Point of Dreams

“Yes,” Aubine said. “But we brought them inside, I didn’t want them to die in the cold. They were already wilting when we got here. I only hope they’ll recover–” He broke off, shaking his head, and Rathe gave him a curious look. At least Aubine realized how his obsessions must sound to outside ears.

“And where did it happen?” Rathe straightened so that he could see the other man clearly.

“Just at our gate,” the coachman said. “We’d just come up to it, the boy had it open, and I heard the shot.”

“The man was standing on our wall,” Aubine said. “Well, not on it, not quite, but looking over it–perhaps he had a ladder on the other side? I don’t know. I told Hue to drive on, and the man dropped out of sight. And we came on here.”

“And why was that, maseigneur?” Rathe asked. “Surely you’d have been safer if you’d waited in your own house, with your own people.”

“I–” Aubine sighed. “I’m not really sure, Adjunct Point. I suppose it would have been, at that. But I heard the shot, and I didn’t think. All I wanted was to get away. Not very brave, I admit, but there have been too many deaths already.”

And that, Rathe thought, I can certainly believe. Nobody was likely to think clearly while they were being shot at, and it would be easier to keep a carriage moving than to back it through the gates. “Did you get a good look at the man?” he asked, and Aubine shook his head.

“I’m sorry. It was a man, I’m sure of that, but he was wearing a driver’s coat and a big hat, it hid his face.”

“Did you see his hair?”

“No.” Aubine shook his head again. “It must have been short, or pulled back.”

Which could describe three‑quarters of the men in Astreiant, Rathe thought, but he hadn’t expected any better. “Was he heavy‑built, slim–anything at all you can tell me?”

Aubine pursed his lips. “Slim, I think. I couldn’t really tell his height, because of the wall, but I think–I would say he was built like Chresta, slim and light.”

Like Aconin. That name would come up once too often one of these days. Rathe kept his voice steady with an effort. “Could it have been Aconin, do you think?”

Aubine blinked, startled by the idea. “No, surely not. Why would he do such a thing?”

“But could it have been?” Rathe said, and Aubine shook his head, decisively this time.

“I can’t say it wasn’t, but I surely can’t, won’t, say it was. The man was built a little like him, that’s all.”

There’s something not right about this, Rathe thought, he’s lying somewhere. “You know Master Aconin,” he said aloud, and saw something flicker in the landseur’s eyes.

“We–I counted him a friend.”

“And no longer?” Rathe waited, saw Aubine’s mouth tighten.

“It’s a common enough occurrence, I believe, at least where Chresta is concerned. But he has been very much involved in this masque.”

And if he wants to believe that, who am I to disillusion him? For the first time, Rathe felt a stab of pity for the landseur. He himself knew what it was like to lose a lover; Aconin was notorious for the brutality of his partings. “You’d best get the rest of these inside,” he said, and Aubine nodded.

“Thank you, Adjunct Point. Oh, but–one more thing?”

“Yeah?”

“Is–can this be my official report to the points?” Aubine gave another of his soft smiles. “I’m reluctant to add any more to the stories about the masque.”

“I don’t blame you,” Rathe said. Aubine was, after all, the noble sponsor; all these disasters reflected as badly on him as they did on Gasquine, perhaps worse. And I’d hate to think what Caiazzo was making of all this. I daresay he’s watching very close from Customs Point. “I’ll make your report in private. But if I need to talk to you again, may I?”

“Of course.” Aubine nodded, the gesture almost a bow. “And thank you.”

Gasquine was watching from the wings, resting one hip on a tall stool, her hands folded across her chest. She looked exhausted, Rathe thought, with sympathy, and no wonder. The masque was hard enough in any year, but this time… She looked up then, seeing him, and her eyes narrowed.

“Not more trouble.”

Rathe laughed in spite of himself, shook his head. “I don’t think so, just the same old ones. I need to talk to Aconin.”

“Good luck to you,” Gasquine said. “He’s not here.”

There was a distinct note of annoyance in her voice. Rathe said, “I thought he was here every day, checking up on things.”

“Oh, yes, every day until today, making sure I do justice to his damned masterpiece.” Gasquine sighed. “No, that’s not fair, it is good, and to be even fairer, he doesn’t do as much harm as your average playwright. But today, when I need him, he’s nowhere to be found.”

“When you need him?” Rathe asked. “I thought the script was set.”

“It is,” Gasquine answered. “Or at least it should be. But there’s a speech one of the chorus–the landseur de Besselin–is having trouble with, and I’d like to cut it. But I don’t know if that will affect the magistry of it, and Aconin isn’t here to tell me. So we have to muddle on.”

“So I can assume you don’t have any idea where he might be,” Rathe said slowly, and the woman shook her head.

“Oriane knows. He’s probably holed up somewhere with a new discovery. Have you come to call a point on him?”

Rathe grinned. “No, or at least not yet. I just had some questions for him. Was he paying particular attention to anyone?”

“I have the managing of this masque, Nico,” Gasquine said. “That’s a cast of nearly three score, including a better‑born chorus than I’ve ever been unlucky enough to have to deal with. Plus two mysterious deaths in the theatre, and the broadsheets bleating about a haunted theatre or a cursed play, plus Master Eyes’s malice on top of it–you did me no favor there, Nico. Aconin’s affairs have been, I confess, outside my notice.”

“Sorry,” Rathe said, lifting his hands, and Gasquine sighed.

“Not your fault, I know. But I’m starting to feel that the stars are against me.”

“Mistress Gasquine?” That was one of the scenerymen, touching his hand to his forehead. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but–”

Gasquine sighed. “I’m needed?”

“Yes, mistress. Now.”

Gasquine spread her hands in wordless appeal, but slid off her stool and vanished into the shadows without a backward glance. Left to himself, Rathe glanced around, looking for Eslingen among the crowd in the pit. The soldier was nowhere in sight, and he grimaced, wondering if anyone else might know Aconin’s whereabouts.

“Nico?”

The voice was unwelcome– except, Rathe thought, of all the people here, Guis Forveijl is the person most likely to know where I can find Chresta Aconin. “Guis.”

“I wanted to talk to you,” Forveijl said. “I wouldn’t bother you except it’s important. It’s about Chresta. And–” He gestured to the stage, the movement surprisingly ineffective for an actor, and more compelling for it. “All this.”

Rathe stared at him, wondering if Aconin had finally abandoned the other man–and that, he told himself firmly, was an unworthy thought. Forveijl’s face was unusually sober, troubled, and Rathe made a face, capitulating. “All right, talk to me.”

Forveijl shook his head. “Please. Not here.”

He tilted his head to one side, and Rathe sighed again, seeing the rehearsal momentarily at a standstill. A dozen of the chorus were trooping onto the stage, all carrying property weapons–Eslingen was among them, he saw, met Rathe’s glance with a quick smile that was replaced almost instantly with the intent frown that was becoming as familiar to Rathe as any of Forveijl’s gestures had been–and several of the actors, dismissed from the stage, were watching them with open curiosity. No, he could hardly blame Forveijl for wanting to keep this conversation private. “Where, then?” he asked, and Forveijl looked over his shoulder again.

“The dressing rooms, I suppose. That should be private enough,”

Not from what Jhirassi had always told him, Rathe thought, but then, he had no particular desire to be closeted too closely with Forveijl. He nodded, and let the other man lead him through the wings and up a narrow staircase that ran along the theater’s rear wall. The dressing rooms were there, nearly a dozen of them, communal rooms for the common actors, tiny private rooms for the leading women, and Rathe wondered idly where Eslingen dressed. Or the chorus, for that matter: they could hardly enjoy being tucked into even the largest of the rooms, forced to share with half a hundred others. To his surprise, Forveijl pushed open the door of one of the smaller rooms–but then, Rathe thought, following the other man inside, Forveijl had earned his peers’ regard. Whatever Rathe thought of him, Forveijl had their respect.

The room was surprisingly warm, the air heavy with the smell of the flowers that filled a vase the size of a man’s head. Silverthorn, winterspice, and the purple‑splashed bells of yet another corm: someone had gotten an expensive gift, Rathe thought, blinking in the sunlight that streamed through the narrow window to reflect from the tall mirror, and wondered if it was Forveijl’s. A part of him hoped it was, and another, smaller part felt a touch of jealousy. But their affair was long over, Forveijl had chosen Aconin and he himself had been lucky enough to find Eslingen, and he put it aside, frowning. The light from the mirror bounced across the far wall as Forveijl knocked against the frame, and Rathe stepped away, wincing.

“All right,” he said, and closed the door behind him. “What did you have to tell me?”

“I needed to talk to you, Nico,” Forveijl answered, and there was something in his voice that made Rathe shake his head in warning.

“About Aconin, so talk.”

“Yes. And I will, I promise. But, Nicolas, I’ve missed you, and this is the first chance I’ve had to say so. It’s a shock to have you back in my life, probably the most pleasant shock of my life, but still–”

“I’m not back in your life,” Rathe said. “I’m trying to find out who killed two people just in this theatre. I’m sorry if it seems to you as though I’m doing it to torment you.” He broke off, not wanting to say the words that had risen to his lips– I wasn’t even thinking you might be here–and Forveijl took a step closer.

“You’re not tormenting me, Nicolas. But, Oriane, if you wanted to, you could. You always did.”

Rathe stared at him for a moment, caught by the gleam of sunlight in the other man’s hair. Forveijl was gilt, warm honey skin and golden hair, where Eslingen was jet and ivory, and the actor was still very beautiful. A part of him had never forgotten that, Rathe knew, would probably never forget even after he’d lost the memory of all the petty quarrels. He took a breath, newly aware of the plants almost at his side, and shook himself, hard. “You’ve nothing to the purpose to say, have you?”

“Very much so, I promise.” Forveijl smiled.

“About Aconin,” Rathe said.

“That, too.”

Rathe shook his head, stifling desire he hadn’t know he still carried. Forveijl was beautiful, yes, handsome, virile, and utterly untrustworthy. He’d proved that more than once. “I’m going,” he said, and realized Forveijl stood between him and the door.

“Are you sure you want to?”

No. Rathe took a careful breath, trying not to remember how Forveijl’s skin had felt under his hands, how his hair had smelled of spice and the paint he wore onstage. “Get out of my way,” he said, and knew he sounded less than convincing.

“I don’t want to,” Forveijl said softly. There was less than an arm’s length between them, in the tiny room, and even as Rathe thought that, Forveijl reached out to lay first one hand and then the other on Rathe’s shoulders. Rathe shivered at the touch, at the memory of other touches, and Forveijl touched his face. “I want you. I want you back in my life, shock or no shock.”

And I’m still not back in your life, I have a lover… Rathe couldn’t bring himself to step away, refused to give in to the caress. “What would Aconin say to that?”

Forveijl laughed. “Chresta dropped me long ago, as I daresay you knew he would. We’re friends now, nothing more.”

“I’m sure he got the performance he wanted out of you,” Rathe said, and winced at his own bitterness.

“You have to admit it worked,” Forveijl said, and Rathe shook his head.

“I never saw the play.”

“I know. I looked for you.”

“The theatre’s dark,” Rathe said, clinging to solid fact. “You never could have noticed.”

“I noticed.” Forveijl leaned forward then, brought his mouth down hard on Rathe’s. Not like Philip’s, Rathe thought, dazed, his hands tangling in Forveijl’s hair. This is worse than folly, it’s madness. I don’t want to be doing this.

Forveijl cupped his face between his hands. “You have missed me.”

“Not once,” Rathe answered. It was the truth, too, or had been until this hour, and he tried to pull back, but Forveijl’s gentle touch held him prisoner.

“Until now,” Forveijl said, and the words echoed Rathe’s own thoughts so closely that he flinched away.

“Maybe,” he answered, and knew the word sounded as weak as he felt.

Forveijl laughed softly, and bowed his head to kiss Rathe’s throat. It was the sunlight in the mirror that was blinding, Rathe thought, not the touch, but he shut his eyes anyway. This wasn’t like Forveijl, he was always too proper–a dressing room seduction was too common for him, not fine enough, elegant enough… He opened his eyes to see the sunlight shattered into rainbow shards, flecks of light dancing like dust motes in the relative shadow of the rest of the room, turning and swirling to gather above the vase of flowers, as though they were drawn like bees to the heavy blooms. The Alphabet, Rathe thought, and felt a surge of relief–not folly, not desire, but something from without, the flowers deluding them both. Aconin had drawn them out one by one, he remembered hazily, but he didn’t know, couldn’t tell, where to start. And Forveijl’s mouth was hot on him, it was past time to end it. He reached out blindly, fingers tingling as they touched the hovering light, shoved the flowers to the ground. The vase tumbled, spilling water and greenery, and Rathe cried out as the light seemed to turn on him, pain worse than the sting of a hundred bees lancing into his hand. It pooled there, a single heartbeat of agony, struck upward like lightning, and he dropped to his knees among the scattered flowers.

“Nico?” Forveijl’s voice was distant, drowned in the angry hum of bees, of swarming sunlight. “Nico!”

Rathe looked up at him, vaguely aware of other pains, cuts on hand and knee where he’d landed hard on shards of the broken vase, but the buzzing, the pain, drove over anything he might have said. Too much, he thought, too much to bear, and at last the light slipped away, fading as he fell forward onto the splashed and scarred floor.

Eslingen glanced toward the staircase that led to the dressing rooms, frowning as he saw Forveijl slip quietly down the last few steps and disappear into the wings. At least that meant Rathe should be on his way, he thought, and automatically shook his head at a landame who had started to move half a beat too soon. She froze, not graceful but at least not out of time, and stepped off properly with the rest of them, Eslingen counting the steps aloud. The chorus finished with a flourish, and young de Besselin stepped forward, bowing, to proclaim his speech. Today he wore a lieutenant’s sash slung from shoulder to hip, the massive rosette decorated with the palatine’s crest picked out in gilt and dark blue paint, and Eslingen hoped it would help him remember his lines. Not that the speech was easy, a long and to Eslingen’s ears earnestly dull recitation of the various claimants’ connection to the palatine’s line, and he wondered idly why Aconin had ever bothered with it. But of course there were parallels to the queen’s situation, he thought, and wondered then if Rathe had noticed. If not, he’d definitely want to bring it to the pointsman’s attention as soon as he came back down. Eslingen smiled then, recognizing his own jealousy. Not that he was jealous of Rathe, he added instantly, it was just Forveijl he didn’t trust–though come to that, he doubted even Forveijl was enough of a fool to think he could win Rathe back to his side. Not from what Rathe had told him, though he had to admit that in his experience it was the people who told you loudly and in detail why they would never go back to a former lover who usually found themselves in bed with them yet again. That was not a pleasant thought at all, and he glanced over his shoulder again. There was still no sign of Rathe, and he wondered unhappily just how long it would take him to get dressed. And that was ridiculous, he told himself sharply. More likely the pointsman had slipped out while Eslingen wasn’t looking, was already on his way back to Point of Dreams.

“Break!” the bookholder called.

Gasquine stepped out of the wings, nodding to de Besselin, and Eslingen wondered if the boy had finally gotten through the speech successfully. Apparently he’d done well enough to satisfy Gasquine; the manager waved to the bookholder, and then tucked her arm through the landseur’s, drawing him aside.

“Ten minutes,” the bookholder said, checking the expensive timepiece pinned to her bodice. “Clear the stage for a set change, please.”

Eslingen shuffled back out of the way along with the rest of the cast, watched as chorus and actors dispersed to their usual spots in the pit. There was still no sign of Rathe, and after a moment’s hesitation, he started up the stairs. Jhirassi met him at the top, smiling cheerfully, and Eslingen caught his shoulder before the actor could get away.

“Have you seen Nico?”

“No.” Jhirassi grinned. “Have you seen Verre?”

Siredy? Eslingen blinked. “He’s below. Gavi, wait.”

Jhirassi paused, looked back with a lifted eyebrow.

“Which one is Forveijl’s?”

Jhirassi’s eyebrows rose. “I wouldn’t worry, Philip, that’s been over for years.”

Eslingen shook his head. “It’s not that.” There was something wrong, he thought suddenly, Rathe should have been down by now, and the fear sharpened his voice. “Which one, Gavi?”

“Third from the far end,” Jhirassi answered, pointing, and Eslingen turned away.

The door was closed, he could see that from here, but he had to flatten himself against the wall as bes’Hallen stalked past, her antique petticoats taking up most of the narrow hall, before he could tap on the unpainted panels. There was no answer, and he reached for the latch, glanced over his shoulder to see Jhirassi still watching from the top of the stairs. To hell with it, Eslingen thought, and lifted the latch. To his surprise, the door opened, spilling sunlight across the worn floorboards, and he blinked to see Rathe sprawled on the floor like a heap of discarded clothes. There were flowers beneath him, and water; he was lying in a puddle, on top of the pieces of a broken vase. No blood, Eslingen thought, his own breath painfully short, and knelt quickly beside the body, groping for the pulse at the neck. It was there, and strong, and he rocked back onto his heels with a gasp of relief. A strong pulse, and no visible injury– did the bastard knock him down, knock him out, and just leave him? Eslingen wondered, running his hands over Rathe’s head and torso. There were no bruises, either, but no sign of returning consciousness–he looked, if anything, like a man lightning‑struck, except that he was breathing easily, but even so, Eslingen lifted each of Rathe’s hands in turn, looking for the faint burn. Maybe Forveijl had attacked him, then, he thought, but he couldn’t imagine the actor winning even an unfair fight, at least not without leaving a mark.

“Tyrseis!” Jhirassi’s shocked voice sounded from the doorway, and Eslingen looked up quickly.

“Fetch a doctor, please, Gavi. Quickly.”

“What’s wrong?” Jhirassi stood frozen, eyes suddenly huge, and Eslingen shook his head.

“I don’t know. He’s alive, but–send for a physician, please. He’s out cold.”

Jhirassi nodded, backing away, and a moment later, Eslingen heard his footsteps loud on the stairs, and the distant sound of his voice shouting for a runner. Thank Seidos for people who can make themselves heard, he thought, and carefully gathered Rathe into his arms, lifting him out of the spilled water. There was a scratch on the pointsman’s hand where he’d fallen on a shard of glass, and another on his shin, visible through a tear in the heavy stocking, but those had obviously happened when he fell, could not have caused this collapse. Eslingen touched Rathe’s cheek, feeling the first rasp of stubble, and to his relief the other man stirred slightly, opening his eyes.

“Guis–”

And was that accusation, or regret? Eslingen wondered, and stifled his own anger. “It’s me, Nico. Philip. Where are you hurt?”

“Philip.” That was definitely relief in Rathe’s voice, and Eslingen let out breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Where are you hurt?” he said again. “What happened, Nico?”

Rathe shuddered, a wracking, convulsive movement, and Eslingen gathered him more tightly into his arms. “Talk to me, Nico. Where–?”

“Besides all over?” Rathe managed a weak grin, and it was all Eslingen could do not to squeeze him still more tightly.

“Nico, look at me. Are you hurt anywhere in particular?”

Rathe’s head moved from side to side, not quite purposeful enough to be a headshake. “I–I’m not sure, I’m still…”

“What?”

“Tingling. The lights…” Rathe shook his head, more definitely this time. “I feel like I was hit by lightning.”

“That’s what you look like,” Eslingen said grimly. And damned unlikely, on a sunny day and no other sign of it.

“Do I?” Rathe tried to sit up, but Eslingen held him back.

“No, don’t push yourself. Tell me what happened.”

“I was an idiot,” Rathe answered, and Eslingen sighed.

“Possibly. It does seem to be going around. In what way were you an idiot?”

“I listened to Guis.”

“It seems that would qualify,” Eslingen said grimly, looking at the scattered flowers, and Rathe made a noise that might have been the start of laughter.

“Don’t. I hurt.”

“Where?” Eslingen asked, and Rathe grimaced.

“Everywhere.”

He was looking a little less pale, Eslingen thought, though the pupils of his eyes were still too wide, too black for the amount of light streaming in the window. “What happened?” he said again, and this time the words seemed to register.

“Guis,” Rathe began, then shook his head. “The flowers…” He stopped again, frowning, a little more color seeping back into his face, and Eslingen drew a slow sigh of relief. “Guis wanted me back–very convincing he was, too. But I don’t know if it was him or the flowers, this happened when I knocked them over. Philip, it’s important, you have to find out where these came from–”

Rathe’s hand closed on Eslingen’s arm, and the ex‑soldier winced at the grip, loosened the fingers carefully. “I’ll ask,” he said soothingly. “Don’t worry, we’ll find out, I will, or someone from Dreams.” And I’ll send someone else after Forveijl, he added silently, or the points will have another theatre murder on their hands. He didn’t doubt that the actor was long gone, and he took a careful breath, controlling his anger.

“It might have been aimed at Guis, too,” Rathe said painfully, and Eslingen snorted.

“Do you really believe that?”

Rathe shook his head, but whatever else he would have said was cut off by the sound of footsteps in the hall. Eslingen looked up quickly, to see Gasquine and a stocky, moon‑faced woman in a physician’s robe filling the doorway. There were more people behind them, Jhirassi and Siredy among them, and he made a face, thinking of the new rumors.

“And what’s the matter with this one?” the physician demanded.

The Phoebans were living up to their reputation, Eslingen thought. He said, “I don’t know, exactly. I found him like this.”

The woman squatted beside them, brushing flowers out of the way, tilted Rathe’s face up so that his eyes met her own. “Hah. Not drunk or drugged, and not lightning, either, on a clear day, not to mention it’s winter. Give me your left hand.”

Rathe held it out, and she nodded as though he’d passed the first test. “Your pulse is good,” she said after a moment, and reached into her case for a bodkin. Without warning, she pricked the tip of Rathe’s forefinger, nodded when she saw him wince, then touched the other fingers as well. “Good, you feel.”

“Yes,” Rathe said, and sounded almost indignant.

“So you tell me what happened.”

Eslingen saw the other man’s gaze flicker, knew he was debating telling the truth. “I don’t remember,” Rathe said after a moment, and the woman grunted.

“Well, if you don’t know what happened, all I can do is treat the symptoms. Which look damnably like you were hit by lightning.”

“I feel like I was hit by lightning,” Rathe said, and struggled to sit up. Eslingen released him reluctantly, sat back on his heels ready to catch the other man if he faltered.

“Not very likely,” the physician said, and caught Rathe’s right hand. “Do you feel this?”

Rathe winced. “Yes.”

“Where else do you hurt?”

“My shoulders, both arms, my ribs–the muscles along them, not the ribs themselves.” Rathe leaned forward slightly, grimacing as he tested his strength. “It’s better than it was.”

The physician grunted again. “And they’ll be worse tomorrow.” She looked at Eslingen. “If you’re his leman–hells, if you’re a friend–treat him to the baths tonight. He’ll feel like he’s been lifting barrels by morning.”

Eslingen nodded, and the woman went on. “For the rest, well, there’s arnica, which I would recommend for the bruising. You may or may not see it, but for my money you’re bruised inside. And a tissane of moonwort, to ease things. You can get those at any herbalist. Go home, lie down, let your muscles rest, but don’t sleep for a few hours. After that, it’s the best thing for you.” She pushed herself to her feet, frowning. “If you could remember what had happened to you, I might be able to offer more, but since you can’t, all I can do is treat the symptoms that I see.”

“Of course,” Rathe said, and Eslingen thought he looked faintly embarrassed.

“Nico,” Gasquine said, and Rathe grimaced, starting to push himself upright. Eslingen rose with him, steadying him, was pleased when the pointsman found his balance quickly. “What–where’s Guis?”

“I don’t know,” Rathe answered, his voice grim. “But I will want to talk to him.”

“Guis isn’t in the theatre,” one of the theater runners said, poking her head around the edge of the door, and in the same moment the crowd parted to admit Sohier, truncheon in hand. Someone was thinking, Eslingen thought, and felt almost giddy with relief.

“Nico?” Sohier asked, and Rathe waved his hand impatiently.

“I’m all right, or I will be. But I need two things from you, Sohier, quick as you can. First, find Guis Forveijl, someone here must know where to look. Second–” He glanced down at the flowers still littering the floor. “Find out where these came from. Who they were given to, and when.”

Sohier nodded, her long face intent. “We’ll get on it right away.”

“We?” Rathe asked, and swayed unsteadily. Eslingen caught him, unobtrusively, he hoped, and felt the other man shiver again.

“Leenderts and me,” Sohier answered. “And I can get Persilon as well. I didn’t know what would be needed.”

“Good woman,” Rathe said. “But we need the answers as soon as possible.”

“Understood,” Sohier answered, and backed away.

“All right,” Gasquine said sharply, and Eslingen suppressed a giggle, seeing half the crowd vanish as though by magic. “There’s work to be done, and you’ll all be disappointed to know, there’s no disaster to be gawked at. Get along.” She waited, hands on hips, while the last of the actors made their way back down the narrow hall, then turned to face the waiting men. “Did Guis do this?” she asked, and Eslingen was surprised by the pain in her voice.

“I–don’t really know,” Rathe answered. “It’s possible, or it might have been meant for him as well.”

“You’re fairer than I’d be,” Eslingen muttered, and Rathe managed a crooked smile.

“It’s my job, Philip.”

He was sounding weaker again, and Eslingen looked at Gasquine. “I’m taking him home, Mathiee. I just have to tell Master Duca–”

Gasquine held up a hand. “I’ll speak to Duca. Take a low‑flyer, Lieutenant.” She held out her hand, shaking her head at Eslingen’s automatic protest. “It was in my theatre, and maybe one of my people who did this. The least I can do is see him home safely. Now go.”

Eslingen kept his arm around the other man as they made their way down the stairs, aware of the stares from actors and chorus as they made their way out into the plaza. He found a low‑flyer quickly, for once, but as he held open the door, Rathe shook his head.

“No.”

“Nico,” Eslingen began, and Rathe shook his head carefully.

“I’m not going home, there’s work to do. I want to go to Point of Dreams.”

“The physician said…”

“I know, Philip, but my books, the books are at Dreams, and I need to look at them.”

Eslingen eyed him uncertainly, on the verge of sending the driver to Rathe’s rooms anyway, and Rathe shook his head again.

“No, I’m not babbling, truly, it’s just there are things I have to know now. Refore it’s too late. Please, Philip, trust me on this.”

Eslingen lifted his hands, and reached up to tap the driver on his knee. “Change of plans. Take us to Point of Dreams station.”

Rathe was silent on the short ride, resting against the hard cushions, but as they turned the last corner before the station, he roused himself, working his shoulders as though they still pained him. “I’m sorry, Philip.”

Eslingen gave him a startled look. “For what?”

Rathe shrugged, wincing. “For worrying you.”

Eslingen hitched himself around carefully on the low‑flyer’s nar‑row seat. “Ah, and here I thought you meant about disobeying the physician’s direct order to go to bed for the rest of the day.”

Rathe shook his head again. “I’m not getting into bed in the middle of the day.”

In spite of everything, Eslingen grinned. “That’s not what you’ve said before this.”

“There was never a bed available.”

“You’ll be fine,” Eslingen said dryly. “No, I understand. If there’s work to do–and besides, there’s always the nasty thought that it’s the surgeons, not the battle, that’ll be the death of one.”

Rathe smiled at that, and leaned his head back against the cushions, but Eslingen sighed, knowing it had all too often been the truth.

The low‑flyer brought them into the courtyard of the Dreams station, the runners gathering to stare, and Rathe made a particular effort to descend without a helping hand. Eslingen let him, reluctantly, then paid off the driver and followed the other man inside. The duty point was a stocky, handsome woman, who eyed Rathe with a mixture of horror and relief, then looked down at her book, visibly mastering her emotions.

“Glad to see you’re all right,” she said roughly. “When the runner came…” She let her voice trail off, lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “They find the bastard?”

“Not yet,” Rathe answered, “and at the moment we don’t even know for sure who’s responsible.”

Eslingen snorted at that–it would be Forveijl, for his money– and Rathe gave him an admonishing look.

“We don’t know,” he repeated, and looked back at Falasca. “When Sohier gets back, send her up to my workroom, will you? And anything else I need to know about.”

“Will do,” Falasca said. “The chief’s out, but I sent word to her, and I’ll send her up when she comes. She’ll want to talk to you.”

“Thanks.” Rathe turned to the stairs, face set as he worked his way up, not willing to concede to his aching muscles. Eslingen, following close behind, was grateful when they finally reached the workroom, and Rathe let himself collapse into the large chair at his worktable.

“I need my books, Philip,” he began, and Eslingen shook his head.

“The stove first,” he said, and stooped to rake up the coals. “And then tea.” He found the pot, still half full of a dark, stewed brew, and added more water from the bucket that stood ready. “Now, what was it you wanted?”

“My books,” Rathe said again, but he was smiling. “On the shelf there.”

Eslingen crossed to the shelf that hung beside the long window. It was three‑quarters full of slim, board‑bound volumes, mostly octavos, but some larger, all held in place by an empty forcing jar. He lifted the first one down, and was not surprised to see a familiar title stamped on the dark blue cover. “Are these all the Alphabet?”

Rathe nodded, reaching for his lockbox. “All the licensed copies, and probably a tenth of the unlicensed ones.”

“So you really do think this was the Alphabet at work?” In spite of himself, Eslingen couldn’t quite keep the note of skepticism out of his voice as he set the first stack of books on the worktable.

“Yeah.” Rathe had the box open, took out a red‑bound octavo. “I know, I’m the one who said it wasn’t likely to be real, but this–I don’t have any other explanation.”

“So what exactly did happen?” Eslingen asked. There was a stool in the corner, and he pulled it over so that he could sit facing Rathe. Behind him, he could hear condensation hissing on the sides of the kettle, and the crackle of the rising fire.

Rathe made an embarrassed face. “I told you, Guis wanted to reestablish our relationship–which, I might add, has been over longer than it lasted. But that wouldn’t have mattered, except…” He shook his head. “It was the flowers, Philip, I’m sure of that. I could see the light gathering on them, I could hear it, it sounded like bees swarming, so I knew that was wrong, that I had to stop it. I knocked over the vase, and it shattered, and I felt, gods, I can’t explain. It hurt worse than anything I’d ever felt–it was like being hit by lightning, just the pure jolt of it, and the light, and that’s pretty much all I remember until you were holding me.”

Eslingen nodded, suppressing a shudder of his own. Magistical things, magistry itself, were not meant to be handled so roughly; it was a commonplace that a magist’s work disturbed was worse than a baited bull. He shook away the thought of what might have been, and said, his voice as level as he could manage, “That definitely sounds like the Alphabet.” He looked at the books scattered on the table. “But which one?”

“Yeah, that’s the question.” Rathe managed a tired grin. He was looking better, Eslingen thought, less pale and interesting, but still not his usual self. “I would swear I’d seen that arrangement, too, or at least one very like it, something in one of these books. Which was why I had to come back here.”

Eslingen nodded. The water was boiling now, and he rose to lift it off the heat, poured a cup for each of them before setting the kettle on the hob. “All right,” he said, “where do we start?”

“It’s a version that’s come across my desk, probably in the last week or so,” Rathe said, and took the proffered cup with an abstracted smile. “And it’s one that Guis would also have been able to see–assuming of course it was Guis who made it.”

“Which you have to admit is the most likely option,” Eslingen said. The tea was stewed, thick and bitter, but warming, and he wrapped his hands around the heated pottery.

Rathe nodded. “Which should mean it’s one of the more popular ones. Guis is the kind who’d buy the most popular version.”

“And obviously bought in Dreams?”

“Probably,” Rathe answered, “but that won’t help us, at least not now. The booksellers all carry all the versions, or a good selection. We can try tracking down the stall where he bought a copy, maybe even trace the exact copy that way, but that’s going to take time.”

“Which you don’t have,” Eslingen said, and Rathe nodded again.

“Not with a working copy of the Alphabet loose in Astreiant.”

There was a knock at the door, but before Rathe could say anything, the door swung open. A well‑dressed woman–well‑dressed pointswoman, Eslingen amended, presumably Rathe’s Chief Point Trijn–stood there, scowling impartially at both of them.

“What the hell is happening at that theatre, Rathe? First I get a runner telling me my senior adjunct was attacked, next I find Falasca–Falasca, of all people–telling me you’re alive and well, and then a runner shows up with a message about a bunch of flowers. For you, of course.”

She tossed a strip of paper onto the desk in front of Rathe, who took it, and gave Eslingen an apologetic look. “Falasca wanted my job,” he said. “We’ve been–sorting things out between us.”

Eslingen nodded, understanding, and Trijn glared at him.

“And who in Sofia’s name is this?”

“My leman.” Rathe hesitated, as though he’d suddenly heard what he had said. “Philip Eslingen.”

Eslingen blinked–this was not how he’d expected to hear it, though on the whole he had no objections–and he saw Rathe blush.

Oh, yes, we’ll talk about this later, the soldier thought, trying not to grin, and met Trijn’s stare guilelessly.

“Oh.” Trijn’s frown faded, and she gave Eslingen a look of almost genuine interest. “The other one who found the children. I was wondering what had happened to you.”

Working for Hanselin Caiazzo, and now at the theatre. Eslingen opened his mouth to explain, and closed it again, not knowing where to begin. “I’m one of the Masters of Defense now,” he said.

“Working on the masque,” Trijn said. “All right. Fine.” She looked back at Rathe. “What is all this about a bunch of flowers?”

“We have a problem, Chief,” Rathe said. “There’s a working copy of the Alphabet out there.”

Trijn blinked, and closed her mouth firmly over anything else she might have said. She closed the door quietly behind her, and leaned against it, folding her arms across her chest. “Tell me.”

Something–embarrassment, probably, Eslingen thought–flickered over Rathe’s face, but he ran through the events concisely, not sparing his own blushes. “And so I figured the best thing was to come back here and start checking the various editions.”

Eslingen frowned. “He has, of course, left out the fact that the physician told him to go home to bed.”

Trijn’s eyes flicked toward him. “Of course she did. You needn’t try to impress me with his dedication, Eslingen, I’m quite familiar with it. And his stubbornness.” She shook her head, crossed the room to perch in the embrasure of the window. “So. There’s a working copy out there. Any idea which one?”

Rathe shook his head. “No. But at least we know who made the arrangement.” He held up the scrap of paper. “Sohier says Tarran Estranger, who shares the dressing room, says Guis brought it in with him this morning, and the doorkeeper saw him with it, too. So it’s Guis’s doing.”

“Are you planning to call a point on this Forveijl?” Trijn asked. “You’ve got bodily harm at the least. Whether he knew what the effects would be when the flowers were disarranged or not, he took responsibility when he created the arrangement.”

Call it, Eslingen thought, and sighed when Rathe shook his head.

“It’s not worth it. It’d be like calling a point on a child–if I know Guis, he’s too scared right now to even think of trying anything like that again.”

“Too scared right now,” Eslingen said, and Trijn nodded.

“I agree. He may be too scared right now, but he’ll feel cocky again soon enough. I know the type.”

Rathe shook his head again, and this time it was Trijn who sighed. “All right. If not for battery, what about assault?”

Rathe gave a faint smile. “I don’t think the point would stand. It was planned as seduction, and that’s what it would have been. And the law doesn’t recognize that.”

“I do,” Eslingen said, under his breath, and Rathe frowned at him.

“You’re being very noble about this, Rathe,” Trijn said.

“I’m not,” Rathe said. “Look, everyone at the theatre knows what happened now. He has to face them–they’re not going to replace him, and he’s not going to drop the part, so he’s going to have to go into the Tyrseia every day from now till the masque, with everyone knowing that even with the Alphabet to help him, he couldn’t seduce his once‑besotted ex‑lover. That’s got to be a blow to his self‑regard.”

I doubt you were ever besotted, Eslingen thought, but knew better than to say it aloud.

“Anyway,” Rathe went on, “the main thing is the practical copy.”

Trijn nodded. “Your mother was a gardener, right? So presumably you picked up some of her trade.”

Rathe nodded, looking wary. “Some things, yeah.”

“Can you name the flowers?” Trijn asked. “Better, can you remember how they were arranged? If you can sketch that, you and I– and Eslingen here, we might as well make use of him–can get through these books in a lot less time.”

“Makes sense.” Rathe rubbed his temples. “I know the flowers, they were those white corms with the purple splotches, with silverthorn and winterspice–more silverthorn than spice–but I’m not so sure about the arrangement. Let me see what I can do.”

Trijn nodded. “Do what you can. In the meantime, Eslingen, you and I can at least look for those flowers in conjunction.”

Eslingen reached for the stack of Alphabets, picked one at random and handed it to the chief point, then chose a second for himself. This one was bound in purple cloth, but the woodcuts were cheap, done fast by a less‑than‑talented artist, and as if to make up for that, the printer or her writer had added a list of all the plants in each arrangement at the corner of the print. He skimmed through the book, spotting the corms twice, and the silverthorn half a dozen times, but never together with winterspice. He started to set it aside, shaking his head, and Trijn said, “Put it here.”

Eslingen did as he was told and reached for another volume. This time, the binding was plain, cheap, dark blue cloth, but the prints were beautiful, done with an unusual delicacy of line. The text was less interesting, doggerel verse followed by a prose vignette linking the flowers shown to some important event long past, but he turned these pages more slowly, caught in spite of himself by the illustrations. There were numbers in the bottom corners of some of the prints, he realized suddenly, numbers that looked like act and scene, and he frowned, looking up at Trijn.

“I thought no one was allowed to print anything about the masque until it had been played.”

The chief point gave him a wary stare, and Rathe looked up from his sketching. “What do you mean?”

“This Alphabet,” Eslingen answered, and held it up. “It’s got act and scene numbers for every event that’s in the play. Verse numbers, too, for some of it. Pretty much the whole story’s in here, if you want to make the effort. Does that count?”

Trijn took the book from him, and paged quickly through. “What an interesting question,” she murmured. “Probably not, it’s not the play per se, but it might be interesting to try to call it–after we’ve dealt with this practical version.”

Eslingen nodded, blushing, and Rathe sat up straight again, spinning his sketch so that the others could see. “That’s the best I can do,” he said, and frowned. “You know, I’d swear I’d seen it before.”

“I most sincerely hope so,” Trijn answered, not looked up from her own copy. “I’m already spending too much of this station’s budget on these damn things.”

Rathe made a noncommittal noise, his expression distant, then reached for the book he’d taken from his lockbox. He paged through that, scanning each of the prints, stopped with a noise of satisfaction. “There,” he said, and held out the book. “That’s it.”

Eslingen took it before Trijn could stretch for it, held it where they both could see. “Seduction,” he read. “Victory over an adversary. Regaining lost fortunes.” That was the caption, cryptic as any broadsheet; on the page opposite, a writer of middle talent had composed thirteen couplets on the Ancient Queens.

“This reads like market cards,” Trijn said.

“But it works,” Rathe said. “Unlike market cards.”

His voice was remote, as though he was trying to remember something, and he reached for the Alphabet again. Eslingen let him take it, watched the other man flip hurriedly through the pages, frown deepening as he got further into the text. Then he stopped, his face lightening abruptly, and he spun the book so that the others could see.

“I knew I’d seen that before. Chief, Leussi was growing this less than a full moon before he died.”

“So?” Trijn demanded. “Was it one of the ones he bought from that woman in Little Chain?”

Rathe shook his head. “No. No, we talked about it, I didn’t know what it was, and I asked him. He said it was a gift, but he didn’t say from whom. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but now–”

Eslingen nodded, staring at the plate. It didn’t show an arrangement, but a single plant, rangy and rather ugly, with hairy leaves and stems that supported a surprisingly delicate blue flower. “Bluemory,” the text named it, and gave instructions for planting and harvesting it safely. “What exactly does it mean, ‘deadly in the right stars’?” he asked, and Rathe showed teeth in a feral grin.

“Exactly what it says, and you notice that these how‑to‑plant‑and‑harvest‑it instructions actually tell you everything you need to make it a deadly poison.”

“So you think that’s what killed the intendant,” Trijn said.

Rathe nodded. “I think it’s a good bet–and I hope to all the gods that Holles can remember who gave him the plant.”

“So why wasn’t Holles killed?” Trijn asked.

“If his stars weren’t right, it wouldn’t hurt him,” Rathe answered. “Look, to keep it safe you have to plant it when the moon is in trine to your natal star, and you have to avoid harvesting it when the moon’s in your natal sign. It’s all dependent on the gardener’s signs, individual signs. The only general thing is you can’t pick it when the sun and Seidos are in conjunction.”

“I’ll send to the university,” Trijn said, “see if they know of the plant–the phytomancers might even grow it, if we’re particularly lucky. But either way, it gives Fanier something more to work with.” She held up her hand, forestalling anything else Rathe might have said. “And I’ll ask Holles about it, too. There’s no need to get you into any more trouble with the regents.”

“I have no desire to get into any more trouble with the regents,” Rathe answered. He shook his head. “I hope they’ve found Gus.”

“They’re taking their time about it,” Trijn said. “Which edition is this?”

Rathe grimaced. “That’s the thing. I don’t think it’s a recent one. Not one of the ones we’ve picked up in the markets. Holles gave it to me, after Leussi was killed.”

Trijn’s eyebrows rose at that, and Rathe spread his hands. Eslingen looked back at the print, wondering just how hard it would be to make use of these directions. One would need to know the intended victim’s stars, but that wasn’t too hard to find out, and then you’d need to know enough about gardening to bring the plant to a reasonable size–or would you? he wondered. Could something as small as a stalk or cutting kill? He pulled the book toward him, looking for the answer, but instead the last line of the description seemed to leap out at him: “the true name of Bluemory is Basilisk.”

“Then we’d better find out who is printing it,” Trijn said, “or who’s done a new edition.”

Rathe nodded, but anything he might have said was interrupted by a knock at the door. It opened before he could say anything, and Sohier stuck her head into the workroom.

“Oh, good, I’m glad I found you. Falasca said you were doing much better.”

“Better enough,” Rathe answered.

“We’re going to have to track Forveijl down at home, assuming one of the addresses we got from his friends is correct, and I wondered if you wanted to come with us.” Sohier tilted her head to one side, looking in that moment like a large and ungainly river bird.

“You don’t have to, surely,” Eslingen said, and Rathe shook his head.

“But I want to. What do you mean, Sohier, ‘one of the addresses’?”

The pointswoman shrugged uncomfortably. “Gasquine was busy, so we asked some of the other actors–”

“Not from Gasquine, who would know?” Trijn asked, and Eslingen cleared his throat.

“Ah. I know where he lives.” Both women looked at him, and he suppressed the urge to duck his head like a schoolboy. “When Aconin was shot–”

“Aconin was shot,” Trijn repeated. “And when was this?”

“He wouldn’t make the point,” Rathe said, and Trijn allowed herself a sigh as dramatic as any actor’s.

“Who shot him?”

“No idea, Chief,” Rathe answered, and Eslingen cleared his throat again.

“I walked him to Forveijl’s. He didn’t want to go home.”

“Not to the Court, no, he wouldn’t,” Rathe said. “Where is he living, anyway?”

“Close by the river, on Altmar Lane,” Eslingen answered, and Sohier nodded.

“That checks. Next to Armondit’s house.”

Rathe nodded, reaching for his coat, and Eslingen stood. “I’m coming with you.”

He thought for a moment that Rathe would protest, but Sohier nodded.

“I’d take it kindly, Lieutenant,” Trijn said, and Rathe’s frown deepened.

“It’s not necessary.”

“Answer me this,” Trijn said. “Are you that happy at the thought of seeing Forveijl again?”

Rathe hesitated, and she nodded. “Not that I blame you. So Lieutenant Eslingen is more than welcome to join you–as long as he keeps any murderous impulses well in check.”

Eslingen swept her a bow. “I am restraint itself, Chief Point.”

Forveijl’s lodgings looked very different in daylight, an old house kept in good repair, with a narrow band of fallow garden between it and the dirt of the street. Of course, it had to be kept up, Eslingen thought; Madame Armondit’s house was too expensive for her to tolerate a slovenly neighbor. She also didn’t like the points’ presence, he saw, with an inward grin, and nodded to the doorkeeper watching suspiciously from his little house.

“Second floor,” Sohier said. “Always assuming he’s home.”

That would be the question, Eslingen thought, following the others up the stairs, and if it were me, I’d be long gone. He glanced at Rathe, but the man’s face was expressionless, shuttered against any show of emotion. Sohier knocked on the door, first with her fist, and then, when there was no answer, with her truncheon. There was still no answer, and Rathe swore under his breath.

“I didn’t think he’d have the nerve to run.”

“I’ll get the landlady,” Sohier said, and Eslingen flattened himself against the wall as she clattered back down the long stairs.

“Do you think he’s gone to Aconin?” Eslingen asked, and Rathe tipped his head to one side, considering.

“He said it was over between them, though Sofia knows if he was telling the truth. But, no, I don’t think so, mostly because I doubt Aconin’s neighbors would want a stranger bringing his troubles into the Court.” Rathe turned back to the door, pounding it with his closed fist. “If he’s not here, I don’t know where he’d go.”

“Someone at the theatre will know,” Eslingen said. Privately, he wasn’t so sure–Forveijl had been solitary for an actor, seemed to keep very much to himself. “Or at whatever company he was with.”

“Master Forveijl?” The voice came from the stairwell, a quavering voice, sexless with age, so that Eslingen had to look to see that it was an old man, remembered him as the landlady’s man. “Are you sure you don’t want next door?”

“No,” Sohier answered, and from the sound of her voice, Eslingen guessed she’d answered the question before. “No, we don’t want Madame Armondit’s. Like I said, we need to get into Forveijl’s lodgings.”

“But he’s an actor, not–” The old man broke off in confusion, and Rathe tilted his head again.

“Not what?” His tone was genuinely curious, and the old man bobbed his head.

“Not a criminal, or I never would have thought so, not him.”

“We just want to talk to him,” Sohier said. “You said you could let us in.”

“But isn’t he there?” The old man blinked at her, and Rathe’s eyes narrowed.

“You heard him come in? When?”

“Noon, maybe?” The old man shook his head. “I’ve not heard him go out.”

“It’s urgent, master,” Rathe said, and there was a note in his voice that made the hair stand up on Eslingen’s neck. The old man seemed to hear it, too, and fumbled a ring of keys from under his short coat. He found the one he wanted, and fitted it into the lock, grunting as he struggled to turn it. The door swung back at last, and Rathe swore. Sohier caught the old man by the shoulders and swung him away from the opening, his mouth wobbling open in shock.

“Go across to Armondit’s, get her to send a runner to Point of Dreams. Tell them we’ll need someone from the deadhouse.”

The old man nodded, tottering down the stairs, and Eslingen stepped forward, bracing himself for the worst. Forveijl lay sprawled across the foot of his bed, one bed curtain pulled half off its rings to fall across the body. It was stained with blood, as were the disordered sheets and Forveijl’s shirt and waistcoat–too much blood for him to be left alive, Eslingen thought, but even so Rathe went to him, feeling for a pulse at first one wrist and then the other. He checked before he touched the throat, and straightened, shaking his head.

“Dead for sure, then,” Sohier said, and her voice cracked on the words.

“His throat’s been cut.” Rathe turned away from both of them, stood facing the shuttered window, and Eslingen winced. Bad enough that your ex‑lover attacks you, tries to seduce you, but then to find him dead like this, without a chance for either revenge or forgiveness… He shook his head, and looked at Sohier.

“You’d better see to the body.”

The pointswoman nodded, understanding, and bent to sort through the dead man’s pockets. “Nothing much here,” she announced after a moment. “But it wasn’t robbery, he’s got three pillars on him, plus a handful of small change.”

A month’s wages at least, Eslingen thought, though that depended on the contract he had negotiated with Gasquine, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Rathe turn back to them, his face set and grim.

“And we won’t have to ask the alchemists how this one died,” she went on, and then winced. “Sorry, Nico, I didn’t think.”

“It’s all right.” Rathe took a breath, glancing around the crowded room. It was tidy enough, Eslingen saw with mild surprise, though the man had probably had someone to clean for him. The bed curtains looked new, or at least well kept, and the door of the clothes‑press was open, revealing at least one other good coat. There were books everywhere, stacked in a case and on top of it and the scarred table. An open chest was stacked with the long, narrow sheets that were actor’s copies of their parts, and at least a dozen broadsheets lay on top of that, spilling out across the table, the one sign of clutter. Or had someone started to search the room? Eslingen wondered.

“What we need to know is how long he’s been dead,” Rathe said, and Sohier nodded.

“He’s cold.”

Rathe nodded, expressionless. “And the old man said he’d come home at noon, or thereabouts, he thought.”

“But he said he hadn’t heard him leave,” Sohier said. “Which means he didn’t hear the murderer leave, either.”

“At least not to notice,” Rathe answered. “We’ll have to talk to him about that. But for now–” He glanced around the room again. “First we find the Alphabet.”

Sohier nodded, and together the three went through the shelved books, plays mostly, Eslingen saw, and guessed they were ones Forveijl had done well in. He knew some of the names, but not all, paused for a moment over a copy of something called The Fair’s Promise and Payment. Aconin had put his own name down as playwright, he saw from the title page, and Rathe grimaced.

“I hope it reads better than it plays.”

“Oh?” Eslingen gave it a second, curious glance, and Rathe sighed.

“That’s the play Aconin wrote for him, wooed him and won him with it. I shouldn’t talk, I never saw it.”

Behind him, Sohier lifted her head, and then seemed to think better of anything she might have said, hunched one shoulder instead, and kept sorting through the papers. They worked their way across the room–it was a little like the looting after a fight, Eslingen thought, down to the body on the bed, except that he was careful to do as the others did, and put each piece back in its place. Sohier was first to straighten, hands on hips, but she waited until the others finished before she spoke.

“Sir, there’s no copy of the Alphabet here.”

“No.” Rathe sighed, his eyes straying back to the dead man. “He didn’t deserve this,” he said softly, then shook himself. “Sohier, I want Aconin, as soon as possible.”

“Aconin?” Sohier frowned. “Why him? I mean, this is hardly a lovers’ quarrel–”

Rathe was shaking his head, and she broke off instantly. “Sweet Sofia, I haven’t had a chance to report it, but the landseur Aubine told me this morning that someone had taken a shot at his coach as he left for the theatre.”

“At Aubine?” Eslingen felt himself flush, realizing he’d spoken aloud, and Rathe looked at him.

“Broke a window on his carriage, and threatened to freeze all the plants he was carrying. Aubine was riding on the box, mind you, or it might have been him. Why do you sound surprised?”

Eslingen spread his hands, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut. “I don’t know–I suppose I was wondering why anyone would want to kill him?”

“And he thinks Aconin did it?” Sohier asked.

Rathe shrugged. “He says that the man who did it was built like Aconin. But Aconin’s not at the theatre, when he’s been at every rehearsal since the beginning, or so Mathiee says, plus what Aubine says, plus he wrote the play using, I am certain, some copy of the Dis‑damned Alphabet, and when I go to question Aconin’s lover, look who ends up dead. I want him found.”

“You can’t think he did this,” Eslingen said, and was mildly surprised by his own vehemence. “It’s not like him–and besides, he’s been attacked twice himself.”

“Could you have done him more of an injury that evening, if you’d been the man with the pistol?” Rathe demanded.

Eslingen hesitated. “Probably–but I don’t know where the man was standing, or what his line of sight was like. The light was against him, that’s for certain.”

“And the second time he wasn’t attacked,” Rathe went on. “His rooms were destroyed. You said it yourself, that’s a warning, ‘no quarter. ’ It could be he’s fighting back.”

“I just don’t think it’s like him,” Eslingen said again. “Not Chresta. Oh, he’ll maim you with words, all six days of the week, but use a knife… It’s not his way.”

Rathe stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “How long has it been since you’ve known him?” he said at last, and Eslingen swore under his breath.

“Long enough.”

“People change,” Rathe said, almost gently. “Besides, if you’re right, he’s in worse danger than poor Guis ever was.”

That was true enough to close Eslingen’s mouth over any accusation he might have made. Whatever else it was, this wasn’t Rathe striking out blindly at the man who had stolen his former lover; that wasn’t Rathe’s style, any more than it was Aconin’s to lash out with a knife instead of a deadly pen. And that meant he was right: for whatever reason, Aconin had to be found.

10

« ^ »

the lights were different today, the common lanterns doused, the mage‑lights changed, set now into the elaborate practical housings, whose lenses and colored glass doors could turn their light to any time of day or night, and any weather. Even as Eslingen watched, a sceneryman made her final adjustment to one of the smaller globes, setting the last piece of ambered glass into its collar, and then placed a mage‑fire lamp carefully in the center of the iron sphere. Instantly, she was bathed in strong sunlight, sunset light, and she stepped back, motioning to another sceneryman. He hauled on one of the ropes running up into the fly space, and the globe rose majestically, sliding into its place among a cluster of other practicals. Eslingen squinted up at them, counting at least a dozen, mostly amber or red, some left plain, one or two tinted with green and yellow, and shook his head as he looked back at the stage. The light there was almost natural now, the steady, neutral sunlight of an early summer day. The colors of the chorus’s coats, which had seemed odd, too bright under the mage‑lights, now looked normal, and Aubine’s arrangements were vivid as a summer garden at the downstage corners of the stage.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Siredy said cheerfully. “At least this is a simple setting. Now, when I was in Aufilia’s Revenge, we had two night scenes, and a thunderstorm. I felt as though I was spending all my time making sure I was out of range of the thunderflashes.”

“You were in that?” That was Jhirassi, coming up beside them, his hair scraped back to go under a new wig. He wasn’t yet in full costume, just the underpieces, breeches and stiff vest, and his eyes were made enormous with makeup.

Siredy gave him an appreciative glance, and Eslingen bit back a smile. “I was the villain’s henchman–the one who never gets a line except, yes, mistress.”

“But the fights were marvelous,” Jhirassi said. “And I enjoyed the play.”

“So did I,” Siredy answered.

“Thunderflashes and all?” Eslingen asked, and both men looked at him as though they’d forgotten his presence. He smiled at them, and to his amusement, Siredy blushed.

“They made things interesting. Technically, it was a complicated piece.”

“And a great deal of fun,” Jhirassi added. “I’m sorry you didn’t see it, Philip.”

“So am I,” Eslingen said. He looked at Siredy. “Thunderflashes?”

“They’re sort of like the practicals,” the other master answered. “Except larger, and with a mirrored back that reflects the light.”

“The climactic duel takes place at the height of a raging storm,” Jhirassi added. “Lit by lightning at carefully planned moments.”

“Most impressive,” Eslingen said.

Siredy made a face. “When the timing is right, yes. Anyway, there’s a small flash charge in each pot–something chemical, I think, it stank to the central heavens–and a piece of slowmatch to set it off. Once those are lit and set, there’s nothing you can do to stop them, so half the time, Bernarin and I were trying to time the fight to the flashes, instead of the other way round.”

Jhirassi looked even more impressed, and Eslingen had to swallow a laugh. But still, it was impressive–he’d dealt with slowmatch before, in the field, and knew how hard it was to gauge how long it would take a length to burn. “You needed a sapper,” he said aloud, and Siredy nodded.

“This was at the old Merveille,” Jhirassi said. “Now the Bells. It just hasn’t been the same since Madame Ombredanne died.”

“For which some of us are grateful,” Siredy said. “And yes, Gavi, it was impressive, but you have to admit, most of the shows were just new ways to show off her toys.”

“Oh, I know,” Jhirassi answered. “But they were such good toys.”

Siredy lifted an eyebrow at that, but before he could say anything, the bookholder called Jhirassi’s name. The actor lifted a hand in instant obedience, and took his place in the forming scene. It was the last council meeting, leading up to the climactic duel, and Siredy looked over his shoulder, automatically counting heads, before he turned back to Eslingen.

“All there,” he said. “Gavi’s right, it was exciting to watch. But I doubt he was ever onstage with any of the devices.”

“Worse than The Drowned Island?” Eslingen asked idly, letting his eyes slide past the other. Yes, the duelists were all in readiness, and even in their proper costumes, antique longcoats crusted with cheap cut‑glass stones and broad sashes with huge rosettes. De Besselin looked almost as pale as his shirt, and Eslingen hoped the boy could remember his lines this time.

“Much worse,” Siredy said. “Madame Ombredanne believed in pyrotechnics.”

Eslingen choked back a snort, remembering the lecture he’d gotten about fire backstage, and Siredy nodded.

“Exactly so. There were two small fires at the Merveille just in the year I played there. Madame used to hire half a dozen rivermen just to stand by with buckets. I’m surprised any of us lived to tell the tale.”

Eslingen laughed appreciatively, but his eyes strayed to the duelists again. Still all there, though for once the two landames weren’t standing arm in arm, and he hoped nothing had happened to damp their friendship. They had defied the looks and whispers, and Aconin’s acid tongue, to maintain their affair openly; it would be a shame if the family enmities won after all. “Do you want to herd them on, or shall I?” he asked, and Siredy lifted his eyebrows.

“I’ll send them on, if you’ll get them off again.”

Eslingen nodded, knowing he’d been given the easier job, and grateful for it, and turned away, heading deeper into the backstage area so that he could cross the stage behind the massive backpiece. He had seen it from the pit for the first time just the day before, and it had taken his breath away: a mountain landscape, hills rising steeply to either side to frame the narrow valley. In the first act, and in the third, it was the Pass of Jetieve, in the second and fifth, the view from de Galhac’s fortress, and in the rest, all the mountains that bordered the palatinate; the versatiles were painted to change and complete each different setting. They were almost ready for the performance, everything in place except the final blessings of the chamberlains and their magists, and Eslingen paused at the center of the backpiece, peering out through the single narrow slit in the stiff canvas. Only the amateurs used it, or so he’d been told, but he’d also seen more than one of the professionals pausing to glance through the tiny gap. The only difference was that they didn’t use their hands to widen it, and risk spoiling the illusion.

Through the slit, he could see the actors standing in a semicircle around bes’Hallen, who stood stage center, draped in a floor‑length veil that gleamed like gold in the warm light of the practicals. Between their bodies, posed in stiff formality, he could see the empty benches of the pit, and the dark shadows of the galleries–except, he realized, the pit wasn’t entirely empty. Gasquine was sitting on one of the center benches, perhaps eight or ten rows back, her head and shoulders just visible as she watched intently. The chief sceneryman sat with her, and a tall woman in a long black gown who had to be one of the chamberlains. By rights, Eslingen thought, Aconin should be with them, but the playwright was still missing–not at the theatre, and not, according to Rathe, at his lodgings, or anywhere else he had been known to frequent. The gossips whispered that maybe he had caused the deaths, that at the least he was likely to be the person who’d put Forveijl up to trying the trick with the flowers, and quite possibly the one who killed Forveijl for it afterward, though there was a minority opinion that insisted that Rathe himself had done it. No one had said that to his face, of course, and Eslingen could guess that there were probably a few people who thought he could have done it–defending his lover–but that was easy to ignore. But Aconin wasn’t responsible, he thought, and turned away from the backpiece, crossing to the far side of the stage. It was more crowded there, and he had to press himself against the brick wall to avoid a pair of scenerymen hauling what looked like a roll of canvas. Another scenepiece, he guessed, or a carpet for one of the soueraine’s entrances. It wasn’t like Aconin to set someone up like that–or at least it wasn’t like him not to hang around to enjoy his victim’s disgrace. Eslingen made a face, remembering a childhood beating for stealing fruit from a neighbor’s garden. Aconin had put him up to it, and had enjoyed the outcome, the shouts and the pursuit and Eslingen’s wails, almost as much as he would have enjoyed the stolen plums. He’d gotten his own back, of course, and Aconin had learned better than to try that again, but the playwright had never been able to resist that kind of manipulation. And that, he thought, is why I’m so sure he isn’t behind any of this. If he was, he’d still be at the theatre, too secure in his own cleverness to think of running away. But that was almost impossible to explain to Rathe–the pointsman was right, it had been years since he’d been in contact with Aconin, but he doubted Aconin had changed fundamentally in those years.

He took his place in the wings, resting his halberd on the toe of his shoe to keep from making unwanted noise on the hollow stage, listening with half an ear to the end of the council scene. Ramani’s long speech was coming up, and then the council exited, and the battle–his responsibility–would begin. He could see Siredy waiting opposite, the duelists ready behind him, lined up two by two for the fighting entrance, and took a deep breath, willing everything to go right. The chorus had worked hard, and so had the masters; Tyrseis permitting, all would go well. This was stage fright, the demon that even the professionals propitiated as much as possible, and he looked back to the pit and galleries, trying to imagine them filled with faces. The thought was dizzying–a thousand faces, more, all watching his handiwork–and he took another breath, grateful that he had no onstage part in this particular performance. That might come, but, mercifully, not yet.

He made a face, angry at his own fears, looked over his shoulder to see the great wave still looming over his shoulder. It was too large to move, would probably stay there until some other play needed the mechanism for a similar effect, or so the scenerymen had said, and he wondered how long that would be. Probably long enough that de Raзan’s death would have been long forgotten–already most of the actors and chorus talked about the dead watchman, and Forveijl, less about the landseur. But they all had to be connected, Eslingen thought, and stepped back automatically as Aubine slipped past him, murmuring an apology, a trug full of flowers hooked in the crook of his arm. All the deaths had to do with the same thing–certainly with the masque, and maybe with the succession, though exactly how that would work, he couldn’t begin to see. The broadsheets, especially those fostered by Master Eyes, were having a field day, lurid tales of the haunted theatre drawing avid buyers to the stalls. The only mercy, Rathe had said sourly, was that de Raзan’s death was the only one that could be construed as political, and no one had, as yet, made the connection between the members of the chorus, and the claimants to Chenedolle’s throne. The other deaths covered a wide range of Astreiant’s population, from guildmember to artisan to artist–no connection except for the theatre. And that was only enough for children’s tales of haunting, not for anything more substantial.

Onstage, Ramani had finished her speech–Hyver was good, he thought, not for the first time, might be better than bes’Hallen someday–and stalked off, followed more slowly by the council. Above him, he heard the soft rumble of well‑greased pulleys, and the light brightened, yellow‑lensed practicals lowered to give the illusion of bright daylight. Across the stage, Siredy touched his leader’s shoulder–Simar, the landseur with the flowers, had proved to be far more sensible than his posies would suggest–and the pairs began to work their way onto the stage, swords clashing in steady rhythm. Eslingen released breath he hadn’t known he was holding as the second pair found their way past the first, took their place upstage and to the left. So far, he thought, so far, so good–except that Txi and de Vannevaux were out of step, Txi scowling at her erstwhile lover, her attacks too aggressive for pretense. Eslingen frowned, seeing the woman mouth something, saw de Vannevaux break the planned sequence with an attack, and swore under his breath. This was what they’d all been worried about, what they’d tried to drill out of the chorus, the excitement that said a fencer had to win at all costs. Txi cried out, wordless, stumbling back from another unexpected attack, and d’Yres missed a parry dodging away from her. The air was heavy suddenly, thick with tension, and the other duelists faltered, turning to see what was happening. In the pit, Gasquine rose to her feet, mouth open to call the halt, and Eslingen saw Siredy pale and staring in the far wing, as Txi swore, and wedged her blade against the stage floor, snapping the bate from the end of the blade.

“Enough!” Siredy shouted, and in the same moment Gasquine cried out for them to hold, but the women ignored both of them, de Vannevaux struggling now to hold her own against the suddenly deadly blade. And it could be deadly, Eslingen knew, even without the point, just the jagged edge could wound, maim, even kill. He saw Siredy fumbling for his own sword, set somewhere out of reach, and launched himself onto the stage, snatching the bated blade from de Besselin’s slack fingers.

“Hold!” he shouted, circling for a space to intervene, but the women ignored him, de Vannevaux swearing as she made a fruitless lunge, the bated blade bending harmlessly against Txi’s side. Txi’s riposte was instant and effective, would have been deadly if it hadn’t caught in the other woman’s corset, sliding across the metal boning to tear into the flesh of her upper arm. De Vannevaux screamed, more anger than pain, and Eslingen stepped between them, blade flashing out to engage Txi’s.

“Enough!” Siredy shouted again, sword in hand, and Jarielle caught de Vannevaux by the shoulders, swinging her bodily away from the other woman. And then, as suddenly as a candle blown out by wind, the tension broke, and Txi sank to her knees, sword clattering unheeded to the stage as she clapped both hands over her mouth. De Vannevaux’s eyes were wide, disbelieving, and she looked from her erstwhile lover to the blood staining her shirt as though she expected one of them to vanish.

“Tyrseis, protector of this place,” Gasquine said. “Would your ladyships care to explain what that was about?”

Txi burst into gulping tears, bowing until she was bent double, skirts pooled about her on the bare stage. De Vannevaux shook her head as though she were dazed.

“Madame–mistress,” she began, and shook her head again. “It’s–I think it’s my fault, we quarreled…” Her voice trailed off, as though she could no longer remember what she’d done, and she sank to her knees beside Txi, reaching for the other woman. Txi jerked herself away from de Vannevaux’s touch, never lifting her head, and Eslingen saw the matching tears in de Vannevaux’s eyes.

“There’s no harm done,” Siredy said softly, kneeling in his turn beside Txi, “just nerves.” The look on his face belied the soothing words,

“Oriane and her Bull,” Gasquine said. “If the two of you can’t control yourselves, I will personally take you over my knee and spank you as your mothers never did. I will not have this–this nonsense interfering with my play. Is that clear?”

De Vannevaux nodded, still not speaking, and Txi lifted her head, showing a face streaked with tears and paint. “Mistress, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what got into me.”

“It was my fault,” de Vannevaux said, almost in the same moment. “Oh, Anile, can you ever forgive me?”

Txi burst into tears again, and threw herself into the other woman’s lap. “I hurt you,” she said, voice muffled against de Vannevaux’s skirt, and de Vannevaux hugged her, heedless of the pain of her injured arm.

Gasquine stared at them for a moment longer, hands on hips, then slowly reseated herself. “This will not happen again,” she said, and Eslingen stooped to help de Vannevaux to her feet. “Now. We begin again, from your exit.”

Eslingen glanced at Siredy, who tipped his head toward the nearer wing. He nodded, and tightened his hold on de Vannevaux’s shoulders, urging her toward the shadows. Siredy did the same with Txi, and together they brought the two women offstage, past the actors waiting to come on. Their eyes were bright and curious, and Txi buried her face in her hands again. Behind him, Eslingen could hear Simar giving a shaky count, and then the tramp of feet as the remaining duelists made their planned exit. The waiting actors made their entrance, not without backward glances, and Siredy patted Txi’s shoulder gently.

“It’s nerves,” he said. “Stage fright. It takes people strange ways. You’ll be all right.”

Txi nodded jerkily, her eyes on the other woman. “But Iais–oh, I’m so sorry.”

“Let me see, madame,” Eslingen said, and turned de Vannevaux so that he could examine the wound. She let him move her, her eyes vacant, let him turn her arm palm out so that he could see the cut. It was little more than a long scratch up the underside of her upper arm, the bleeding already slowed, but he found a handkerchief in his pocket, folded it to a pad, and pressed it against the wound. De Vannevaux flinched, but put her own hand over it obediently enough.

“Anile,” she said. “Oh, gods, will you forgive me?”

“I’m the one who needs forgiveness,” Txi answered, and something moved in the shadows behind her. Aubine, Eslingen realized, and thought for an instant that the landseur held something, in his left hand. Then he came forward into the light reflecting from the stage, eyes wide and appalled.

“Anile, are you all right? What a terrible thing, you should go home and rest.”

His hands were empty after all, Eslingen saw.

De Vannevaux shook her head, but Txi straightened. “Aubine’s right,” she said. “You should have that seen to, and then, yes, you should rest. I’ll never forgive myself–”

“Hush,” Siredy said, and blushed, as though he’d only just realized what he’d said, but Aubine nodded in agreement.

“Quite right. There’s been enough–forgive me, Iais–there’s been enough raw emotion today. You need to be calm, take deep breaths. It will pass.”

What will pass? Eslingen wondered. Stage fright, he supposed, if anyone was going to believe that explanation.

Txi managed a shaky nod, her costume glittering as she did as she was told.

“Iais,” de Vannevaux said. “Iais, I’ll go home–and, yes, to a physician, too, if we can find one that will be discreet–but only if you’ll go with me.”

“You can’t want me,” Txi said, and de Vannevaux managed a watery smile.

“I started it, Anile. I suppose I got what I deserved.”

“Very wise of you both,” Aubine said briskly. “Why don’t you take my carriage? I’ll have my man bring it round, have him take you wherever you’d like to go.” He moved away, still talking, and the landames followed docilely, their attention on each other. Eslingen shook his head, watching them go.

“Seidos’s Horse,” he said, not quite under his breath, and Siredy shrugged.

“Passions run high at the last rehearsals, and theirs were high enough to start with. It’ll be worse tomorrow.”

“Tyrseis preserve us all,” Eslingen answered, and surprised a smile from the other man. “Verre, you can’t mean it, that this always happens. Not like this.”

Siredy paused, his smile turning wry. “Well, no, not quite like this, but then, we don’t usually have the quality onstage. But there’s always something, these last two days. They never pass without tears and screaming.”

Eslingen shook his head, not convinced, and Siredy took a step away.

“Anyway, we need to make sure the half‑pikes are ready. Will you help?”

Eslingen started to nod, but a patch of something pale on the boards where Aubine had been standing caught his eye. “I’ll be along in a minute,” he said, and Siredy sighed.

“See that you are.”

Eslingen bit back an angry answer– and maybe Siredy is right, tempers are starting to fray, my own included–but waited until the other man had turned away before he stooped to collect the object. It was a flower, pale and bell‑shaped, its stem neatly snapped, and Eslingen stared at it for a long moment, unwelcome thoughts crowding his mind. Rathe had said that the right way to disrupt one of the Alphabet’s arrangements was to pull it apart flower by flower–to take the right flower from it, not to break it apart. Had the Alphabet been at work again–had that been the cause of the landames’ sudden quarrel? He shook his head, not wanting to believe it–but Aubine had been there, he remembered, slipping across the front of the pit to fiddle with his arrangements just as the duelists made their entrance. Not Aconin, then, but Aubine; not the playwright, but the sponsor who had put his name behind it, possibly commissioned it. Ignoring Siredy’s glare, he slipped across the back of the stage again, dodging actors and scenerymen, made his way to the front of the wings, looking for another patch of white. Sure enough, it was there, another broken flower, stem snapped and cast aside. He stared at it for a long moment, then craned his head to see the nearer of the two arrangements. There were no other flowers like this one in it, and its simplicity would have been lost among the showier blooms, but he was suddenly absolutely sure that it had been the keystone, the one piece that had made the arrangement active. Which means Aubine, he thought again, and that still makes no sense. Why would Aubine kill de Raзan, and the watchman–well, he might have killed the watchman for the same reason anyone would have, because the man knew what happened in the theatre after hours, and if Aubine had been testing his arrangements, the watch would have been the first to know, but there was no reason to kill Forveijl… Unless he, too, had suspected something. Rathe would know, he told himself firmly, Rathe would be able to figure it out. He tucked the flowers carefully into the pocket of his coat, and started back to join Siredy. The main thing now was to get through the rest of the rehearsal as quietly, as unobtrusively, as possible, and get the flowers and his suspicions home to Rathe before Aubine noticed that anything had changed.

The day dragged to an end at last, and Eslingen was quick to leave the theatre, stretching his legs to get through the narrow streets. To his relief, Rathe was home before him, lamps and stove lit and welcoming. To his dismay, he wasn’t alone. b’Estorr was there, sitting at the small table, looking as disheveled as Eslingen had ever seen him, his long hands systematically destroying a small, common flower. Eslingen smoothed away an involuntary frown as Rathe looked round at him, a harried look on his own face easing when he saw Eslingen. Eslingen managed a smile he knew was strained. He needed to talk to Rathe now, needed to show him the flowers and hear what the pointsman had to say about these–quite fantastic–events. And that was hardly something he could do in front of b’Estorr: it was one thing to risk making a fool of himself in private, but he refused to have the magist for an audience.

b’Estorr hardly seemed aware of his presence, though, not pausing in the flow of talk. “–and I’ve spoken to the phytomancers, all of them, including one I didn’t think was a fool, but she says only that there is no such thing as a verifiable copy, a working copy, of the Alphabet, that the Alphabet is pure folly, and that we should put this aside and look for more reasonable explanations.” He broke off then, looking, for the first time in Eslingen’s acquaintance, chagrined. “Oh. Hello, Philip.”

Eslingen nodded, knowing he looked stiff. “Istre. Haven’t seen you in a while. How’re things at the university?”

b’Estorr took a breath and gave a short, bitter laugh. “You can’t imagine. The College of Phytomancy has ruled their business is the properties of individual plants, not plants gathered into bunches, so the Alphabet is not their province even if it did work. Ybares–the one I didn’t think was a fool–says that even if it were their business, the Alphabet can’t work, so she doesn’t want to hear about it.”

“It demonstrably does work,” Eslingen said. “After what happened to Nico–”

“Oh, that didn’t happen,” b’Estorr said savagely. “Or if it happened, it didn’t happen the way we think. Or if it happened the way we think, it wasn’t the plants, and therefore it wasn’t the Alphabet.” He finished shredding the flower and flung the petals onto the table.

“Welcome home, Philip,” Rathe said, and b’Estorr blushed, the color staining his fair skin.

“I’m sorry, Philip, I’m ranting. But it’s driving me mad.”

“I can see that,” Eslingen said, and Rathe frowned.

“So if it’s none of those things, Istre, do they say what it might have been?”

b’Estorr shook his head. “It’s not their province,” he repeated, unhappily brushing the mangled bloom into his hand.

“They can’t mean it,” Eslingen said, and b’Estorr smiled without humor.

“Of course they can. The politics of the university are easily as bad as the politics of Chadron.”

“So what do we do about it?” Rathe asked.

b’Estorr sighed, visibly taking himself in hand. “I honestly don’t know, Nico. I’d have thought this was enough proof for any of them, but if it isn’t…” He took a breath. “I’ll keep talking, see if I can’t– persuade–at least one of them to reconsider.”

“The stars don’t seem to favor that,” Eslingen said, in spite of himself, and b’Estorr shook his head.

“No more do they.” He reached for his cloak, hanging by the door, and Rathe spoke quickly.

“No need to go–”

“I’m having dinner with Ybares,” b’Estorr answered grimly, and his tone did not bode well for the other magist. “I don’t want to be late.”

“Good luck, then,” Rathe said, and shook his head as the door closed behind the necromancer. “I think you’re right, Philip, the folly stars have reached the university.” Without waiting for an answer, he crouched in front of the stove, began digging through the low flat box that stood beside it.

Eslingen blinked. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to find some vegetables for dinner.”

“At this time of year?”

“They keep,” Rathe said mildly. “You can help, or you can comment.”

“I’ll comment,” Eslingen said, and unwrapped himself from his cloak. He’d given up on fashion over a week ago, and tonight he’d been particularly glad of the extra layers.

“You would,” Rathe answered. “So, did anything happen at the theatre today that I should know about?” He found a final long finger of parsnip, and held it up triumphantly before dropping it into a basin of water to wash away the last of the clinging sand.

“Yes,” Eslingen answered, and the other man straightened, dinner forgotten.

“Tell me.”

“The landames, the ones whose families are at feud?”

Rathe nodded. “The ones who’ve been–”

“Just so.” Eslingen took a breath, let himself drop into a chair close to the stove. “Today, at rehearsal, with a chamberlain watching, no less, all of a sudden the feud is alive again. They insult each other, and Txi finally snaps the bate of her weapon and they go at it in earnest.”

“Not dead–hurt?” Rathe asked, his hands very still.

Eslingen shook his head. “Not even much hurt, just a bad scratch. And they were friends again, left together to go home and consult a physician.”

“So what caused it?” Rathe came to his feet, settled automatically into the chair opposite.

“Siredy says it’s nerves, stage fright making tempers short,” Eslingen answered.

“I’ve never heard of actors doing anything like that,” Rathe said.

“Ah, but they aren’t actors,” Eslingen answered. “At least that’s the explanation that’s being accepted–I think mostly because no one wants to let anything else go wrong. But–” He leaned back in his chair, fumbling with his coat, and finally produced the pair of flowers. “But afterward, I found these backstage. They were just lying there, on the floor, a yard or so, maybe, from the nearest arrangement. Each one with its–neck, I don’t know–broken.”

Rathe took them, frowning, turning them over in his fingers. “They weren’t there before?”

Eslingen shook his head. “Too dangerous, with all the dancing and the fights. The scenerymen keep the floor clear and dry, spotless. No, these weren’t there before the fight, and they were afterward.”

“You think there was a posy, something from the Alphabet.”

“There’s more,” Eslingen said, and heard Rathe sigh.

“There always is.”

“When the duel scene started, I saw Aubine working with the flowers, the big bunches right downstage. And I am certain he dropped this one–I saw him with it in his hand, I’m all but certain of it, right before he offered the landames the use of his carriage to take them home.”

Rathe was very still. “Getting them away before they could think how odd it was, do you suppose?”

“It’s possible.” Eslingen took a breath. “Nico, if it’s Aubine–”

“First things first,” Rathe said, and pushed himself away from the table. “I brought this home, wanted to study it, see if there was anything special about it–and it hasn’t been reprinted, by the way, not this edition.” He came back with the red‑bound copy of the Alphabet that he had received from Holles, slid it across the table. Eslingen caught it with a groan, knowing what came next, and Rathe nodded. “I want you to see if you recognize any of the arrangements.”

“I’m not a gardener,” Eslingen said.

“You can read,” Rathe answered. “And you have eyes–I know you’re observant. Just see if you can recognize them.”

Eslingen bowed his head obediently, turning the soft pages. It was very like all the other editions of the Alphabet he’d looked at in Rathe’s workroom, woodcuts on one page, text on the page opposite, and he skimmed through them quickly, trying to remember the pattern he had seen. “This one,” he said at last, pointing to an arrangement labeled “Confusion.”

“And Anger.”

Rathe nodded, leaning over his shoulder now to study the pictures. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? Confusion to blur the new friendship–and all of you, your thoughts, to make it seem reasonable that landames should behave like this–and Anger to trigger the feud again. But why now?”

“A test?” Eslingen suggested, leaning back to see the other man’s face. “To make sure–something else–is going to work?”

“Oh, that’s an ugly thought,” Rathe said. “But it makes sense.” He shook his head. “I said if I knew how, this time, I’d know who. And if it’s the flowers, it has to be Aubine. He knows more about them than anyone. And nobody else has a connection to all the dead–including Ogier, he’s the only one who is connected to both Ogier and the masque. But I’ve no idea why.”

“Is he connected to any of the potential claimants?” Eslingen asked, and Rathe shook his head.

“In that, he’s as innocent as the snow.”

“Because he can?”

Rathe looked down at him, frowning. “Sorry?”

Eslingen made a face. “It was something he said once. True enough, in the original context–he was talking about providing flowers for the masque, and for all the rehearsals, too, all because he could–but it struck me odd then.”

“If that’s the case,” Rathe said, “then he’s well and truly mad. And mad he may well be, but it didn’t strike me as that kind of lunacy.”

“I agree,” Eslingen said, and Rathe reached for the Alphabet again, his scowl deepening as he nipped through the pages. “What is it?”

“Maybe I’m the madman. I’ve gone through all the flowers I know I’ve seen at the theatre, and while a few of them are in here, they’re not–not in the right combinations, or the right seasons, or anything, to give me any idea what he might be planning.”

Eslingen shook his head, slowly. “They’re not the flowers that will be there for the masque. He’s changed them almost every day– brought in all new ones today.”

His voice trailed off as he realized what he’d said, and Rathe swore under his breath. “Were they different?”

“Some were,” Eslingen answered. “Maybe most were. The arrangements were certainly different.”

“Of course they would be,” Rathe said. “Damn the man.” He shook his head. “And if it’s Aubine, then he’s killed everyone who’s gotten in his way. Starting with Leussi.”

“Leussi?” Eslingen frowned. “I know that was murder, but how does it fit in to the theatre deaths?”

“Leussi was a chamberlain,” Rathe said. “He would have ruled on the masque. He had a copy of the Alphabet–an old copy, a practical copy, maybe even the same edition Aubine has. He of all people would have seen just how dangerous this might be, he was testing it out before he died. And his ghost was bound because even if he couldn’t name his murderer, he might have been able to warn his fellows, or at least Holles, against the play. As it is, Aubine was careful enough–Holles has no idea where the plant came from, he hardly noticed it, couldn’t even say when it arrived.”

“But why?” Eslingen asked. He took the book gently from Rathe’s hands, flipped back‑to the arrangements he’d seen earlier that day. Yes, that was them, no mistaking it, and he shook his head in confusion. “What’s he going to do with this play that’s so important that he’ll kill to preserve it? If it has nothing to do with the succession… ”

Rathe ignored him, his eyes fixed on something invisible, beyond the shadows. “De Raзan… I don’t know, I’ve never been able to fit him in, but there’s something so–well planned, well thought out– about his death that I almost wonder if it was a punishment, some private thing between them. But Ogier, Ogier’s easy, he worked in the succession houses, he knew what plants were being grown, knew enough of phytomancy that he could have suspected, if not the Alphabet, then some magistry. And he was running from a magist when he died, I’m sure of that from the way he burned his clothes. Guis– Guis used an arrangement, and he could have said where he got it, which meant he had to be killed. Aconin–”

“Aconin wrote the play,” Eslingen said. “So he had to have something to go on. And he’s been one of Aubine’s intimates. Plus, of course, he and Guis were still close. You might have thought to look to Aconin as soon as Guis was killed.” He paused, remembering. “And, Nico, I never thought anything of it, but at least twice when I thought Aconin wanted to talk to me, it was Aubine who interrupted us. I just thought Chresta didn’t want to be overheard.”

“Sofia,” Rathe breathed. “It fits, Philip, it fits all too neatly.”

Eslingen nodded. “But why?” He glanced down at the book again, his eyes straying from the list of plants and their properties to the stories that accompanied them. Both Confusion and Anger were accompanied by stories about love–love denied, love scorned–and he flipped through a few more pages, looking for the most harmful arrangements, the ones designed to kill and maim. All were matched with stories of love, lost love, love rejected and turned to hate, and he looked back up at Rathe, eyes going wide. “Look at the stories. They’re all about revenge–the stories aren’t, actually, but that’s the suggestion. The arrangements are revenge for love gone wrong.”

“Revenge for his leman,” Rathe said.

Eslingen closed his eyes, wishing he could reject his own idea. “His common‑born leman,” he corrected. “Murdered by his grandmother. And, Seidos, that could explain de Raзan, couldn’t it? Everybody knew about him and Siredy, how de Raзan wanted him back just for the convenience–do you think that’s why Aubine killed him, that it hit too close to home?”

Rathe hesitated, then nodded slowly. “It could be. And it might have been a nice chance to test out a new arrangement.”

Eslingen shivered at the thought. “But you said the grandmother’s been dead for what, seven years?”

“At least that.” Rathe frowned down at the book. “Sweet Sofia, we don’t have nearly enough to call a point–we’ve only just got enough to start asking questions–and the masque plays the day after tomorrow.” He shook his head. “There isn’t enough time. Not to prove this–any of this.”

“Can it be postponed?” Eslingen asked, and Rathe shook his head.

“I don’t know. It’s never happened, not in my lifetime–but then, there’s never been cause before.” Rathe pushed himself upright, frowning at the vegetables still soaking in the basin, and pulled them out one by one to lay them gently on a folded cloth. “We’ll have to go to Trijn.”

“Do you want me to go with you?” Eslingen asked, and Rathe smiled.

“I think you’d better.”

Trijn lived in Point of Dreams, but in the narrow band of guildmistresses’ houses, well away from the theatres. Expensive houses, Rathe thought automatically, and found himself checking the garden walls for loose bricks. He had begun his career as a pointsman in just such a neighborhood, had learned all the ways a clever thief could slip into an unwary household, make off with food, linens, spare clothes, even the family silver. The householders here seemed to know the same techniques, left nothing to chance, no loose bricks for a foothold, no, windows unshuttered, lamps lit and personal watchmen drowsing in corner boxes, ready to raise the alarm. A few of them lifted their heads, watching two strangers pass along their street, and one even lifted his lantern in question and warning before he saw the truncheon at Rathe’s belt.

“A nice neighborhood your chief point lives in,” Eslingen whispered. “She does well in fees?”

“She comes from good family,” Rathe answered, his own voice low. He didn’t know much about Trijn’s attitude toward fees, now that he thought of it–he hadn’t been at Dreams long enough for it to become an issue–but he doubted she needed them, not if her sister was the grande bourgeoise.

“She must,” Eslingen said, looking at the houses, and Rathe paused to study the carving over the nearest door. Trijn lived in the house of the two hares, according to the directions he had memorized right after coming to Point of Dreams; this house was decorated with a cheerful frieze of rats feasting on a sea of overflowing grain bags, and he moved on, shaking his head slightly. The original owner must have been born in the Rat Moon, or have Tyrseis strong in her natal horoscope, to have chosen that design.

The house of the two hares lay two doors down, a comfortable, prosperous house perhaps a little smaller than its neighbors. The twin hares lay face‑to‑face in the niche above the doorway, the light of the rising winter‑sun adding texture to the carved fur, and when Rathe stepped forward to knock at the main door, the heavy iron striker was forged in a variation of the pattern, one hare sitting, the other standing beside it. The door opened quickly at his knock, a footman out of livery frowning at him for a moment until he saw the truncheon at Rathe’s waist.

“Pointsman–?” he began, and Rathe took a quick step forward.

“Adjunct Point Rathe. I need to see the chief, urgently.”

“Of course.” The footman didn’t blink, but threw the door open, beckoning them into the chill hall. He didn’t leave them there, either, but brought them into a receiving room, where a fire burned low in a painted fireplace, bowed again, and disappeared. Rathe moved automatically toward its warmth, Eslingen at his shoulder, stood holding his hands out to the radiating embers.

“Most impressive,” Eslingen said under his breath, and Rathe let himself glance around the room. It was small, but nicely kept, expensively furnished, and he wasn’t surprised to see a double corm the size of a man’s fist waiting in a jar by the window. He didn’t recognize the species, but the care with which it was placed, set in the center of a delicate inlaid table, made him think it had to be one of the expensive ones.

“Rathe. What is it?”

He turned to see Trijn in the doorway, a lamp in one hand, her unbelted house gown half open, showing the rich wool of her heavy skirt. If he’d seen her like this, Rathe thought, instead of in the practical common wear she chose for the station, he would have known at once that she came of better than average family. One did not usually find daughters of the merchants resident entering points’ service.

“I think I know who’s behind the theatre murders,” he said, and Trijn nodded as though she were not surprised, came into the room, setting the lamp on the mantel.

“Stir up the fire, then, and sit down. And tell me about it.”

Rathe did as he was told, finding the logs ready to hand, and seated himself opposite the chief point. Eslingen came to stand at his shoulder, watchful and silent, and Trijn smothered a laugh.

“Sorry. I’d never understood the black dog comments before.”

Rathe kept his face expressionless, knowing that Eslingen’s eyebrows would be up, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It’s Aubine, Chief,” he said, and Trijn sobered instantly. “It has to be.”

Quickly, he outlined what Eslingen had seen, and Aubine’s connections to the dead men, but even before he had finished, Trijn was shaking her head.

“It’s thin. Rathe. Very thin. Aubine sponsored the masque, for Sofia’s sake.”

“To use it,” Rathe answered. “To get revenge for the leman his grandmother had murdered.”

In this house, he didn’t like to say common, but Trijn nodded slowly. “I remember the matter,” she said. “It was never referred to the points, but there were always rumors, whispers that it was more than they claimed. But the soueraine took the boy away with her, and there was nothing we could do.” She shook her head, shaking memory away. “All right, assuming you’re right–and I think I believe you, Rathe–what’s the point of it all? What are these–arrangements–supposed to do?”

“I don’t know,” Rathe answered. “The grandmother’s dead, long dead, and if he was blaming the sister, surely there were easier ways to attack her. Ones that required less elaborate planning, anyway.”

“They’re on good terms.” Trijn shook her head. “Or so it’s seemed, anyway.”

“The only thing I can think of–” Rathe stopped abruptly, not wanting to voice his sudden fear, as though saying it would somehow make it more likely to be true. “The only thing I can think of is revenge on the law, the law that let his leman die and offered no justice. The law in the person of the queen.”

“Sofia’s tits,” Trijn said. She drew a shaken breath. “I hope you’re wrong, Rathe.”

“Can you take the chance he’s not?” Eslingen asked, and the points looked at him as though they’d forgotten he was there.

Trijn scowled. “No. But what in hell’s name do you expect me to do about it? I’ll say it again, there’s not nearly enough to call a point on the man, not for a single one of these deaths, and we’d be laughed out of court if we tried.”

“Postpone the masque,” Rathe said.

Trijn laughed aloud, an angry, frustrated sound. “And how likely do you think that is? If I can’t call a point, what chance do I have of persuading the necessary authorities–and that’s the regents and the chamberlains, Rathe, who aren’t particularly fond of you–that this is necessary?” She shook her head. “The masque has to be done in conjunction with the solstice, for the queen’s health and the health of the realm. The stars have to be right for the magistry to work.”

“And if Aubine wants to kill the queen,” Rathe said, “what better occasion than the one time and place he knows she must be? There must be precedent. It must be possible.”

“But not without cause,” Trijn said again. “To postpone–to change anything about the masque–we’d need the approval of the regents, and the chamberlains, to see if it can be done without destroying it. And I cannot see how we can convince them without more proof.”

She was right, that was the problem, and Rathe shook his head. “Is there anyone else who has authority?”

“The queen herself, of course,” Trijn said, “but that doesn’t get us anywhere. Astreiant–” She stopped, anger turning to something more speculative, and Rathe leaned forward again.

“Would she listen?”

Trijn nodded, slowly. “She might. It’s worth a try, at any rate.”

“Will she listen to you?” Eslingen asked, and Trijn gave him a glittering smile.

“I–the metropolitan knows me. She’ll give me an audience, she owes me that much.”

And I don’t think I want to know why, Rathe thought. He said, “And if she doesn’t agree–or if she can’t?”

Trijn took a breath. “I was hoping you’d have some suggestions, Rathe.”

“Bar Aubine from the Tyrseia,” Rathe said. “Remove all the flowers–”

“If you can move them without triggering their effects,” Eslingen said. “Remember the last time you tried that.”

Rathe winced at the memory, but nodded in agreement. “All right, maybe moving the flowers wouldn’t be a good idea. But we can make sure he doesn’t–for example–offer Her Majesty any posies as a token of his esteem.”

“I think I can persuade Astreiant of that much, at least,” Trijn agreed. “But keeping Aubine away from his own play–Sofia, if you’re wrong, Rathe, or even if you’re right and we can’t prove it, we’ll lose everything. I’ll lose my station, and you, Rathe, will never call another point. Is it worth that much to you?”

Rathe paused. Trijn was right again, if he couldn’t prove his case, provide at least as much evidence as he would need to call a point and to win a conviction in the courts, Aubine would see him banished from the one profession he had ever wanted to follow. And suppose I’m wrong? Suppose I’ve misjudged everything, cast my figure and come up with a reading as false as a broadsheet astrologer’s? But there had been four deaths already, five if Leussi’s was indeed part of the sequence, five deaths unresolved, justice ignored, and a sixth– or possibly more–in the offing. More important even than the already dead was the chance to prevent another murder, and that was worth even this risk. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I’ll take the chance.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eslingen nod, silent support, and Trijn took a deep breath. “Then I’m with you, Rathe.” She rose to her feet, the heavy silk of her robe falling into place with a soft slur of sound. “Wear your good coat, if you have one. We’ll attend the metropolitan tomorrow morning.”

11

« ^ »

trijn was as good as her word, arriving at Point of Dreams with a low‑flyer in hand. Rathe followed her across the station’s courtyard, newly aware that his best coat was several degrees below what anyone else would consider suitable for visiting the Metropolitan of Astreiant. Trijn looked as fine as ever, a dark, hooded cloak drawn close over a bottle‑green suit, her hair tucked under a stylish cap that still managed to cover her ears, and he wondered if perhaps he should have borrowed something from Eslingen. Not that it would have been that much of an improvement, he thought, settling himself on the cushions opposite the chief point. Eslingen was a good two inches taller, and thicker in the chest; his coats would hang on Rathe like an empty sack. But at least it would have been obvious that he’d made the effort.

“Don’t worry,” Trijn said, as if she’d read the thought, and lowered the window just long enough to signal the driver. “Astreiant knows you don’t take fees. It wouldn’t do for you to look too presentable.”

Rathe managed a smile and leaned back against the cushion as the low‑flyer jolted out of the station yard. In the cold light of morning, his conclusions seemed even less likely than before, and he wondered if he was making the worst mistake of his life. But nothing else explained all the deaths, he thought. Aubine’s presence, Aubine’s involvement in the dead men’s lives, was the single common thread– that and the Alphabet, he amended silently. Everywhere he looked, the Alphabet of Desire seemed to lurk, the lavish illustrations hiding deadly possibilities.

“How much do you think Aconin knows about this?” Trijn demanded suddenly, and Rathe blinked.

“I don’t know.”

“Enough to run away, in any event,” Trijn said. “Assuming he isn’t dead, too.”

“There’s a happy thought.” Rathe rubbed his chin, glad he’d taken the time to be shaved this morning. He had done the barber a favor two summers past, in the matter of a stolen clock that had ended up in Point of Hopes; the man had been glad to open early for him, and had given him breakfast as well. “Philip said he was afraid of something–of Aubine, I’d guess–so I’m hoping he’s just gone to ground. If we could find him, Chief, he might be able to confirm what’s happening.”

“If he was likely to do that,” Trijn said, “he’d’ve come to us with his problems.”

“Not Aconin,” Rathe said. “But if he thinks the point will be called on him, he’ll talk quickly enough.”

Trijn lifted an eyebrow at that, but Rathe looked mulishly away. It wouldn’t be that simple, of course, it never was, but once Aconin was found, he was confident a bargain could be made. If Aconin was still alive. He shoved that thought away, too–so far, Aubine hadn’t troubled to hide his bodies–and glanced out the low‑flyer’s narrow window. To his surprise, they were already in City Point–Trijn always seemed to find the drivers with Seidos strong in their stars– but they turned past the metropolitan’s official residence and turned onto the broad road that led into the Western Reach. So the metropolitan had agreed to see them at her town house, he thought, and felt his own eyebrows rise. Trijn was indeed well connected, if she could persuade the metropolitan to see them there.

The metropolitan’s residence was a large and pleasant house, flanked by lower outbuildings and enclosed by a stone wall with a wrought‑iron gate. As the low‑flyer drew up to the narrow gatehouse, Trijn leaned forward, lowering the window again, and the first flakes of the winter’s snow swirled in on the cold air. They were expected, however, and the liveried gatekeeper bowed, waving them through as her assistants hauled back the heavy gate. Another woman in livery, red coat bound with ochre piping, a silver badge showing Astree and her scales on a scarlet ribbon at her neck, was waiting for them at the main door, and showed them into a long, narrow library, its shutters barely cracked even in the pale winter light. Astreiant herself was waiting there, but as they entered, she rose from behind her worktable, blowing out her lamp, and gestured for their escort to throw open two sets of shutters. The cool light streamed in–snow‑light, Rathe thought, watching the flakes scattering down out of the milky sky, the first threads of it blowing like dust across the narrow paved terrace that lay outside the windows–and he was grateful for the fires that blazed in the twin stoves.

“Chief Point,” Astreiant said, and waved dismissal to the servant. “And Adjunct Point Rathe. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Is it my imagination, Rathe thought, or did she lay the faintest of stresses on the word “you”? He managed a wary bow, and Astreiant gestured toward a pair of stools drawn close to the nearer stove.

“Please, sit down, and let’s talk.” She seated herself in a tall chair as she spoke, stretching her feet toward the stove in unconscious habit. She was a tall woman, well built, with grey‑blue eyes that slanted down ever so slightly at the outer corners. There were lines on her face as well, and Rathe guessed she and he were probably much of an age, but the lines were good lines, echoing a ready smile.

“You read my report, then,” Trijn said.

Astreiant inclined her head, copper curls dancing. Her hair was almost red, Rathe realized with some amusement, but no one would dare tell the metropolitan she was out of fashion. “To be sure,” she said. “And tell me, Dema, what you expect me to do about it?”

“Postpone the masque,” Trijn said promptly.

“It can’t be done.” Astreiant lifted a hand to forestall any further protest. “I mean that literally. It cannot be done. The stars are most propitious at midwinter, and this year more so than usual, to postpone–to change the date at all–would be as bad as not performing it. And you know what the masque means to the realm, and to Her Majesty.”

“Even though it’s proved detrimental to the health of at least four other people?” Trijn asked, and Astreiant frowned.

“You haven’t proved that yet.”

“The deaths are real enough,” Rathe said, in spite of himself.

Astreiant ducked her head in apology. “I misspoke. The deaths are real, and I do not discount them, Adjunct Point, I promise you that. But I don’t see the connection to the masque.”

“De Raзan and the theatre’s watchman died in the theatre,” Rathe said. “Guis Forveijl was actually in the masque–one of the actors, your grace. Leussi was a chamberlain who would have ruled on the masque, had he lived. And Grener Ogier worked for the man who is providing the flowers for the masque, knew what was being grown, and what it might be used for.”

“That’s five,” Astreiant said.

“I’m less certain about Leussi,” Trijn said. “But growing more so all the time.”

Astreiant shook her head. “Heira forgive me, I took comfort in the watchman’s death. I thought sure that meant this couldn’t have anything to do with the succession.” She took a breath. “Take me through this again, Adjunct Point, in your own words. Why are you so sure this is all a connected plot?”

Rathe took a breath in turn, trying to order his thoughts. “The first death was the intendant’s, Leussi’s. I am all but sure he was killed by a plant grown specially for the purpose, and listed in the Alphabet of Desire. I believe he was killed because he also owned a copy of this edition of the Alphabet, the working Alphabet, and could have seen what Aubine’s play could do. The second death was the landseur de Raзan.” He hesitated, knowing this was the weakest link in his chain, but made himself go on. “I believe the reason for his death is less important than the manner of it. He was found drowned, Your Grace, in the middle of a dry stage, with nothing around that could have held the water that drowned him. And the alchemists say he died where we found him. The body was not moved.”

“But you have some idea of the reason?” Astreiant asked.

Rathe took another breath. “I believe that he was killed because he was a useless man, and because he had behaved badly to a common lover of his, and possibly because Aubine”–Astreiant stirred, and Rathe said hastily, “The murderer, then, no name–wanted to test his arrangements.”

“Aubine’s leman,” Astreiant murmured, and shook her head. “Thin, Rathe. Very thin. Go on.”

“The watchman knew everything that happened in the theatre, knew that things, particularly posies, the actors’ gifts, had been rearranged,” Rathe went on. “Possibly he even saw Aubine at the theatre after hours, could testify to what he was doing there. The gardener worked for Aubine–”

“I knew him,” Astreiant said. Her eyes strayed to the long window, the dormant garden beyond the terrace. “My head gardener thought the world of him. How did he die?”

“Stabbed to death,” Trijn said.

“I believe he knew something,” Rathe said. “He didn’t want to be found, Your Grace, he’d burned his own clothes and begged for Temple castoffs.”

Astreiant nodded. “So he couldn’t be traced. Like the children this past summer.”

“And like anyone who doesn’t want to be found using magistical means,” Rathe agreed.

“And the actor?”

“Also stabbed.” Rathe suppressed a pang, sorrow and vague guilt combined. With any luck, he would resolve this, and Forveijl would not become one of his ghosts. “He had put together an arrangement from the Alphabet of Desire, and while it had accomplished part of what he intended, it had also betrayed that there was a working copy of the Alphabet in existence, possibly in the theatre. I believe he was stabbed to keep us from finding out where he’d gotten it.”

“What does Aconin say about all this?” Astreiant demanded. “It’s his play, he must know something.”

“Aconin,” Trijn said, “has disappeared.”

Astreiant grimaced.

“He was friends with Aubine,” Rathe said. “Maybe more than friends. And he’s been afraid of something for most of the rehearsal period. Someone took a shot at him, and someone trashed his rooms, destroyed his household altar.”

Astreiant’s eyes narrowed, and Rathe remembered that she had spent a season on the northern borders as a young woman. “Aconin is a Leaguer, is he not?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Trijn said.

“No quarter.” Astreiant shook her head. “Sofia, I wish you could find the man.”

“So do I,” Rathe said, and Astreiant grinned in spite of herself.

“I daresay.” She sobered quickly, looking at Trijn. “So I say again, Dema, what do you want me to do?”

“Postpone the masque,” Trijn said again, and Astreiant waved the words away. “Failing that–must Her Majesty attend?”

“What reason do you have to think that anything is aimed at the queen?” Astreiant demanded, and Trijn leaned forward on her stool.

“There is the old story about Aubine’s leman, murdered and the killer–Aubine’s grandmother, at least indirectly–never brought to justice. Who is the symbol of justice in this realm?”

Astreiant shook her head. “Thin,” she said again.

Trijn spread her hands. “Then assume there is some other target, unknown–the sister, perhaps, or someone else. But can you risk allowing Her Majesty to walk unknowing into the middle of what we believe is intended to be a killing ground?”

Astreiant took a deep breath, covered her mouth with one hand. Behind her, the snow was strengthening, clinging to the grass and low bushes of the garden. “I cannot postpone the masque,” she said, finally. “I said it before, and I meant it. Nor can I ask Her Majesty not to attend–that would violate the mystery, destroy the potency. And yet… I do believe this is a real threat, Dema.”

“Will you grant me the authority to confine the landseur Aubine, then?” Trijn asked, and Rathe gave her a startled glance. That was more support than he’d really expected, and he was grateful for it.

Astreiant hesitated, her eyes distant, and then, regretfully, she shook her head. “I can’t. First, I don’t have the authority–he may be resident here, but he’s a native of Ledey. My writ runs only to the city.”

“But–” Trijn stopped as the other woman held up her hand.

“Hear me out, will you? Second, times are chancy, with Her Majesty being prepared finally to name a successor. To imprison a noble now, without cause, would make me and, through me, Her Majesty look capricious and power‑hungry, now when we can least afford it.”

And that, Rathe thought, is the first true confirmation that Astreiant will be queen in her turn. Trijn shook her head. “And what do you expect me to do, Your Grace, when you tie my hands?”

“I don’t know,” Astreiant said. “Bring me evidence, solid evidence that would stand in the courts–that you, Adjunct Point, would consider enough to call a point on–and I’ll do whatever you need. But without that, it’s my hands that are tied.”

Rathe let his head drop, knowing Astreiant was right, and the metropolitan went on, spreading her hands.

“And if there is anything else you want, anything else you need, in Astree’s name, ask.”

Trijn laughed. “The prince‑marshal and his men to guard the theatre these next two days?”

Astreiant blinked, and nodded. “If it will help you, he’s yours.”

“It couldn’t hurt,” Trijn said.

Rathe nodded, more slowly. He was known to Coindarel, and more importantly, Coindarel knew and liked Eslingen. It might be possible to use him to keep Aubine from bringing in any more of his deadly arrangements–if he didn’t have everything in place already, of course, Rathe added, with an inward grimace. That might be the best first step, to search the Tyrseia, and see if he could identify any of the arrangements from his copy of the Alphabet.

“I daresay it would amuse him, too.” Astreiant rose slowly to her feet, ending the interview, and the others copied her. “Very well, Chief Point, I shall draft the order this morning. Coindarel and his men will be at your–or Mistress Gasquine’s–disposal by three o’clock this afternoon.”

Rathe bowed, grateful for this much support, and Trijn made a courtier’s curtsy. Astreiant lifted her hand.

“But remember, if you find anything, anything at all, that would allow me to act–send to me, at whatever hour. I will be ready.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Trijn said. “I pray Sofia we find something.”

They rode in silence back to Point of Dreams, listening to the shouts of the street sweepers. This time, the driver took his time, let his horse pick its own pace across the icy bridge, and by the time they dismounted at the station’s main gate, the fine snow was already drifting in the corners of the buildings. Rathe waited, his back to the wind, as Trijn paid off the driver, and together they made their way across the courtyard and into the warmth of the main room. It was crowded with the aftermath of what looked like a quarrel between carters, and Trijn rolled her eyes.

“Everything under control?” she asked, in a voice that presumed an affirmative answer, and started up the stairs without waiting for agreement. “Rathe, I need you.”

“Yes, Chief.” Rathe followed, not sorry to avoid the arguments below. Leenderts seemed to have it well in hand, anyway, and the carters seemed more concerned with cash values than with pride or status, which would make it easier to resolve.

Trijn paused at the top of the stairs, looked back at the busy room. “Will Coindarel be a help or a hindrance?”

“You asked for him,” Rathe answered, surprised, and Trijn gave a crooked smile.

“I didn’t expect to get him.”

“A help,” Rathe said.

Trijn nodded. “I’ll expect you to deal with him as need be.”

“I can do that,” Rathe said. Or rather, Eslingen could.

“What about your magist friend,” Trijn asked. “Can we press him into service, too?”

Rathe grimaced. “He’s a necromancer, Chief. And the phytomancers have been singularly reluctant to involve themselves with the Alphabet.”

“Any chance of him prodding them a bit? Or finding someone else who can help? A magist’s eye couldn’t hurt.”

“I’ll send to him,” Rathe said. “It can’t hurt to ask.” He shook himself. “If you’ll excuse me, Chief, there’s some work I need to do.”

Trijn lifted an eyebrow. “There’s something we can do?”

“I thought I’d look through my copy of the Alphabet, see if I can identify any of the arrangements at the theatre,” Rathe answered.

“Not until they’ve left for the day,” Trijn said sharply. “We don’t want him to know he’s suspect–that’s about the only advantage we do have.”

Rathe nodded, and turned into his workroom. The stove had gone out, this time, and he shouted for a runner, settled himself at his table while the girl brought kindling and made up the fire. He scribbled the note to b’Estorr as she worked, hardly knowing what to ask, except his help–but the magist understood as well as anyone what was happening, he told himself. He would find someone to help, if he couldn’t do it himself. The girl took the folded paper cheerfully, returned a few minutes later with the word that she’d sent one of the others to carry it to the university. She brought a pot of tea as well, sweet and smoky, thick with the candied rind of summer fruits, and Rathe sipped at it gratefully as he paged through the Alphabet. The trouble was, he thought, there was too much there, too many possibilities. It seemed as though every other story dealt with lost love, and the arrangements that matched them were all equally dangerous, in the right measure. And the one thing that was missing was the way to undo an arrangement without disrupting it–his own experience had been painful enough; he hated to think of what would happen if they tried to destroy Aubine’s arrangements without first rendering them harmless. There had to have been a dozen of them, onstage and in the theatre itself, when he was last at the Tyrseia.

There had to be a way to undo the arrangements, some way safely to neutralize their power, even without knowing the key flower. The Alphabet, of course, didn’t indicate which one that might be in any arrangement, and simply disrupting an arrangement was far too dangerous, as he had learned to his pain. No one would create this dangerous magistry without providing a better safeguard, at least for herself–proving once again, Rathe thought grimly, that Aconin had to know more than he had been telling. Surely someone at the university would know, he thought, and hoped b’Estorr would hurry with his answer. But that was going to take time, time to find the scholar, time to explain what was needed, time to find a phytomancer willing to analyze the Alphabet, time even to return to Point of Dreams… There was a knock at the door, and he looked up sharply.

“Come in.”

“Pardon, Adjunct Point.” It was one of the younger runners, bundled in a cut‑down carter’s coat wrapped tight over coat and knitted jerkin. “This is from the magist, the one you sent to.”

Rathe took the folded paper, its edges a little damp from the snow, frowning as he recognized b’Estorr’s elegant hand. It was only a few lines, and he swore under his breath as he took in the sense of them. b’Estorr was still searching for a phytomancer who was willing to take the Alphabet seriously enough to help them; if I haven’t found one by second sunrise, he finished, I’ll come myself and do what little I can.

Rathe took a deep breath and forced calm as the runner give him a wary glance. He dismissed the boy with a smile and a demming, and made himself look again at the open book. That was not the answer he had wanted, nothing like it–this was magists’ business, not something for the points–and then he shoved the thought away. There was nothing else he could do, except what he’d promised Trijn. He shook his head, turning another page, and caught his breath. It had been there all along, tucked in the plant dictionary, a simple plant, even familiar, something he’d seen now and then in the ditches at the edge of the city. The Alphabet labeled it “the Universal Panacaea,” but he knew it as hedgebroom, and salvarie. And I know where to get it, too, he thought, and shoved himself back from his table.

“Chief!”

Trijn looked up from her own work, wariness and hope warring in her expression. “Well? Has b’Estorr come?”

“No, not yet, he’s still trying to find someone who’s willing to help. He’ll be here at second sunrise, if he doesn’t find one. In any case, I may have an answer,” Rathe said. “But I have to find it, have to pick up something–there’s a plant, Chief, you may know it, hedgebroom–”

Trijn nodded, but he rushed on anyway, turning the book to show the illustration, wanting to be sure.

“Tall, rangy, pale blue autumn‑blooming flowers.”

“I know it,” Trijn said. “Go on.”

“The Alphabet calls it the Panacea, it should neutralize any magistical arrangement–”

“But who in Metenere’s name saves hedgebroom?” Trijn demanded. “It’s a weed. Gods, Rathe, the last of it bloomed two months ago.”

“Aubine will have it,” Rathe said with sudden certainty. “Anyone who knows the Alphabet this intimately will grow it, just in case of accident.”

“That hardly helps us,” Trijn said.

Rathe nodded. “I wasn’t proposing to ask him for it–or the university, either, I doubt they’d grow it. I know someone else who may have it.”

Trijn paused, staring, then nodded. “Go. I’ll deal with b’Estorr, if–when he comes.”

It wasn’t a long walk to the Corants Basin, but the snow was in his face the whole way, a fine, stinging mist that caught in his hair and scarf in spite of the cap pulled low on his ears. The top of the Chain Tower was dark against the snowy sky, the banner at its peak pulled straight out by the wind. His mother’s house was closed tight, but lamplight showed in the gaps between the shutters, and when he knocked, he heard the faint sound of music. It stopped instantly, and a moment later a young woman opened the door. Not an apprentice, he thought automatically, and wondered if it was her he had heard singing.

“I need to see Caro Rathe,” he said, and the girl’s eyes widened with recognition.

“You must be her son. Come in.”

“Thank you.” Rathe followed her down the long hall toward the stillroom that stood opposite the kitchen, surprised as always that his mother’s friends saw any resemblance between them. It wasn’t physical, couldn’t be–they were very different, bar a few tricks of voice and gesture–but somehow his mother’s friends seemed to know he was her child.

The stillroom was warm, a hearty fire roaring in the stove, and the scent of lavender warred with the homelier smells of a slow‑cooking dinner on the kitchen fire. His mother looked up from her place at the long workbench, surprise and pleasure turning to wariness as she studied his face.

“What is it, Nico?”

Rathe shook his head. “Nothing amiss, or at least not with us, anyone we know. But I need your help.”

Caro nodded, wiping her hands on her apron, and set aside the heavy brass mortar. “Name it.”

“Did you dry and keep hedgebroom this year?” Rathe held his breath for the answer;. saw Caro blink in surprise, and relaxed only when she nodded.

“Some, yes. Why?”

“May I take it?” Rathe was scanning the bunches that hung from the ceiling as he spoke, and Caro frowned.

“Yes, I suppose–but why? I keep it for Dame Ramary, you know.”

“Sorry.” Rathe shook his head, getting his own impatience under control with an effort. “It’s the theatre murders, I think I know who’s doing it, and why.” He reached into his pocket, brought out the red‑bound Alphabet, and opened it to the right page. “I am right, this is hedgebroom, isn’t it?”

Caro accepted the book, nodding slowly as she read through the text. “Yes, that’s hedgebroom, all right, salvarie they call it out west and by the coast. I’ve never heard of it as a panacea, though.”

“Magistical, not medicinal,” Rathe said.

“Obviously. But I haven’t known any magists to use it, either.”

“Sorry,” Rathe said again, and took a breath. “I’m–we’re not able to do the things we should do, to stop the man, and I’m trying to find other ways.”

“Does this have anything to do with Grener’s death?” Caro asked, and Rathe nodded.

“I think so. Well, I’m certain, but I don’t have the evidence to call a point. Yet.”

“Poor Grener,” Caro said, and rose from her stool, walking along the long beams where the dried plants hung in bundles. “Here’s what I have,” she said at last. “Is it enough?”

The bundle she lifted from the hook looked meager enough, barely a dozen stalks bound with a loop of string. The stems were brittle, their rich green faded almost to the pallor of straw, and only a few of the flowers remained. They, too, had faded, were no longer the startling blue that caught the eye at the end of summer. But at least they are there, Rathe thought. Assuming, that is, that it’s the flowers that are important.

“Which is the active part?” he asked, and Caro smiled, this time with approval.

“It’s all active, actually, at least for what I do. You boil the stems and leaves to make a decoction, or you can use the leaves in a tea. The flowers can go in the tea as well–they have a sharper taste–or you can use them alone. Dame Ramary tops her small‑cakes with them, the savory ones, serves them for her eyes.”

“That’s something,” Rathe said, and hoped the same would hold true for its magistical power. He glanced around, looking for some easy way to carry the bundle, and his mother stepped forward, plucked a single stalk from among the tangle. She tucked it into the front of his coat, a poor man’s posy, and stepped back.

“If it’s good against this murderer’s work, I want you wearing it.”

“Thank you,” Rathe said, knowing the words were inadequate, and Caro looked away, stooped to rummage blindly in the bins below the shelves that held her tools.

“Here,” she said at last, and held out a linen bag. “And be careful.”

Rathe took it, tucking the bundle of plants carefully inside, and slipped the ties over his belt. “I will,” he said, and hoped he could keep the promise.

Eslingen took a careful breath, watching the last of the chorus–his trainees–make their way off the stage. They still weren’t perfect, and he’d be ashamed to lead them in a proper drill, but at least they wouldn’t disgrace themselves on the day. Even as he thought that, one of the landseurs tripped, dropping his half‑pike with a clatter and nearly bringing down the man following him, and Eslingen couldn’t restrain a groan.

“Don’t worry,” Siredy said softly. “It’ll be all right tomorrow.”

Eslingen gave him a glance, and the other man managed a smile.

“Better to get that over with today, right?”

“If you say so.” Eslingen winced as another landseur stumbled over his own toes.

“Trust me,” Siredy said. “Let them get the worst over with now, and they’ll be fine tomorrow.”

“I hope so,” Eslingen answered. That was the last scene for which the masters had responsibility, and he allowed himself a sigh of relief as the actors playing Ramani’s henchmen made their entrance. Just the aftermath of the battle to get through, and the final scene, the restoration of the palatine, and then the massed chorus performing the final valediction. At least he didn’t have anything to do with that, he thought, and looked away as Aubine moved past them, a trug filled with flowers and greenery tucked over his arm. Eslingen had been doing his best to stay away from the landseur, and he was careful not to meet his eye this time, trying not to shiver at the thought of what the flowers in the trug might be capable of doing. So far, everything had been excruciatingly normal, Aubine busy in the corners, adding and subtracting stalks, culling blooms that had passed their prime, and more than once Eslingen had wondered if Rathe had gotten it right after all. Surely no one plotting something this outrageous could be so calm–and yet it was the only answer that fit.

Siredy touched his arm, and he jumped, met Siredy’s amused smile with a grimace.

“Let’s go out front,” the other master said. “You haven’t had a chance to see how it’ll play.”

Eslingen followed the other man back behind the backpiece and out the actors’ entrance into the hall, where the theatre’s doorman sat in solitary silence, a jug of ale at his side. Siredy rolled his eyes at that, and Eslingen nodded, making a face at the sour smell of beer rolling off the man. Drinking off his tips, most likely, he thought, all the bribes he’d earned for carrying messages and gifts–and telling tales to the broadsheets, probably–and he suppressed the unworthy urge to kick over the jug as he passed. Only one more night, anyway, one more night to watch and keep the stagehouse safe, and after that, the man could do as he pleased.

Siredy brought them out not into the pit, but into the two‑seilling seats in the first gallery, not the best seats–those were in the royal box, directly above–but certainly better than anything Eslingen had ever been able to afford. He had not seen the stage fully dressed, and caught his breath at the sight, impressed in spite of himself. To either side, the versatiles displayed the walls of de Galhac’s palace, with the mountains sloping away to a narrow valley in the distance. The actors stood well downstage, clothes gleaming in the light of the practicals, all their attention focused on the two ragged messengers who had brought the news of the palatine’s victory. De Galhac was overthrown, despite her armies and her magic, and the palatine stood in her palace, the rightful monarch restored. Eslingen shook his head in wonder, not really hearing the words–he’d heard them too many times already to be more than vaguely conscious of their rhythms– wondering instead how the play would look without the masque’s trappings overlaid on it. After all, de Galhac might have lost, but she was definitely the center of the play, the best part, or bes’Hallen would never have consented to play it; the second best part was Ramani, and the palatine was a poor third, not a villain, but not nearly as compelling as the other two. But it was the formal shape of the play that mattered, at least for the purposes of the masque: the rightful ruler was restored, and that was enough.

The practicals’ light glittered on the palatine’s crown, and she bent to accept a sheaf of snow‑white flowers from the highest ranking of the chorus. That was another magistical gesture, Eslingen knew, symbolic submission to the royal will and authority, and he leaned forward against the railing as the palatine finished her final speech. The chorus glided onstage behind her, the professional musicians hidden offstage already beginning the anthem, and he shook his head, amazed in spite of himself at the spectacle unfolding in front of him. This was the moment for which the chorus had been waiting, for which they had spent hundreds of crowns of their own money, and the rich fabrics caught the light, real gold and silver and gems outshining the paste jewels that decorated the actors’ costumes. By comparison, the two huge flower arrangements, one at each side of the forestage, looked almost drab, their colors drained by the glitter. The other arrangements looked normal, though, Eslingen thought, craning his head to see them all–great bunches of them hanging from the side boxes, another pair of massive arrangements set on the floor in front of the stage itself–and he wondered for an instant if he was seeing some manifestation of Aubine’s magistry. Then the light changed, subtly, and the moment was past. The chorus began its part of the song, voices swelling in an ancient litany. It was older than the masque itself, had been sung for the monarch at midwinter since time immemorial, and Siredy leaned back, sighing.

“It’ll play,” he said, and Eslingen wondered if the other master was trying to convince himself.

“What happens once the masque is done? To the play, I mean.”

Siredy reached across to tap one of the carved acorns that decorated the side of the box. “Tyrseis willing, we all take a week’s holiday, and then Mathiee announces a new version of The Alphabet of Desire–opening around the twenty‑fifth of Serpens, probably, that’ll give us about three weeks to pull all the extraneous stuff out of it and make any changes. Assuming that Aconin deigns to put in an appearance, that is.” He paused, gave the other man a curious look. “You don’t think Aconin killed all these people, do you?”

Eslingen shook his head. “I don’t.”

“Then where is he?”

Hiding, if he knows what’s good for him. Eslingen said, “I wish I knew. He could answer a few questions, I think, if he were here.”

Siredy gave him another sideways glance. “I hear the points are looking for him.”

I wouldn’t know. Eslingen killed the lie, knowing it wouldn’t be believed, said instead, “Even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you. You know that, Verre.”

Siredy grinned. “True enough. I can’t help asking, though.” Onstage, the chorus was coming to an end, and he straightened, sighing. “Come on. Mathiee’s bound to have some last notes for us, and then I’m for home.”

They came back to the stage through the all but empty pit, passing a trio of chamberlains huddled in final conference, and threaded their way through the sudden crowd backstage, found themselves at last beside the left‑hand wave. Duca was there, too, scowling to hide his own nervousness, and he beckoned them close.

“I saw you in the boxes. How’d it look?”

“Good,” Eslingen said, and Siredy nodded in agreement.

“It’ll play, Master Duca.”

“It had better,” Duca answered.

Gasquine had detached herself at last from the chamberlains, and made her way onto the stage, the bookholder calling for attention. The hum of conversation quieted, even the chorus falling silent almost at once, and Gasquine took her place center stage, lifting her hands.

“My ladies, my lords, all my fellows.” She paused, and then smiled suddenly, like the true sun rising. “What is there to say? We’re ready–go home, get a good night’s sleep, and be back here tomorrow at the stroke of nine.”

Eslingen blinked, startled, and Siredy grinned. “Well, that’s a good sign. Come on, Philip, I’m for the baths. Why don’t you join me?”

It was tempting, and Eslingen wished that the masque was all he had to worry about. “Sorry,” he said, “I’m promised elsewhere.”

Siredy nodded without offense. “Your pointsman, I’m sure. Another time, then.”

“Another time,” Eslingen echoed, and let himself be drawn into the stream of people leaving the theatre.

To his surprise, the square in front of the Tyrseia was less crowded than usual–or rather, he amended, the crowds were restricted to the far side of the area, by the tavern, and a bonfire burned in the center of the square, the snowflakes hissing as they landed in the flames. There were figures around the fire, familiar shapes, men with pikes and muskets and the queen’s white sash bright in the firelight, and he stopped abruptly, shaking his head. It looked like Coindarel’s badge, his regiment, or what was left of it, but the last he’d heard, they’d been quartered in the Western Reach, near the queen’s palace. What were they doing here, set out as what looked like a perimeter guard around the theatre?

“Philip!”

Eslingen turned at the sound of the familiar voice, his mood lightening in spite of everything, and Rathe hurried to join him, picking his way carefully over the snow‑slicked cobbles. “What’s Coindarel doing here?” he asked, and Rathe took his arm, drawing him deeper into the shadows.

“A favor to Astreiant. Trijn asked if we could have them, if they would guard the theatre.”

“Not a bad idea. Though she might have asked for a magist or three.”

Rathe made a face. “We tried that. We haven’t got one yet.”

“Damn.” The wind was cold, driving the snow under the edges of his cloak, and Eslingen shivered. “So what now?”

“Yeah.” Rathe made a face. He was wrapped in a heavy cloak as well, more, Eslingen suspected, to hide the truncheon than to cut the wind. “Well, now we wait, make sure everyone’s left, and then– then we try spiking Aubine’s guns.” He grinned suddenly. “I think that’s the proper phrase.”

“Depends on what you have in mind.”

“I’ll tell you inside,” Rathe answered, his eyes shifting, and Eslingen turned to confront a familiar figure.

“Lieutenant Eslingen.”

The words were cool, and Eslingen braced himself for insult or worse: Connat Bathias was the real thing, a true twelve‑quarter noble, and not likely to suffer his usurpation of a title.

“Pardon me, vaan Esling. I understand your family has claimed you now.”

Eslingen frowned, suspicious, but the tone and the expression on the other man’s face was pleasant enough, and he decided to take them at face value. “I’m dealing with nobles, Captain. Better they think I’m one of them, when I don’t have the regiment to back me.”

Bathias nodded, soberly still, but without hostility, and looked back at Rathe. “The doorkeeper says they’ve all gone, Adjunct Point.”

Rathe nodded. “And the landseur Aubine?”

“Gone with them, I would assume,” Bathias answered, and Eslingen turned, hearing the sound of a carriage pulling away from the theatre.

“There’s his coach.”

“Right.” Rathe took a deep breath. “Let’s go, then.”

The actors’ door was closed, a soldier leaning at his ease against the painted wood. He straightened to something like attention at their approach, and Eslingen’s eyes narrowed. Six months ago, he would have had the right to give the man the lecture he deserved; as it was, he frowned, said nothing, and had the satisfaction of seeing the man pull himself to rights.

“You’re sure everyone’s gone?” Rathe asked, and the soldier nodded.

“The doorkeeper said so, and then the sergeant and I took a quick look around. No one there.”

“Good enough,” Rathe said, and pulled open the door. Eslingen hesitated–the theatre was a warren of passages, had too many odd corners for a “quick look” to be sufficient–then shrugged away his doubts, and followed Rathe into the broad tunnel. It was dark, but the simple mage‑lights were still lit over the stage, casting enough light to let them pick their way into the main body of the theatre. It was very quiet, the air utterly still, and cold now as the building emptied, and Eslingen could just hear the faint hiss of the snow on the canvas roof far overhead.

“So what are we going to do?” he asked after a moment, and realized he had spoken in a near‑whisper.

Rathe untangled himself from his cloak, and held out a crumpled linen bag. “I found something in the Alphabet, a panacea–it’s a plant, hedgebroom, I’ve also heard it called–that can neutralize any and all of these arrangements.” He smiled then, wryly. “At least, it’s supposed to. I thought we could begin by slipping a few stalks into each of these big arrangements.”

“Spiking the guns,” Eslingen said with new understanding. “Nico, a spiked gun explodes if you try to use it–”

“Let’s hope the analogy isn’t that accurate, then,” Rathe answered. He looked around, eyes widening as he took in the changed scenery. “Where do we start?”

“I suppose the big ones at the front of the stage,” Eslingen said after a moment. “I’m sure they were the ones that operated against the landames.”

“Right, then,” Rathe said, looking around for the short steps that had stood in the pit, and Eslingen shook his head.

“Not there, not with the performance so close. We’ll have to go through the stagehouse.”

Rathe nodded, and Eslingen led the way through the actors’ door, its carvings so closely matched to the wall around it that it was almost impossible to see. It was dark backstage as well, just the trio of mage‑lights glowing on the stage itself, and Eslingen paused for a moment, letting his eyes adjust.

“This way,” he said after a moment, and stepped into the light.

The blow caught him by surprise, a soundless explosion, as though he’d walked headlong into an invisible wall. He swore, startled, and his breath caught in his throat, as though the air itself had gone suddenly thick. Too thick to breathe, he thought, fingers going to his stock, and he stumbled to his knees, fighting for air. He choked, his mouth suddenly full of water, the bitter water of the Sier itself, and he looked up, searching for Rathe, but saw only the carved shape of The Drowned Island’swave, looming overhead. He spat, but his mouth filled again in an instant, sight failing now, as though the water was rising inside his body, an impossible tide covering his eyes. This had to be how de Raзan had died, he realized, realized, too, that there had to be flowers somewhere, and reached for them, willing to chance the lightning if only he could breathe again. His fingers scrabbled across bare boards, found nothing, and he wrenched his stock loose, lungs frozen, aching. If he breathed, he knew they would fill with water, and he would hold his breath as long as he could, fight somehow toward the surface of this impossible river, but he could feel the property ice below the stage, changing its nature and rising to cover him, trapping him in The Drowned Island’sfrozen Sier. In the distance, he could hear Rathe calling his name, but he had no breath to answer, no strength left for anything at all.

And then, miraculously, the pressure eased, and he spat out the last mouthful of river water, drew a whooping breath, coughed, and breathed again, his head hanging between his shoulders.

“Gods, Philip.” Rathe was beside him, kneeling on the bare, dry stage, and as Eslingen moved, Rathe wrapped an arm around his shoulders, one hand tightening on his arm. “Are you all right? Can you breathe?”

“Yes.” Eslingen coughed again, the taste of the Sier still filling his mouth, and Rathe thumped him on the back. “Seidos’s Horse. Was it–?”

He broke off, not quite knowing what his question was– was it the Alphabet, was it your plant that stopped it–and Rathe nodded. He was very pale, Eslingen saw, and he shifted to grip the other man’s hand.

“I’m all right,” he said, and Rathe nodded again.

“I think we know how de Raзan died,” he said, and his voice was less steady than his words.

Eslingen shivered, the memory too raw, and in spite of himself looked up again at the looming wave. “I saw that,” he said, “but I was–drowning–first. The wave just made it easier to believe. Like the ice.”

“Ice?” Rathe asked, and Eslingen nodded to the boards that covered the wave troughs.

“Under the stage. For the final scene. I was trying–to swim to the surface, I suppose, but the ice came over me, and held me down.”

“Sofia,” Rathe breathed, the word a prayer.

“But it didn’t touch you?” Eslingen pushed himself up, sat back on his heels, working his shoulders. His ribs would be sore in the morning, he thought, inconsequentially, but it was better than the alternative.

“No.” Rathe released his hands, visibly shook himself back to business. “I’m not completely sure why–I could feel it, like a current, like the river, but it wasn’t dragging me under. Maybe it was this.” He touched the breast of his coat, where a single ragged flower hung limply from a buttonhole.

“The panacea,” Eslingen said, and Rathe nodded.

“Plus you were first onto the stage. You crossed between the arrangements, they may have been meant to catch the first one through.”

Eslingen looked where the other man was pointing, saw two small vases tucked at the bases of the nearest versatiles. They were almost pretty, pink cormflowers and pale yellow sweethearts wound about with a strand of the heavy vine that grew wild along the riverbank, and he shook his head, unable to believe that such a small thing could have nearly drowned him. But they had, he knew, seeing the stalks of hedgebroom tucked haphazardly among the flowers. Only the panacea had stopped them.

“I’ve been told more than once my stars are bad for water,” he said thoughtfully.

“And I grew up swimming in the Sier,” Rathe said. “If my stars would drown me, I’d’ve been dead long ago. It could make a difference.”

Eslingen nodded. “Those weren’t here when I left,” he said.

“I don’t doubt it,” Rathe answered, and pushed himself to his feet, a haunted look on his face. He held out his hand, and Eslingen let himself be drawn upright, wincing again at the ache in his ribs. He felt bloated, as though he’d swallowed gallons of river water, hoped the feeling would pass soon.

“Philip, we have a problem.” Rathe held up the linen bag, turned it upside down so that a few strands of fiber fell to the stage floor, a leaf and part of a stem and a few petals from a flower. Automatically, Eslingen stooped to collect them, tucked them into his pocket. “It took everything I had, everything my mother had saved, just to stop this one trap. I don’t have anything left to spike the other arrangements.”

Eslingen blinked, trying to focus. “What if we take these two apart, now that they’re neutralized, save the panacea and use it in the big arrangements?”

Rathe shook his head. “There’s not enough. I don’t know if it’s because it’s dried, not fresh like the flowers, but it took half a dozen stalks in each arrangement to make it safe. It’ll take more to neutralize those big arrangements, and Dis only knows what else he’ll have waiting for us.”

Eslingen looked down at the twin vases, the pale delicate flowers wound with vines and spiked with the furry stems of the panacea. “So what do we do?” he asked, and Rathe met his eyes squarely.

“Hedgebroom’s long past, it dies over the winter, and we won’t find any in the ditches, or anywhere else, for that matter. But Aubine will have it. If he’s playing with these powers, he will grow it, and in quantity.”

“You can’t think he’ll just give it to you,” Eslingen said, appalled.

“Not likely.” Rathe managed a faint, unhappy grin. “But he’s got four succession houses. He can’t be in all of them at once.”

Eslingen blinked again, wondering if the near drowning had affected his hearing. Surely Rathe couldn’t be suggesting that they rob the landseur’s house–succession houses, he corrected himself. Not with Aubine presumably at home, along with all his household… “It’s not going to work,” he said, and Rathe scowled.

“I’m open to better ideas, believe me.”

“I wish I had one.” Eslingen looked down at the flowers again, and shivered as though the icy waters had soaked him to the skin. In a way they had, he thought; he could still feel their touch beneath his skin, in his lungs and guts, and he shuddered again, thinking of de Raзan. “Poor bastard. A nasty way to die.”

“Are you with me?” Rathe demanded, and Eslingen nodded.

“Oh, yes, I’m with you. But let’s see if we can’t find a more practical way to steal a landseur’s plants.”

“Maybe if one of us provides a diversion,” Rathe said without much hope.

Eslingen shrugged. “We’ll see when we get there.”

12

« ^ »

aubine’s house stood still and silent, only a few servants’ lights showing between the shutters, and Rathe drew a careful breath, hoping that was a good sign. Most of the other houses on the avenue were shuttered as well, against the snow and against the long night. The winter‑sun had not yet risen, and the street was very dark, just a few lamps burning at doorkeepers’ boxes, casting more shadows than light. He touched Eslingen’s shoulder, drawing him farther into the shadow of the house opposite, out of sight of the nearest box. With any luck, he thought, the watchman would be tucked up in the warmest corner, his feet firmly planted on his box of coals. Midwinter Eve was no time for thievery, bad luck in the professionals’ eyes, and even Astreiant’s most desperate poor could find shelter at the temples and hospitals. As they passed close to a shuttered window, feet slurring in the snow that was beginning to drift against the foundation, he heard faint music, a cittern inexpertly played.

They skirted the last box successfully, and drew together in the shadow of the stable wall to study their approach. Their breath left clouds in the cold air, and Eslingen rubbed his gloved hands together, hunching his shoulders under his cloak. Still chilled from the drowning spell, Rathe thought, and hoped the effect would pass off soon.

“Over the wall, do you think?” Eslingen asked softly, his voice muffled further by the thin snowfall, and Rathe tipped his head back to study the structure. Ordinarily, it wouldn’t be impossible to climb; the stones had been well fitted, but there were cracks and projections that would take feet and hands, and the spikes at the top would merely require extra care. Tonight, however, with the snow, it would be much more difficult, take more time and risk discovery, and he shook his head slowly.

“I don’t know that we can. Tell me, how would you storm the place?”

“With a company at my back, for one thing,” Eslingen answered, and Rathe saw his teeth gleam as he smiled. “Seidos, I’m not sure. Distract the guard, for one thing, and get you over the wall to open the gate.”

Rathe glanced back at the wall. If he didn’t have to worry about the watchman, he could probably do it, and he nodded. “All right. What did you have in mind for a distraction?”

“What about a drunken noble who can’t find his way to his lodging?” Eslingen answered. “I’ll let him set me on the right road, and then slip back and join you.”

“Thin,” Rathe said, and realized he was quoting Astreiant. He made a face, looking again at the relative positions of the gate and the watchman’s box. It might be possible–just possible–for Eslingen to pass along the wall itself without attracting attention, and if he had the door open by then… “But I guess it’ll have to do,” he said aloud, and Eslingen nodded, stooping to collect a handful of snow.

“No time like the present,” he said, and flung the snowball at the box. It hit with a soft thump, not enough to wake the neighbors, but certainly enough to jar the doorkeeper, and Eslingen stepped out into the middle of the street. There was no response from the box, and Rathe frowned. Sleeping off too much drink? That was more likely tomorrow night, when the household presents were traditionally given. He saw Eslingen bend again, brushing snow aside to come up with a pebble. The soldier shied it accurately at the box, and it hit with a clatter that made Rathe look reflexively over his shoulder at the nearest house, but still nothing moved in the box.

Eslingen looked back at him, gave an exaggerated shrug, and stepped up to the doorway, leaning inside for a moment before he backed away.

“Nico!”

Eslingen’s voice was low, wouldn’t carry more than a yard beyond where Rathe stood, but the pointsman winced anyway. Eslingen beckoned urgently, and Rathe moved to join him, scowling.

“What–?”

“Look.” Eslingen took a step backward, and Rathe peered through the open doorway. The watchman was curled into the warmest corner, all right, wrapped in a heavy blanket that smelled faintly and pleasantly of horses, his feet propped up on the warming box that was making its presence felt in the confined space, but he was sound asleep, head down on his chest. Eslingen tapped sharply on the door frame, enough to wake the soundest sleeper, and Rathe ducked back out of sight, cursing under his breath. The watchman didn’t move.

“So what’s wrong with him?” Eslingen asked.

Rathe shook his head. Sleep like this wasn’t natural, not in a watchman, chosen as they were for nocturnal stars to be the sort of folk who lay wakeful all night, and he stepped into the box before he could change his mind, letting his coat fall back so that his truncheon showed at his belt.

“Here, now,” he said, and grabbed the watchman’s shoulder, shaking him lightly. The watchman’s head rolled back, releasing a sort of snore, but his eyes stayed firmly shut. The blanket slipped down from his shoulder, and Rathe caught his breath, seeing the posy pinned to the watchman’s coat. “Gods. Philip, look at this.”

The light dimmed as Eslingen leaned closer, and he heard the other man whisper a curse. “Aubine’s work.”

Rathe nodded, and eased the watchman back into his corner, careful to draw the blanket up around him again. The hot coals and the man’s own body heat would keep the box warm enough that he shouldn’t freeze, sheltered as he was from the wind and the snow.

“I suppose he wanted to be free to work, without the danger of witnesses,” he said aloud, and turned to go. Eslingen stepped out of his way, fell in at his shoulder as Rathe turned to the main gate.

“You’re not just going to pick the lock, right here on the open street.”

“Why not?” Rathe managed a grin, reaching into his purse for the set of picks he carried with him. “Look, if anyone’s watching, which I doubt, they saw us go to the box, speak to the doorkeeper, and come out with the key.” He slipped the first pick into the ancient lock, nodded with satisfaction as the wards slid home under his probing. “And here we are.”

Eslingen shook his head, grinning. “And you an honest pointsman, too.”

Rathe returned the smile briefly, closing the gate again behind them. When he had been to the succession houses before, he had been taken through the main house–not really a practical option just now, he thought, but the glasshouses stood separate from the main building, in a courtyard of their own. With any luck, the alley between the stables and the house would lead there, but that road passed one of the few lit and unshuttered windows. No hope for it, he thought, and pointed to the passage.

“This way.”

He saw Eslingen’s eyebrows rise, but the other man followed him obediently enough, scuffing his feet to blur their tracks. The snow of the courtyard looked almost untouched, Rathe saw, and wondered what the household was doing. As they came closer to the window, Eslingen caught his shoulder, pulling him back until he could whisper in Rathe’s ear.

“Duck down low, and hope for the best?”

Rathe shook his head, frowning. There was no sound from the stable, none of the usual murmur of voices that went with the flickering lamplight, click of dice or the slap of cards–not even the stamp and shifting of the horses, he realized, and took a quick step forward, peering in the window. The glass was bubbled, and the stove’s warmth had fogged the pane, but he wiped a corner clear, ignoring Eslingen’s hiss of protest.

It was the tackroom, he realized at once, the walls festooned with harness and brasses, all in various stages of repair. Four grooms sat slumped around the rough‑hewn table, lamp burning brightly in its center, cards and a handful of demmings scattered around it. A fifth groom was frankly asleep in the far corner, rolled into a horse’s traveling rug, and Rathe straightened, clearing a wider patch of glass. A small vase of flowers, pink bells and sallewort, stood on a shelf between the cans of oil and harness grease.

“They’re all asleep, too,” he murmured, and Eslingen leaned over his shoulder, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Why? What’s the point?”

“So no one can bear witness, I suppose,” Rathe said grimly.

“Or so they can’t be blamed,” Eslingen said, and Rathe looked at him.

“You think well of him.”

It wasn’t a question, and Eslingen made an embarrassed face. “I don’t condone the murders, believe me. But–yes, I liked him, Nico. And he’s always been good to his people.” He paused, seemed to read Rathe’s next question in his face. “And it won’t stop me from helping you call the point on him, don’t worry about that.”

“I wasn’t,” Rathe answered, but he was relieved all the same. He turned, glancing at the higher, unshuttered windows of the main house. “I suppose he’s done the same to the rest of the household.”

“I’d bet on it,” Eslingen answered, and reached up to chin himself on the windowsill, scattering snow in fluffy clumps. He shook his head as he landed. “I couldn’t quite see.”

“Give me a hand,” Rathe said, and Eslingen obediently braced himself, offering bent knee and cupped hands. Rathe chose the knee, and stepped up, clinging to the sill. This window was frosted, too, and he rubbed a little of the ice away, peering through the gap. The hall was dark, but in the faint light of the fading fire, he could see a woman curled in the settle, a child–Bice, he remembered, the girl who had first escorted him through the house–snuggled in her lap. They looked like any sleeping family, mother and child, except that there was a huge arrangement of flowers, at least three times the size of the one in the stables, looming like a pale shadow on the sideboard. He dropped back to the snowy cobbles, and knew he was shivering with more than cold.

“Yeah, they’re all asleep there, too, or at least what I can see of them.” He saw the same unease he felt reflected in Eslingen’s face, and went on more roughly, “Let’s go. At least we know no one’s going to bother us.”

“Unless Aubine’s home,” Eslingen answered, and Rathe grimaced.

“Let’s hope not.” But if he isn’t, where is he? he wondered, and then shoved the thought aside. Time enough for that after they’d gathered enough hedgebroom to neutralize the theatre arrangements.

The glasshouses almost filled the courtyard, unlit now, but steaming gently from the warmth within. There was no snow on the roofs, but the eaves dripped softly, their puddles hardening to ice as they flowed away from the glass walls. Rathe slipped on one and swore, catching himself against Eslingen’s shoulder, and both men stepped more carefully after that, watching the ground as well as the overshadowing buildings.

“Seidos’s Horse,” Eslingen said under his breath, and shook his head. “Four of them?”

“I thought you knew,” Rathe said.

“I suppose I’d heard, but I thought…” The ex‑soldier shook his head again. “I suppose I thought they were smaller, or something. Not like this.”

“One for each season,” Rathe said, and narrowed his eyes, remembering. The glasshouse where he’d spoken to Aubine had been filled with summer plants; logically, the autumn house should be the one to its left. He reached for his picks, worked the lock with ease, and opened the door into the unexpected warmth of an autumn evening. He heard Eslingen swear again, softly, and shut the door behind them, sealing out the cold wind. There should be lamps ready to hand, Rathe knew, and found them almost at once, tucked neatly beneath the nearest bench, flint and tinder ready to hand. It was just where his mother would have left them, just where any gardener would have put them, and he shook his head. How could anyone who had made these houses and the nurturing of so many plants and species his lifework have murdered five people? The one didn’t follow, he knew, and he shoved the thought aside, concentrated on lighting the candles in the narrow lanterns. They were both sturdy, practical things, each with a metal hood and a glass door to shed the light, incongruous with the good candles they held, and he smiled in spite of himself. Only someone as rich as Aubine would use wax instead of tallow. He shook that thought away, too, and handed one lantern to Eslingen.

“You know what we’re looking for,” he said, and forced himself to speak in a normal voice. “You take the right‑hand aisle.”

“Right,” Eslingen said, and lifted his lantern.

Rathe nodded, and turned away, lifting his own lantern to throw more light on the narrow aisle between the benches. Aubine was true to his seasonal theme, he thought. The central bench was lower than the others, and the long trays were filled with the tall flowers of the harvest, daymare and connis and horsetail and collyflag, their stems confined by a lattice of string. Surely the hedgebroom would be there, he thought, but to be sure he searched the left‑hand bench as well. It was crowded with smaller plants, creepers and dwarfed shrubs studded with berries, and he caught the sweet smell of honeyvine as his coat brushed against a spill of leaves. So many, he thought. How will we ever find hedgebroom among all this?

And then he saw it, the first stand of it, tucked into a heavy stone pot as big as a washerwoman’s cauldron, the stems poking free of the string, flowers bright even in the wavering candlelight. There were more pots of it, too, a haphazard selection of clay and stone and even a wooden half barrel, as though Aubine had pressed every available container into service to make sure he had enough of the panacea. And very wise, too, Rathe thought, and I’m in the peculiar position of being grateful to him for his foresight. He glanced around, found a clear space on the opposite bench, and set the lantern there, reaching for his knife to begin the harvest. .

“Philip–”

“Nico! Over here!”

There was a note in Eslingen’s voice that stopped the pointsman in his tracks, and he resheathed his knife, moving to join the other man. His voice had come from the back of the house, and he rounded the last pot of hedgebroom to see Eslingen standing well clear of one of the long tables Aubine preferred for his workbench. A body was laid out there, arms folded across its chest–Aconin’s body, Rathe realized, and in the same instant saw the playwright’s chest move. So, not dead, but deep asleep, more deeply even than the watchman or the household servants. There were flowers at his head and feet, two plain, alabaster vases filled with greenery and a single weeping branch from a familiar tree. Both were heavily in bloom, studded with flowers only a little smaller than a man’s palm, each streaked with pink and red.

“Love’s‑a‑bleeding,” Eslingen said, and gave a shaky laugh. “Even I know that one.”

Rathe nodded. Each of the flowers looked vaguely like a tear‑streaked face; in the shifting candlelight, it was as though a hundred mourners wept for Aconin. “Lad’s‑love, we call it,” he said. A snatch of an old song ran through his head, incongruous– lad’s love is full of folly, sorry tears, and no tomorrow; maid’s love is true and gay, full of laughter all the day–and he shook it away.

“He’s not dead,” Eslingen said, and his voice was suddenly hard and cold. “I say we leave him–we’ll know where to find him when it’s over.”

Rathe hesitated–it was a tempting thought–then shook his head. “We can’t. Think, Philip–you yourself said Aconin knows more than he’s telling, he’s our best evidence against Aubine. Gods, he’s our only evidence, as it stands, he’s the only person who can say it was Aubine who bespelled him.”

“If he can,” Eslingen said.

Rathe sighed. That was true, there was always the chance that Aconin had been taken by surprise, had no idea who had attacked him and left him here… “No,” he said aloud. “He has to know more than that. He wouldn’t have been attacked if he didn’t.”

Eslingen nodded. “All right. But how do we break this?” He waved a cautious hand toward the flowers in their twin vases.

Rathe hesitated. At the theatre, all he had done was shove the stems of hedgebroom blindly into the arrangement, stabbing them haphazardly into the greenery until the pressure, the sense of the river’s waiting presence, had eased, and Eslingen had drawn a whooping breath. Too close, he thought, and forced his attention back to the matter at hand. “We have to use the panacea,” he said. “Well, we could try taking it apart, flower by flower, but I don’t know where to start.”

“And that could be crucial,” Eslingen said.

“Yeah.” Rathe reached for his knife again. “Let’s try the hedgebroom.”

Eslingen followed him with only a single glance over his shoulder to where the playwright lay in solitary splendor. He had left his lantern, Rathe saw, and as he stooped to cut the hedgebroom, he saw the light flicker on the motionless body. Metenere send I’m right, he thought, and sawed through the first tough stem. He cut half a dozen, and then cut them in half, so that he and Eslingen each had six stems, each with at least a few flowers blooming on them.

“All right,” he said, sliding his knife back into its sheath. “Let’s do it.”

“Do what, exactly?” Eslingen asked, and followed the other man back to the bench where Aconin lay.

Rathe paused, studying the plants in their containers. The branches were turned so that they faced Aconin, as though that directed their power toward him and him alone. There were gaps in the foliage, too, places where another flower could easily be forced into the water, and he pointed toward the nearest. His fingers tingled as he came within a hand’s breadth of the arrangement, a nasty reminder of the other flowers in Forveijl’s dressing room, and he was careful to move his hand away before he spoke.

“What we need to do is place at least one stem of the hedgebroom into each of these arrangements–there’s a gap there, see it? But we’ll do it at the same time, and with stalks that are as similar as possible.”

Eslingen nodded, and rummaged in the little bundle of greenery, pulling out a stalk tipped with half a dozen flowers. “Will this do?”

Rathe glanced at his own sheaf of plants, found one that matched. “Yeah.” He moved toward the vase at Aconin’s head, and without being told, Eslingen mirrored the movement.

“There?” he asked, pointing to the gap, and Rathe nodded.

“Yeah. On the count of three.” He took a breath. “One. Two. Three.”

Their hands moved together, angling the stems of hedgebroom toward the gap in the arrangement, and Rathe flinched as he felt the arrangement’s power tingling in his fingers. It wasn’t as sharp as it had been in Forveijl’s dressing room, but it was definitely present, an unnatural warmth and tingling, as though he were slowly dipping his hand into hot wax. From the look on Eslingen’s face, he felt the same thing, and Rathe wished he could spare the other man an encouraging smile. The stem touched the water, and he felt a spark, like static on a winter day, and the hedgebroom slid into place with sudden ease. He looked up, knowing his eyes were wide, and saw Eslingen looking at him with the same wary certainty.

“We’ve done it,” Eslingen said, and Rathe leaned back again, reaching for the bundle of hedgebroom.

“If one is enough.”

“It’s enough,” Eslingen said, sounding suddenly assured, and before Rathe could protest, Aconin’s head rolled to one side, eyelids flickering.

“Easy,” Eslingen said, and leaned close over the table. “Easy, Chresta.”

The playwright shifted again, like a man waking from a nightmare, and his eyes fluttered fully open. “I couldn’t possibly write this,” he said, and Eslingen lifted an eyebrow.

“Are you all right?”

Aconin closed his eyes again, hard, as though they pained him, raised hands to massage his temples. “Where in Tyrseis’s name–”

He broke off, visibly recognizing his surroundings, and Eslingen snorted. “He’ll live.”

“You’re in the landseur Aubine’s autumn glasshouse,” Rathe said. “Bespelled by his flowers.”

“Now I know this is real,” Aconin said faintly, and got his elbows under him, pushing himself upright. He moved as though his entire body ached, and Rathe stifled a twinge of sympathy. Eslingen grunted and caught the playwright’s wrist, tugging him into a sitting position. Aconin winced again and turned, letting his legs dangle over the edge of the bench. “You wouldn’t feature in my dreams, Adjunct Point.”

“For which I’m grateful.” Rathe took a breath. “You’ve lied to me enough, Aconin. You can tell me now what Aubine’s planning. And why he’s left you alive.”

“Sweet Tyrseis.” Aconin shook his head, and then looked as though he wished he hadn’t. “Oh, gods, I hurt.”

“Answers,” Rathe said, and somehow Aconin dredged up a shaky laugh.

“Well, you must know some of it, or you wouldn’t be here.”

“We know Aubine is planning something at the masque,” Eslingen said brusquely. “Probably to kill whoever it is he blames for the death of his leman, using these Dis‑damned flowers.”

“We know you knew about at least some of it,” Rathe said, and stopped abruptly, remembering something Eslingen had said. “You had a working copy of the Alphabet, you must have, or Guis couldn’t have used it against me. Stolen from Aubine?”

Aconin managed another nod. “He promised it to me–it was for the play, he suggested it to me, when I said I was working on a play about de Galhac. He was right, too, it was brilliant…” His voice trailed off, and Rathe restrained the urge to shake the story out of him. If Aconin had spoken earlier, at least three people might still be alive.

“He promised me the copy,” Aconin said again. “But then when the play was written and accepted, he told me I’d have to wait until the run was over, that he didn’t trust me not to take it to the broadsheets. So I took it.”

“But he still had enough information to make all this,” Eslingen objected, waving his hand toward the arrangements, and Aconin’s eyes fell.

“He had two copies.”

“And he’s had plenty of time to practice,” Rathe said. “So why hasn’t he killed you, Aconin? He’s killed everyone else who got in his way.”

“I think I’m left to take the blame for the last murder,” Aconin said. “Or maybe all of them.” He shook his head. “I crossed him, betrayed him, by his own lights, and he doesn’t take kindly to that.”

“How long have you known about this?” Rathe asked through clenched teeth, and Aconin looked away, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Not long enough to stop it, I swear to you. Not so that you could do anything about it.”

Liar. Rathe said, “I should call a point on you, for abetting these murders.”

Aconin looked up. “And if I had said anything, I’d be dead myself a week since.”

Rathe stared at him for a long moment, mastering his anger with an effort. There was some truth to what the playwright said–but not enough, not when so many people had died. “We’ll leave that for later,” he said at last. “For now–tell me this, and tell me the truth, for once. Does Aubine mean to kill the queen?”

Aconin nodded slowly. “Yes.” As though a dam had broken, the words tumbled out. “It’s the arrangements, of course, you figured that much out, but it’s also the play, little alterations his friends will make in the lines, nothing that wouldn’t pass for a stumble, a simple mistake, but, oh, gods, deadly, deadly in the right stars and with these plants to focus the power. You must believe me, I didn’t know, I had no idea what he would do–”

“His friends?” Rathe interrupted, and Aconin drew a shuddering breath, got himself under control with an effort that wracked his slender frame.

“Yes. It’s not just him, though the arrangements, the idea, it’s all his. He’s found others who’ve lost their loves, maybe not the same way he has, but for the same reasons, the differences of station driving them apart, and he’s promised them their chance at revenge, if only they’ll help him take his. A conspiracy of lovers, all of them hurt, hurt badly–that’s why de Raзan died, you know, for treating Siredy so badly.”

“Siredy’s not part of this, surely,” Eslingen said.

Aconin shook his head. “Call it a–generous impulse.”

“More likely he wanted to be sure the flowers would work,” Rathe said. “Can you name the conspirators, Aconin?”

“Some of them.” Aconin took a breath, and slid off the table, wobbling for a moment before Eslingen caught his arm. “There’s an intendant, Hesloi d’Ibre, I know for sure, her mother made her abandon her son by a common man, so she could have a granddaughter better born, and the Regent Bautry, she loved a woman too far above herself. And Gisle Dilandy, she’s the one who’ll speak the lines.”

Eslingen swore again, but Rathe nodded. He recognized those names, had always thought d’Ibre and Bautry to be honest women, had admired Dilandy’s acting. “Who else?” he demanded, and Aconin shook his head again.

“Those are the only ones I know for sure. But there’s a list, in the house. Aubine made it, made them sign it, to keep them loyal.”

Rathe sighed, grateful for the small favor. “Right, then,” he said. “First we cut as much hedgebroom as the three of us can carry– yes, you, too, Aconin, you’re coming with us–and then we find that list.”

“And then?” Eslingen asked.

Rathe took a breath. “And then we go back to the theatre. Thank Astree and the metropolitan that Coindarel is guarding the Tyrseia tonight.”

It took them the better part of three hours to harvest the hedgebroom and to fashion small protective posies for each of them, Rathe listening with growing impatience to the distant chime of the clock. They found covered baskets to carry their harvest, and then Rathe turned his attention to the door leading into the house.

“I’m worried about Aubine,” he said, reaching for his picks again. “Where the hell is he, anyway?”

“Probably with the others,” Aconin said, and Rathe straightened, glaring.

“What haven’t you told us?”

Aconin passed his free hand over his eyes. “I’m sorry, Rathe, I– keep forgetting what I’ve said. I think, I’m almost certain, the conspirators were dining together tonight. To be sure no one betrays the others at the last moment.”

Eslingen laughed softly. “Then they’d better spend the night together.”

“I have no idea,” Aconin answered. He was pale even in the light from the winter‑sun, rising now above the roofs of the houses beyond the wall, and Rathe sighed.

“Let’s hope he’s right,” he said, and applied himself to the lock.

It didn’t take long to find the list. The house was dark and silent, the air thick with the smell of the flowers and the power they harnessed, and they moved through it as though through an invisible fog. It felt a bit like the ghost‑tide, Rathe thought as they moved past another sleeping footman, except reversed, as though they were the ghosts moving secretly through the world of the living. Aubine’s study was impressively tidy, and the lockbox stood on a side cabinet, its presence and function equally blatant. It took Rathe two tries to work the lock, but at last it gave way, and he rifled quickly through the papers. As Aconin had said, the bond was there, a pledge signed by half a dozen women and men to support Aubine in his plan, and Rathe folded it carefully, tucking it into his pocket. Aubine had been wise enough not to specify just what the plan was, but coupled with everything else, and with Aconin’s evidence, it should be–barely– enough to call a point. Or at least I hope it is, he thought, and shepherded the others out of the house, locking the doors again behind them. It might not do much good, particularly if Aubine decided to check either his succession houses or the papers, but it might delay him for a few hours more.

There were no low‑flyers to be found, of course, and it took another hour to walk from the Western Reach to the Tyrseia, shoes squeaking in the snow. It was almost over the tops of their shoes already, and Rathe knew the street sweepers would be cursing in their beds, thinking of the work ahead of them the next morning. Coindarel’s encampment, however, looked almost indecently comfortable. The bonfire still blazed in the center of the square, soldiers off watch huddling around it, hands wrapped around tankards that had probably come from the tavern opposite. Or maybe not, Rathe amended, seeing the sergeants on watch for stragglers. Coindarel seemed to be taking this seriously after all.

They were challenged as soon as they entered the square, but a quick word from Eslingen squelched the soldier’s automatic refusal, and they were brought at once to the tent Coindarel had had set up for his own headquarters. It was warm and lamplit, the snow no more than a memory, and Rathe set his basket down gratefully.

Coindarel himself was seated at a folding table beside the firebasket, and waved them closer to the glowing embers. “So, Adjunct Point. And Lieutenant vaan Esling, of course. Have you had success tonight? Your chief sent word, your magists are delayed.”

“Wonderful,” Eslingen said, not quite under his breath.

“Success of a sort,” Rathe answered. He would have preferred a magist’s help, but there was no time to wait for them. “First, this is Chresta Aconin–”