Rathe took a step forward, motioned for the other man to join him in the alcove. “If I might speak with you for a few minutes?”
“Of course, Adjunct Point.”
From Eslingen’s brief comments, Rathe had been expecting a more handsome man, and wondered briefly if he should be jealous. Even under the paint, he could see the freckles scattering the man’s nose and cheeks, and knew that the hair beneath the fashionably dark wig would be bright as scrubbed copper. “You named the landseur for me this morning. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Siredy looked, if anything, more wary, and Rathe’s attention sharpened.
“And it was you and Lieutenant–vaan Esling–who found the body?”
“Yes.” Siredy went through the story in a colorless voice, and Rathe made a note to get the same tale from Eslingen later. There was something about Siredy’s attitude, the care with which he recounted the events, that made the pointsman wary. But of course that could be the other story Gasquine had hinted at, and he leaned back on his stool as Siredy finished his account.
“How well did you know him?”
“The landseur?”
Stalling for time, Rathe thought. He nodded. Siredy didn’t look like a comfortable liar, his easy air would make lies mostly unnecessary– of course, I’ve been wrong about that before. But not, I think, this time.
“Oh, well, in the way of business,” Siredy said. “As long as anyone else in the masque.”
“And out of the way of business?”
Siredy hesitated, and Rathe said gently, “I’ve spoken to one or two here.”
“You don’t mince words, do you?”
“I’d prefer to hear the tale from you.”
“No tale.” Siredy sighed. “Ridiculous, I admit, but nothing you haven’t heard, I daresay. We were lovers, briefly–he took up fencing for a bit, and took me up with it, I suppose, and when he gave up swordplay, he gave me up, too.”
There was a brittle note in the other man’s voice that made Rathe’s eyes narrow. “And not gently, I gather,” he said, and saw Siredy flinch. “You did not part friends.”
“I doubt we ever were that,” Siredy flared. He stopped, went on in a more controlled tone, “His lordship lacked sufficient grace, when he called it off, to–” He stopped again, flushing, and Rathe sighed.
“Sufficiently express his regret and gratitude?”
“Oh, nicely put.” Siredy seemed to have his voice under control again, though there were two spots of color high on his cheeks, vivid through the paint. “Please don’t think me mercenary, it’s more a matter of–expectations.”
Rathe nodded. He knew the rules for such affairs as well as anyone southriver, knew, too, that they were more honored in the broadsheets and onstage than in reality. But even actors could get caught in their own fictions, he thought, and glanced at his tablets again. “In your time with the landseur, did you ever hear him speak of an enemy? Or anyone who’d have cause to injure him?”
Siredy shook his head. “No. He was–not that sort of man.”
“What sort of man?”
“The kind who made enemies.” Siredy shrugged. “You will have heard, the vidame DuSorre slapped his face the other day, and that’s more thought than I ever saw anyone give to him.”
Another bitter epitaph, Rathe thought. “And–you’ll pardon my asking, I’m sure–did anyone step into your shoes?”
“Not that I know of,” Siredy answered. “As far as I know, I’m the only person here to have committed that particular folly.” He seemed to bite the words off, and Rathe frowned faintly down at his tablets, trying to quell his own sympathy, knowing what it felt like to feel yourself made a fool of, by your own devices. But there were Gasquine’s words to consider, and he put stylus to wax.
“And now that you’d seen him again?” he asked quietly, lifting his eyes to meet Siredy’s. The master stared at him for a moment, then sighed, leaning his arms on his knees, tangling his hands carelessly in his hair–wig, Rathe corrected himself, remembering Eslingen’s description.
“Still the only one,” he admitted. “But this time, I stopped it before it started. I think he wanted to have bragging rights. Whether as the first to bring one of us to bed, or as having a prior connection, I’m not sure, but I don’t make mistakes twice, Adjunct Point. And there are some mistakes I don’t make once. Killing him would have been more than he deserved.”
Rathe nodded, accepting that at face value for the moment. “One thing more, then. Where did you spend your night, from second sunrise to first dawn?”
Siredy made a face. “Alas, I was alone, Adjunct Point. For most of the night, anyway. As soon as we finished here, I went to the baths–Philip, Lieutenant vaan Esling, can vouch for that, we had a drink there. But once we parted ways, well, there was no one. I lodge alone.”
There was no real significance to it, Rathe knew–in his experience, it was the ones who had a dozen witnesses to their every movement who were the ones to watch–and he made a note in his tablets. The clock struck as he carved the last letter, and he heard one of Gasquine’s assistants shouting the end of the day. Siredy looked over his shoulder.
“Are you done with me, Adjunct Point?”
“Yes.”
Siredy nodded, rising easily to shrug on his coat, and Rathe beckoned to the runner. “Tell Mathiee I’m done for now, but I or mine will be back tomorrow as soon as you open. She’ll know what I want.”
“Yes, Adjunct Point,” the boy answered, and hurried away.
Left to himself, Rathe joined the stream of actors and chorus members leaving the theatre, paused in the courtyard to scan the waiting crowd. It was bigger than ever, the nobles’ private carriages jostling one another at the edge of the main street, while a new set of market‑folk were clustered at the door, each fighting to call her wares louder than the rest. Rathe tucked his truncheon under his cloak, hoping to pass unnoticed, found himself a place at the edge of the throng. Eslingen would be out soon, he hoped, and even as he thought it, he saw the tall figure poised for an instant at the top of the stairs. He moved forward, smiling in spite of himself, and Eslingen came to join him, drawing his cloak tighter around his shoulders.
“Seidos’s Horse, what miserable weather. But I’m glad to see you, Nico.”
“Lieutenant vaan Esling,” Rathe said. The other man winced, and Rathe grinned, relenting. “You might have warned me, before I saw it in the broadsheets.” He beckoned to one of the marketwomen, her covered basket filled with hot spiced nuts, and accepted a paper cone in exchange for a demming. It was the first thing he’d eaten since before noon, and he was startled by his own hunger. “Still,” he said, around the first mouthful, “you should be thrilled, getting your name in one of them.”
Eslingen helped himself as well. “True gentlemen do everything in their power to keep their names out of the sheets.”
“Only their names?”
Eslingen lifted an eyebrow. “Adjunct Point, that sounded remarkably like a double entendre.”
“Was it?” Rathe asked. “I must be tired, then, I’d never consider going to bed with someone so far above my station.”
“Idiot,” Eslingen said, and helped himself to another nut. “You look tired.”
“It’s been a hell of a day,” Rathe answered. “Yours?”
“After discovering the body?” Eslingen laughed. “Oh, distinctly improved, especially by the discovery that there seems to be a romance among three of our landames–only each member of the triangle is unaware that it is a triangle.”
Rathe shook his head. “I don’t envy you that one, Philip.”
“Nor I you your murder,” Eslingen answered, and cast a quick glance over his shoulder. “With everything you tell me about the symbolism of the masque, one has to look with a less than easy eye on the death of any noble taking part in it.”
“Which is probably why the chamberlains will want to purify the whole theatre,” Rathe said. And I wonder what you know of the
landseur, he thought, and what you can see for me. He shoved the thought away, appalled, but it made too much sense. A murder in the theatre, and Eslingen working there, with the people likeliest to have been involved, it was too good an opportunity to squander…
“Nico?” Eslingen asked, and Rathe shook his head.
“Let’s go home. We can talk there.”
By the time they reached Rathe’s flat, the sleet had thickened, gathering on Eslingen’s broad‑brimmed hat so that it caught the passing light like a crust of diamonds. The courtyard with its shared garden was treacherous underfoot, despite the sand the weaver had scattered carelessly across her end of the walk, and Rathe was glad to reach the shelter of his own rooms. The stove was cold, and Eslingen stooped to fumble with flint and tinder, lighting first one candle and then the lamp, while Rathe ran his hand through his hair, wringing out the worst of the damp. He felt like the southriver rat more than one person had called him–a drowned rat, he amended, and loosened his cloak reluctantly, leaving his jerkin on as he moved to relight the stove. Eslingen murmured something, and lit a second candle, another pinpoint of heat. The stove caught quickly, and Rathe straightened, stripping off jerkin and coat and hanging them on the peg by the door. Eslingen tended his own coat more carefully, settling it so it would dry without unfortunate creases, and Rathe turned away to find bread and cheese. It wasn’t the meal he would have chosen, if the weather had been better, but it would be enough.
Eslingen had freed himself from his waistcoat as well, wrapped himself in a dressing gown that was magnificent except for the frayed hem, and Rathe had to admit that there was a certain practicality in the ridiculous garment. Something like that, on a cold night… He shook himself, telling himself he’d look idiotic, and reached for the jug of wine. “The landseur,” he said. “You probably didn’t have any time to form an impression of him.”
Eslingen shrugged, accepting the filled cup, and settled himself at the table, stockinged feet reaching out to the stove. “A bit of one. I think he was used to getting his own way.”
“More than the rest of them?” The stove was blazing now, and Rathe sat down opposite the other man, feeling its warmth along his side. It was strange, this wasn’t how he would have wanted to acquire a lover, certainly wasn’t how he’d wanted to have Eslingen move into his life, but at the same time, there was an ease between them that he couldn’t deny.
“Oh, yes,” Eslingen answered. “Much more. But, as I’m sure you’ve heard, the vidame DuSorre put him in his place.”
“I hate that phrase,” Rathe said, and shook himself. “You didn’t see it, did you?”
“Not I, but it was common gossip.” Eslingen reached for the bread, tore off a healthy chunk. “I must have heard half a dozen versions of the story.”
“Not well liked, then,” Rathe said, and to his surprise Eslingen shook his head.
“No, it wasn’t that, it was just a good story. Nobody really cared, I don’t think. Seidos’s Horse, he was, what, the youngest of five, with three older sisters and an older brother who got what was left of anything that was on offer.”
“That’s sad,” Rathe said. It was also what the others had said, Gasquine and Siredy and even DuSorre all in perfect agreement, and he shook his head, wondering if the man had had any purpose to his life.
Eslingen nodded. “My impression is that he was the kind of person someone might trouble to slap, but never, ever, bother to kill.”
“But someone did,” Rathe said.
“What did happen to him?” Eslingen asked. “I didn’t see any wounds–how did he die?”
Rathe made a face, as though saying it made it worse. “He was drowned.”
Eslingen leaned back in his chair. “That’s a revolting thought. Do you mean someone drowned him and left him at the Tyrseia?”
“No.” Rathe rubbed his eyes, made himself take a piece of the sharp, creamy cheese. “I mean he was drowned at the Tyrseia. That’s according to Fanier, the best alchemist I’ve ever worked with. And unless Sohier found something I didn’t see, there wasn’t any way it could have been done. No troughs, no tubs, no buckets, nothing except–”
He broke off, shaking his head, and Eslingen frowned. “Except what?”
“You were there. You tell me.”
“I’m not a pointsman,” Eslingen said. “I don’t think I notice the same things you do.”
“I’m sorry, Philip, I’m not trying to be coy, I’m just not sure what it means. If it means anything.” And I really hope it doesn’t, he added silently. “Think about where you found him.”
“Onstage,” Eslingen said. “Center stage.”
Rathe nodded. “At the Tyrseia. Where the damned Drowned Islandis still on. Philip, he was lying between two pieces of the machinery. The final flood effect.”
There was a little silence, then Eslingen whistled softly through his teeth. “You can’t be saying he was drowned by the scenery.”
“Not yet, I’m not,” Rathe answered. “And never, if I can help it. But Fanier says he was drowned where he lay; the body wasn’t moved, period. He did allow as how there might be poison involved, but the cause; of death was drowning. I just hope Sohier found something I missed.”
“But you don’t think she will,” Eslingen said.
Rathe shook his head. The thought was suddenly utterly depressing, this–unnecessary–man, dead for no cause. Except he wasn’t quite unnecessary, Rathe thought, and grimaced. If he was in the masque he was related to one of the potential claimants, and that made him necessary after all. He saw Eslingen watching him, mouth opening to ask a question– and if I tell him, I know what the next step will be, exactly what I’ll ask him to do next, and that’s not fair, not after the last time.
“What?” Eslingen said, and Rathe sighed.
“This is not for public consumption, I know I don’t have to tell you.”
Eslingen shook his head, waiting.
“What makes this death particularly interesting is that every single member of the chorus is directly related to one of the queen’s possible successors–and Her Majesty plans to name her heir after the masque.”
Eslingen’s mouth dropped open for an instant. “Which makes them all hostages for their families’ good behavior. Dis, that’s– clever.”
“Sound I wouldn’t dare hazard,” Rathe said, and Eslingen laughed.
“What have I gotten myself into?”
“You do seem to have a talent for finding yourself at the center of things,” Rathe answered.
“It’s a recent knack, I assure you,” Eslingen answered. “Not one you want to cultivate in the army.”
Rathe grinned, but sobered in an instant. “Philip, I need your help.”
“You have it.” Eslingen leaned forward, his hands wrapped around his wineglass, and Rathe sighed.
“I feel like ten kinds of bastard, especially after the last time. But. You’re at the theatre, every day, with these people every day. I would take it kindly if…”
“I’d keep an eye on them for you?” Eslingen was smiling slightly, and Rathe hesitated, wondering what it meant.
“Yes. I’m just sorry to have to ask you again.”
Eslingen reached out, laid a hand gently over Rathe’s, the fingers still cold. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why not ask me? I’m pleased, I’m honored, and for the gods’ sake, I’m there. I think we work well together.” Eslingen’s smile widened. “Hells, if you hadn’t had the sense to ask, I’d probably have committed the ultimate folly and volunteered.”
We do work well together, Rathe thought. It’s been proved, last summer under fire, and in the dull aftermath. “At least I spared you that,” he said, and Eslingen’s hand tightened, a caress and a question. Rathe shook his head. “Philip, I’m going to be asleep as soon as my head hits the mattress.”
One eyebrow quirked upward. “If I had suspected our living together would have a deleterious effect on the admittedly vulgar pursuit o
f pleasure…”
Rathe laughed out loud. “All right, Lieutenant. If only to allay your suspicions.”
5
« ^ »
the performance banners were flying from the tower of the Tyrseia as Rathe made his way into Dreams station, and he hoped that meant that Sohier had found something after all. More likely, though, Trijn had been pressured into releasing the theatre as soon as possible, for fear that the unstable common folk wouldn’t be able to stand being deprived of their favorite play for an extra day. He was being unfair, he knew, as he stopped to consult the notices fluttering from a broadsheet‑seller’s display board, and took a careful breath, trying to control his temper. If anything, he was angry because he suspected the chamberlains might be right.
At least only one of the broadsheets mentioned the murder, and it was a crude thing, with a woodcut of two men dueling that Rathe had last seen illustrating an announcement of a fencing match. The paragraph below, smudged from hasty printing, spoke of mysterious death at the Tyrseia, and hinted at breathless possibilities, but, all in all, said less that he’d expected. It wouldn’t last, he knew, but at least they might have a day’s breathing space before the details were spread around the city. And one good thing might come of the mystery, he thought, turning away: the fact of the death might help hide the significance of the chorus.
Voillemin was still on duty, finishing out the night shift, and Rathe had to suppress the desire to ask what was happening with Leussi’s death. That was the other man’s case, he reminded himself, scanning the daybook; he’d do no one any good by interfering. There was a note from Sohier, stating that she and four others had searched the Tyrseia stage and stagehouse, but no note of the results.
Voillemin cleared his throat. “The chief wants to see you. As soon as may be.”
“No surprise there,” Rathe answered, and slid the book back to the other man. “What did Sohier find?”
The younger man shrugged. “Officially, the report’s still being copied. But unofficially–nothing. How in Astree’s name can the man have drowned?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Rathe said.
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