Point of Dreams a-2

by Melissa Scott

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

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

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

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

  “I understand.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Nico, you know Advocat Holles?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “During ghost‑tide?”

  “During ghost‑tide,” b’Estorr agreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “And what’s wrong with that, Chief?”

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