Point of Dreams a-2

by Melissa Scott

  Sohier was there before him, as he’d expected, but the lurking runner was quick to fetch her, and they found another of the quiet alcoves in which to confer.

  “You read my report?” she asked, and Rathe nodded.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Sure as can be.” Sohier shook her head. “There was nothing, Nico, nothing bigger than a barber’s basin, and I’d hate to try to drown a man in that. Even stunned, or drugged.” She paused. “There’s already talk.”

  “No surprise,” Rathe said again. “We’ll keep it as quiet as we can, not that there’s much we can do about it. What have you found today?”

  “Not much,” Sohier answered, and reached beneath her skirt for her own tablets. “Let’s see, two people have said he’d spoken of a marriage with the Heugenins–with the vidame herself, according to one young miss, trying to recoup his debts–but the vidame herself says she was trifling. She’d have bedded him, maybe settled an allowance on him if they were successful–she’s childless–but swears she had no intention of making a contract with him.”

  “That’s the most promising thing we’ve heard so far,” Rathe said, and Sohier shook her head.

  “Not wanting to disappoint, Nico, but I believe her. Even the people who mentioned it in the first place said it was all de Raзan boasting, nothing they really believed.”

  Rathe sighed. Sohier’s judgment was generally reliable, too; if she said de Heugenin was telling the truth, odds were she was. “What’s left for the day?”

  “We’re just about done with the chorus,” Sohier answered.

  “Nobles taking precedence?” Rathe asked with a grin, and the younger woman shook her head.

  “They’ve been easier to find. Gasquine’s been working the actors hard.” She glanced over her shoulder. “In fact, I should be getting back to them.”

  Rathe nodded. “Go ahead. I’ll be along as soon as I can catch a word with Mathiee.”

  “Good luck to you,” Sohier answered, and turned away.

  The rehearsal was well under way, he saw, the chorus idle while two of the principals held the stage. It was the first time Rathe had heard more than a few lines of the play, the first full scene he’d heard, and in spite of himself he found himself standing silent between two of the massive set engines, caught in the story’s moment. Anjesine bes’Hallen, a Silklands scarf standing in for the old‑fashioned veil she would wear later, held center stage with the ease of long practice, commanding in her silence, while Caradai Hyver raged around her, reminding her leman of promises made and broken. Hyver belonged to Gasquine’s company, bes’Hallen to Savatier’s; the chance to see them onstage together, in the two leads, would bring Astreiant flocking to the masque, and to the play. Hyver paused–she played the Bannerdame Ramani, whose stars made her a great general–but bes’Hallen remained still a heartbeat longer, long hands posed against her skirt. Then, slowly, she shook her head, rejecting not her leman but the anger she carried, swallowing her pride again for the sake of the kingdom. And that much, at least, was legend, Rathe thought. The Soueraine de Galhac had held her hand as long as she could, swallowed insult after insult, until finally the Palatine of Artins refused the marriage, her daughter to de Galhac’s son, that would have restored the fortune de Galhac had ruined in her service. On the stage, Hyver paused in her turn, then swept into a deep curtsy, skirts pooling on the stage around her. It was the obeisance one gave a queen, and from leman to leman it was disconcerting and strangely moving, and the pause before bes’Hallen moved to raise her friend was even more unsettling. But then, the play didn’t deny the ambition on both sides, the need of the palatine to be free of de Galhac, and de Galhac’s need to dominate in Artins.

  The actors moved off, arm in arm, never quite leaving their characters even after they were well out of sight in the far wing, and Rathe drew a slow breath. Oh, they were good, both of them, bes’Hallen at the top of her career, Hyver only a little behind, but without Aconin’s lines to speak, those gestures would have fallen flat, meaningless. Something moved then, in the shadows to his left, and he looked over, startled, to see Aconin watching from behind a painted pillar. The playwright’s eyes fell, as though he was embarrassed– something I never thought to see–but then he straightened and came toward the other man.

  “Well, Adjunct Point, how’d you like the scene?”

  The tone was mocking, as was the punctilious insistence on the proper title–but the question, Rathe realized, was genuine. Aconin had been watching not the actors, but the man watching them, and he was good enough, the play was good enough, to deserve an honest answer. “You’ll have Astreiant at your feet if there’s any justice.”

  Aconin paused, but then his painted lips quirked up into a smile. “Have you seen The Drowned Island?”

  In spite of himself, Rathe grinned. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Is it by way of business? Or about the play?”

  “Both.”

  Aconin spread his hands, a graceful, easy movement that displayed the black and gold paint and his long fingers. “I’m at your service, Adjunct Point.”

  “Where’d you get the idea for the play?”

  “And how does that have to do with your business?” Aconin asked. “If I’d stolen someone else’s idea, they’d beat me to death, not complain to the points.”

  Rathe smiled again, recognizing the truth of the playwright’s words. One thing he’d learned since coming to Point of Dreams, the players tended to settle their own affairs as much as possible. “I was thinking more about the way you use the Alphabet, actually. I don’t remember that being part of the de Galhac tales.”

  “Ah.” Aconin’s eyes slid sideways, and Rathe followed his gaze, to see the landseur Aubine frankly listening, a self‑deprecating smile on his plain face. “Not in Astreiant, as far as I know, but in the west, there are tales that make her to be a descendant of the Ancient Queens, and a magist herself.”

  The Ancient Queens were also known as the Southern Witches. Trust Aconin to find them appealing. Rathe nodded, not wanting to break the thread, but Aconin shrugged one shoulder, said nothing more.

  “So why the Alphabet?” Rathe asked after a moment, and Aconin sighed.

  “I don’t–honestly, I couldn’t say, it just seemed… suitable. I suppose because there was all the talk last spring about the verifiable copy, and it stuck in my head.” He shrugged again. “It’s an anachronism, of course, but I don’t think anyone will care.”

  There was something not quite right about the playwright’s answer, Rathe thought. Maybe he wasn’t being fair, but somehow he was certain that Aconin always knew exactly why he’d made his choices. “Did you read it?” he said aloud, and could have sworn that Aconin jumped.

  “What?”

  “Did you read it–this verifiable copy?”

  Aconin smiled, already turning away. “There’s no such thing.”

  And you’re lying, Rathe thought. Either you’ve seen it or, more likely, you know it exists, but you are lying. He took a step forward, intending to pursue the matter, and Aubine cleared his throat.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, Chresta, but Mathiee wants to talk to you.”

  Rathe swore under his breath, and Aconin spread his hands again. “I’m in demand. If you’ll excuse me, Adjunct Point–”

  “Of course,” Rathe said, knowing the moment was lost, and the playwright disappeared between another set of scenery. Aubine gave him an apologetic smile, and Rathe returned it. It wasn’t the landseur’s fault that he’d been given a message– but one of these days, Chresta, you and I will finish this conversation.

  “Do you believe in the Alphabet, Adjunct Point?” Aubine asked, and Rathe shook himself back to the present.

  “I find it hard to believe there could be so many false editions of something that never existed.”

  Aubine’s smile seemed genuine enough. “I’d never thought of it that way.” He turned away, losing himself in the stack of hampers and cases that fi
lled the backstage. Waiting to be carted to the Tyrseia, Rathe guessed, and realized he’d lost track of Gasquine.

  The actors were rearranging themselves for the next scene under the watchful eye of one of Gasquine’s assistants, and Rathe winced, hearing a once‑familiar voice. He had managed to forget, or at least ignore, the fact that Guis Forveijl had been chosen for the masque, but there he was, tall and still good to look at, with hair of just the right shade of gold to be popular at any season. He seemed to be playing some sort of messenger–to be setting up one of the drills or dances, Rathe realized, and even as he thought it, he saw Eslingen coming down one of the backstage stairways. He looked as fine as any of the nobles, a new red coat warm in the mage‑light, and he inclined his head gracefully to listen to something one of the landseurs was saying to him. Lieutenant vaan Esling is settling in all too well. Rathe thought, and was ashamed of his jealousy. He had been jealous of Forveijl, too, jealous of the friendships and the parts that had seduced him away more than once before the final, showy role that Aconin had given him. They had been together for three years then, almost lemanry, though Rathe thanked Sofia he hadn’t committed at least that folly; to see it all vanish for the sake of a play, no matter how good, was almost enough to sour him on the theater. Maybe Philip’s finding a place here wasn’t such good fortune after all, he thought, and winced as Gasquine strode onto the stage, waving her hands to stop the action. Forveijl listened, head drooping as she corrected something in the performance, and Rathe was grateful she kept her voice down.

  “Nico,” Eslingen said, and Rathe turned to greet him, forcing a smile. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “There’s still plenty to be done,” Rathe answered, and Eslingen sighed.

  “I know that, I meant, when you weren’t here this morning. I looked for you, you know.”

  Rathe felt his smile become more genuine. “I had business with the family. And how has your morning been?”

  Eslingen rolled his eyes. “Like nothing in this world–” He broke off as a smiling woman touched his shoulder, murmuring something in his ear as she passed, and Rathe suppressed another stab of jealousy. Eslingen smiled back, but the expression faded as he turned back to face the other man. “As you see. And there’s a deal of gossip about the death, as you can well imagine. Some people are saying they’ll have to call in the necromancers to clear the stagehouse.”

  “I doubt that,” Rathe said. “Resides, a necromancer’s already seen the body.”

  “b’Estorr, of course,” Eslingen said, and a new voice spoke from behind them both.

  “Of course. You must know about Nico’s white dog, Lieutenant.”

  Forveijl, Rathe realized, and damned himself for not realizing the scene had ended. Eslingen gave him his most blandly cheerful smile.

  “Keeps pocket terriers, does he?”

  Forveijl blinked at the non sequitur, and Rathe took a breath, turning to face him. “Guis.”

  “Nicolas. We’re keeping you busy these days.”

  “Among other things,” Rathe answered. Forveijl opened his mouth to say something more, but someone–Gasquine’s assistant, by the sound of it–called his name. Forveijl smiled, sweeping a too‑deep bow, and moved away in answer. Eslingen lifted an eyebrow.

  “That one… ?”

  Rathe, to his own surprise, laughed softly. “Bad judgment, coming back to haunt me.”

  Eslingen shrugged. “Your life never started with me. But whatever did you see in him?”

  “I’m not sure anymore,” Rathe answered.

  Eslingen’s eyebrow rose even higher. “I hope he was at least– amusing?”

  “Oh, yeah, that, certainly.”

  “I’d like to think you got something out of it,” Eslingen said.

  “It seemed enough at the time,” Rathe answered. The stage was crowded now, chorus and actors and even a few scenerymen milling about in the open space, and he shook his head, thinking of the Tyrseia. “The whole thing’s backwards,” he said, and realized he’d spoken aloud only when Eslingen cocked his head at him.

  “From the usual run of murdered landseurs?”

  “From any other murder I’ve handled,” Rathe said. He paused, but there was no one in earshot. “I’m talking about the pure mechanics of the thing. Usually, it’s pretty straightforward how someone was killed, that’s not the problem. The problem is who, and you look hard and deep, and one reason usually stands out, and that’s the why that gives you the who. But you start from how.” He shook his head. “I have a bad feeling that with this one, if I can just figure out how de Raзan was killed, I might have a chance at figuring out who.”

  Eslingen whistled softly, but anything more he would have said was cut off by a call from the stage itself. “That’s us,” he said, and quirked a smile. “I wouldn’t stay.”

  “Not a pretty sight?” Rathe asked with a grin, and Eslingen rolled his eyes.

  “If they were my company, I’d have the lot of them digging ditches.”

  He was gone then, and Rathe turned away. He’d find Sohier, he decided, and see if they could finish the interviews before the day’s rehearsal ended.

  The rehearsal was going about as well as could be expected, considering that neither he nor the chorus really understood yet what was expected of them. Eslingen rested the butt of his half‑pike against his shoe, grateful for the break while Gasquine argued with Hyver about some trick of gesture. At least it was real, the proper weight and heft, brought out of the weapons pawned and abandoned at the Aretoneia, unlike everything else onstage. He let his eyes skim past the arguing actors–not quarreling, they never quarreled, but discussed or at worst argued–looking for Rathe, but the pointsman was nowhere in sight, had already left, taking Eslingen’s advice. He turned his attention back to the stage, trying to imagine his work seen from the pit. The chorus had broken out of their tidy lines, the banners drooping as they relaxed to murmured conversation, and Eslingen sighed, the moment’s vision lost. This was one of the smaller set pieces, an entrance for the Bannerdame Ramani, but already they’d spent half the afternoon on it.

  “And no closer to being finished,” he muttered, and flushed, hearing a soft laugh behind him. He turned, frowning, and the landseur Aubine gave him a self‑deprecating smile over an armload of flowers.

  “I beg your pardon, Lieutenant, I shouldn’t have laughed. But I think we’re all thinking the same thing.”

  “All this for at most a quarter hour on the stage,” Eslingen said. “My respect for the actors grows daily.”

  “Hourly,” Aubine agreed, and set the flowers carefully into a tub that stood ready. A few drops of water splashed onto the stage, and the landseur drew a rag from his sleeve, stooped carefully to wipe them up.

  And if that had been in the Tyrseia yesterday, Eslingen thought, his attention sharpening, Nico might have found his “how.” But the tubs were new, delivered only this morning, and the runners had been busy hauling water ever since.

  Aubine straightened, easing his back almost absently, and nodded to the half‑pike. “That’s an old weapon, isn’t it, Lieutenant?”

  Eslingen nodded, idly counting heads. There were at least three people missing from the chorus, and he hoped they’d merely seized the chance to use the privy. “From before the League Wars, I’d guess.”

  “A family heirloom?”

  Eslingen blinked, aware of the trap he’d almost fallen into, gave his easiest smile. “Alas, no, my lord. I bought it out of pawn at the Aretoneia.”

  “Oh.” Aubine looked disappointed, and Eslingen cast around for a topic that would distract him.

  “May I ask a question, maseigneur? About the flowers?”

  “Of course.” For an instant, Aubine looked almost smug. “I can’t promise an answer, though.”

  “Why bring them in now? Surely they’ll wilt and die before the masque.”

  “Oh,” Aubine said again, and the smug look was gone again, so quickly Eslingen could have believed he im
agined it. “Oh, no, these aren’t the flowers that will be used for the masque itself. I have others for that. No, these are–well, partly I’ve picked them already, and I don’t want them to go to waste, even if we’re not in the Tyrseia yet. I wanted to see how long they’ll last, the air, the heat is different everywhere. And partly I’ve brought them in the hopes that they’ll sweeten tempers, or at least ease the path for the actors, and the chorus, for that matter.” He touched a bloom, pale pink, lush and multi‑petaled, looked up with a smile that was at once rueful and self‑aware. “But mostly, I suppose, I do it because I can.”

  “Which is our good fortune, maseigneur.” That was Siredy, coming up behind them, and Eslingen turned to him with something like relief.

  “Verre. We seem to be missing some of the chorus.”

  “Seidos–” Siredy bit off the rest of the curse with an apologetic glance toward Aubine. “I suppose we’d better go find them. If you’ll excuse us, maseigneur?”

  Aubine waved a hand, already focused on his flowers, and Eslingen followed his fellow master, glad to have forestalled any more questions about his family. “I imagine they’re out back,” he said aloud, and Siredy glared at him.

  “I hope so. You should have kept an eye on them.” He stopped, consciously relaxing his shoulders. “I’m sorry, Philip, I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

  Eslingen stopped, really looking at the other man for the first time that day. Siredy was definitely out of curl, his skin pale, eyes shadowed, wig thrown back so carelessly that a few strands of red showed against his forehead. His shirt was crumpled, with a visible darn at one elbow, and his breeches had clearly seen better days. Not unreasonable clothes, for the workout they had ahead of them, but equally unlike anything he’d ever seen the other wear. Even for the challenge, he’d been better dressed. “Are you all right?”