Point of Dreams a-2

by Melissa Scott

  Siredy forced a smile, and then a shrug. “I’ve had better days. Death’s no way to begin a production.”

  “No.” Eslingen took a careful breath, remembering something Rathe had said, something about Siredy and the dead man–pillow friends, nothing more, but a man might grieve regardless.

  “And they couldn’t care less,” Siredy went on, glaring now at the chorus. “Except for the gossip value. De Raзan’s more interesting dead than he ever was alive.”

  “You should try to get some sleep,” Eslingen said. Worthless advice, he knew, but it was the best he could do.

  Siredy shook himself, managed another smile. “Oh, believe me, I try–”

  He broke off, interrupted by the hammering of Gasquine’s tall staff on the stage’s hollow floor, and swung to count heads. “Tyrseis, we’re still missing two of them.”

  “Places,” Gasquine called, and was instantly echoed by the bookholder, a tall woman in black. “Masters, if you’re ready, let’s begin– from the trumpet cue.”

  “Yes, mistress,” Siredy answered, and Eslingen lifted his half‑pike, the old signal to reassemble. The line straightened again, the flags rising with a ragged flourish–not fast enough, he thought, but they’d work on that–and the bored‑looking woman in the musicians’ guild badge lifted her trumpet for the salute. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw at least two of the stragglers hesitating at the edge of the stage, one about to hasten to join them before the other caught her back. At least one of them is showing common sense, he thought, and as the trumpet sounded lowered his pike to signal the beginning of the display. It was hardly complicated, the sort of thing any regiment accustomed to displays of arms could have done in its sleep, and would have disdained to perform in public, but the landames seemed to be having a hard time understanding the rhythm of the gestures. At least a third of the line missed the half‑bow before the lines split, and one particularly graceless boy almost ended up in the wrong line, but then, just as Ramani made her entrance, the lines fell into unexpected alignment, the banners unfurling in almost perfect unison. Ramani strode between them, every fiber of her body singing with the victory just won, stopped just downstage of the last pair to begin her speech. Gasquine let her get through it–a complicated piece, not quite there, but with the bones of the emotion already showing–and lifted her hand only when the actor had finished.

  “Very nice, Caradai.”

  Hyver curtsied, not quite out of character, and Gasquine went on easily. “As for the chorus–it needs work, you know that, but I think you can see how it goes. Masters, I thank you for your efforts. We’ll rest a quarter hour, and move on to the next act.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Eslingen saw Siredy sketch a bow, and hastily copied him. A clock struck, somewhere in the upper levels, a quarter‑hour chime, and the closest of the landames looked up toward it, her long horse‑face relaxing into a grin.

  “Thank Seidos, my feet are dying.”

  In those shoes, I’m not surprised, Eslingen thought. The embroidered mules had a high foresole as well as a heel, gave her a few much‑needed inches.

  “My ladies,” Siredy said hastily. “A moment, please–”

  They looked inclined to ignore him, and Eslingen tapped the half‑pike lightly on the stage, pleased when the chorus turned almost as one to stare.

  “We’ll begin the fight work when we return,” Siredy said. “For those of you who were chosen.”

  “We’ll need the stage, Verre,” Gasquine said, not turning from her low‑voiced conversation with Hyver, and Siredy sighed.

  “Is it still fine out?” Eslingen asked, and a sweet‑faced boy who looked barely old enough to qualify for the lottery gave him a blinding smile.

  “It’s very nice, Lieutenant, sunny and warm and the wind’s died down.”

  “Then why don’t we take it to the courtyard?” Eslingen said, and Siredy nodded.

  “At the quarter hour, my ladies. In the courtyard, if you please.”

  There was a ripple of agreement, and the line broke apart, the majority vanishing into the backstage, a few, the stragglers among them, climbing down into the pit to find seats on the benches. The scenerymen who had been playing dice in the last row looked up curiously–more silks and satins than ever graced the pit on any other occasion–and the horse‑faced girl winked at one of them, her shoes already discarded so that she could rub her stockinged toes.

  “Maybe she’ll think better of them,” he said under his breath, and at his side Siredy gave a grunt of amusement.

  “A seilling says she’ll wear them through the masque itself.”

  Eslingen grinned. “No, I don’t bet against a sure thing.” He worked his shoulders, hearing muscles crack. “How do you think we’re doing?”

  “Not badly, actually,” Siredy answered.

  “If you say so.” Eslingen frowned, startled by his own ill temper, and not appeased by Siredy’s answering laugh.

  “No, really, this is good. They just need time.”

  And he was right, Eslingen knew, forcing himself to remember the days he’d spent training soldiers. It always took time, he just had to remember that he was starting with raw recruits, not the half‑trained men who’d been his more recent students. “So what do we do next?”

  Siredy made a face. “We probably should have started this sooner, it’s the hardest thing they’ll have to learn. But we had the stage this morning.”

  “So what is it that we should have started sooner?” Eslingen asked, with waning patience.

  “The small duels.” Siredy shook himself, visibly collecting the rags of what was normally a cheerful disposition. “Oh, it shouldn’t be too bad, they know the rudiments–”

  “Enough to know what they don’t know?” Eslingen asked, and Siredy managed a smile.

  “I think so. We have four pairs, so we’ll match them up for height and looks, and see what they can do.”

  “Do you know which ones they are?”

  “I haven’t matched the titles to the faces yet,” Siredy said. “Or at least not above half of them. The pretty boy, the one who’s making eyes at you–”

  Eslingen rolled his own eyes at that, and Siredy went on placidly.

  “Besselin, his name is, the vavaseur de Besselin. And the sallow landseur with the flowers.”

  Eslingen nodded. He didn’t know that man’s name either, but the posy tucked into his lapel had been meant to draw every eye. Even Aubine had been impressed, it seemed; he remembered seeing the older man draw the landseur aside for a quiet conversation.

  “Then the girl with the shoes, all the gods help us,” Siredy said, “she’s the daughter of the castellan of Jarielle, and the rest–” He shrugged. “All I have is the names.”

  “Four women and four men?” Eslingen asked, and Siredy nodded.

  “For balance. I thought we’d place them two and two, a pair of each to each side, the tallest toward the center.”

  The clock struck before Eslingen could answer, and Gasquine swept onto the stage, followed by the actors who were in the next scene. Most of the chorus settled themselves more comfortably on their benches, ready to enjoy someone else’s labor; the group who had been chosen for the duels separated themselves out, some with backward glances, and made their way out into the narrow courtyard behind the stagehouse.

  It wasn’t an ideal spot for fencing, Eslingen thought as he made sure each of the duelists had plastrons and well‑bated blades, was too long and narrow, but at least they would be able to make a start. Already he could see Siredy sizing up the group, the wig pushed even farther back, showing a line of red hair at his forehead, arranging them by height and coloring. It looked as though the group had been well chosen; it would be easy to make four pairs that would look like an even match, and the sweet‑faced boy, de Besselin, cleared his throat.

  “Lieutenant? May I have a word with you?”

  He sounded at once shy and eager, usually a bad combination, and Eslingen braced himself.
“Of course.”

  “You know about Maseigne de Txi and the landame de Vannevaux, don’t you?”

  “Should I?”

  The boy blinked. “It might be relevant?”

  “Well?”

  “Txi and the Silvans of Damirai–that’s de Vannevaux’s family– they’ve been at odds for years. Generations.”

  “Which is de Vannevaux?” Eslingen asked, but suspected he already knew.

  “Her.” De Besselin tipped his head sideways, indicating a woman in blue, apparently deep in conversation with the landseur of the flowers. She was, of course, the same age and height as Txi, and her fair complexion would contrast perfectly with Txi’s dark and lively face.

  “Excuse me,” Eslingen said, and crossed the yard in three strides to tap Siredy on the shoulder. “Verre…”

  “I’ve heard,” Siredy answered grimly. “What else am I to do with them? There’s no other way to divide them up.”

  “Maybe they don’t believe in the feud,” Eslingen said, without much hope, and Siredy shook his head.

  “Not a chance of that.”

  “Areton’s–” Eslingen swallowed the rest of the curse. “All right. Let’s pretend we think they can behave like–”

  “Ladies?” Siredy asked sweetly, and Eslingen held up his hand, acknowledging the hit.

  “Like–well, something other than what they are. This is the midwinter masque, the queen expects it. We expect it.”

  Siredy’s look was frankly disbelieving, but Eslingen drew himself up to his full height, stilled his face to hauteur copied from a captain he’d once known, a man who could make you thank him for letting you loan him a silver pillar. It had worked before; it might work this time.

  “Let’s begin,” he said, pitching his voice to carry, and the group of nobles turned to face him.

  Siredy took a breath. “Right. The first order of business is to pair off.” He held up his hand as de Besselin took a step toward the landseur with the flowers. “A moment, please. You’re to be paired by height, to make a better show.”

  De Vannevaux was quicker than the others, glancing along the line. “No, Master Siredy, not if it means being paired with her.” She flung out her hand in a gesture copied from one of the minor actors, pointing at Txi with a disdainful flourish.

  “Oh,” Txi said, much too sweetly, “I don’t mind at all.”

  Right, let them get together with swords in their hands, Eslingen thought. Seidos, why did I ever agree to this? Folly stars, indeed. “What’s this?” He lifted an eyebrow, fixed them both with a stare that he hoped would abash.

  “The castellans of Txi stole our land,” de Vannevaux said. “I will not be paired with her.”

  “Stole?” Txi’s voice rose. “Damirai has claimed that for years, and never yet made good on the boast. The highlands are ours, they go with the city, not the forest–and I, for one, will be happy to meet her, under any circumstance.”

  “That’s not your family’s usual style,” de Vannevaux said.

  “Enough,” Eslingen said, and they both looked at him, startled. “Would you prefer not to be part of the masque?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of pure horror cross Siredy’s face, and hoped the landames hadn’t seen it. There was an instant of silence, and then Txi said quickly, “No, Lieutenant, but–”

  “We won our places fairly,” de Vannevaux interrupted, looking mulish, and Eslingen lifted his hand again.

  “Enough. Then you’re in the queen’s service here, and you can leave your petty family quarrels behind.”

  “Petty?” de Vannevaux said, on a note of outrage.

  “I have seen sons of Havigot and Artimalec fighting side by side, guarding each other’s backs,” Eslingen said. That feud was ancient and proverbial, and he just hoped there were descendants left. “You are under discipline, no less than they were. I expect no less of you.”

  There was an instant of silence, Txi’s eyes wide, de Vannevaux’s delicately painted mouth slack with surprise, and then, to his relief, both women made quick curtsies. “Yes, Lieutenant,” de Vannevaux said, and an instant later Txi echoed her.

  “Very well,” Eslingen said, and looked at Siredy, who quickly closed his own mouth. “Then let’s begin.”

  The day dragged to an end at last, and Eslingen made his way out of the theatre with some relief. Not that they’d had any great successes, but at least the landames hadn’t actually tried to kill each other. In fact, they’d been remarkably silent, speaking only when one or the other needed some point of the swordplay explained, and he supposed he would have to take it as a favorable sign. The sun was low, and the yard was in shadow, making him grateful for the cloak he’d thrown on that morning. Unfashionable it might be, but at least he would be warm for the walk back to Rathe’s lodgings. And, now that he thought of it, it might be a notion to buy a loaf of bread, or even a hot pie, contribute something to their dinner. There were inns enough in Dreams where he could find something.

  “Philip?”

  Eslingen suppressed a groan. This was all he needed to complete a less than perfect day–but maybe he could get rid of the playwright quickly. He smoothed his expression as he turned. “Well, Chresta?”

  “How unwelcoming,” Aconin murmured. “So unlike the charming lieutenant.”

  “Let’s not play that game,” Eslingen said, and to his surprise, Aconin grinned.

  “Fair enough. It’s been a bear of a day, hasn’t it? I’m even bored with myself.”

  “So you seek me out,” Eslingen said.

  “I wondered if we might talk.”

  Eslingen looked at the other man, wondering if he had heard the fleeting note of fear in Aconin’s voice, and the theatre’s side door opened behind him. Aubine emerged into the amber light, an empty trug over his arm–looking, Eslingen thought, for all the stars like Nico on a garden day. He dipped his head, not quite a bow, and Aconin turned with a start, the bright hazel eyes widening fractionally before he swept into an overdone courtier’s bow. Aubine gave him an almost indulgent look, and nodded to Eslingen.

  “A late‑stayer also, Lieutenant? Can I offer you a lift?” Even as he spoke, Eslingen heard the clatter of harness and the soft chirp of a groom, looked around to see a comfortable‑looking carriage pull into the theatre yard. It wasn’t new, but it had been expensive, and Eslingen wondered again how he could ever hope to pull off this deception. But there were more poor landame’s sons than rich ones, he reminded himself; just don’t let him see that you’re living off a pointsman, and you should be all right.

  “Thank you, my lord, that’s very kind. But I’ve promised Chresta my company.”

  “Ah.” Aubine smiled again. “Be careful, Lieutenant, Master Aconin has a sharp–tongue.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind, my lord,” Eslingen said, and Aubine nodded, already moving away. Eslingen watched him into the carriage, the groom holding the step and handing in the trug, then closing the door to climb back to the box.

  “Promised me your company,” Aconin said, the mockery back in his voice.

  “You said you wanted to talk,” Eslingen answered. “I’ll listen.”

  “I’d prefer somewhere less public than this,” Aconin said, and Eslingen shook his head.

  “Then we can talk as we go, Chresta. I want to get home.”

  “To your pointsman?”

  “Home,” Eslingen said, and hoped it was true. “This is not the way to get me to–is it help you want, Chresta?”

  Aconin sighed, fell into step with the taller man. “I’m not sure, frankly. At this point, I think I just want to talk to someone.”

  “Why me?” Eslingen asked, and the words were almost a plea.

  Aconin laughed softly. “Because I trust you.”

  “Oh, very likely. You haven’t seen me in fifteen years.”

  “I trusted you to remember that, didn’t I?” They turned a corner, and the harsh light caught them full on, deepening the sharp, discontented lines
bracketing the playwright’s mouth. “I–think I’m in trouble, Philip.”

  “Father it on someone else, it’s not mine.”

  “Bastard,” Aconin said, and Eslingen spread his hands.

  “And all the world knows it.”

  He winced as he said it, remembering too late that he was no longer part of that world, that in fact this new world didn’t know it at all, and Aconin smiled again. “Except here.” He paused, shook his head. “I’ll make a bargain with you, Philip. I won’t say a word about your parentage if you’ll give me a hand.”

  Eslingen caught the other man’s shoulder, swung him so that they stood face to face in the empty street. The shops to either side were shuttered; they stood bathed in the red‑gold light that swept up the street from the Sier, their shadows falling away behind them. “I don’t make that kind of bargain,” he said. “Not without knowing a good deal more about your troubles.”

  Aconin looked away. “It’s complicated–”

  “No, then.”

  Aconin took a breath. “All right. Wait. It’s–there’s something about this play, the whole damned folly of it–”

  Eslingen caught the first flash out of the corner of his eye, shoved Aconin so that the snap of the lock caught the playwright already stumbling backward, arms flailing for balance. He cried out, hand flying to his upper arm, and Eslingen drew his knife, wishing he had a sword–wishing for pistol‑proofed back‑and‑breast, and a lock of his own–spinning to put his body between the attacker and Aconin. The street was empty, and the doorways, even the dead‑end alley where he thought he’d seen the flash of the priming powder, and he turned on his heel again, scanning windows. They were all closed, too, and he turned to Aconin.

  “Quickly, into cover.”

  Aconin nodded, still clutching his arm, and Eslingen pushed him toward the nearest doorway, waiting for a second shot. It never came, and he leaned against the cold stone, trying to catch his breath. “Are you all right?”

  Aconin nodded, but his face was pale beneath the paint. Eslingen frowned, and saw the first threads of blood on the playwright’s fingers.