Point of Dreams a-2

by Melissa Scott

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “You know Aconin?”

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

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

  4

  « ^ »

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Philip!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Wait.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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