Point of Dreams a-2

by Melissa Scott

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

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

  “What is it?” Rathe asked.

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

  “No copies in the great library?”

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

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

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

  “So?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Yeah?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


  “Which means they’re all hostages.”

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

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

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

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

  “Rathe?”

  He shook himself. “Sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Rathe nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  It was a copy of the Alphabet of Desire.

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

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

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

  “A couple more editions brought in.”

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

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

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

  “Not that I know. What me to check?”

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

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

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

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

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