the start of the play, too.”

Eslingen nodded, tracing the pattern of ropes and levers that was quickly lost in the shadows.

“How long does it take to switch machines?” Siredy asked, and Eslingen blinked, realizing what he was seeing. The windlass could drive either machine; it was the way the ropes were attached that decided where the power went.

“Less than ten minutes,” Basa answered, and Eslingen could hear the pride in his voice–justifiable pride, too, if Siredy’s expression was any indication. “Now, up here is the other engine.”

He led the way past a cat’s cradle of ropes, sliding down through slits in the stage overhead to wind around an array of cleats and pins. Everything was as neatly coiled as on a sailing ship, and Eslingen wondered if all the scenerymen had been sailors.

“That’s for the midstage,” Basa said, over his shoulder, and Siredy spoke at Eslingen’s ear.

“That’s where most effects are staged.”

Eslingen jumped in spite of himself, glanced up again to see the pattern of light obscured as someone passed along the line of ropes. He’d been standing there himself, he realized, when he’d first tripped over the cable.

“This is where the waves are done,” Basa said. The light from the lantern strengthened and focused again as he adjusted the shutters, and Eslingen found himself looking at a second, smaller windlass, with a second set of gears and thick leather bands to transfer the motion to another web of ropes. There seemed to be even more of them than he’d seen before, stretching to dozens of oddly shaped pieces of wood that hung from between the beams–the waves, Eslingen realized suddenly, strips of wood carved and painted to look like breaking waves, and the other strips were the white‑painted boards of the breaking ice.

“We pull the stage floor up,” Basa said. “You can see the channels, above there. The ice goes up for most of the play, and then, when the ice breaks, they turn down and the waves come up. Some of them are on rockers, and some of them are on spinners, and– well, it’s a hell of an effect.”

“Indeed it is,” Aubine said. Eslingen nodded, but couldn’t help looking up at the stage. Now that he knew what to look for, he could see the faint lines of light where the boards could be slipped aside, and he wondered just how strong the supports were. Basa laughed as if he’d read the thought.

“Oh, don’t worry, Lieutenant, they’ll hold you. You and your regiment, come to that, unless and until someone releases them.”

It was, he supposed, reassuring. Siredy’s suppressed grin didn’t help, either. “The big waves at the end,” he said aloud. “They’re not here.”

“They’re in the wings, just back of the trap.” Basa grinned. “Now if you want something to worry about, Lieutenant, that would be it. They’re counterweighted, with a rope release–so don’t go pulling anything you don’t recognize.”

“I don’t intend to,” Eslingen said, more sharply than he’d meant, and Aubine frowned.

“I hope someone has made that announcement to the chorus.”

“Tyrseis,” Siredy said, not quite under his breath.

“We’d better see that someone does,” Eslingen said, and the other master nodded.

“That would be all we need, to drop those on a handful of landames–begging your pardon, my lord.”

“I take your point,” Aubine agreed. “Master Basa, I thank you for this tour of your domain. I won’t think of any play quite the same way again.”

Basa ducked his head, looking at once embarrassed and pleased. “If you’ll come with me, my lord, I’ll show you another way back.”

They came out from under the stage on the opposite side of the stagehouse, behind the wings where the noble chorus had stood. Most of them had moved on, were still clustering around the almost emptied tables, and Siredy touched Eslingen’s shoulder.

“If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll have a quick word with Mathiee.”

Eslingen nodded, the image that Basa had raised all too clear in his mind, and Aubine smiled understandingly at him.

“A wise precaution, I think. Tell me, Lieutenant, what’s your family?”

From one noble to another, it was an innocuous question, but from a noble to a commoner with pretensions, it was definitely to be avoided. “No one you’d know, I think, my lord. We’re from Esling.” Eslingen smiled, letting his eyes sweep beyond the older man. “And if you’ll forgive me, I think Siredy needs me.”

He made his bow without waiting for an answer and swept away into the crowd, not pausing until he’d put a knot of half a dozen landames between himself and Aubine, then looked around for Siredy. The other master waved to him, and Eslingen moved quickly to join him, newly aware of the boards beneath his feet.

“Mathiee says they’ve been warned, and she’ll warn them again when the rehearsals start. We don’t need that kind of accident.”

“Gods, no,” Eslingen agreed. There was enough that could go wrong without inviting that trouble.

It was well past midnight by the time Eslingen, weary and yet still keenly awake, returned to Rathe’s lodgings, but Rathe was up, sitting at the table, his hands fisted in his hair, staring at some papers and his tablets. He looked up sharply as the latch lifted, but relaxed and smiled when Eslingen entered, quickly shutting the door behind him against the cold.

“You’re working late,” Eslingen observed, holding his hands out over the stove, banked for the night, but still radiating a welcome heat. There were the remains of what looked to have been a home‑cooked dinner pushed to one side, and Eslingen restrained a sigh of regret. The evening had been far more fraught than he had expected it to be, and meeting Aconin had been a nasty surprise–or not a surprise, he corrected himself; he knew he would have to encounter him sometime, but balancing Aconin’s malice and Aubine’s curiosity had been exhausting.

“Yeah, well, the masque makes work for all of us,” Rathe said, but pushed his tablets and some papers aside. “There’s wine, and yes, I would welcome a cup right now. How did it go at the theatre?”

Eslingen groaned as he sat down on the edge of the bed to remove his boots. “Fascinating, as you can imagine,” he drawled, drawing a quick grin from Rathe. “We were introduced to every blessed member of the chorus, I swear, by name and quarterings…”

“Seriously?” Rathe asked quickly, and Eslingen stopped in the act of setting the boots neatly by the foot of the bed, looked at him, curious.

“Well, no, it wasn’t that bad, but from what Siredy tells me, your friend Leussi would never have done it that way, Seidos’s Horse, it must have taken close to an hour.”

“And hungry actors waiting to get to the food,” Rathe interjected.

“I was impressed by their ladyships’ ability to secure as much food as possible without seeming to do so.”

“You never went hungry?”

“I may be an officer and a gentleman, Nico, but I started in the ranks, and I can assure you, no landame or castellan can match me for seizing the main chance. I had half a pie, thank you, and what I imagine was some decent wine.”

He brought the wine jug and two cups to the table, set them down before pulling out the chair opposite Rathe. “And some very interesting gossip,” he added, and Rathe groaned.

“As if I don’t get enough of that from Gavi, now you’re going to be regaling me.”

“Well, I thought it was interesting,” Eslingen said mildly. “Seems our patron once contracted a mesalliance that was rather brutally put an end to by his grandmother, who sounds like something to frighten the children with. And the points wrote it off as a tavern brawl?”

Rathe bit back his annoyance, had to appreciate the way Eslingen delicately cast doubt on the story, but it rang faint bells in his mind. “When was this?” he asked, and Eslingen shrugged.

“Oh, before your time, I would imagine, from what Siredy says. Twenty years ago, almost.”

“And the points’ authority wasn’t as recognized as it is these days. Astree knows, that’s still little enough when a noble’s involved.” He was frowning, trying to recall the matter, which would have happened in the early days of his apprenticeship, but shook his head, gave it up. “Sad, though. One deserves at least that much consolation,” he murmured, thinking of Holles. “And he’s not at all nonplused by Aconin?”

“Doesn’t seem to be, in fact, though he twitted me about my sudden accession of rank with the new name, Chresta seemed a lot more deferential than I’d ever seen him…” Eslingen trailed off as Rathe’s head lifted sharply.

“You know Aconin?”

“Gods, I didn’t mention it? No, I don’t suppose I did, it’s nothing really to brag about,” Eslingen said uncomfortably, stopping in the act of unwinding his stock, wondering at the sudden harsh note in Rathe’s voice. “My past comes back to haunt me. I knew him many years ago. We grew up on the same street in Esling, and from what I saw and heard tonight, he hasn’t changed much. A quick wit and a nasty one, that was Chresta. Kept him in one piece when we were children, and the two of us motherless children. He found his way out, I found mine.”

“You have my sympathies,” Rathe murmured. There was something, some note in his voice that made Eslingen glance quickly at him, but Rathe was reaching for his tablets, closing them and neatly piling the papers, securing them with a lead weight. Was this just the general dislike many in the city seemed to have for Aconin, or something more? A deep yawn startled him, and he decided it could wait for another day to query Rathe about it.

4

« ^ »

It was another cold morning, and cloudy, and Eslingen lay for a few minutes in the empty bed struggling to think just where he was before he remembered. He was still unused to being here, and he wasn’t sure that either one of them liked this unexpected intimacy. Perverse, really, considering that he, at least, had been thinking in terms of lemanry–but not like this. Not because he’d lost his job and had no other place to stay.

He stretched, glad he’d been able to afford the baths the night before, assessing the protests from muscles he hadn’t used in months. They’d gotten a thorough workout with the rest of the masters the day before, earning him the dour approval of Soumet. He stretched farther, experimentally. Not too bad, considering he hadn’t had any reason to put in more than cursory practice, but he’d still have to warm up carefully before he went about leading any drills or teaching any lessons. And that meant getting an early start, or what passed for an early start among the actors. He suppressed a groan, and levered himself out of bed.

Rathe had left the teapot half full, still swaddled in a knitted cozy, and the end of a loaf of bread on the table beside it. That was welcoming enough, but the bags still standing in the corner of the main room were less so. Eslingen made a face as he carved himself a slice of the bread, but tidied them back into the corner once he’d found the day’s clean linen. At least no one would expect him to wear a good shirt to a rehearsal–or at least he hoped they wouldn’t expect it. Rathe had only a small shaving mirror, and Eslingen had to stoop and bend to fasten his stock by its reflection. He had had himself shaved at the baths, thank Seidos, and as he pulled his hair back into a loose queue he felt almost human. All things considered, though, it would probably be a good idea if he started looking for a place of his own. He and Rathe could sort things out between them once this latest crisis was over. He found the breadbox after a brief search, tidied the last of the loaf into it and poured the dregs of the tea into the slop bucket, and let himself out into the chill courtyard.

There had been frost the night before, and the morning light had done nothing yet to melt it except in the most exposed areas. The cobbles were still slick with it, and Eslingen picked his way carefully along the narrow street, grateful to finally reach the wider road that led toward the theatres. The doubled sunlight, the winter‑sun setting, the day‑sun well up, did little to dissipate the chill, and Eslingen hunched his shoulders under his coat, wishing he’d had the sense to bring his cloak. But the chill wouldn’t last, he told himself, knowing it was fashion speaking rather than common sense, and quickened his pace as much as he dared.

Point of Dreams was just waking, though the nearest clock had already struck half‑past nine, and the only people on the street were a few pairs of still‑sleepy‑looking apprentices, taking down shop shutters in preparation for the day’s business. Not for the first time, Eslingen wondered how Rathe was adjusting to the change from Point of Hopes, where the day started before the first sunrise, but then put the thought aside. He had work to do, and mooning over Rathe wasn’t going to put him in the right frame of mind to handle a full chorus of semitrained and bloody‑minded nobles. At least the morning’s work was just with the other Masters of Defense, trying to make sense of the script’s set pieces. There were–he narrowed his eyes against the day‑sun, counting–three staged battles, plus a victory drill, an armed wedding procession, and two separate sword dances, and, of course, the half‑dozen duels. The last weren’t his responsibility, but he’d be expected to contribute to the drill pieces, and it would be nice to show he was useful early on.

The Tyrseia loomed ahead, the dark slates of its half roof gleaming wetly in the doubled sunlight, and he slowed his pace, trying to remember where Duca had told him to enter the theatre. The main doors were closed and barred–it was not a day for The Drowned Island, or they would never have had the use of the stagehouse– and the few low windows were heavily shuttered, and he hesitated for a second, debating whether to turn left or right around the building’s solid curve.

“Philip!”

Eslingen turned, recognizing the voice with relief, and Verre Siredy lifted a hand in greeting.

“I’m glad I caught you up, I couldn’t remember if Master Duca had told you where to go.”

“Neither could I,” Eslingen answered, with perfect truth, and Siredy grinned, showing good teeth. He was not, Eslingen thought again, a particularly handsome man, but there was something very engaging about him all the same. Eslingen had been aware, at the previous day’s drills, of the other’s interest. Amusing, flattering, certainly, but not a game he wanted to play at the moment.

“We go in by the players’ door,” Siredy said. “Below the middle stairs.”

Eslingen let him lead the way, idly admiring the cut of the other man’s coat, a dark red wool with huge jet buttons. It had to have been expensive, but then, in the queen’s capital, it was possible to find good clothes barely worn once and then discarded. His own best linen had come from there, and he was seized by a sudden panicked thought: what if one of the noble landseurs recognized his discard? But that was foolish, no one who could afford to get rid of clothing barely worn knew their wardrobe that well–and in any case, his coat and vest were new, the fruits of his time with Caiazzo.

There was a watchman at the door, an older man, his mouth drawn down in permanent disapproval, and behind him the languid de Vicheau rolled his eyes in irritation.

“Is this the lot of you?” the watchman demanded, and de Vicheau shook his head, glancing over his shoulder into the shadows of the theatre.

“No–Master Duca and Sergeant Rieux aren’t here.”

“Then you’ll have to wait here,” the watchman said, and stood aside to let them into a narrow tunnel that ran under the lowest tier of galleries. “Hey, you, Mersine! You wait at the head of the ramp, and don’t let any of them past you.”

“All right.” The voice was very young, and came from just below Eslingen’s elbow. He repressed a start, and a skinny girl in a patched skirt and bodice pushed past him, to take up her place at the head of the ramp. He blinked, not quite able to repress a smile at the thought of that urchin holding in check the Masters of Defense, and de Vicheau rolled his eyes again.

“Master Watchman,” he began, and the watchman held up both hands.

“Not my policy, master, there’s nothing I can do. It’s because of the machinery, nobody’s supposed to be allowed onstage until there’s a sceneryman to make sure all’s well. And besides, Mistress Gasquine pays me well to make sure no strangers wander loose in her theatre.”

“It’s not her theatre,” de Vicheau muttered, not quite under his breath.

“We’re working with Mistress Gasquine on the masque,” another man said with ponderous dignity. Eslingen jumped again–he hadn’t seen the big man there in the shadows, or the round‑faced girl beside him–and the master went on as though he hadn’t noticed. “If that’s her policy, I trust she’s hired a sceneryman, then? Because we have the chorus here at half past noon, expecting to rehearse.”

The watchman seemed to realize for the first time that he might be outside his authority, and his voice quavered. “It’s the Tyrseia’s policy, masters, but if you have to, I know someone you can send to–”

“That won’t be necessary,” Gerrat Duca said from the doorway, and at his side, Sergeant Rieux held out a slip of paper. “This is Gasquine’s warrant, and the merchant‑venturers’, for us to use the stage.”

“You understand, master,” the watchman said, “I have to do as I’m told, it’s not my right to say who can do what where, I just do what they tell me–”

He pushed past them all as he spoke, moving up the long passage, and the masters closed rank behind him. The girl Mersine bounced once, anticipating something, and then the mage‑lights fired, filling the space with blue‑toned light. Eslingen caught his breath, startled by the sheer size of the theatre. He had never been on the floor of the pit before, hadn’t realized how the galleries loomed over it, three tiers high, each tier painted and gilded as brightly as the outside of the theatre, the colors gleaming in the mage‑light that streamed from hundreds of fixed‑fire globes. Compared to that, the stage itself seemed bare, pale wood only a few shades darker than the canvas that provided a temporary roof. The day‑sun hadn’t quite reached it, and the canvas hung slack and dark over the benches that filled the pit. More mage‑lights glowed above the stage itself, casting unexpected shadows on the towering scenery–the riverside set for The Drowned Island–and Eslingen remembered that they had not been lit during the performance. There was something on the stage, though, a shape like a bundle of rags, and at his side de Vicheau gave a long sigh.

Eslingen echoed him, thinking of delay, looking for the weapons that weren’t there, but then the true nature of the shape registered on him, long and low and dark, with one pale shape trailing away from it: not rags at all, but a man sprawled across the polished boards, one hand outstretched as though he was reaching for something.

“Sweet Tyrseis, has it started already?” That was Siredy, already striding forward, but Duca caught his shoulder.

“Wait.” He looked at the watchman. “This isn’t our sceneryman, I trust?”

The watchman shook his head, seemingly struck speechless, and it was Duca’s turn to sigh.

“All right, let’s get him sobered up and out of here, and then we can get to work. Siredy, you and Eslingen see to that, the rest of you, see if you can find where the damned carters left our gear.”

“It was onstage when I left last night,” Rieux protested, but let herself be drawn away with the others.

Eslingen looked at Siredy. “Does this happen often?”

Siredy made a face. “Only for the masque, really. A lot of the players don’t take it all that seriously. And Tyrseis knows, they’ve cause not to. Ah, hells, let’s get it over with.”

Eslingen nodded, reluctantly, fearing what they’d find on the stage. But the new boy always got the nasty jobs, and at least he didn’t smell anything yet. He followed Siredy down the long side aisle, and waited while the other dragged a set of steps from beneath the stage and set it into place, fitting hooks into brass fittings on the edge of the stage itself. It wasn’t that tall, only about to a man’s waist, but it would make it easier to move the drunk once they were in place.

“And that’s something else that should have been done already,” Siredy said. “I wonder if this is our sceneryman.”

“If it is, I hope the theatre docks his pay.” Eslingen followed the other man onto the stage, suddenly aware of the empty seats looming behind him. He had seen dozens of plays so far, but he’d never really imagined being onstage, at the center of that concentrated attention, and it took an effort of will to turn and look up into the galleries, across the empty pit. He tried to imagine those seats filled, a thousand faces and more staring down at him, at them, Siredy and the drunken sceneryman and himself, and felt a thrill that was at once fear and excitement. Someone had told him once that he was never happier than when he was at the center of attention. Well, this was that center with a vengeance, and he made himself turn away again, focusing on the sceneryman still sprawled unmoving in the center of the stage.

“Come along,” Siredy said, moving toward him, and Eslingen froze. That was no sceneryman, there was lace at his cuff, shrouding the limp hand, and the hair that fell so heavily, hiding his face, was an expensive wig.

“Wait.”

Siredy glanced over his shoulder, eyebrows raised, then drawn down into a frown as he read the other man’s expression. “What is it?”

“I’m–not sure.” Eslingen reached Siredy’s side in two strides. A third brought him to the fallen man, and he knelt cautiously, aware of a nasty smell that wasn’t vomit. “I think–” He reached for the man’s shoulder as he spoke, felt the flesh hard as wood under his hand. He rolled it toward him, and the body moved all of a piece, stiff and ugly, unmistakably some hours’ dead.

“Sweet Tyrseis,” Siredy said, his thin face gone suddenly sallow, and Eslingen had to swallow hard himself. The man’s face was vaguely familiar, someone he’d seen around the theatre, but the clothes were too good, too new, for this to be some player or fencer or sceneryman. “He’s dead.”

Eslingen nodded. “And stiff.” There were no marks on the front of his body, linen unstained except where bladder and bowels had let go, and the strong high‑boned face was curiously expressionless. Definitely someone he’d seen at the theatre, Eslingen thought again. “Siredy–”

“It’s the landseur de Raзan,” Siredy said, almost in the same moment, and Eslingen let his breath out sharply. One of the noble chorus, one of the names the chamberlain had called out during the interminable introductions.

“How?” Siredy dropped to his knees beside the body, and Eslingen let it fall back again. The wig fell away, revealing close‑cut fair hair, and Siredy automatically reached for it, started to put it back, but Eslingen caught his hand.

“Wait.” There were no marks on de Raзan’s back, either, the well‑cut coat undamaged, and stifling his revulsion, Eslingen ran his hand lightly over the dead man’s skull. The bone seemed solid enough, no suspiciously soft spots, and he rocked back on his heels again. “I don’t know, there’s no mark on him–”

Siredy laid the wig carefully beside the dead man’s head. “An apoplexy, maybe? He’s young for that–”

“Or died of drink or sickness?” Eslingen shook his head. “He’s a landseur, he could afford to die in his bed.”

“Tyrseis,” Siredy said again, and this time it sounded like a prayer.

Eslingen shook himself, stood up, shading his eyes against the mage‑light, and thought he saw the girl Mersine moving at the top of one of the ramps. “You–Mersine, is it?”

“Yes, master.” The girl came eagerly down the length of the aisle, and Eslingen waved for her to stop, moved by some obscure idea of protecting her.

“Go fetch Master Duca, tell him it’s urgent. And then–” He hesitated, but made himself go on. “Then run to the station at Point of Dreams and bring back a pointsman–Adjunct Point Rathe, if he can be spared.”

“The points?” Siredy said, rising, and scrubbed his hands on his breeches. “Are you sure about that? Master Duca–”

“Will surely see reason,” Eslingen said. “Verre, there’s no other choice. What else are we going to do, dump the body out the back door and hope someone else deals with him?”

From the look on Siredy’s face, the thought had crossed his mind, and Eslingen was suddenly glad he’d taken matters into his own hands. “Go on,” he said to the girl, and she darted back up the aisle, visibly delighted to be the bearer of such exciting news.

Rathe had left Eslingen still asleep, mildly bemused at the man’s capacity for it, and spent the first hours of the morning at the Sofian temple, again working doggedly through the rolls. The stoves were empty still, and his hands and feet were like ice when he was done, despite the secretary’s mitts and the extra stockings he’d brought to warm them. Still, he thought, huddling himself under his winter cloak as he walked toward Dreams, it had been a profitable morning’s work. All the connections were there, only one a sibling, but the rest cousins and nieces and all the collateral kin. The most distant was a second cousin, and he had to admit it made sense even as he cursed the situation. These were the right degrees of kinship to create discreet hostages, the kind that might not ever be noticed–might, Seidos willing, never need to be noticed–and he had to admire the queen’s, or Astreiant’s, cleverness.

Aliez Sohier was the duty point, one of his private favorites, and he smiled in answer to her cheerful greeting, unwinding himself from cloak and jerkin.

“Any news in the markets?” she asked, and he looked up, startled, balancing on one foot as he started to strip off the extra stockings.

“About?”

She shrugged. “Scandals, mayhem. Earthquakes at the solstice?”

She was as fond of the broadsheets as Eslingen, and Rathe sighed. “Predictions of a harsher winter than normal, that’s all I noticed.”

“After last year?” Sohier made a face.

The previous year’s almanacs had predicted a mild winter. In fact, the Sier had frozen, and there had been reports of wolves not far outside the city, but Astreiant had carried on as usual. It was winter, the old dames said, when the less hardy grumbled. Of course it was cold. And that, Rathe thought, scuffling his feet back into the heavy shoes, was the typical Astreianter reaction. Not building towers on the ice. He balled the stockings into his pocket along with the mitts, and crossed to the desk. Sohier pushed the daybook toward him, and he paged through the previous night’s entries. Voillemin had gone to Little Chain, he saw with pleasure, but had made no note of what he’d found. And maybe it was nothing–probably was nothing–but it did no one any good to ignore the obvious.

The door slammed open, bouncing back against the wall, and Rathe spun to face it, hearing Sohier curse behind him. A skinny girl, no more than twelve, stood there, coatless, trying to catch her breath, her face and eyes alight with excitement. “Well?” Sohier demanded.

“Sorry, dame,” the girl said, and bobbed a kind of a curtsy. “The masters sent me, for a pointsman. There’s a body on the stage at the Tyrseia, and one of the masters insisted we send for the points, and the theatre was locked up last night, same as always–oh, and please, if he’s here, it’s someone named Rathe they’re wanting.”

Rathe looked at Sohier, knowing the shock on her face matched his own. “Get Falasca and Leenderts to take over, I want you with me.”

She nodded, already shouting for a runner, and Falasca came scurrying, fastening her coat, to take the other woman’s place at the table.

“Tell Trijn as soon as she arrives,” Rathe said, and reached into his pocket, fingers closing on the folded sheets of paper that held his notes. The Tyrseia, he thought. Sweet Astree. All the chorus there– all the hostages there–and already a dead man, and–But it wouldn’t be Eslingen, he told himself. A master who had insisted on sending for the points, who had asked for him by name, that could only be the Leaguer.

“Please, sir,” the girl said, “they wanted a Master Rathe–”

“That’s me,” Rathe said, and shook himself back to the moment, managed what he hoped was a reassuring smile. He had to leave the papers, couldn’t risk losing them, and he took the stairs two at a time, already groping in his pocket for the key to his seldom‑used lockbox. It was, inevitably, buried under a stack of broadsheets and flimsy editions of the Alphabet, but he brushed them aside, slid the list into the otherwise empty container. He’d almost never had to use it before, except for holding found monies or other negotiables, and it seemed strange to use it now, for politics. He shook the thought away, locked the box again, and headed back to the main room.

Leenderts had arrived, was nodding as Sohier explained the situation. Someone had brought the girl to one of the stoves, Rathe saw with approval, and found a patched shawl to throw over her shoulders for the return journey.

“Do we know who it is?” Leenderts asked, and Rathe shook his head even as he glanced at the girl.

“They wouldn’t let me see,” she said, and sounded vaguely aggrieved. “And nobody said anything except fetch the points.”

Rathe spread his hands in answer and reached for his own cloak. The extra stockings were still in his pocket, and he wished he had time to pull them on. “Keep things quiet,” he said to Leenderts, and the other man nodded in perfect comprehension.

“I’ll do that, Adjunct Point.”

Not that there was much chance of it, Rathe thought as he and Sohier hurried through the drying streets, the girl bouncing between them. Even cloaked as they were, they were recognizably pointsmen, and he was all too aware of the eyes following them as they made their way toward the theatre. At least the open square in front of it was all but empty, the petty merchants who crowded the surrounding arcade on open days busy at the other theatres, too wise to waste their merchandise on starving actors. Only the tavern was unshuttered, and it was very quiet, its door dark and only the smell of wood smoke drifting from its chimney. That might help, Rathe thought, but then he saw the serving girl, skirts shortened to show bright red stockings, hovering just inside the doorway. She ducked back, seeing him looking, and in spite of himself, his mouth tightened. There was nothing to do about it, though, and he turned his head away, scanning the Tyrseia’s imposing facade. All the doors were closed, the windows shuttered, but a cloaked figure was waiting beside one of the barred stairways, arms wrapped around his body to keep the heat in.

“Adjunct Point Rathe?” he asked, and Rathe nodded.

“That’s me. And you are?”

“Verre Siredy, Adjunct Point. Of the Guild of Defense.”

Eslingen had mentioned the name, and Rathe nodded. “The girl said there was a death.”

“This way.” Siredy pointed to the door beneath the stairway– the players’ entrance, Rathe realized–and they ducked past the staring doorman into a tunnel that sloped up toward the floor of the pit. The masters were waiting there, huddled in groups among the benches, but the crumpled shape, stage center, drew every eye. At least they’d had the sense not to move it, Rathe thought, and guessed he could thank Eslingen for that. He looked around, searching for the person in charge, and Siredy cleared his throat.

“Master Duca.”

A big man, florid faced and as brightly dressed, swung away from his low‑voiced conversation with a stocky woman. “At last. So you’re the pointsman.”

“Adjunct Point,” Siredy murmured, and the big man waved the words away. “And this is Master Duca, senior master of the Guild.”

“Points–Adjunct Point, we have a rehearsal called for noon, and Gasquine’s crew should be here before then, and what are we to do about this?” Duca waved to the stage, his voice scaling up before he had it under control.

Oh, that’s all we need. Rathe swallowed the words, turned to Sohier. “Tell the doorman to keep them out–or, wait, ask Mathiee to step in to me, but keep the rest of them outside. I’ll tell her myself she’ll have to rehearse elsewhere today.”

Sohier nodded and swung away, but Duca burst out, appalled, “You can’t do that–” He broke off, as though he’d realized what he said, and Rathe managed a rueful smile.

“I have some idea of what I’m asking, master, believe me. And if there’s any way I can give the house back to you, I will. But there’s a man dead who needs his rights.”

Duca nodded, jerkily. “You’re right, of course. My apologies, Adjunct Point. It’s just–Seidos’s balls, why did it have to be one of them?”

“ ‘Them’?” Rathe repeated, the word curdling in his belly.

Duca swept off his hat to run his hand through his hair. “The chorus, damn them all.”

And that’s all we need to make this a perfect day. Rathe lifted his hand, forestalling anything else the big man would have said. “We’ll get to that, master,” he said in his most commanding voice, and glanced over his shoulder to see Sohier picking her way between the benches. “Sohier. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

There was a short staircase hooked to the side of the stage, and he climbed gingerly up onto the empty platform, weirdly aware of the empty seats as well as the staring masters. He glanced back once, saw Eslingen among them, then made himself concentrate on the body. It lay on its back, arms outspread, not a young man, but not old, tall, fair‑haired beneath the disordered wig, and well built. The clothes were definitely too good to belong to any of the actors–not that the actors didn’t dress as well as they could afford, but this was the kind of quality that didn’t count the cost. For a moment, he regretted the list he’d left locked away at the station. Somewhere on it, he’d listed this man and his connections, had been studying him just this morning, most likely.

He shook the thought away, and knelt by the body, touched it gently. The skin was cold, and more than that, clammy, almost damp. In the mage‑light, he could see that the skin had an odd tinge, almost a softness to it, and under the man’s head was a small puddle of water. He’d expected to see blood, or worse, and ran his hands over the skull, probing for breaks in the arched bone. He found none, and nothing in the neck, either, or farther down the body, no wound, no sign of a blow, nothing to explain the death. Except for the puddle. Cautiously, he touched a finger to it, brought it to his nose, more carefully to his tongue. Nothing. He rocked back on his heels, looking up at Sohier, and saw the same puzzlement in her face. She saw him looking, and started to speak, but he held up a hand, silencing her.

“First things first,” he said, and saw her confusion deepen, but he ignored it, looked past her into the pit. It was only the masters here, luckily; if the dead man was in fact a member of the chorus, they would only have known him for a day or two, if that, and so were not in a position to make the formal identification required by law. And today may be the day I need that bit of formality, Rathe thought, and hoped he was borrowing trouble.

He pushed himself to his feet. “All right. Do any of you recognize him?”

The masters exchanged glances, and then, reluctantly, Siredy stepped out from among the group.

“It’s the landseur de Raзan, Adjunct Point.”

“And who found the body?”

“We all saw it,” Siredy answered, sounding faintly defensive, “but it was me and Lieutenant vaan Esling who saw he was dead.”

In spite of himself, Rathe glanced at Eslingen, saw the Leaguer look faintly embarrassed at his new name. “And you know the landseur, Master Siredy?”

“Yes.”

There was something in the single syllable, and Rathe’s eyes narrowed, surprising a faint blush in the other man. There was something there, more than just the masque, but he couldn’t afford to pursue it now, not if what he suspected was true. He looked down at the stage, at the tiny puddle, already shrinking. He needed the alchemists, needed their verdict on the death, and if he allowed the man to be named, formally and in law, he’d need the permission of the next of kin, whoever and wherever they might be. And may the Good Counsellor pardon me, he thought, but I don’t have time for that. He looked around for the girl who’d come for them, found her peeping out from behind the broad‑bodied woman’s skirts. “You– what’s your name, child?”

“Mersine.”

She seemed remarkably unaffected by the presence of the dead, but then, Rathe thought, she’d grown up in Astreiant’s theatres. “Are you the only runner here?”

“Not anymore.” She shook her head for emphasis. “Tilly’s here, too, with Master Cann.”

“Good. I need you both to run two errands for me.” He fished in his pocket for his purse, came up with a couple of seillings that he flipped to her. She caught them expertly, grinning now, and Rathe went on. “I need one of you to go to Point of Dreams and bring back the duty watch. I need the other to go to the deadhouse in University Point–take a low‑flyer, they’ll know the way–and tell them we have a body that needs transporting. And I need you both to hurry. Understand?”

Mersine nodded. “I’ll go to the deadhouse,” she said. “Tilly wouldn’t dare.” She darted away, skirts flying, and Duca stepped forward to close his hands on the edge of the stage.

“Adjunct Point.” His voice was barely under control, and instinctively Rathe crouched beside him, hoping to defuse the anger. “Didn’t you hear–don’t you understand? Siredy knows him. That”–he pointed to the body–“is a landseur. You don’t send their bodies off to the deadhouse, you send them to the priests of the Good Counsellor–”

“The law requires a formal identification, someone who knew him for more than your, what, two days, three days?” Rathe said, with as much patience as he could muster.

Duca waved his hand, brushing the words aside. “I’m not a fool, Adjunct Point, I’ve seen the formalities dispensed with before this.”

“There’s something very wrong with this death,” Rathe said softly. “We need to know how he died.”

Duca blinked at that, the words sinking home, and then he shook his head. “Sickness?” he asked, without much hope.

“Possibly,” Rathe said. “Rut there’s not a mark on him, Master Duca, not injury or illness, and before I call this an apoplexy, I want to be sure I know the truth.”

“Tyrseis.” Duca pushed himself away from the stage, his heavy face drained of color. “What will this do to the masque?”

That was a thought that hadn’t occurred to Rathe, but it was a good question. If the masque and the realm’s health were intimately bound, then there was all the more need to know everything possible about this death. “That’s why I can’t wait on his family’s pleasure,” he said aloud, and Duca nodded, jerkily.

“Of course, Adjunct Point. I don’t mean to tell you your business.”

“Thank you,” Rathe said, and rose to his feet again, beckoning to Sohier. “Mathiee’s people will be along any minute now, if I’m any judge, and I’ll have to deal with her. I want you to walk the stage floor, see if you can spot any tubs, barrels, troughs, anything like that. You know what we’re looking for.”

She nodded, but her voice was a whisper of protest. “Nico, he can’t have… drowned.”

“What signs do you see?” Rathe asked, and her eyes fell.

“Yes, but–how can a man drown here?”

“Maybe not here,” Rathe said, though from the sprawl of the body he doubted it had been moved far from where it lay. “That’s the alchemists’ business. But I want to rule out whatever we can. Now go.”

“Right,” Sohier said, pale but determined, and hurried away.

There was still no word from the door, and Rathe followed his own advice, moving along the opposite side of the stagehouse. The boards sounded hollow beneath his feet, and he stooped, to see the shallow troughs that held the carved waves of The Drowned Island’seffects. That looked promising, but when he levered up the nearest trap, he saw that the trough was pierced through with tiny holes. He let the trap fall again, frowning, and scanned the area around him. He was between two of the massive set towers, the versatiles, Eslingen had called them when he’d come home babbling of the machinery, but beyond them was a maze of more familiar gear, ropes and tables and a three‑legged chair propped against the wall for mending. There was a large barrel, too, and he stepped over to it, lifting the lid. It was half full of ash, and he let the lid fall back with a thud that raised a puff of grey dust. There were half barrels, too, three of sawdust and one of sand, and a cracked leather bucket that looked as though it hadn’t held water since the last queen’s reign, but there was nothing, nothing in sight that held enough water to drown a man. Sohier will find something, he told himself, and didn’t believe his own words. He looked back at the stage, hoping to see another answer from this different angle, saw only the sprawl of the body. The dead man’s face rose in his mind. Drowning was a common death in Astreiant, the Sier took its share of the foolish and the unlucky every year; like most folk southriver born, he’d learned the signs of drowning even before he’d joined the points. And this was a drowned man, the slack, soft skin and, most of all, the telltale pool of water, all proclaimed him drowned, and it was up to Fanier, the best of the alchemists, to tell him how it had come about.

He looked up then, tracing the length of a versatile, saw above it the edge of the great carved wave that hung above the stage. In the soft mage‑light, it was hard to tell, but he thought its shadow fell across the huddled body, and he looked away with a gasp, to see the second wave looming between the next pair of versatiles. Oh, there was water on the stage, carved and painted water in plenty, but surely, surely no mere effect could drown a man on dry land. The idea was mad, but he pulled his tablets from his pocket, began listing the scenery he saw around him, sketching it quickly and as best he could. He didn’t look up as Sohier joined him, folding the wooden halves back over each other.

“Anything?”

“Nothing so far,” she said stubbornly. “But there has to be–”

She broke off at the shout from the stage door, and Rathe turned to see Mathiee Gasquine pause for an instant at the top of the tunnel before sweeping down into the pit. The masters scattered before her, and behind her the watchman hovered helplessly, hands raised. Rathe took a breath, bracing himself, and she lifted her skirts to climb easily onto the stage.

“Adjunct Point–” She broke off, seeing the body perhaps for the first time, and Rathe came forward quickly, not to turn her away, she’d never submit to that, but to stand between her and the evidence.

“Mistress Gasquine.” He gave her title for title.

“So it’s true, then,” she said, and Rathe blinked.

“Did you think I’d leave you that word for a joke?”

That surprised a quick grin from her, but she shook her head. “Hoped, maybe. Nico, I understand you need the theatre for a little while, need to search, do whatever you must, but this is the first day we’ve been able to work here, and I, my people, desperately need to work on the real stage, the one we’re going to use. How soon can we have it back?”

Rathe shook his head in genuine apology. “Not today, Mathiee, I’m truly sorry.”

“Not today?” Gasquine’s voice rose, ringing effortlessly through the theatre, and behind her in the pit the masters drew together to watch. “Nico, The Drowned Islandplays again tomorrow, I’ve no use of the place for two days more, and I don’t have the time to waste. We need to work here.”

“And so do I.” Rathe knew better than to match her tone, let his own voice fall a little, become confidential. “There is–potentially– something very odd about this death–”

“Well, there would be,” Gasquine snapped, “de Raзan dead on my stage.”

Rathe winced. That killed any real pretense he had that the body hadn’t been identified, but he went on as though she hadn’t spoken. “And, there being something odd about it, it’s my responsibility– given the place and the circumstances–and the masque itself–to make very sure what happened before I turn the place back to you. For this or The Drowned Island.”

“You don’t mean it.” Gasquine’s voice had lost its theatrical ring.

“Can and do,” Rathe answered. “If we’re not done, The Drowned Islandwon’t play. Besides…” He paused. “You won’t like this, either, Mathiee, but I’d say, if the death’s not natural, the chamberlains may want to bring in a magist, perform, I don’t know, some cleansing, to make sure it doesn’t affect the masque.”

“Oh, gods, they might,” Gasquine said. “They would. Sweet Oriane, preserve me from the chamberlains.” She took a breath. “All right. You’ve made your point, Nico, and I’ll stand it. Master Duca, will you set one of your people to redirect mine, and I’ll return to the Bells and roust out the rest of my people there.”

“Thank you, mistress,” Rathe said, bowing, and Duca came forward, offering his hand to the actress as she descended from the stage. She turned back, looking up at Rathe, her heart‑shaped face set into an expression more regal than most queens’.

“But I will hold you to your promise, Adjunct Point. I want my stage again.”

“As soon as may be, mistress,” Rathe answered, and was grateful when she swept away.

The reinforcements from Point of Dreams arrived within the hour, and Rathe set them to a thorough search of the theatre, hoping they would find what he knew had to be there. The carters from the deadhouse were only a few minutes behind them, arriving with cart and boards just as Duca’s men were turning away the first of the actors. The chorus would be along shortly, Rathe knew, and wondered how they would react to the news. Time enough for that after the body was dealt with, though, and he nodded to the strapping woman in a shabby blue coat who led the group.

She nodded back, already unfastening its buttons, tossed it to one of the men behind her. “Can we take something for you, Adjunct Point?”

He gestured to the body, and wondered if the actors were corrupting him. “I’d appreciate it if you’d confirm my suspicions.”

The woman nodded briskly, rolling back her sleeves to reveal a stylized version of the Starsmith’s badge tattooed into her forearm. She knelt by the body, automatically folding her short skirts well out of the way, ran her hands over it once, feeling for any signs of life. She sat back, reaching into her jerkin for a pair of brass‑framed spectacles, and peered up at him over the top of the frame.

“You suspect he’s dead?”

Among other things. “Something like that,” he said aloud, and she nodded.

“He’s dead. We’ll take him along to Fanier for you.”

“Wait.” Rathe hesitated, then put aside his first question, not wanting to bias her with his own suspicions, said instead, “Can you tell if the body’s been moved?”

Her eyebrows rose, but she turned back to the body willingly enough, hands moving over it again. This time, she tested limbs– loosening from the rigor, by the look of them, Rathe thought, and winced as she tugged the landseur’s shirt free to examine his torso. “All things are possible,” she said at last, “but by the look and feel of him, I’d say not. I’d say he dropped dead here.”

And not a tub, barrel, or useful bucket anywhere in sight. Rathe glanced up at the overhanging wave, and saw the woman’s eyes following his, suddenly widening as she realized what she’d seen. Then she shook herself with an exclamation of disgust and waved to her fellows. “All right, you lot, bring him along. You’re welcome to ride with us, Adjunct Point.”

That was not something he relished, a ride on the dead cart with apprentice alchemists and their very peculiar sense of right and wrong, but there was no help for it. “Thanks,” he said. “Sohier!”

The pointswoman straightened from her examination of yet another trapdoor, and came to join him. “Sir?”

“I want your report as soon as you can get it. You know what you’re looking for.”

Sohier nodded, still pale, and Rathe sighed.

“Pray Sofia you find it.”

The deadhouse lay in University Point, set discreetly away from the main quadrangle and the towering dome of the library in a tangled neighborhood of chairmakers and leatherworkers and the occasional chemist. By rights, of course, Rathe thought, trying to ignore the story the junior apprentice was recounting about someone supposedly eaten by a giant fish, it should be in City Point, but that area was far too grand for the homely business of examining the dead. It was a long, low building, much like the petty manufactories surrounding it, except that its walls were stone rather than timber, and the glassed‑in windows glowed with mage‑light instead of the warmer lamplight. To his relief, the apprentices dropped him at the main door instead of bringing him in with the body, and he took a breath, bracing himself before pushing through into the narrow lobby. He had been to the deadhouse dozens of times, but he still couldn’t be easy about it, no matter how often he’d been there. The place was impeccably clean, floors and walls scrubbed, so scrupulously free of odors that it was almost impossible not to think about what wasn’t there. Even the sharp stink of daybane would have been preferable.

A trio of apprentices were at work in the lobby, on their knees with pails and scrubbing brushes, but at his entrance one rose, rubbing her hands on her skirts, and came to greet him.

“You’re the pointsman with the body?”

There was no use in standing on rank at the deadhouse. Rathe nodded.

“Fanier said I should bring you straight back.”

She was no more than thirteen, Rathe thought, bemused, as he followed her down the long corridor that led to the workrooms, and wondered what her stars were like that she’d been brought into this profession. She paused at a cross‑corridor, consulting a slate tacked to the wall, then brought him to a closed door. She knocked, and it swung open to her touch.

“Adjunct Point Rathe, master.”

“Oh. Good.” Fanier turned, blinking a little, and Rathe tried not to look at the body that lay on the stone table behind him, an older apprentice busy stripping away the last of the clothing. “Go on, then, this isn’t for you yet.”

Rathe blinked, but he’d been talking to the girl. She made a face, but turned away, closing the door a little too sharply behind her.

“Nice to get them eager,” Fanier said, rubbing his hands together as though to warm them for the work ahead, “but it’s early days to call her in. So this one’s yours, eh? When did you transfer to Dreams?”

He looked more than ever like a bear, Rathe thought, his already bulky body thickened by a heavy fisherman’s jersey and a leather apron, his thick grey hair springing loose and untidy around his broad face. Brass‑framed glasses, like the first apprentice’s, were perched awkwardly among the curls, as though he’d forgotten they were there. Beneath them, his expression was bearlike, too, and Rathe shook himself back to the question at hand. “I was advanced to senior adjunct there about a month ago.”

“Liking it?” Fanier was still watching the apprentice straighten the body, and Rathe suppressed a shudder.

“It’s interesting,” he said. That was easily the safest answer. “Things like this don’t happen much in Hopes.”

“No. Straightforward place, Hopes,” Fanier said, without a trace of a smile. “So. Dead on the Tyrseia stage, eh? And a man of quality, by his linen.”

Rathe nodded. “Which is likely to make trouble, once the family finds out, so the sooner you can determine for me what killed him, the better I’ll like it.”

“Oh, yes,” Fanier said, almost vaguely, and nodded to the apprentice. “All right, lad, I’ll take him now.”

Rathe looked away as the alchemist moved toward the body, focusing his attention instead on the empty courtyard he could see beyond the low windows. It had always seemed perverse to him to have windows in these workrooms or, rather, to have them set so low, where anyone walking past could see the alchemists at work. And where any local children could dare each other to steal glances, he thought, but then remembered Fanier saying that was how they found about a third of their apprentices. He could hear the others moving behind him, Fanier mumbling something that was answered with a clang of metal against stone, and Rathe winced, concentrating on the stones patterning the court. At least today there weren’t any lurking children–no one in sight at all, not even the alchemists’ own apprentices, and the stones looked dark with rain. Sleet soon, probably, Rathe thought, squinting at the slate‑dark sky, and suppressed a shiver.

“Well, the cause of death’s easy enough,” Fanier announced, and Rathe glanced warily over his shoulder. The apprentice was just covering the body with a clean sheet, a last few flickers of mage‑light dying from around it as he did so, and Rathe tried to hide his relief. “He drowned. Might have been unconscious before he went into the water, that’s usually the way of it if it’s murder. Hard to drown somebody otherwise, especially a man in as decent shape as this one.” He tipped his head to one side, considering. “Thing is, that usually means a whacking great blow, usually on the head, and there’s not a mark on him. Not in the water very long, either, just enough to die there. Does that help you?”

“Not much,” Rathe said, and Fanier nodded.

“Didn’t think so.”

“Because so far, we haven’t found anything that could hold enough water to drown a man,” Rathe went on, and suppressed the memory of the looming waves, and the smaller ones lurking beneath the stage floor. “Could he have been moved? Drowned elsewhere, and his body left at the Tyrseia?”

“Ursine said she didn’t think so,” the apprentice said, and colored deeply as both men looked at him.

“Mmm.” Fanier ran his hand through his hair, dislodging his glasses, but caught them before they could fall. He polished them absently, turning back to stare at the body, and Rathe saw another flicker of movement, almost as though a breeze had touched the concealing sheet. The air was utterly still. “No. Ursine’s got a good eye for that, I must say. Died and left and found, all in the same place.”

Rathe heard the distant note in his voice, as though he was listening to that same invisible wind, and Fanier shook himself. “Which is to say, the changes in the body have been steady and consistent since the moment of death. If he’d been moved, well, we’d feel it– you’d see it on him, most likely, how the blood pools.”

“I take your word for it,” Rathe said, a little faintly–there were times when he hated dealing with the deadhouse–and Fanier went on as though he hadn’t spoken.

“Which would seem to indicate murder, if you can’t find a bath to drown him in, but you’re still missing that whacking great blow. It could be poison, I suppose, to keep him quiet. But that’s going to take me a little longer to find out.”

“We don’t have a lot of time, Fan,” Rathe answered. “The unofficial–highly unofficial–”

“And I daresay accurate,” Fanier murmured.

“–identification is that this is the landseur de Raзan. And once his family is informed, the odds are we lose any chance of discovering anything more from that body.”

Fanier made a sympathetic noise. “I’ll do what I can, of course. And I sent for Istre, but I suspect he has a class.”

“I gave it up as a bad bet.”

Rathe turned, to see b’Estorr standing in the open door, the same apprentice who had escorted him from the door scowling at the magist.

“Magist b’Estorr,” she said, with icy reproof, and Fanier nodded.

“I can see that, and we still don’t need you. Run along.”

The girl’s scowl deepened, but she closed the door gently enough behind her. b’Estorr wiped one hand over his mouth, and Rathe guessed he was hiding a smile.

“Students finally got to you, then?” Fanier asked. “Only took you, what, three years to cancel a class during ghost‑tide?”

“It wasn’t the students,” b’Estorr answered, and this time the smile was rueful. “It was the other masters. What have you found, Nico?”

“A body in the Tyrseia,” Rathe answered, and was meanly pleased to see the other man’s eyes widen. “Drowned, and no obvious place to do it in, and Fanier says the body’s not been moved. Can you tell if there’s a ghost?”

With a sigh, b’Estorr crossed to the shrouded body, gently lifted the drapery away. He stared at the dead man for a long moment, then lightly placed a hand over the man’s heart. His expression was calm, remote, eyes fixed on something the others couldn’t see, and then Rathe sensed a shift in the vague–presence–that he recognized as b’Estorr’s constant ghosts. Then b’Estorr’s hand closed and lifted, and the magist turned away from the body, one eyebrow rising.

“Oh, yes. There’s a ghost. Thought something of himself, did he?”

There was a strange note in b’Estorr’s voice, the whisper of the upcountry Chadroni vowels that years at the university and the Chadroni court had beaten out of him, and Rathe blinked. “Why do you say that?”

b’Estorr shook himself. “I can’t blame him for not taking kindly to being murdered, but I do dislike that kind of arrogance.” He smiled wryly. “And that’s arrogance of my own, I know. So he drowned, Fanier? Drugged?”

“If your lordship wouldn’t mind waiting,” Fanier said, and b’Estorr’s grin became more genuine.

“Sorry.”

Fanier nodded to the waiting apprentice, who had a tablet ready. “All right. There’s no evidence of gross violence done to the body, either before or after death. That leaves poisons and other subtle violence, which it’s now my duty to examine for.”

The apprentice scribbled rapidly, charcoal moving across the sheet of rough paper, and Fanier glared at the body. “You know how much I hate trying to prove murder during the ghost‑tide,” he said. “And that’s what you’re after, Nico, isn’t it?”

“I’d really rather it wasn’t,” Rathe answered. “But drowning on a bone‑dry stage isn’t likely to be accidental, is it?”

“No, no, I’ll grant you that,” Fanier said. “But it’s going to take time.”

“Fan–” Rathe stopped himself, tried again. “I’ll wait. I want to know for certain before I send to the family.”

b’Estorr’s head lifted. “Do you mean we’re sitting on a body whose family hasn’t been notified yet?”

“Istre,” Rathe began, and b’Estorr lifted both hands.

“I think I’ll wait, too.”

Fanier snorted, reaching beneath the table to clatter his tools together. “I thought you might.”

“Do you know how many ordinances of the university are being broken by your acting without notifying the family?” b’Estorr demanded. Fanier ignored him, evidently taking the question as rhetorical, and the necromancer shook his head. “As a master of the university, it’s my duty to remain and make sure you don’t break any more–than you have to.”

Fanier grinned at that, hands busy with something that was like but not quite an astrologer’s flat orrery, and Rathe sighed. “Thanks,” he said, and b’Estorr waved the word away, his face suddenly sober.

“If you’re right, you’ll have enough to worry about.”

And that was all too true, Rathe thought. He made a face, Watching out of the corner of his eye as Fanier stooped over the body, laying tiny brass figures over heart and lungs and viscera. The polished shapes seemed to catch the available light, concentrating it, and for a second, Rathe thought he saw the wet dark red shape of the man’s liver, floating ghostlike above his unbroken skin. He looked away then, swallowing hard, saw the landseur’s clothing discarded on a side table.

“Think there’ll be a problem if I look through that?” he asked softly, and b’Estorr glanced at him, an expression almost of indulgence hovering on his face.

“It shouldn’t bother them,” he said aloud, and Rathe moved to the table, grateful for the distraction.

There wasn’t much to find, and he hadn’t expected much, but he went methodically through pockets and purse, laid out his meager findings beside the man’s stacked shoes. They were newly soled, Rathe saw, and a part of him winced, thinking of now‑unnecessary expense. But the man could afford it, he told himself, at least by the look of the rest of his goods. There was a posy in a gilt‑filigree holder, a simple spray of tiny bell‑shaped blossoms poised against a single dark green leaf, a lace‑edged handkerchief and a Silklands amber snuffbox, and a pair of bone dice. Rathe’s attention sharpened at that–gamblers created their own personal hazards, more often than not–but a second look made him put that notion aside. The dice were carved with the signs of the solar zodiac, a child’s toy, for idle fortune‑telling, not the tool of a serious gambler. There were no small coins in the flat purse, just a couple of square pillars, and, folded very small, a recent letter of credit for an amount that raised Rathe’s eyebrows. The man had not been kept on a short leash, that much was certain, but there was no way to tell if any or all of the draft had been used. There were no letters, threatening or demanding or even a scrawled invitation card, and the fashionable red‑bound tablets were empty, the wax stiff from disuse. Little enough evidence of a life, he thought, saddened in spite of himself, and turned away again. Nothing to help him, certainly.

It was more than an hour before Fanier straightened at last, motioning for the apprentice to put away his tablets and recover the body, and b’Estorr met him with a faint smile. Fanier scowled.

“All right. What is it?”

b’Estorr looked down at his hands, but the movement didn’t quite hide the smugness of his smile. “I don’t think you’ll find it’s a traditional form of poison.”

“You are not,” Fanier said, “going to tell me it’s some rare Chadroni poison, are you?”

b’Estorr shook his head. “I’m not even going to tell you it’s a rare Silklands poison, which is what I was thinking–since the body does seem to be remarkably untouched.” He paused. “Are you still cataloging Chadroni poisons?”

“Man has to have a hobby.” Fanier pushed his glasses back to the top of his head. “Damn it all, there are changes consistent with poison, and for my best guess a vegetable poison, but I couldn’t tell you which one, or how it was given him–not in food or drink, I suspect, but I can’t swear. But the poison isn’t what killed him, what killed him is the Dis‑damned water in his lungs.”

“So you’ll swear it’s murder, and not accident?” Rathe asked, and reached for his own folded tablets.

“I’m not happy,” Fanier said. “Drowned he is, and probably poisoned, and on a dry stage, Nico.”

“Fanier,” Rathe said, and the alchemist cleared his throat.

“I’ll swear to it. I just wish I had more to swear to.”

Rathe nodded in sympathy, and looked to the clock that stood on the shelf that ran along the far wall. It was a pretty thing, painted with a wreath of flowers that went badly with the brass instruments surrounding it. Almost three o’clock, he saw, and made a note of it with a sigh. “All right, Fan.”

“I have made a preliminary determination that the body brought to me a short time ago died by drowning at the hands of person or persons unknown, with other violence possibly perpetrated before death. This I do swear.” Fanier lifted a hand to his forehead, an ancient gesture, and Rathe shivered again.

“And I state that the body is that of the landseur de Raзan,” he said aloud, “identification being made by the examination of his belongings after the cause of death had been determined. So do I swear.”

“And I bear witness to you both,” b’Estorr said, “in the name of the university.” He paused. “Now what are you going to do, Nico?”

Rathe lifted a shoulder wearily. “Now we send for the priests of the Good Counsellor and let them notify the family–their business, thank all the gods, not mine. And then–” He glanced at the clock again, trying to guess the actors’ schedules. “Then I’m for Point of Dreams, and the Bells, and an evening talking to actors, if I’m lucky.”

b’Estorr grimaced in sympathy, and Fanier said, “I’ll have my report done up formally, Nico, and a copy for you by morning.”

“Thank you,” Rathe said with real gratitude, and let the apprentice lead him back out of the deadhouse.

His nose for weather was still good, he saw: the drizzle was changing to sleet as he made his way back across the river to Point of Dreams. The Bells was well lit, as he’d expected, and there were candy‑sellers and a dozen other hangers‑on clustered at the one unbarred entrance. At least some of the chorus was there, and a few of the actors, the latter gathered around a woman selling warm spiced beer. Happy to take a break from the day’s work, Rathe guessed, but his eyes narrowed as he recognized one of the men on the fringes of the chattering crowd. Lyhin was a known gossipmonger, served at least a dozen printers, and Rathe took himself firmly in hand. There had been no hope of keeping this story out of the broadsheets; all he could do was try to minimize it. Even so, he was aware of the looks that followed him as he showed his truncheon to the doorman, and heard his name repeated behind him, rippling out through the crowd.

It was warmer in the theatre, and someone had spread sawdust to absorb the worst of the mud. It made Rathe think of the Tyrseia, the dry barrels of sand and wood chips, and he shook his head, hoping Sohier had found something more. He paused for a moment at the edge of the stagehouse, looking for Gasquine, and found her finally on the stage itself, talking urgently to a tall, well‑built woman that Rathe recognized as Anjesine bes’Hallen. All the rivalries were suspended for the masque, he knew, but this was surprising: bes’Hallen was Savatier’s leading player, had the right to refuse a play she didn’t care for, so to see her here boded well for the quality of Aconin’s play. The air smelled of sweat and too much perfume, and he glanced into the pit to see what seemed to be half the chorus gathered idle. It didn’t take much imagination to guess what they were talking about, Rathe thought, and suppressed a sigh. One of them must have known de Raзan–no one could have so lackluster a life as the man’s belongings suggested–but for the rest… Well, he was a nine‑days’ wonder, if that, and nothing more. He started toward the stage just as a burst of laughter came from the group sitting closest, center front, and Gasquine rounded on them.

“And if you’ve nothing to do, I suggest you take yourselves to the loft, and let the masters put you through your paces.”

There was an appalled silence–their ladyships weren’t used to being spoken to in that fashion, Rathe thought, amused–but then one of them rose, and the rest followed, sweeping past Rathe up the center aisle. Gasquine remained standing, hands on hips, glowered down at him as he approached.

“And what in the names of all the hells do you want now?”

Rathe took a breath, trying to remember that the woman’s day had probably been as hard as his own. “A quarter hour of your time, for a start.” He held up his hand, forestalling protest. “I’m sorry, Mathiee, but you’d better get it over now.”

Gasquine took a breath in turn, visibly conquering her fury, and nodded abruptly. “At least I won’t be paying a fortune in fees–or not to you.” She pointed to the stairs that led up to the stage. “Come up, come up, and we’ll talk. The rest of you–” She looked over her shoulder, her face grim. “Silla, put them through the scene again. At least they can take the time to learn their lines.”

Rathe followed her into the relative quiet of the wings, was relieved when she waved him to a stool set in a sort of alcove, and seated herself in turn opposite him. “So what’s the word?” she asked, without hope, and Rathe grimaced in sympathy.

“De Raзan was murdered,” he answered. “That’s the alchemist’s and necromancer’s finding, which means it falls to Point of Dreams to find out who killed him. And that, Mathiee, is the official word, so you can take it up with the chamberlains as need be.”

“Tyrseis.” She sighed. “I’ll tell my people, too.”

“And there’s more.” Rathe braced himself, seeing the woman’s painted brows draw down into a deep frown. “I need to talk to your people, the ones who knew him today, the rest as soon as may be. I’ll do my best not to interrupt you, but time is of the essence.”

To his surprise, she nodded. “I understand. And if you take them one by one–well, maybe that won’t be so bad.” She glanced toward the stage. “And you might as well start with me, they’ll do without me for a while.”

“I’d fully intended to,” Rathe answered, and managed a smile to take the sting out of the words. Gasquine smiled back, the expression wry, and Rathe reached for his tablets again. The wax was getting crowded; he planed over a few old notes, and settled himself to begin. “First, who among the chorus or cast knew him well?”

Gasquine paused, blinking. “Ah. A hard question. He was most in company with the vidame DuSorre, but I’m not sure she knew him well.”

“Oh?”

“I saw her haul off and hit him once, hard, right across the face.” Gasquine smiled. “It wasn’t the action of an intimate.”

“When was this?”

“A day or so ago,” Gasquine answered.

“She hit him in public?” Rathe repeated, and Gasquine shrugged.

“Not quite public, Nico, but not in private, either. There must have been a dozen of us who saw. It’s a funny thing, though, it seemed to–even things up between them. She looked pleased, and he looked, I suppose, resigned. I doubt she’d have need to resort to murder.”

“And which one is DuSorre?” Rathe asked.

Gasquine looked around again. “Not here. Not a brayer, like the ones you saw before, a woman who works hard at whatever comes to hand. I was surprised she’d put in for the lottery, she doesn’t seem theatre‑mad like the ones we usually get, but then, it’s nice to have some cooler heads around.” Her eyes widened. “Nico, you can’t think…”

“I’m going to have to talk to her,” Rathe said. “Who else would you say knew the man?”

Gasquine swallowed whatever else she had been going to say. “Ah. That’s harder. I saw him playing at star‑dice with the landseur de Beleme, but I doubt that was more than passing time. And of course…” She hesitated, then shook her head. “But I don’t know anything about that.”

You know everything about everything within these walls, Rathe thought. And that note means it’s someone in the theatre. He frowned then, remembering the master of defense who had found the body, the hesitation in his voice as he named it, and said, “Master Siredy?”

“You know, then,” Gasquine said.

Rathe shook his head. “Not details. But he identified the body, and I thought he knew him.”

Gasquine sighed. “I’m old for tricks like that. Very well, the gossip is, they were intimates, at least for a while. But it was over and done long ago, to my understanding.”

She met his eyes guilelessly, and Rathe frowned. “You’re sure about that?”

“As sure as one can be.”

“No hints, no mentions, no one wanting to start it up again?”

Gasquine hesitated for a fraction of a second, then shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Rathe said, and jotted that name down as well. He wasn’t fully sure he believed her, but there was no reason yet to push her to an outright lie. “Anyone else?”

“I don’t know–he was a quiet one himself, I didn’t have to notice him.”

“Tell me about him,” Rathe said, and she gave him a look of surprise.

“Not much to tell, as I said.”

“Come on, Mathiee, people are your lifework. How would you play him?”

Gasquine grinned at that. “A good question. He was young, but not as young as he liked to think he looked. He was quiet enough, but not shy, and not especially considerate, I would say. A–watching sort of man. I’d say he was enjoying himself, in some way or another, but he’s another one I was surprised put in for the lottery.” Her grin widened, took on a tinge of malice. “If I were to cast him, Nico, I’d probably use Guis Forveijl.”

Rathe made a face–he’d have to meet his former lover sometime, though he was hoping, cowardly, to put it off as long as possible–but the description was enough to give him some idea of the dead man’s personality. Forveijl had had a careful streak in him, a holding‑back, and a habit of storing incautious words for later reproach. Which might be a cause for murder, he thought, but Guis’s death, not de Raзan’s, unless Mathiee’s speaking clearer than she knows. He filed that thought for later, and looked down at his tablets.

“And your quarter hour’s run,” Gasquine said, echoing his own thought, and Rathe sighed.

“Two favors, then, before I let you go?”

Gasquine nodded, already on her feet.

“The use of a runner, I need to send word to Dreams, and then– would you ask the vidame to step down to me?”

Gasquine stared. “You’re not–do you want me to–fetch her– for you?”

“If you would,” Rathe answered, and kept his expression as bland as possible. Gasquine swore under her breath, and turned away.

She was better than her word, sending two runners, a tall skinny boy in a jacket already too short in the sleeves and a plump girl who looked to be close to formal apprenticeship. She had a flower pinned to her bodice–someone’s castoff, Rathe guessed, seeing it wilted, but clearly she couldn’t resist the flourish of style. She had brought paper and charcoal, and he scrawled a note to Trijn, warning her that they would need more people at the Bells tomorrow, to question the rest of the chorus and company. And that’ll make her happy, he thought, dismissing the girl with a smile, looked up to see Gasquine approaching, a tall, well‑dressed woman in tow. Rathe nodded to the boy.

“Take your stool over there, warn off any eavesdroppers.”

The boy nodded, eyes wide, and scurried away. Rathe rose, hoping DuSorre wouldn’t be one of the ones who was appalled at the idea of the queen’s law being administered by commoners, and applied to the better folk like herself. “Vidame.”

“Adjunct Point.” She was Silklands dark, her ochre wool skirt and bodice chosen to set off her coloring, and she’d taken the time to wipe away the sweat and set herself to rights. “Mistress Gasquine said you wanted to speak with me.”

Rathe nodded, hoping her getting his title right was a good sign. “Yes. Thank you.” He gestured to the stool, and she sat gracefully, her skirts pooling around her. The sleeves of her bodice and chemise were pinned back, showing bare skin, and a fine bracelet of filigree beads banded one wrist.

“About de Raзan?”

Rathe nodded again. “You knew him.”

“Yes.” DuSorre’s voice was perfectly calm.

“And he gave you cause to strike him.”

She gave a rueful smile, and her whole face lightened. “Yes to that, too. Bad as any actor, wasn’t I, to do that?”

“Were you?” Rathe matched the smile, and she ducked her head–hiding laughter, he suspected, rather than embarrassment.

“He made a suggestion that annoyed me, and when he wouldn’t stop making it, I decided to give him a taste of what he was letting himself in for if he didn’t stop.” She paused, considering, and this time he was sure he saw amusement in her eyes. “It just occurred to me, I should have waited for a time when we were drilling. Then I could have taught him a lesson he really wouldn’t have forgotten.” She did laugh, then, an easy, unforced music.

“And did you?” Rathe asked quietly, cutting across the laughter, and she stopped, frowning.

“Did I–do what?”

“Teach him a lesson.”

DuSorre blinked. “You’re asking me whether I killed him.”

Rathe braced himself, expecting anger, defiance, accusations of disrespect, but instead, DuSorre slowly shook her head, the laughter dying from her face.

“And he is dead, isn’t he, and I’m behaving very badly. I’m sorry, I just can’t imagine…” She shook her head again. “No, Adjunct Point, I did not kill him. He wasn’t worth it to me, I’m afraid, though obviously he was to somebody. I think we got on rather better once I put him in his place.”

Which was obviously several ranks below DuSorre, Rathe thought, and couldn’t help admiring her candor. And besides, I think she would have done the same thing if she’d been left a motherless child in Point of Knives. “You said you couldn’t imagine–what?”

“Why anyone would bother killing him,” DuSorre said. She spread her hands. “I’m sorry, Adjunct Point, he simply wasn’t–a person of substance.”

It was a bitter epitaph. “And yet you kept company with him,” he said aloud, and she shrugged.

“He had an idle tongue, could be amusing. And our mothers are friends. I don’t know many of the others, you understand. We only come to Astreiant for the winter‑tide.”

All good reasons, all equally unhelpful. He took her through more questions, all with the same answer–de Raзan was a nonentity, of no importance at all to her–and by the end was fairly sure she was telling the truth. There was simply not enough passion in her response to make her seem a likely murderer. He closed his tablets, sighing.

“Did you see The Drowned Island?” he asked, not knowing precisely why, and to his surprise she blushed.

“Yes. Yes, several times, since we took up residence in the city.”

“And you enjoyed it?”

This time, the blush was more pronounced, though she met his gaze squarely. “Foolish, I know, but there was something about it– not just sad, though it was that. Perhaps it was that it believed in itself?” She smiled again. “Setting it next to Master Aconin’s play, it is rather embarrassing to think how many times I went to see it. Why do you ask?”

Rathe smiled, not quite able to articulate it himself. “The landseur’s body was discovered on the Tyrseia stage,” he answered. “Between two of the scenic machines–the waves.”

DuSorre grimaced. “He wasn’t killed by the machinery, surely?”

“No. It doesn’t appear so.” Rathe paused. “He may have been poisoned.”

“Commonly thought to be a woman’s weapon,” DuSorre said, and he wondered from her voice if she’d finally taken offense. “What more do you need from me?”

“Your whereabouts between second sunrise and first dawn,” Rathe answered.

“At home,” DuSorre answered. “And it’s not so big and busy a household that there won’t be people who can vouch that I was there. My mother hosted a reception last night for the other members of the cast–the chorus,” she corrected, and Rathe nodded at the distinction. “It was well past second sunrise when I went to bed. And my maid can swear that I didn’t leave my bed until long past the second sunset.” She smiled then. “The one similarity between us and the real actors, I imagine, is the hours we keep.”

“Thank you,” Rathe said, and had to suppress a yawn of his own at the reminder.

“Is there anything more?”

“No,” Rathe said. “And I appreciate both your candor and your willingness to cooperate.”

DuSorre’s eyes met his. “Not at all. My mother has always told me to embrace new experiences.” She swept him a mocking curtsy, and turned away.

And I could think she was flirting with me, if I didn’t know better. Rathe shook himself, and looked around for a clock. There were none in sight, but from the sounds on the stage, the rehearsal was winding to an untidy end. He made a face, hoping he had time, and beckoned to the waiting runner.

“Fetch Verre Siredy–of the Masters of Defense,” he said.

The boy nodded, as excited as the other runner had been, returned in record time with Siredy trailing behind him, his coat draped over one shoulder.

“Master Siredy, sir,” the runner announced, and retired without being told to his stool.

Rathe took a step forward, motioned for the other man to join him in the alcove. “If I might speak with you for a few minutes?”

“Of course, Adjunct Point.”

From Eslingen’s brief comments, Rathe had been expecting a more handsome man, and wondered briefly if he should be jealous. Even under the paint, he could see the freckles scattering the man’s nose and cheeks, and knew that the hair beneath the fashionably dark wig would be bright as scrubbed copper. “You named the landseur for me this morning. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Siredy looked, if anything, more wary, and Rathe’s attention sharpened.

“And it was you and Lieutenant–vaan Esling–who found the body?”

“Yes.” Siredy went through the story in a colorless voice, and Rathe made a note to get the same tale from Eslingen later. There was something about Siredy’s attitude, the care with which he recounted the events, that made the pointsman wary. But of course that could be the other story Gasquine had hinted at, and he leaned back on his stool as Siredy finished his account.

“How well did you know him?”

“The landseur?”

Stalling for time, Rathe thought. He nodded. Siredy didn’t look like a comfortable liar, his easy air would make lies mostly unnecessary– of course, I’ve been wrong about that before. But not, I think, this time.

“Oh, well, in the way of business,” Siredy said. “As long as anyone else in the masque.”

“And out of the way of business?”

Siredy hesitated, and Rathe said gently, “I’ve spoken to one or two here.”

“You don’t mince words, do you?”

“I’d prefer to hear the tale from you.”

“No tale.” Siredy sighed. “Ridiculous, I admit, but nothing you haven’t heard, I daresay. We were lovers, briefly–he took up fencing for a bit, and took me up with it, I suppose, and when he gave up swordplay, he gave me up, too.”

There was a brittle note in the other man’s voice that made Rathe’s eyes narrow. “And not gently, I gather,” he said, and saw Siredy flinch. “You did not part friends.”

“I doubt we ever were that,” Siredy flared. He stopped, went on in a more controlled tone, “His lordship lacked sufficient grace, when he called it off, to–” He stopped again, flushing, and Rathe sighed.

“Sufficiently express his regret and gratitude?”

“Oh, nicely put.” Siredy seemed to have his voice under control again, though there were two spots of color high on his cheeks, vivid through the paint. “Please don’t think me mercenary, it’s more a matter of–expectations.”

Rathe nodded. He knew the rules for such affairs as well as anyone southriver, knew, too, that they were more honored in the broadsheets and onstage than in reality. But even actors could get caught in their own fictions, he thought, and glanced at his tablets again. “In your time with the landseur, did you ever hear him speak of an enemy? Or anyone who’d have cause to injure him?”

Siredy shook his head. “No. He was–not that sort of man.”

“What sort of man?”

“The kind who made enemies.” Siredy shrugged. “You will have heard, the vidame DuSorre slapped his face the other day, and that’s more thought than I ever saw anyone give to him.”

Another bitter epitaph, Rathe thought. “And–you’ll pardon my asking, I’m sure–did anyone step into your shoes?”

“Not that I know of,” Siredy answered. “As far as I know, I’m the only person here to have committed that particular folly.” He seemed to bite the words off, and Rathe frowned faintly down at his tablets, trying to quell his own sympathy, knowing what it felt like to feel yourself made a fool of, by your own devices. But there were Gasquine’s words to consider, and he put stylus to wax.

“And now that you’d seen him again?” he asked quietly, lifting his eyes to meet Siredy’s. The master stared at him for a moment, then sighed, leaning his arms on his knees, tangling his hands carelessly in his hair–wig, Rathe corrected himself, remembering Eslingen’s description.

“Still the only one,” he admitted. “But this time, I stopped it before it started. I think he wanted to have bragging rights. Whether as the first to bring one of us to bed, or as having a prior connection, I’m not sure, but I don’t make mistakes twice, Adjunct Point. And there are some mistakes I don’t make once. Killing him would have been more than he deserved.”

Rathe nodded, accepting that at face value for the moment. “One thing more, then. Where did you spend your night, from second sunrise to first dawn?”

Siredy made a face. “Alas, I was alone, Adjunct Point. For most of the night, anyway. As soon as we finished here, I went to the baths–Philip, Lieutenant vaan Esling, can vouch for that, we had a drink there. But once we parted ways, well, there was no one. I lodge alone.”

There was no real significance to it, Rathe knew–in his experience, it was the ones who had a dozen witnesses to their every movement who were the ones to watch–and he made a note in his tablets. The clock struck as he carved the last letter, and he heard one of Gasquine’s assistants shouting the end of the day. Siredy looked over his shoulder.

“Are you done with me, Adjunct Point?”

“Yes.”

Siredy nodded, rising easily to shrug on his coat, and Rathe beckoned to the runner. “Tell Mathiee I’m done for now, but I or mine will be back tomorrow as soon as you open. She’ll know what I want.”

“Yes, Adjunct Point,” the boy answered, and hurried away.

Left to himself, Rathe joined the stream of actors and chorus members leaving the theatre, paused in the courtyard to scan the waiting crowd. It was bigger than ever, the nobles’ private carriages jostling one another at the edge of the main street, while a new set of market‑folk were clustered at the door, each fighting to call her wares louder than the rest. Rathe tucked his truncheon under his cloak, hoping to pass unnoticed, found himself a place at the edge of the throng. Eslingen would be out soon, he hoped, and even as he thought it, he saw the tall figure poised for an instant at the top of the stairs. He moved forward, smiling in spite of himself, and Eslingen came to join him, drawing his cloak tighter around his shoulders.

“Seidos’s Horse, what miserable weather. But I’m glad to see you, Nico.”

“Lieutenant vaan Esling,” Rathe said. The other man winced, and Rathe grinned, relenting. “You might have warned me, before I saw it in the broadsheets.” He beckoned to one of the marketwomen, her covered basket filled with hot spiced nuts, and accepted a paper cone in exchange for a demming. It was the first thing he’d eaten since before noon, and he was startled by his own hunger. “Still,” he said, around the first mouthful, “you should be thrilled, getting your name in one of them.”

Eslingen helped himself as well. “True gentlemen do everything in their power to keep their names out of the sheets.”

“Only their names?”

Eslingen lifted an eyebrow. “Adjunct Point, that sounded remarkably like a double entendre.”

“Was it?” Rathe asked. “I must be tired, then, I’d never consider going to bed with someone so far above my station.”

“Idiot,” Eslingen said, and helped himself to another nut. “You look tired.”

“It’s been a hell of a day,” Rathe answered. “Yours?”

“After discovering the body?” Eslingen laughed. “Oh, distinctly improved, especially by the discovery that there seems to be a romance among three of our landames–only each member of the triangle is unaware that it is a triangle.”

Rathe shook his head. “I don’t envy you that one, Philip.”

“Nor I you your murder,” Eslingen answered, and cast a quick glance over his shoulder. “With everything you tell me about the symbolism of the masque, one has to look with a less than easy eye on the death of any noble taking part in it.”

“Which is probably why the chamberlains will want to purify the whole theatre,” Rathe said. And I wonder what you know of the landseur, he thought, and what you can see for me. He shoved the thought away, appalled, but it made too much sense. A murder in the theatre, and Eslingen working there, with the people likeliest to have been involved, it was too good an opportunity to squander…

“Nico?” Eslingen asked, and Rathe shook his head.

“Let’s go home. We can talk there.”

By the time they reached Rathe’s flat, the sleet had thickened, gathering on Eslingen’s broad‑brimmed hat so that it caught the passing light like a crust of diamonds. The courtyard with its shared garden was treacherous underfoot, despite the sand the weaver had scattered carelessly across her end of the walk, and Rathe was glad to reach the shelter of his own rooms. The stove was cold, and Eslingen stooped to fumble with flint and tinder, lighting first one candle and then the lamp, while Rathe ran his hand through his hair, wringing out the worst of the damp. He felt like the southriver rat more than one person had called him–a drowned rat, he amended, and loosened his cloak reluctantly, leaving his jerkin on as he moved to relight the stove. Eslingen murmured something, and lit a second candle, another pinpoint of heat. The stove caught quickly, and Rathe straightened, stripping off jerkin and coat and hanging them on the peg by the door. Eslingen tended his own coat more carefully, settling it so it would dry without unfortunate creases, and Rathe turned away to find bread and cheese. It wasn’t the meal he would have chosen, if the weather had been better, but it would be enough.

Eslingen had freed himself from his waistcoat as well, wrapped himself in a dressing gown that was magnificent except for the frayed hem, and Rathe had to admit that there was a certain practicality in the ridiculous garment. Something like that, on a cold night… He shook himself, telling himself he’d look idiotic, and reached for the jug of wine. “The landseur,” he said. “You probably didn’t have any time to form an impression of him.”

Eslingen shrugged, accepting the filled cup, and settled himself at the table, stockinged feet reaching out to the stove. “A bit of one. I think he was used to getting his own way.”

“More than the rest of them?” The stove was blazing now, and Rathe sat down opposite the other man, feeling its warmth along his side. It was strange, this wasn’t how he would have wanted to acquire a lover, certainly wasn’t how he’d wanted to have Eslingen move into his life, but at the same time, there was an ease between them that he couldn’t deny.

“Oh, yes,” Eslingen answered. “Much more. But, as I’m sure you’ve heard, the vidame DuSorre put him in his place.”

“I hate that phrase,” Rathe said, and shook himself. “You didn’t see it, did you?”

“Not I, but it was common gossip.” Eslingen reached for the bread, tore off a healthy chunk. “I must have heard half a dozen versions of the story.”

“Not well liked, then,” Rathe said, and to his surprise Eslingen shook his head.

“No, it wasn’t that, it was just a good story. Nobody really cared, I don’t think. Seidos’s Horse, he was, what, the youngest of five, with three older sisters and an older brother who got what was left of anything that was on offer.”

“That’s sad,” Rathe said. It was also what the others had said, Gasquine and Siredy and even DuSorre all in perfect agreement, and he shook his head, wondering if the man had had any purpose to his life.

Eslingen nodded. “My impression is that he was the kind of person someone might trouble to slap, but never, ever, bother to kill.”

“But someone did,” Rathe said.

“What did happen to him?” Eslingen asked. “I didn’t see any wounds–how did he die?”

Rathe made a face, as though saying it made it worse. “He was drowned.”

Eslingen leaned back in his chair. “That’s a revolting thought. Do you mean someone drowned him and left him at the Tyrseia?”

“No.” Rathe rubbed his eyes, made himself take a piece of the sharp, creamy cheese. “I mean he was drowned at the Tyrseia. That’s according to Fanier, the best alchemist I’ve ever worked with. And unless Sohier found something I didn’t see, there wasn’t any way it could have been done. No troughs, no tubs, no buckets, nothing except–”

He broke off, shaking his head, and Eslingen frowned. “Except what?”

“You were there. You tell me.”

“I’m not a pointsman,” Eslingen said. “I don’t think I notice the same things you do.”

“I’m sorry, Philip, I’m not trying to be coy, I’m just not sure what it means. If it means anything.” And I really hope it doesn’t, he added silently. “Think about where you found him.”

“Onstage,” Eslingen said. “Center stage.”

Rathe nodded. “At the Tyrseia. Where the damned Drowned Islandis still on. Philip, he was lying between two pieces of the machinery. The final flood effect.”

There was a little silence, then Eslingen whistled softly through his teeth. “You can’t be saying he was drowned by the scenery.”

“Not yet, I’m not,” Rathe answered. “And never, if I can help it. But Fanier says he was drowned where he lay; the body wasn’t moved, period. He did allow as how there might be poison involved, but the cause; of death was drowning. I just hope Sohier found something I missed.”

“But you don’t think she will,” Eslingen said.

Rathe shook his head. The thought was suddenly utterly depressing, this–unnecessary–man, dead for no cause. Except he wasn’t quite unnecessary, Rathe thought, and grimaced. If he was in the masque he was related to one of the potential claimants, and that made him necessary after all. He saw Eslingen watching him, mouth opening to ask a question– and if I tell him, I know what the next step will be, exactly what I’ll ask him to do next, and that’s not fair, not after the last time.

“What?” Eslingen said, and Rathe sighed.

“This is not for public consumption, I know I don’t have to tell you.”

Eslingen shook his head, waiting.

“What makes this death particularly interesting is that every single member of the chorus is directly related to one of the queen’s possible successors–and Her Majesty plans to name her heir after the masque.”

Eslingen’s mouth dropped open for an instant. “Which makes them all hostages for their families’ good behavior. Dis, that’s– clever.”

“Sound I wouldn’t dare hazard,” Rathe said, and Eslingen laughed.

“What have I gotten myself into?”

“You do seem to have a talent for finding yourself at the center of things,” Rathe answered.

“It’s a recent knack, I assure you,” Eslingen answered. “Not one you want to cultivate in the army.”

Rathe grinned, but sobered in an instant. “Philip, I need your help.”

“You have it.” Eslingen leaned forward, his hands wrapped around his wineglass, and Rathe sighed.

“I feel like ten kinds of bastard, especially after the last time. But. You’re at the theatre, every day, with these people every day. I would take it kindly if…”

“I’d keep an eye on them for you?” Eslingen was smiling slightly, and Rathe hesitated, wondering what it meant.

“Yes. I’m just sorry to have to ask you again.”

Eslingen reached out, laid a hand gently over Rathe’s, the fingers still cold. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why not ask me? I’m pleased, I’m honored, and for the gods’ sake, I’m there. I think we work well together.” Eslingen’s smile widened. “Hells, if you hadn’t had the sense to ask, I’d probably have committed the ultimate folly and volunteered.”

We do work well together, Rathe thought. It’s been proved, last summer under fire, and in the dull aftermath. “At least I spared you that,” he said, and Eslingen’s hand tightened, a caress and a question. Rathe shook his head. “Philip, I’m going to be asleep as soon as my head hits the mattress.”

One eyebrow quirked upward. “If I had suspected our living together would have a deleterious effect on the admittedly vulgar pursuit of pleasure…”

Rathe laughed out loud. “All right, Lieutenant. If only to allay your suspicions.”

5

« ^ »

the performance banners were flying from the tower of the Tyrseia as Rathe made his way into Dreams station, and he hoped that meant that Sohier had found something after all. More likely, though, Trijn had been pressured into releasing the theatre as soon as possible, for fear that the unstable common folk wouldn’t be able to stand being deprived of their favorite play for an extra day. He was being unfair, he knew, as he stopped to consult the notices fluttering from a broadsheet‑seller’s display board, and took a careful breath, trying to control his temper. If anything, he was angry because he suspected the chamberlains might be right.

At least only one of the broadsheets mentioned the murder, and it was a crude thing, with a woodcut of two men dueling that Rathe had last seen illustrating an announcement of a fencing match. The paragraph below, smudged from hasty printing, spoke of mysterious death at the Tyrseia, and hinted at breathless possibilities, but, all in all, said less that he’d expected. It wouldn’t last, he knew, but at least they might have a day’s breathing space before the details were spread around the city. And one good thing might come of the mystery, he thought, turning away: the fact of the death might help hide the significance of the chorus.

Voillemin was still on duty, finishing out the night shift, and Rathe had to suppress the desire to ask what was happening with Leussi’s death. That was the other man’s case, he reminded himself, scanning the daybook; he’d do no one any good by interfering. There was a note from Sohier, stating that she and four others had searched the Tyrseia stage and stagehouse, but no note of the results.

Voillemin cleared his throat. “The chief wants to see you. As soon as may be.”

“No surprise there,” Rathe answered, and slid the book back to the other man. “What did Sohier find?”

The younger man shrugged. “Officially, the report’s still being copied. But unofficially–nothing. How in Astree’s name can the man have drowned?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Rathe said.

“Maybe–could the necromancer have made a mistake?” Voillemin asked, and Rathe sighed.

“We may be hoping that. But I’ve never seen Fanier make that kind of a mistake.”

Voillemin shook his head–he looked tired, Rathe thought, and felt an unexpected pang of sympathy. “Go home,” he said, and Voillemin smiled.

“As soon as Leenderts gets here. And the chief does want to see you.”

“I bet she does,” Rathe answered, and took the stairs two at a time.

The door to Trijn’s workroom stood open, sunlight spilling across the room and out into the narrow hallway. The last of the previous night’s ice was melting from the eaves, spangling the bubbled glass, and a kettle hissed on the roaring stove. Rathe tapped on the door frame, feeling the heat radiating from it even there, and Trijn looked up with a nod.

“Come in and shut the door. Fanier sent this for you.”

Rathe did as he was told, accepting the still‑sealed packet of papers addressed in Fanier’s thick scrawl. A lot of chief points would have taken it as their right and privilege to read it before him, he thought as he broke the seal and skimmed through the neatly copied pages, but not Trijn.

“Of course you had no idea who it was when you sent the body to Fanier,” Trijn said. She made it a statement, Rathe noted with relief. “This damned district. Everything has to be larger than life. It’s a hothouse. Not enough that we have a murder, no, it has to be–” She lifted her hand, ticking the points off on her fingers. “At the Tyrseia, involve a landseur–a landseur who is the brother of the castellan of Raзan, not an insignificant holding, as well as being related to Her Majesty–and not a straightforward bludgeoning or knifing, either, but something utterly mysterious.” She gestured to the report still in Rathe’s hands. “And how did he die, by the way?”

“He drowned,” Rathe said, and braced himself for the outburst.

It never came. Trijn rested her head in her hands. “Of course he did. What else? Did Fanier hazard a guess as to how he drowned? Nothing ordinary, I wager, like having drowned elsewhere and the body moved to the theatre?”

Rathe shook his head, sliding the three closely written sheets across the table toward her. “He died where he was found. There’s evidence of poison–Fanier said some of the body changes were consistent with poison, but–”

“He drowned,” Trijn finished for him. “Sofia’s tits. Which is why you kept five of my people busy yesterday looking for barrels and tubs that they did not find.”

“I had hoped we’d missed something,” Rathe said, and Trijn shook her head.

“No.”

So, Rathe thought. Drowned on a dry stage, among the machines that represent water. “I’ll need them again today,” he said. “I only had the chance to talk to a few of the cast, and it’ll go faster with more of us.”

“Understood,” Trijn answered. “I’ve already warned Sohier, she has a good head on her. But I want you to deal with the family first.”

“De Raзan’s family?” Rathe hid a grimace. “I had a messenger from the Temple inform them, I thought–”

“We’ll want his horoscope,” Trijn said firmly, and Rathe sighed. Yes, it was a logical first step, particularly in a death as odd as this one–a good horoscope could often reveal people destined for uncanny ends–but he’d hoped he wouldn’t have to be the one to collect it.

“I may need a writ from the surintendant, if the family doesn’t choose to release it,” he said aloud. “Because the university won’t help me without one.”

“I’ll see you get it,” Trijn answered. “But you may not need it. My understanding it, the castellan is a sensible soul.”

“Let’s hope so,” Rathe said, and Trijn smiled.

“Serves the regents right, you bagging a landseur when they couldn’t stomach the idea of you tampering with a mere intendant. Still, it may be political–see what you can find out about the family’s leanings while you’re at it.”

And how, Rathe thought, am I supposed to do that? You’re the one who brags of being intimate with Astreiant. He put the thought aside–he had his contacts, they all did, but his might ask more than he cared to pay–and pushed himself to his feet as the clock chimed ten.

“She lodges in Point of Hearts,” Trijn said, and Rathe’s eyebrows rose. Trijn met his look blandly. “Apparently the de Raзans prefer to enjoy themselves over midwinter.”

He had no trouble finding the house, a narrow‑fronted, white‑stone building with twisted iron gates that gave a glimpse of severely formal gardens. The stone troughs were mostly empty, the larger plants bound up for winter, but Rathe recognized at least one flowering cherry beyond the formal hedges. It was the sort of place one might rent for a new lover, Rathe thought, but not long‑term, and wondered whether the castellan recognized or even cared about the distinction.

The gatekeeper belonged to the house, not the castellan, and made no difficulty admitting a pointsman. In fact, Rathe thought, he seemed more perturbed by the black‑bound spray of ghostberry decorating the main door. It wasn’t much of a sign of mourning, but it was more than he had generally seen in Point of Hearts. To his surprise, the stiff‑legged footman did not try to send him to the tradesman’s entrance; and Rathe waited in the entry as bidden, glancing quickly around. The footman had worn a mourning band, black ribbon over white, but there were few other signs of anything but formal grief. The incense bowl was cold, its sand drifted with only the faintest shadow of ash, and no one had bothered to cover the elegant long mirror that lengthened the narrow hall. The maid who appeared at last to escort him wore no black, and he wondered if she too, had been hired with the house.

The castellan was waiting in the receiving room, the curtains drawn full back to let in the most of the morning’s sun. The room smelled of flowers, and Rathe looked around, startled, to see a dozen forcing‑jars set on a side table where the light could catch them. All of them were in use, and greenery and flowers sprouted from them, the Silklands corms blooming in unseasonal profusion. He recognized a white type his mother called Mama Moon, and another golden trumpet, but the rest were strange, red and pink and green‑tinged yellow, vividly striped and ruffled, a landame’s ransom set carelessly to use.

“Adjunct Point Rathe,” the maid said with a curtsy, and seated herself at the far end of the room.

The castellan herself was seated on a chaise that looked as though it might be silk, and the remains of a hearty breakfast lay on the table at her elbow. Served on silver, too, Rathe thought, and made a careful bow. She was a small, plump woman, and looked utterly unlike her dead brother–if anything, she reminded him of a wren, though no wren was ever so brightly colored. At least she wore a mourning ribbon, fashionably stark against the poppy‑red silk of her bodice, but there was no reading her emotions in her painted face.

“Adjunct Point,” she said. “You’re welcome to the house.”

“Thank you,” Rathe answered. “Allow me to offer my condolences.”

The castellan smiled, and Rathe wondered how many other callers she’d had already. “I hope you won’t think me tactless, but I have a hundred questions for you. How did Visteijn die?”

Rathe took a breath. “The alchemical reports say that he drowned.”

“The alchemical reports?” she repeated softly.

“Yes, maseigne.”

“You had my brother’s body brought to an alchemist.”

“We needed to determine the cause of death, Castellan.”

She was silent for a moment, the sunlight slanting through the tall windows to glitter from the gold threads banding her skirt. “You didn’t seek permission. Permission that was mine to give.”

“I didn’t know who he was at the time,” Rathe answered, and from the look she gave him, guessed she recognized the lie.

The castellan sighed, and looked away from him, frowning at the flowers on the table. “It has been suggested to me that a death like this–of a relative, however close, who was more a nuisance than a help–should be kept as unobtrusive as possible. I don’t, however, agree. How could he drown, if he was found at the Tyrseia?”

“That we don’t yet know,” Rathe said. “Though we hope to find out. And to that end, Castellan, I would like to ask you a few questions.”

She waved a hand in careless permission. “Ask away.”

Rathe reached for his tablets, aware and mildly amused that she wouldn’t ask him to sit down–her tolerance of pointsmen extended only so far–and ran through the same questions he had asked DuSorre and Siredy the night before. If anything, the castellan knew even less of her brother’s activities–they each kept their own households, her brother’s consisting of a valet and a groom, and had no cause to spend much time in company.

“And now that he was in the masque,”the castellan went on, “I saw even less of him than before. He put his name into the lottery as a joke, or so I understood; I think he was a little put out at actually having been selected–more work than he was used to, you understand. But I don’t know of any enemies among his fellows.”

“Debts?” Rathe asked, and the castellan smiled.

“He wasn’t a careful man. He had debts, some of which I paid, some–” She glanced again at the flowers, frowning again. “Some of which I left him to handle on his own. That’s a piece of his folly, to spend crowns on those corms, and then let them bloom. They don’t come again that way, or so I’m told, you waste them, growing them in the jars. We quarreled over that, the last time I dined with him. But no one would kill a man for that.”

“No,” Rathe said, though, privately, he was not so sure. He could think of one or two avid cultivators who hated the idea of forcing the corms, who would rather wait half a year to see the flower just to be sure it would bloom again. But at least the landseur had gotten the pleasure of his purchases, instead of letting them rot for speculation. It was the most appealing thing he’d heard yet about the man. “There is one thing more, Castellan.”

“Name it.”

“Your brother’s horoscope. I would appreciate it if I could get a copy of it.”

The castellan’s eyes widened, but then she nodded. “I will have my secretary copy it out for you, and send to Point of Dreams.”

“Thank you,” Rathe said.

“I don’t want to see his murderer escape unpunished,” the castellan said. “I thank you for everything you’ve done so far, and expect you to do everything in your power to see this to its conclusion.” She smiled, a little ruefully. “You have only to name your fee.”

Rathe returned the smile, but shook his head. “That’s not necessary, Castellan. I will find out who killed your brother, or do my best at it, anyway, but–I don’t take fees. From anyone.”

“Are you a leveller, Adjunct Point?”

Rathe hesitated. “Philosophically, I suppose so, Castellan.”

“I thought you might be.” The castellan studied him for a long moment. Not so wrenlike now, Rathe thought, and tried to meet her stare without challenge. “So you do this out of conviction, or stubbornness?”

“I do enjoy my work, Castellan,” Rathe answered.

“Then I trust you will take a certain satisfaction in finding out who killed my poor fool of a brother. If there is anything further you need, you must not hesitate to let me know, or any member of my household. It shall not be denied you, I promise you that.”

It was dismissal, Rathe knew, and something more, a speculation in her glance that made him wonder if he’d been in Point of Hearts too long. Or perhaps she had: she might have to dance attendance at the court until midwinter was past, but from the look of the house, she was determined to enjoy herself. But still, he had what he needed from her, and with more grace than he’d had any right to expect. “Thank you, maseigne,” he said aloud, and the maid rose at her gesture. “I’ll send word as soon as I have any news for you.”

He paused at the corner of the road to look back at the narrow house, so neat on its sculpted grounds, wondering if there were other questions he should have asked the castellan, questions about her own intentions in Astreiant. But if he wanted to know that… He sighed. If he truly wanted the answer to that question, there was only one source for it, and he looked up as the clock chimed the quarter hour. Almost eleven: Annechon would be receiving by now, he thought, and wished the mere thought didn’t make him blush.

Her house was a fraction smaller than the castellan’s, and older, but the walls and the gatehouse were bright with new paint, and from the look of it the narrow garden had been redug over the summer season. And Annechon herself held the freehold of it, Rathe knew, not for the first time shaking his head at her acumen. No gift, either, there was no one great lover to pay her way, but a dozen or more dear friends, and a sharp sense of business had kept her more than solvent. That and the charm of manner that made women and men grateful to see their gifts sold to pay a chandler’s bills, he added silently, smiling in spite of himself. He had seen that charm at work more than once, and it frankly terrified him.

Her people knew him, and the Silklands maid brought him at once to her bedroom, shooing away a pair of half‑bred pocket terriers and a slim young man with equally bouncing manners. The curtains were drawn well back here, too, letting the light stream in, and the air smelled of rosemary. No common scents for Annechon, he thought, and she rose to greet him, both hands outstretched. She was easily as tall as he, perhaps a little taller; the strong light made no secret of the lines that were beginning to show on her hard‑boned face, but her hair was still darkly lustrous, without the slightest touch of silver. And she would be beautiful greying, Rathe thought helplessly, she had been beautiful when she was the baker’s fourth and skinny daughter, hired to keep an eye on a gardener’s son in Point of Knives. He’d adored her then, at the age of seven, and she’d never let him forget that he’d once–misunderstanding matters–proposed lemanry. She wasn’t skinny now, but ripely beautiful, her dressing gown, scarlet as an advocat’s robe, flowing loose over corset and petticoats. He returned her embrace, feeling like a child again, and she waved him to a seat on the tambour reserved for her favorites.

“What a pleasure!” she said, and her voice still held a hint of the southriver accent. “But it must be business, you’d never come here without that protection.”

Rathe sighed, knowing she was right. “I’m really that ungracious?”

“You know you are,” Annechon answered. “But I am flattered. It’s not every woman who can still fluster her first nurseling.”

“Hardly that,” Rathe protested. “You were the child‑minder. Never a nurse.”

“Would you rather I said first suitor?”

“I’d take it more kindly if you’d forget that,” Rathe said, and she grinned.

“Even more ungracious. But probably wise, if the tale I hear is true. Did you finally bring your black dog to heel?”

Rathe felt the color stain his cheeks. “Yes.”

“And that’s all I’m to hear of it?” Annechon said.

“I need your help,” Rathe said, in something like desperation, and she leaned back in her painted chair.

“And you’ll have it–if I can, of course. Have you had breakfast?”

The remains of hers was on a side table, and Rathe couldn’t help a longing glance. “I’ve eaten,” he said, and she waved toward it.

“Well, have some more, there’s plenty. Ring for more tea if it’s cold.”

The plate of pastries, barely touched, was too tempting, and Rathe took one, biting into a pocket of dried fruits flavored with Silklands spices. It dripped, of course, and he caught the blob of filling awkwardly, feeling more than ever like a child again. Annechon laughed without malice, and after a moment, he smiled back.

“What do you want of me?” she asked.

“Do you know the castellan de Raзan?” Rathe asked around a second bite of pastry, and Annechon managed a theatrical sigh.

“Never the question I want from you, Nico. Yes, I know of her– we don’t move in the same circles, mind you, or not much, but we have friends in common.”

“I thought it was interesting she took a house in Point of Hearts,” Rathe said.

Annechon nodded. “Interested in her pleasure, that one, and doesn’t care a bit for her reputation. What I know of her, I like, there’s no pretense there.”

“And her ambitions?”

“She hasn’t any that I know of,” Annechon answered, and Rathe made a face.

“Aspirations, then.”

“Purely of pleasure,” Annechon said. “Raзan’s a cold holding, so I hear, so she spends her winters rather warmer.” She paused. “Is it true it was her brother who was killed at the Tyrseia?”

“Yeah.” Rathe hesitated in turn. “Did you know him, Anne?”

“Not that one. He’s–he was just as intent on his pleasure as his sister, but not as generous. It could be she kept him short of funds, but I think it was more a habit of his own.”

Which went with what Siredy had said, Rathe thought. “Did he have political ambitions at all?”

“That one?” Annechon laughed. “Why in Oriane’s name would you ask that?”

“Because they’re somehow related to the crown,” Rathe answered, “by blood, not stars, and he was in the masque that’s designed to bring health to the state of Chenedolle. I have to ask it.”

“Then you can consider yourself answered,” Annechon said. “The de Raзans, Larivey or Visteijn both, don’t give a gargoyle’s kiss for affairs of state. Affairs of the heart only, except I believe that isn’t the organ either prefers.”

“Enemies, then?” Rathe asked, without hope, and wasn’t surprised when she shook her head.

“I doubt anyone would bother.” She paused, frowning slightly now. “Have I been any help at all?”

“In a negative way,” Rathe answered frankly. “But I pretty much expected that.”

“I hate meeting expectations,” Annechon said. “And now you’ll meet mine, and find some excuse to scurry away again.”

“I have work to do,” Rathe said, and knew the truth sounded like a lame excuse. Annechon laughed and waved him away, offering a last pastry just as she had when he was a boy, and Rathe accepted it, following her maidservant back down the unfashionable stairs past a trio of waiting gallants. It would do for lunch, he told himself, hearing the clock strike noon, and he was due at the Bells.

Sohier was there before him, as he’d expected, but the lurking runner was quick to fetch her, and they found another of the quiet alcoves in which to confer.

“You read my report?” she asked, and Rathe nodded.

“You’re sure?”

“Sure as can be.” Sohier shook her head. “There was nothing, Nico, nothing bigger than a barber’s basin, and I’d hate to try to drown a man in that. Even stunned, or drugged.” She paused. “There’s already talk.”

“No surprise,” Rathe said again. “We’ll keep it as quiet as we can, not that there’s much we can do about it. What have you found today?”

“Not much,” Sohier answered, and reached beneath her skirt for her own tablets. “Let’s see, two people have said he’d spoken of a marriage with the Heugenins–with the vidame herself, according to one young miss, trying to recoup his debts–but the vidame herself says she was trifling. She’d have bedded him, maybe settled an allowance on him if they were successful–she’s childless–but swears she had no intention of making a contract with him.”

“That’s the most promising thing we’ve heard so far,” Rathe said, and Sohier shook her head.

“Not wanting to disappoint, Nico, but I believe her. Even the people who mentioned it in the first place said it was all de Raзan boasting, nothing they really believed.”

Rathe sighed. Sohier’s judgment was generally reliable, too; if she said de Heugenin was telling the truth, odds were she was. “What’s left for the day?”

“We’re just about done with the chorus,” Sohier answered.

“Nobles taking precedence?” Rathe asked with a grin, and the younger woman shook her head.

“They’ve been easier to find. Gasquine’s been working the actors hard.” She glanced over her shoulder. “In fact, I should be getting back to them.”

Rathe nodded. “Go ahead. I’ll be along as soon as I can catch a word with Mathiee.”

“Good luck to you,” Sohier answered, and turned away.

The rehearsal was well under way, he saw, the chorus idle while two of the principals held the stage. It was the first time Rathe had heard more than a few lines of the play, the first full scene he’d heard, and in spite of himself he found himself standing silent between two of the massive set engines, caught in the story’s moment. Anjesine bes’Hallen, a Silklands scarf standing in for the old‑fashioned veil she would wear later, held center stage with the ease of long practice, commanding in her silence, while Caradai Hyver raged around her, reminding her leman of promises made and broken. Hyver belonged to Gasquine’s company, bes’Hallen to Savatier’s; the chance to see them onstage together, in the two leads, would bring Astreiant flocking to the masque, and to the play. Hyver paused–she played the Bannerdame Ramani, whose stars made her a great general–but bes’Hallen remained still a heartbeat longer, long hands posed against her skirt. Then, slowly, she shook her head, rejecting not her leman but the anger she carried, swallowing her pride again for the sake of the kingdom. And that much, at least, was legend, Rathe thought. The Soueraine de Galhac had held her hand as long as she could, swallowed insult after insult, until finally the Palatine of Artins refused the marriage, her daughter to de Galhac’s son, that would have restored the fortune de Galhac had ruined in her service. On the stage, Hyver paused in her turn, then swept into a deep curtsy, skirts pooling on the stage around her. It was the obeisance one gave a queen, and from leman to leman it was disconcerting and strangely moving, and the pause before bes’Hallen moved to raise her friend was even more unsettling. But then, the play didn’t deny the ambition on both sides, the need of the palatine to be free of de Galhac, and de Galhac’s need to dominate in Artins.

The actors moved off, arm in arm, never quite leaving their characters even after they were well out of sight in the far wing, and Rathe drew a slow breath. Oh, they were good, both of them, bes’Hallen at the top of her career, Hyver only a little behind, but without Aconin’s lines to speak, those gestures would have fallen flat, meaningless. Something moved then, in the shadows to his left, and he looked over, startled, to see Aconin watching from behind a painted pillar. The playwright’s eyes fell, as though he was embarrassed– something I never thought to see–but then he straightened and came toward the other man.

“Well, Adjunct Point, how’d you like the scene?”

The tone was mocking, as was the punctilious insistence on the proper title–but the question, Rathe realized, was genuine. Aconin had been watching not the actors, but the man watching them, and he was good enough, the play was good enough, to deserve an honest answer. “You’ll have Astreiant at your feet if there’s any justice.”

Aconin paused, but then his painted lips quirked up into a smile. “Have you seen The Drowned Island?”

In spite of himself, Rathe grinned. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Is it by way of business? Or about the play?”

“Both.”

Aconin spread his hands, a graceful, easy movement that displayed the black and gold paint and his long fingers. “I’m at your service, Adjunct Point.”

“Where’d you get the idea for the play?”

“And how does that have to do with your business?” Aconin asked. “If I’d stolen someone else’s idea, they’d beat me to death, not complain to the points.”

Rathe smiled again, recognizing the truth of the playwright’s words. One thing he’d learned since coming to Point of Dreams, the players tended to settle their own affairs as much as possible. “I was thinking more about the way you use the Alphabet, actually. I don’t remember that being part of the de Galhac tales.”

“Ah.” Aconin’s eyes slid sideways, and Rathe followed his gaze, to see the landseur Aubine frankly listening, a self‑deprecating smile on his plain face. “Not in Astreiant, as far as I know, but in the west, there are tales that make her to be a descendant of the Ancient Queens, and a magist herself.”

The Ancient Queens were also known as the Southern Witches. Trust Aconin to find them appealing. Rathe nodded, not wanting to break the thread, but Aconin shrugged one shoulder, said nothing more.

“So why the Alphabet?” Rathe asked after a moment, and Aconin sighed.

“I don’t–honestly, I couldn’t say, it just seemed… suitable. I suppose because there was all the talk last spring about the verifiable copy, and it stuck in my head.” He shrugged again. “It’s an anachronism, of course, but I don’t think anyone will care.”

There was something not quite right about the playwright’s answer, Rathe thought. Maybe he wasn’t being fair, but somehow he was certain that Aconin always knew exactly why he’d made his choices. “Did you read it?” he said aloud, and could have sworn that Aconin jumped.

“What?”

“Did you read it–this verifiable copy?”

Aconin smiled, already turning away. “There’s no such thing.”

And you’re lying, Rathe thought. Either you’ve seen it or, more likely, you know it exists, but you are lying. He took a step forward, intending to pursue the matter, and Aubine cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Chresta, but Mathiee wants to talk to you.”

Rathe swore under his breath, and Aconin spread his hands again. “I’m in demand. If you’ll excuse me, Adjunct Point–”

“Of course,” Rathe said, knowing the moment was lost, and the playwright disappeared between another set of scenery. Aubine gave him an apologetic smile, and Rathe returned it. It wasn’t the landseur’s fault that he’d been given a message– but one of these days, Chresta, you and I will finish this conversation.

“Do you believe in the Alphabet, Adjunct Point?” Aubine asked, and Rathe shook himself back to the present.

“I find it hard to believe there could be so many false editions of something that never existed.”

Aubine’s smile seemed genuine enough. “I’d never thought of it that way.” He turned away, losing himself in the stack of hampers and cases that filled the backstage. Waiting to be carted to the Tyrseia, Rathe guessed, and realized he’d lost track of Gasquine.

The actors were rearranging themselves for the next scene under the watchful eye of one of Gasquine’s assistants, and Rathe winced, hearing a once‑familiar voice. He had managed to forget, or at least ignore, the fact that Guis Forveijl had been chosen for the masque, but there he was, tall and still good to look at, with hair of just the right shade of gold to be popular at any season. He seemed to be playing some sort of messenger–to be setting up one of the drills or dances, Rathe realized, and even as he thought it, he saw Eslingen coming down one of the backstage stairways. He looked as fine as any of the nobles, a new red coat warm in the mage‑light, and he inclined his head gracefully to listen to something one of the landseurs was saying to him. Lieutenant vaan Esling is settling in all too well. Rathe thought, and was ashamed of his jealousy. He had been jealous of Forveijl, too, jealous of the friendships and the parts that had seduced him away more than once before the final, showy role that Aconin had given him. They had been together for three years then, almost lemanry, though Rathe thanked Sofia he hadn’t committed at least that folly; to see it all vanish for the sake of a play, no matter how good, was almost enough to sour him on the theater. Maybe Philip’s finding a place here wasn’t such good fortune after all, he thought, and winced as Gasquine strode onto the stage, waving her hands to stop the action. Forveijl listened, head drooping as she corrected something in the performance, and Rathe was grateful she kept her voice down.

“Nico,” Eslingen said, and Rathe turned to greet him, forcing a smile. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“There’s still plenty to be done,” Rathe answered, and Eslingen sighed.

“I know that, I meant, when you weren’t here this morning. I looked for you, you know.”

Rathe felt his smile become more genuine. “I had business with the family. And how has your morning been?”

Eslingen rolled his eyes. “Like nothing in this world–” He broke off as a smiling woman touched his shoulder, murmuring something in his ear as she passed, and Rathe suppressed another stab of jealousy. Eslingen smiled back, but the expression faded as he turned back to face the other man. “As you see. And there’s a deal of gossip about the death, as you can well imagine. Some people are saying they’ll have to call in the necromancers to clear the stagehouse.”

“I doubt that,” Rathe said. “Resides, a necromancer’s already seen the body.”

“b’Estorr, of course,” Eslingen said, and a new voice spoke from behind them both.

“Of course. You must know about Nico’s white dog, Lieutenant.”

Forveijl, Rathe realized, and damned himself for not realizing the scene had ended. Eslingen gave him his most blandly cheerful smile.

“Keeps pocket terriers, does he?”

Forveijl blinked at the non sequitur, and Rathe took a breath, turning to face him. “Guis.”

“Nicolas. We’re keeping you busy these days.”

“Among other things,” Rathe answered. Forveijl opened his mouth to say something more, but someone–Gasquine’s assistant, by the sound of it–called his name. Forveijl smiled, sweeping a too‑deep bow, and moved away in answer. Eslingen lifted an eyebrow.

“That one… ?”

Rathe, to his own surprise, laughed softly. “Bad judgment, coming back to haunt me.”

Eslingen shrugged. “Your life never started with me. But whatever did you see in him?”

“I’m not sure anymore,” Rathe answered.

Eslingen’s eyebrow rose even higher. “I hope he was at least– amusing?”

“Oh, yeah, that, certainly.”

“I’d like to think you got something out of it,” Eslingen said.

“It seemed enough at the time,” Rathe answered. The stage was crowded now, chorus and actors and even a few scenerymen milling about in the open space, and he shook his head, thinking of the Tyrseia. “The whole thing’s backwards,” he said, and realized he’d spoken aloud only when Eslingen cocked his head at him.

“From the usual run of murdered landseurs?”

“From any other murder I’ve handled,” Rathe said. He paused, but there was no one in earshot. “I’m talking about the pure mechanics of the thing. Usually, it’s pretty straightforward how someone was killed, that’s not the problem. The problem is who, and you look hard and deep, and one reason usually stands out, and that’s the why that gives you the who. But you start from how.” He shook his head. “I have a bad feeling that with this one, if I can just figure out how de Raзan was killed, I might have a chance at figuring out who.”

Eslingen whistled softly, but anything more he would have said was cut off by a call from the stage itself. “That’s us,” he said, and quirked a smile. “I wouldn’t stay.”

“Not a pretty sight?” Rathe asked with a grin, and Eslingen rolled his eyes.

“If they were my company, I’d have the lot of them digging ditches.”

He was gone then, and Rathe turned away. He’d find Sohier, he decided, and see if they could finish the interviews before the day’s rehearsal ended.

The rehearsal was going about as well as could be expected, considering that neither he nor the chorus really understood yet what was expected of them. Eslingen rested the butt of his half‑pike against his shoe, grateful for the break while Gasquine argued with Hyver about some trick of gesture. At least it was real, the proper weight and heft, brought out of the weapons pawned and abandoned at the Aretoneia, unlike everything else onstage. He let his eyes skim past the arguing actors–not quarreling, they never quarreled, but discussed or at worst argued–looking for Rathe, but the pointsman was nowhere in sight, had already left, taking Eslingen’s advice. He turned his attention back to the stage, trying to imagine his work seen from the pit. The chorus had broken out of their tidy lines, the banners drooping as they relaxed to murmured conversation, and Eslingen sighed, the moment’s vision lost. This was one of the smaller set pieces, an entrance for the Bannerdame Ramani, but already they’d spent half the afternoon on it.

“And no closer to being finished,” he muttered, and flushed, hearing a soft laugh behind him. He turned, frowning, and the landseur Aubine gave him a self‑deprecating smile over an armload of flowers.

“I beg your pardon, Lieutenant, I shouldn’t have laughed. But I think we’re all thinking the same thing.”

“All this for at most a quarter hour on the stage,” Eslingen said. “My respect for the actors grows daily.”

“Hourly,” Aubine agreed, and set the flowers carefully into a tub that stood ready. A few drops of water splashed onto the stage, and the landseur drew a rag from his sleeve, stooped carefully to wipe them up.

And if that had been in the Tyrseia yesterday, Eslingen thought, his attention sharpening, Nico might have found his “how.” But the tubs were new, delivered only this morning, and the runners had been busy hauling water ever since.

Aubine straightened, easing his back almost absently, and nodded to the half‑pike. “That’s an old weapon, isn’t it, Lieutenant?”

Eslingen nodded, idly counting heads. There were at least three people missing from the chorus, and he hoped they’d merely seized the chance to use the privy. “From before the League Wars, I’d guess.”

“A family heirloom?”

Eslingen blinked, aware of the trap he’d almost fallen into, gave his easiest smile. “Alas, no, my lord. I bought it out of pawn at the Aretoneia.”

“Oh.” Aubine looked disappointed, and Eslingen cast around for a topic that would distract him.

“May I ask a question, maseigneur? About the flowers?”

“Of course.” For an instant, Aubine looked almost smug. “I can’t promise an answer, though.”

“Why bring them in now? Surely they’ll wilt and die before the masque.”

“Oh,” Aubine said again, and the smug look was gone again, so quickly Eslingen could have believed he imagined it. “Oh, no, these aren’t the flowers that will be used for the masque itself. I have others for that. No, these are–well, partly I’ve picked them already, and I don’t want them to go to waste, even if we’re not in the Tyrseia yet. I wanted to see how long they’ll last, the air, the heat is different everywhere. And partly I’ve brought them in the hopes that they’ll sweeten tempers, or at least ease the path for the actors, and the chorus, for that matter.” He touched a bloom, pale pink, lush and multi‑petaled, looked up with a smile that was at once rueful and self‑aware. “But mostly, I suppose, I do it because I can.”

“Which is our good fortune, maseigneur.” That was Siredy, coming up behind them, and Eslingen turned to him with something like relief.

“Verre. We seem to be missing some of the chorus.”

“Seidos–” Siredy bit off the rest of the curse with an apologetic glance toward Aubine. “I suppose we’d better go find them. If you’ll excuse us, maseigneur?”

Aubine waved a hand, already focused on his flowers, and Eslingen followed his fellow master, glad to have forestalled any more questions about his family. “I imagine they’re out back,” he said aloud, and Siredy glared at him.

“I hope so. You should have kept an eye on them.” He stopped, consciously relaxing his shoulders. “I’m sorry, Philip, I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

Eslingen stopped, really looking at the other man for the first time that day. Siredy was definitely out of curl, his skin pale, eyes shadowed, wig thrown back so carelessly that a few strands of red showed against his forehead. His shirt was crumpled, with a visible darn at one elbow, and his breeches had clearly seen better days. Not unreasonable clothes, for the workout they had ahead of them, but equally unlike anything he’d ever seen the other wear. Even for the challenge, he’d been better dressed. “Are you all right?”

Siredy forced a smile, and then a shrug. “I’ve had better days. Death’s no way to begin a production.”

“No.” Eslingen took a careful breath, remembering something Rathe had said, something about Siredy and the dead man–pillow friends, nothing more, but a man might grieve regardless.

“And they couldn’t care less,” Siredy went on, glaring now at the chorus. “Except for the gossip value. De Raзan’s more interesting dead than he ever was alive.”

“You should try to get some sleep,” Eslingen said. Worthless advice, he knew, but it was the best he could do.

Siredy shook himself, managed another smile. “Oh, believe me, I try–”

He broke off, interrupted by the hammering of Gasquine’s tall staff on the stage’s hollow floor, and swung to count heads. “Tyrseis, we’re still missing two of them.”

“Places,” Gasquine called, and was instantly echoed by the bookholder, a tall woman in black. “Masters, if you’re ready, let’s begin– from the trumpet cue.”

“Yes, mistress,” Siredy answered, and Eslingen lifted his half‑pike, the old signal to reassemble. The line straightened again, the flags rising with a ragged flourish–not fast enough, he thought, but they’d work on that–and the bored‑looking woman in the musicians’ guild badge lifted her trumpet for the salute. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw at least two of the stragglers hesitating at the edge of the stage, one about to hasten to join them before the other caught her back. At least one of them is showing common sense, he thought, and as the trumpet sounded lowered his pike to signal the beginning of the display. It was hardly complicated, the sort of thing any regiment accustomed to displays of arms could have done in its sleep, and would have disdained to perform in public, but the landames seemed to be having a hard time understanding the rhythm of the gestures. At least a third of the line missed the half‑bow before the lines split, and one particularly graceless boy almost ended up in the wrong line, but then, just as Ramani made her entrance, the lines fell into unexpected alignment, the banners unfurling in almost perfect unison. Ramani strode between them, every fiber of her body singing with the victory just won, stopped just downstage of the last pair to begin her speech. Gasquine let her get through it–a complicated piece, not quite there, but with the bones of the emotion already showing–and lifted her hand only when the actor had finished.

“Very nice, Caradai.”

Hyver curtsied, not quite out of character, and Gasquine went on easily. “As for the chorus–it needs work, you know that, but I think you can see how it goes. Masters, I thank you for your efforts. We’ll rest a quarter hour, and move on to the next act.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Eslingen saw Siredy sketch a bow, and hastily copied him. A clock struck, somewhere in the upper levels, a quarter‑hour chime, and the closest of the landames looked up toward it, her long horse‑face relaxing into a grin.

“Thank Seidos, my feet are dying.”

In those shoes, I’m not surprised, Eslingen thought. The embroidered mules had a high foresole as well as a heel, gave her a few much‑needed inches.

“My ladies,” Siredy said hastily. “A moment, please–”

They looked inclined to ignore him, and Eslingen tapped the half‑pike lightly on the stage, pleased when the chorus turned almost as one to stare.

“We’ll begin the fight work when we return,” Siredy said. “For those of you who were chosen.”

“We’ll need the stage, Verre,” Gasquine said, not turning from her low‑voiced conversation with Hyver, and Siredy sighed.

“Is it still fine out?” Eslingen asked, and a sweet‑faced boy who looked barely old enough to qualify for the lottery gave him a blinding smile.

“It’s very nice, Lieutenant, sunny and warm and the wind’s died down.”

“Then why don’t we take it to the courtyard?” Eslingen said, and Siredy nodded.

“At the quarter hour, my ladies. In the courtyard, if you please.”

There was a ripple of agreement, and the line broke apart, the majority vanishing into the backstage, a few, the stragglers among them, climbing down into the pit to find seats on the benches. The scenerymen who had been playing dice in the last row looked up curiously–more silks and satins than ever graced the pit on any other occasion–and the horse‑faced girl winked at one of them, her shoes already discarded so that she could rub her stockinged toes.

“Maybe she’ll think better of them,” he said under his breath, and at his side Siredy gave a grunt of amusement.

“A seilling says she’ll wear them through the masque itself.”

Eslingen grinned. “No, I don’t bet against a sure thing.” He worked his shoulders, hearing muscles crack. “How do you think we’re doing?”

“Not badly, actually,” Siredy answered.

“If you say so.” Eslingen frowned, startled by his own ill temper, and not appeased by Siredy’s answering laugh.

“No, really, this is good. They just need time.”

And he was right, Eslingen knew, forcing himself to remember the days he’d spent training soldiers. It always took time, he just had to remember that he was starting with raw recruits, not the half‑trained men who’d been his more recent students. “So what do we do next?”

Siredy made a face. “We probably should have started this sooner, it’s the hardest thing they’ll have to learn. But we had the stage this morning.”

“So what is it that we should have started sooner?” Eslingen asked, with waning patience.

“The small duels.” Siredy shook himself, visibly collecting the rags of what was normally a cheerful disposition. “Oh, it shouldn’t be too bad, they know the rudiments–”

“Enough to know what they don’t know?” Eslingen asked, and Siredy managed a smile.

“I think so. We have four pairs, so we’ll match them up for height and looks, and see what they can do.”

“Do you know which ones they are?”

“I haven’t matched the titles to the faces yet,” Siredy said. “Or at least not above half of them. The pretty boy, the one who’s making eyes at you–”

Eslingen rolled his own eyes at that, and Siredy went on placidly.

“Besselin, his name is, the vavaseur de Besselin. And the sallow landseur with the flowers.”

Eslingen nodded. He didn’t know that man’s name either, but the posy tucked into his lapel had been meant to draw every eye. Even Aubine had been impressed, it seemed; he remembered seeing the older man draw the landseur aside for a quiet conversation.

“Then the girl with the shoes, all the gods help us,” Siredy said, “she’s the daughter of the castellan of Jarielle, and the rest–” He shrugged. “All I have is the names.”

“Four women and four men?” Eslingen asked, and Siredy nodded.

“For balance. I thought we’d place them two and two, a pair of each to each side, the tallest toward the center.”

The clock struck before Eslingen could answer, and Gasquine swept onto the stage, followed by the actors who were in the next scene. Most of the chorus settled themselves more comfortably on their benches, ready to enjoy someone else’s labor; the group who had been chosen for the duels separated themselves out, some with backward glances, and made their way out into the narrow courtyard behind the stagehouse.

It wasn’t an ideal spot for fencing, Eslingen thought as he made sure each of the duelists had plastrons and well‑bated blades, was too long and narrow, but at least they would be able to make a start. Already he could see Siredy sizing up the group, the wig pushed even farther back, showing a line of red hair at his forehead, arranging them by height and coloring. It looked as though the group had been well chosen; it would be easy to make four pairs that would look like an even match, and the sweet‑faced boy, de Besselin, cleared his throat.

“Lieutenant? May I have a word with you?”

He sounded at once shy and eager, usually a bad combination, and Eslingen braced himself. “Of course.”

“You know about Maseigne de Txi and the landame de Vannevaux, don’t you?”

“Should I?”

The boy blinked. “It might be relevant?”

“Well?”

“Txi and the Silvans of Damirai–that’s de Vannevaux’s family– they’ve been at odds for years. Generations.”

“Which is de Vannevaux?” Eslingen asked, but suspected he already knew.

“Her.” De Besselin tipped his head sideways, indicating a woman in blue, apparently deep in conversation with the landseur of the flowers. She was, of course, the same age and height as Txi, and her fair complexion would contrast perfectly with Txi’s dark and lively face.

“Excuse me,” Eslingen said, and crossed the yard in three strides to tap Siredy on the shoulder. “Verre…”

“I’ve heard,” Siredy answered grimly. “What else am I to do with them? There’s no other way to divide them up.”

“Maybe they don’t believe in the feud,” Eslingen said, without much hope, and Siredy shook his head.

“Not a chance of that.”

“Areton’s–” Eslingen swallowed the rest of the curse. “All right. Let’s pretend we think they can behave like–”

“Ladies?” Siredy asked sweetly, and Eslingen held up his hand, acknowledging the hit.

“Like–well, something other than what they are. This is the midwinter masque, the queen expects it. We expect it.”

Siredy’s look was frankly disbelieving, but Eslingen drew himself up to his full height, stilled his face to hauteur copied from a captain he’d once known, a man who could make you thank him for letting you loan him a silver pillar. It had worked before; it might work this time.

“Let’s begin,” he said, pitching his voice to carry, and the group of nobles turned to face him.

Siredy took a breath. “Right. The first order of business is to pair off.” He held up his hand as de Besselin took a step toward the landseur with the flowers. “A moment, please. You’re to be paired by height, to make a better show.”

De Vannevaux was quicker than the others, glancing along the line. “No, Master Siredy, not if it means being paired with her.” She flung out her hand in a gesture copied from one of the minor actors, pointing at Txi with a disdainful flourish.

“Oh,” Txi said, much too sweetly, “I don’t mind at all.”

Right, let them get together with swords in their hands, Eslingen thought. Seidos, why did I ever agree to this? Folly stars, indeed. “What’s this?” He lifted an eyebrow, fixed them both with a stare that he hoped would abash.

“The castellans of Txi stole our land,” de Vannevaux said. “I will not be paired with her.”

“Stole?” Txi’s voice rose. “Damirai has claimed that for years, and never yet made good on the boast. The highlands are ours, they go with the city, not the forest–and I, for one, will be happy to meet her, under any circumstance.”

“That’s not your family’s usual style,” de Vannevaux said.

“Enough,” Eslingen said, and they both looked at him, startled. “Would you prefer not to be part of the masque?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of pure horror cross Siredy’s face, and hoped the landames hadn’t seen it. There was an instant of silence, and then Txi said quickly, “No, Lieutenant, but–”

“We won our places fairly,” de Vannevaux interrupted, looking mulish, and Eslingen lifted his hand again.

“Enough. Then you’re in the queen’s service here, and you can leave your petty family quarrels behind.”

“Petty?” de Vannevaux said, on a note of outrage.

“I have seen sons of Havigot and Artimalec fighting side by side, guarding each other’s backs,” Eslingen said. That feud was ancient and proverbial, and he just hoped there were descendants left. “You are under discipline, no less than they were. I expect no less of you.”

There was an instant of silence, Txi’s eyes wide, de Vannevaux’s delicately painted mouth slack with surprise, and then, to his relief, both women made quick curtsies. “Yes, Lieutenant,” de Vannevaux said, and an instant later Txi echoed her.

“Very well,” Eslingen said, and looked at Siredy, who quickly closed his own mouth. “Then let’s begin.”

The day dragged to an end at last, and Eslingen made his way out of the theatre with some relief. Not that they’d had any great successes, but at least the landames hadn’t actually tried to kill each other. In fact, they’d been remarkably silent, speaking only when one or the other needed some point of the swordplay explained, and he supposed he would have to take it as a favorable sign. The sun was low, and the yard was in shadow, making him grateful for the cloak he’d thrown on that morning. Unfashionable it might be, but at least he would be warm for the walk back to Rathe’s lodgings. And, now that he thought of it, it might be a notion to buy a loaf of bread, or even a hot pie, contribute something to their dinner. There were inns enough in Dreams where he could find something.

“Philip?”

Eslingen suppressed a groan. This was all he needed to complete a less than perfect day–but maybe he could get rid of the playwright quickly. He smoothed his expression as he turned. “Well, Chresta?”

“How unwelcoming,” Aconin murmured. “So unlike the charming lieutenant.”

“Let’s not play that game,” Eslingen said, and to his surprise, Aconin grinned.

“Fair enough. It’s been a bear of a day, hasn’t it? I’m even bored with myself.”

“So you seek me out,” Eslingen said.

“I wondered if we might talk.”

Eslingen looked at the other man, wondering if he had heard the fleeting note of fear in Aconin’s voice, and the theatre’s side door opened behind him. Aubine emerged into the amber light, an empty trug over his arm–looking, Eslingen thought, for all the stars like Nico on a garden day. He dipped his head, not quite a bow, and Aconin turned with a start, the bright hazel eyes widening fractionally before he swept into an overdone courtier’s bow. Aubine gave him an almost indulgent look, and nodded to Eslingen.

“A late‑stayer also, Lieutenant? Can I offer you a lift?” Even as he spoke, Eslingen heard the clatter of harness and the soft chirp of a groom, looked around to see a comfortable‑looking carriage pull into the theatre yard. It wasn’t new, but it had been expensive, and Eslingen wondered again how he could ever hope to pull off this deception. But there were more poor landame’s sons than rich ones, he reminded himself; just don’t let him see that you’re living off a pointsman, and you should be all right.

“Thank you, my lord, that’s very kind. But I’ve promised Chresta my company.”

“Ah.” Aubine smiled again. “Be careful, Lieutenant, Master Aconin has a sharp–tongue.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, my lord,” Eslingen said, and Aubine nodded, already moving away. Eslingen watched him into the carriage, the groom holding the step and handing in the trug, then closing the door to climb back to the box.

“Promised me your company,” Aconin said, the mockery back in his voice.

“You said you wanted to talk,” Eslingen answered. “I’ll listen.”

“I’d prefer somewhere less public than this,” Aconin said, and Eslingen shook his head.

“Then we can talk as we go, Chresta. I want to get home.”

“To your pointsman?”

“Home,” Eslingen said, and hoped it was true. “This is not the way to get me to–is it help you want, Chresta?”

Aconin sighed, fell into step with the taller man. “I’m not sure, frankly. At this point, I think I just want to talk to someone.”

“Why me?” Eslingen asked, and the words were almost a plea.

Aconin laughed softly. “Because I trust you.”

“Oh, very likely. You haven’t seen me in fifteen years.”

“I trusted you to remember that, didn’t I?” They turned a corner, and the harsh light caught them full on, deepening the sharp, discontented lines bracketing the playwright’s mouth. “I–think I’m in trouble, Philip.”

“Father it on someone else, it’s not mine.”

“Bastard,” Aconin said, and Eslingen spread his hands.

“And all the world knows it.”

He winced as he said it, remembering too late that he was no longer part of that world, that in fact this new world didn’t know it at all, and Aconin smiled again. “Except here.” He paused, shook his head. “I’ll make a bargain with you, Philip. I won’t say a word about your parentage if you’ll give me a hand.”

Eslingen caught the other man’s shoulder, swung him so that they stood face to face in the empty street. The shops to either side were shuttered; they stood bathed in the red‑gold light that swept up the street from the Sier, their shadows falling away behind them. “I don’t make that kind of bargain,” he said. “Not without knowing a good deal more about your troubles.”

Aconin looked away. “It’s complicated–”

“No, then.”

Aconin took a breath. “All right. Wait. It’s–there’s something about this play, the whole damned folly of it–”

Eslingen caught the first flash out of the corner of his eye, shoved Aconin so that the snap of the lock caught the playwright already stumbling backward, arms flailing for balance. He cried out, hand flying to his upper arm, and Eslingen drew his knife, wishing he had a sword–wishing for pistol‑proofed back‑and‑breast, and a lock of his own–spinning to put his body between the attacker and Aconin. The street was empty, and the doorways, even the dead‑end alley where he thought he’d seen the flash of the priming powder, and he turned on his heel again, scanning windows. They were all closed, too, and he turned to Aconin.

“Quickly, into cover.”

Aconin nodded, still clutching his arm, and Eslingen pushed him toward the nearest doorway, waiting for a second shot. It never came, and he leaned against the cold stone, trying to catch his breath. “Are you all right?”

Aconin nodded, but his face was pale beneath the paint. Eslingen frowned, and saw the first threads of blood on the playwright’s fingers.

“Let me see,” he said, and pried the other man’s hand gently away.

Aconin hissed with pain, but did not resist, and Eslingen allowed himself a sigh of relief. Aconin’s coat and shirt were ripped and bloody, but the wound was little more than a scratch, a shallow graze barely wider than his finger, painful enough, but hardly serious. “Not bad,” he said, and folded Aconin’s fingers back to stop the bleeding. “Come on, I think we can make it to Point of Dreams–”

“No.” Aconin shook his head hard, almost dislodging his wig. “No, this is not a points matter.”

“And if this isn’t, what is?” Eslingen demanded. “Chresta, someone just took a shot at you.”

“It’s not a matter for the points,” Aconin said again. “I’m serious, Philip.”

“Then you know who did it, and you’re going after him,” Eslingen said. “The points don’t take kindly to private revenge.”

“You mean your Nico doesn’t,” Aconin answered, and shivered suddenly. “No, Philip, I don’t know who did it. I swear to you. I just want to get home…”

In one piece, Eslingen finished silently. “Not to the Court,” he said aloud, and Aconin shook his head.

“No. Guis–Guis Forveijl. I’m still staying with him, on and off.”

“You should go to Point of Dreams,” Eslingen said again. “Come on, Chresta, you must have some idea what this is all about.”

“I don’t.” There was the hint of a tremor in Aconin’s voice. “I swear, I don’t.”

“Is it the play?”

Aconin shook his head again, again too hard, and Eslingen’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve heard that some of the rejected playwrights aren’t too fond of you these days.”

Aconin managed a laugh, and this time there was real humor in it. “None of them would know how to load a lock, much less come this close to hitting me. Knives and clubs would be more their game–or more likely just a nasty piece for the printers.”

That had the ring of truth to it, Eslingen admitted. “So who, then? You used to write a few broadsheets yourself, I hear.”

“Not recently,” Aconin answered. “I swear to you, Philip, on anything you want, I don’t know.”

“On your career?” Eslingen asked.

Aconin seemed to pause, then laughed softly, much more naturally this time. “You are a suspicious man.”

“And you haven’t answered me.” Aconin was, Eslingen thought, a better actor than he’d believed.

“I swear to you, on my career, that I do not know who took a shot at me.” In the shadowed doorway, Aconin’s expression was unreadable. “Tyrseis, Philip, this hurts.”

“You’ve been shot,” Eslingen said. “Be glad the ball’s not still in you.” He leaned carefully around the edge of the doorway, trying to judge distances in the fading light. They should be on their way, and soon, before the twilight settled over the city and gave more cover to the assassin if she decided to return. “Where does Forveijl lodge?

“Not far,” Aconin said, and straightened with a visible wince. “Not too far from the Salle, in fact.”

“Right.” Eslingen sighed, scanning the street a final time. It surprised him that no one had called out, protested the shot or questioned what they were doing skulking in doorways, but then, this was a chancy district when the playhouses were not in session, a place where the locals kept to themselves as much or more than they had ever done in Point of Hopes or Customs Point. And, to be fair, some of the shops were too small to house the shopkeepers, probably were looked after by watchmen or perhaps a dog or two. “Let’s go.”

The sun was on the horizon now, the air thick with shadow. Aconin glanced nervously over his shoulder as he stepped into the street, as though he still expected an attack. Eslingen took a slow breath, wishing again that he had a lock of his own, and body armor to go with it.

“Which way?”

“Toward the river,” Aconin said. He was still holding his arm, though the bleeding was sure to have slowed by now, and Eslingen flinched in sympathy. Flesh wounds were miserably painful, sometimes worse than something more serious; the playwright would be even more sore in the morning once the swelling set in. Something caught his eye then, more by its shadow, freakishly long just at sunset, a small patch of color just beyond the entrance to a narrow alley. He moved to pick it up, ignoring Aconin’s soft cry of warning, and saw it was a posy, a knot of flowers wound with a strip of ribbon. There were perhaps three flowers, jewel‑dark in the fading light, tight buds no bigger than his thumb, and he held it out to Aconin.

“Yours?” He didn’t remember seeing it on the other man’s coat, but the playwright shrugged it away.

“Hardly.”

The sun was almost down, just a narrow sliver showing above the rooftops, and Eslingen shook himself, tucking the posy into a pocket. First to get Aconin home, or at least to Forveijl’s lodgings, and then take himself home again before the second sunrise. He sighed to himself, knowing he’d be too late to buy bread or anything more than a pitcher of beer to contribute to his own dinner, and wished for an uncharitable moment that he could leave Aconin to his own devices. But the playwright was in trouble, and he could hardly leave him…

“And that reminds me,” he said as they started toward the river and Forveijl’s lodgings. “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

Aconin paused, looked almost startled. “Do you know, it’s gone completely out of my head.”

Liar, Eslingen thought, but swallowed the word. “You’re not my problem, Chresta,” he said. “Go to the points, let them deal with you.”

“I can’t,” Aconin said, almost too softly for the other man to hear, and shook his head. “Leave it, Philip, will you?”

And that’s what I get for listening to you in the first place, Eslingen thought. If I’d taken Aubine’s offer, you’d’ve been killed– well, at least there’s more of a chance that you would have– but do I get a word of gratitude? Not likely. In spite of himself, he smiled. And so typical of Aconin.

They reached Forveijl’s lodgings without further incident, and Eslingen left the playwright arguing with the landlady’s man. As he’d expected, the shops were shut by the time he reached Rathe’s neighborhood, and he climbed the steps empty‑handed. Rathe opened the door almost before he could knock, an almost worried look dissolving into something like impatience.

“You’re later than I expected.”

“Yes. Sorry.” Eslingen came into the sudden warmth and the smell of cooking–not Rathe’s, probably, the smells were too rich, must have come from Wicked’s–and stood for a second blinking in the lamplight before he started to unwind his cloak.

“Are you all right?”

“Sorry,” Eslingen said again. “Yes, I’m fine.”

“What happened?” Rathe turned back to the stove, shifting a pot from the hob to a hotter surface, but Eslingen could see the tension in his back.

“Somebody took a shot at Chresta Aconin,” he said, and hung his cloak carefully on the hook by the door. Rathe’s coat was tossed over the back of one of his chairs, and Eslingen adjusted it so that the shoulders hung straight before he removed his own.

“What?” Rathe turned quickly, and Eslingen spread his hands.

“Someone shot at him.”

“Why didn’t I know that?”

“Because it just happened, oh, less than an hour ago,” Eslingen answered.

“I was at Dreams less than an hour ago,” Rathe said.

“He didn’t report it to the points.” Eslingen took a breath. “And he’s not going to report it.”

Rathe slammed a wooden spoon down hard on the stove’s iron lid. “Is he mad? Or is it just the stars?” He paused. “And by any chance were you there?”

“Yes,” Eslingen said, and decided it could stand as an answer to all of them.

“Astree–” Rathe shook his head. “All right. What happened?”

I wish I knew. Eslingen sighed, reached for his dressing gown, pulled it close about his shoulders as the heat of his exertions faded. “I–it was not a good day, Nico, we had landames at feud who were assigned as partners, and, well, that’s not important now.”

In spite of everything, Rathe suppressed a smile as he came to sit at the table. “I will want to hear that story.”

Eslingen nodded. “But later.” He took a breath, composing his thoughts, and Rathe slid a glass of the harsh red wine across the table toward him. He sipped it, slightly warm from its place by the stove, said, “Aconin was leaving when I was, said he had something he wanted to talk to me about. And so I said I’d walk a way with him–I was going to pick up a loaf of bread, truly–but when we turned down one of the streets that runs straight to the river, someone took a shot at him. I saw the priming powder fire, pushed him, but I’m not sure it wouldn’t have missed him anyway.” He went through the rest of it, everything he could remember, lingering on Aconin’s refusal to take the matter to the points, and leaned back in the chair when he’d finished, stretching legs that were stiff from the day’s drill.

“You could make the complaint, I suppose,” Rathe said, but without conviction, and Eslingen shook his head.

“What good would that do? All he’d have to do is deny it, and where would you be?”

“There’s the wound,” Rathe said, and shook his own head. “No, you’re right, I’d never be able to prove it happened the way you said. Damn the man, anyway.”

“Why do I suspect that none of this would be happening if someone else had written the masque?” Eslingen slid his hands into the pocket of his coat, found the posy he’d picked up. He tossed it onto the table, and Rathe took it curiously.

“What’s this?”

“I found it in the street,” Eslingen answered. “After the attack.”

Rathe turned it over in his fingers, studying the flowers. They were very dark, Eslingen realized, that hadn’t been a trick of the light, a purpled red that was almost black. Probably when the buds opened, they’d be brighter, but for now they looked almost ominous, furled tight against the cold. The only spot of color was the narrow ribbon that bound them together, a spot of brighter red against the dark green of the stems.

“A posy for a knife,” he said, meaning a joke, and Rathe looked up sharply.

“Do you know the flowers?”

Eslingen shook his head. “You know I don’t.”

“Winter‑roses, they’re called, though they’re not really roses.” Rathe turned the posy over again, studying the ribbon now. “In Hearts, I’m told, you send them to end a relationship.”

“Do you think they were meant for Aconin?” Eslingen asked, and the other man shrugged.

“It would be a bit of a coincidence if they weren’t. But then, this never happened, right?”

Eslingen nodded, feeling unreasonably depressed.

Rathe shook himself, setting the flowers aside, and stood again, turning his attention to the stove. “Well, if Chresta Aconin doesn’t want our help, I’m not going to foist it on him. With all that’s going on, I’ve got problems enough to deal with, without him.”

6

« ^ »

the next few days were, mercifully, quiet, and Eslingen allowed himself, slowly, to relax a little. Aconin had been least in sight for the first day after the attack, and even after that, he’d kept to himself, consulting primarily with Gasquine and her assistants, and staying well clear of the chorus. So maybe it was a love affair gone wrong, Eslingen thought, making his way toward the Tyrseia once again, or maybe just Aconin’s unruly tongue had finally made an enemy who could do something about his hatred. In any case, it had worked to his advantage: the day after the attack he had seen the playwright lurking in the shadows, watching the rehearsal. How are you? he’d asked, and Aconin had given him a single, angry look.

My silence for yours, Philip. Agreed?

Eslingen smiled to himself. Agreed, definitely, even though it infuriated Rathe: anything that would help him keep his balance in this strange new world was to be embraced, particularly with Aubine watching him, seeking a kindred spirit. The landseur didn’t seem to have much in common with the rest of the chorus, seemed if anything older than his years, sober–still saddened, maybe, by the lost leman, if Siredy’s story was true. And I hope it isn’t, Eslingen added silently. No one deserves that sorrow.

He turned the last corner then, coming out into the plaza in front of the Tyrseia, and swore under his breath. At least half the other masters were there before him, clustered outside the actors’ entrance, and a cart was drawn up behind them, a heavy canvas pulled over its contents. The first batch of flowers, Eslingen guessed, as Aubine came out from behind the cart, and was relieved to see Siredy waiting with the others.

“Now what?” he asked softly, and the other man rolled his eyes.

“Oh, a lovely beginning to the day. The thrice‑damned doors are locked, and we can’t raise the watchman.”

“The plants won’t stand it,” Aubine said from the head of the wagon, and Duca threw up his hands in despair.

“I understand, maseigneur, but there’s nothing I can do.”

“I’ve wrapped them as best I can,” Aubine went on, as though the other man hadn’t spoken. “But they don’t like the cold.”

“Someone must have a key,” Eslingen said to Siredy, and the other master sighed.

“Gasquine does–the Venturers, too, probably, but Mathiee’s closer. Master Duca sent Peyo Rieux, but it’ll be a good half hour before she gets back. More, if she has to wake Gasquine.”

“Seidos’s Horse.” Eslingen took a step backward, looking up the long staircase that led to the narrow gallery door. It would be locked, of course, but there was a shuttered window on the tier above that might give access to the seats.

“And Master Duca’s not best pleased,” Siredy said, squinting up at the gallery. “You don’t seriously think you could get through there?”

“Maybe,” Eslingen answered. Actually, the hardest part would be getting to the window, clambering up over the staircase railing; after that, it would just be a matter of shouldering the shutters open– unless there was glass in the frame, he thought, and opened his mouth to ask the question.

Duca forestalled him. “Lieutenant vaan Esling. You’re late.”

The clock struck the hour as he spoke, giving him the lie, and Eslingen bit back an annoyed retort. “Sorry,” he said, without pretense of sincerity, and looked back up at the facade. “Would it be too much if one of us climbed up there and opened the door from the inside?”

“As long as you don’t strangle the damned watch while you’re at it,” Duca answered. “I’m reserving that for my particular privilege. Areton’s sword and shield, what next?”

For all his bluster, Duca sounded genuinely worried, and Eslingen felt a thin finger of fear work its way down his spine. Surely there was nothing seriously wrong, he told himself, just a man asleep on duty–but the watchman had seemed reasonably conscientious. He frowned, and saw the same concern reflected in Siredy’s eyes.

“Well, get on with it,” Duca said, scowling, and Eslingen shrugged out of his coat. The stairs were guarded only by a low gate, easy enough to step over, but the window of the gallery was more difficult, a good half his body length above the door it lit. He took a careful breath, kicking off his heavy shoes, and stepped cautiously onto the gallery rail. It was wide and dry, worn smooth by thousands of clutching hands, and he wished he’d thought to remove his stockings as well. It was solid enough, though, and he reached cautiously for the carved rails that bordered the narrow window, tugging first gently and then harder to make sure they’d hold his weight. They were firmly set, and he pulled himself up, grunting as his shoulders took the strain, to crouch awkwardly on the narrow sill. Bad as a gargoyle, he thought, and glanced down once, to see the others looking up at him, Aubine with his hand to his mouth as though afraid. It was farther down than he wanted to think about; he looked quickly away, one hand still locked to the rail, and pushed gently at the shutters. They gave a little, by the feel of them secured only by a simple latch, and he braced himself to give them a blow with his shoulder. The latch groaned and held, but the second, harder shove knocked them open, and he teetered for a second on the sill before he regained his balance. The others were still watching, and he lifted his free hand in reassurance before sliding through the empty frame.

The window gave onto one of the side corridors, unlit except for the patch of light from the open window, and he stood for a moment in the dark, letting his eyes adjust.

“Hello? Anyone here?”

There was no answer, not even an echo, and he wished he could remember the watchman’s name. A little more light seeped in between another pair of shutters farther along the building’s curve, and he turned toward it, trying to orient himself in the musty dark. There were curtains to his left, that was the source of the dusty smell, and he fumbled with the nearest set until he found the gap.

There was more light in the main house, filtered through the canvas roof, but the mage‑lights were dark. Nothing moved in the boxes, or in what he could see of the pit, and the stage itself lay bare and empty. That was a mercy, he thought, and leaned between the curtains to scan that section of the seats. Nothing there either, as much as he could see in the dim light, and he shouted again. The theatre swallowed the sound, and he shivered. All right, he told himself. Get on with it. He was on the upper tier, walking behind the cheapest good seats, which meant that he should soon find the stairs leading down to the boxes. Even as he thought that, the stairway yawned before him, and he climbed quickly down to the main floor, glancing from side to side as though he might stumble over the watchman at any moment. There was still no sign of him, and he crossed the pit, checking the stage again, to head up the sloping tunnel to the actors’ door. The lock was old‑fashioned, heavy iron, and he turned the fluted key with an effort. The tumblers fell into place, and he pulled back the doors to find Duca staring at him.

“Did you find the fool?”

Eslingen shook his head mutely, stepping back to let the bigger man inside. Siredy followed, holding out his shoes, and Eslingen balanced awkwardly on one leg, sliding them back on again. He was lucky not to have put a hole in his stockings, he thought– and, damnation, I did tear my sleeve. It was a small rip, on the seam, and he craned his neck to try to see how bad it was. Siredy offered his coat as well, and Eslingen took it, sighing. At least it would hide the worst of the damage.

“Artinou!” That was Duca’s voice, well trained to carry through the theatre, and Siredy shook his head.

“He’ll have the man’s head for this.”

“And well he might.” Eslingen started back up the tunnel, ducked out of the way as Aubine turned back toward the open door.

“And where should I have the flowers brought, do you think? I don’t want them underfoot, but I need to bring them in out of the cold.”

“Into the pit, maybe?” Siredy said, and Eslingen nodded.

“If your man can wait until we find the watch, maseigneur, he can tell you where they’d best be placed.”

“Ah. Yes. Very wise.” Aubine brushed past them with a vague smile, and Eslingen looked at the other master,

“Where is he, do you think?”

“Asleep in the dressing rooms, I hope,” Siredy answered, but even as he spoke, de Vicheau came down the narrow stairs shaking his head.

“All the rooms are empty, Master Duca.”

Eslingen moved to join them, seeing his own frown reflected on the other men’s faces. “Is anything else wrong?” he asked, and climbed carefully to the stage itself. The first baskets of props were where they had been left the day before, and the racked weapons looked untouched, their ribbons hanging limp in the still air.

“Isn’t this enough?” Duca demanded.

“I was thinking of theft,” Eslingen answered, and the man’s expression eased fractionally.

“That’s always a risk,” he admitted, and looked quickly around the wings. “Our gear is all there.”

“But–” Siredy stopped, shaking his head.

“What?” Duca put hands on hips, scowling.

“I thought…” Siredy moved to the nearest rack, examining the row of half pikes. “I thought we left those in better order–separated out, not all in a bunch. Isn’t that right, Philip?”

Eslingen nodded slowly. They had taken the half‑pikes back from the chorus the evening before, set them back in the rack with all the red‑ribboned pikes on the left and the white‑ribboned ones on the right. Now–they weren’t all mixed, but there were a few red ones in with the white, as though someone had knocked over half a dozen, and put them back without looking. “That’s not how we left them.”