“Artinou!” That was Duca’s voice, well trained to carry through the theatre, and Siredy shook his head.
“He’ll have the man’s head for this.”
“And well he might.” Eslingen started back up the tunnel, ducked out of the way as Aubine turned back toward the open door.
“And where should I have the flowers brought, do you think? I don’t want them underfoot, but I need to bring them in out of the cold.”
“Into the pit, maybe?” Siredy said, and Eslingen nodded.
“If your man can wait until we find the watch, maseigneur, he can tell you where they’d best be placed.”
“Ah. Yes. Very wise.” Aubine brushed past them with a vague smile, and Eslingen looked at the other master,
“Where is he, do you think?”
“Asleep in the dressing rooms, I hope,” Siredy answered, but even as he spoke, de Vicheau came down the narrow stairs shaking his head.
“All the rooms are empty, Master Duca.”
Eslingen moved to join them, seeing his own frown reflected on the other men’s faces. “Is anything else wrong?” he asked, and climbed carefully to the stage itself. The first baskets of props were where they had been left the day before, and the racked weapons looked untouched, their ribbons hanging limp in the still air.
“Isn’t this enough?” Duca demanded.
“I was thinking of theft,” Eslingen answered, and the man’s expression eased fractionally.
“That’s always a risk,” he admitted, and looked quickly around the wings. “Our gear is all there.”
“But–” Siredy stopped, shaking his head.
“What?” Duca put hands on hips, scowling.
“I thought…” Siredy moved to the nearest rack, examining the row of half pikes. “I thought we left those in better order–separated out, not all in a bunch. Isn’t that right, Philip?”
Eslingen nodded slowly. They had taken the half‑pikes back from the chorus the evening before, set them back in the rack with all the red‑ribboned pikes on the left and the white‑ribboned ones on the right. Now–they weren’t all mixed, but there were a few red ones in with the white, as though someone had knocked over half a dozen, and put them back without looking. “That’s not how we left them.”
Duca swore under his breath, and spun to examine the racks himself. “Nothing missing,” he said after a moment, and de Vicheau nodded in agreement.
“But they’re players’ weapons,” Siredy said. “Dulled and bated. Why would anyone bother with them?”
No one answered, and Eslingen looked past them into the darkness of the stagehouse. Something else was different, too, he thought, something teasing at the edge of memory–something not quite the way it had been the last time he’d seen it. The machinery loomed overhead, the versatiles locked in their first position, the ropes that held the traps and hanging scenery all taut and perfect–except one. One of the lilies was out of place, missing altogether, and he reached out to grab Siredy’s shoulder.
“The machines,” he said, and the other master’s eyes went wide.
“Tyrseis, not that.”
“Get the trap,” Duca ordered, and de Vicheau bent to lift the narrow door. It was dark below, but a mage‑fire lantern hung ready, and de Vicheau lit it with the touch of his hand, his face very pale.
“There are more below,” he said, but made no move to descend the narrow ladder.
“We’ll all go,” Duca said grimly, and swung himself down into the pit.
Eslingen followed more cautiously, found another of the mage‑lights hanging ready on the nearest pillar, and fumbled with the smoothly polished ring until it sprang to light. Siredy did the same, and the doubled sphere of light spread to fill the low‑ceilinged space. It looked much the same as it had before, Eslingen thought, or at least as it had the one time he’d been shown the machines. The windlass stood immobile, and beyond it, the massive gears that lifted the bannerdame’s towers were dark with new oil. Except there was something bright caught between the lower teeth, the merest rag of white, and Eslingen took a careful breath, fighting nausea; The rest of it was red‑tinged brown, the thick rusty shade of drying blood, and the white thing was the watchman’s stockinged leg.
“Master Duca,” he said, dry‑mouthed, and heard the big man swallow hard.
“I see it. The poor bastard.”
“It must be an accident,” Siredy said, his voice too high, and Eslingen made a face. This was worse than cannon fire, worse even than a sappers’ accident because there was more left to see, the legs all but severed from the crushed torso, the head invisible on the far side of the gear, only the one arm and the stocky legs holding a semblance of human shape. He choked, glad he had eaten lightly, cleared his throat with an effort.
“It is the watch, isn’t it?”
Duca nodded, though he made no move to look more closely. “Yes–at least, I’m almost certain. That’s his coat.”
“Mathiee told him to keep a better eye out these nights,” de Vicheau said. “Poor Artinou.”
“The rope must have given way,” Siredy said. “Gods, if it had been a performance…”
He let his voice trail off, but there was no need to finish the sentence. If it had happened during a performance, not only might a sceneryman have been killed, caught like the watchman in the suddenly moving gears, but the actors on the tower would have been brought down abruptly, perhaps thrown off the set piece into the mechanism as well. Eslingen shook his head, trying to banish the picture, and Duca said hoarsely, “And was it an accident?”
The master was looking at him, Eslingen realized, and he took a careful breath. “I don’t know,” he began, knowing what the other wanted to hear, and then shook himself. He had been around Rathe long enough to know what questions the pointsman might ask, knew what questions he’d ask himself. “If it was an accident, master, why are there no lights in sight? He wouldn’t come down here in the dark, surely. And the trap was closed, too.”
“He might have done that himself,” de Vicheau said, but the objection was halfhearted.
“But not without lights,” Duca said, and made a face as though he wanted to spit. “Sweet Tyrseis. What a way to kill a man.”
There aren’t many good ways to die, Eslingen thought, but this one is particularly ugly. “Leave him for now,” he said, and thought he saw Siredy give him a look of gratitude. “And send to Point of Dreams. It’s in their hands now.”
“The house was just purified,” Duca began, and shook himself to silence. “Right. Back onstage with all of you, and make sure no one comes down here.”
“And that the other trap isn’t open,” Siredy said.
Duca gave him a look. “Good thought. See to it, Verre. And you, Janne, send to Point of Dreams. I want Rathe, and don’t take no for an answer.”
They found the second trap closed as well, and Duca straightened from it, breathing heavily through his mouth. “This is hard on Mathiee,” he said, and winced as the tower clock struck the half hour. “And she should be along any minute now, with her keys to let us in. Sofia, what a welcome.”
“You found the man?” The voice came from the pit, and Eslingen stepped back out onto the stage to see Aubine looking up from the pit. He was surrounded by tubs of plants, at least half a dozen half barrels packed full of greenery and blooms, too bright after the darkness below the stage. From the look in Duca’s eyes, the other master was thinking the same thing, and Siredy turned away with a muffled curse, leaning hard against the nearest versatile.
“I’m afraid so, my lord,” Eslingen said.
“Dead, then?” Aubine sounded more surprised than anything. “Oh, surely not.”
“Caught in the machinery,” Duca said, and cleared his throat hard. “The biggest of the lifts.”
Aubine said nothing for a long moment, his face very still, and then, slowly, he shook his head. “I’ve only seen the machines once, Master Duca, but they struck me then as treacherous things. What a terribl
e accident.”
“If it is an accident,” Eslingen said, in spite of himself, and Aubine frowned.
“Surely you’re not–oh, no, not again.”
The landseur looked genuinely horrified, and Duca lifted both hands placatingly. “It may not be, my lord, but we have to be sure.”
“What will it do to the masque?” Aubine asked. “A second death, so soon–practically on the heels of poor de Raзan–if it is untimely, and I pray it is not, Seidos, will they allow us to continue?”
There was no answer to that, the same question the other masters had to have been asking themselves, and Eslingen glanced over his shoulder at the sound of women’s voices from the tunnel.
“So you got in all right without me, I see.” Gasquine was wrapped in a serviceable‑looking cloak of grey wool, her thick hair untidy beneath a linen cap. “What in the name of all the gods is going on? And where’s Artinou?”
“Dead,” Duca answered, and the actor stopped as though she had been struck.
“Dead?”
Duca nodded. “In the gears, below stage. It’s not pretty.”
Gasquine paused, her foot on the first step leading up to the stage. “Tyrseis. The Starsmith forge his soul anew.”
Duca touched his forehead in respect, and Eslingen, belatedly, copied him.
“Did a rope break?” Gasquine began, and answered her own question. “No, the cordage is new–and what was he doing down there anyway?”
“We don’t know,” Duca said. “But it may not be an accident, Mathiee. We’ve sent for the points.”
For a second, Gasquine looked old and tired, but then she straightened, pulling herself back together with an effort of will. “Good,” she said, and sounded as though she was trying to convince herself.
Rathe arrived within the half hour, flanked by a pair Eslingen recognized from the Dreams station. He quickly commandeered Gasquine’s replacement watchman, setting him to guard the single open door, then made his way onto the stage. He hardly looked as though he belonged there, Eslingen thought, a wiry, unexceptional man in a badly battered coat under the pointsman’s leather jerkin, but then he nodded to Gasquine, the gesture drawing all eyes, and Eslingen couldn’t repress a smile.
“Mathiee.” Although he spoke directly to the actress, Rathe was careful to let his voice carry, taking in the other authority, Duca’s and Aubine’s, as well. “I’m sorry to see you again, at least like this.”
Gasquine managed a wan smile. “As are we all, Nico. Gerrat says he doubts it was an accident, and I’m afraid so do I.”
Rathe nodded. “Who found the body?”
“Master Duca and his people. They were to have the stage early this morning.”
So much for that plan, Eslingen thought. As things were, they’d be lucky to get any work done at all today– and I suppose I should feel guilty for thinking it, but Seidos knows, there’s work enough to be done. Rathe’s eyes slid over him without acknowledgment, but then, as the pointsman turned back to face Gasquine, Eslingen thought he saw the hint of a smile.
“All right. Let’s get it over with. I take it the body’s below stage– and who found it, anyway?”
“We did,” Siredy said. “All of us together. Philip saw that a rope was missing, so naturally we looked to the machinery, and–”
He stopped abruptly, grimacing, and Eslingen said, “The body’s caught in the gears. It’s not nice.”
Rathe made a face as well, but nodded. “Show me.”
Duca pointed to the trapdoor, and de Vicheau, still pale, lifted the heavy boards. Rathe slid down easily enough, stood for a moment in the dark before Eslingen followed with a lantern. Rathe took it with a nod and moved forward into the shadows. Eslingen hung back, not wanting to see again, heard Rathe swear as he found the mangled body. There was a little silence then, Eslingen careful not to see, and then a scuffling sound, and Rathe came back, bringing the light with him. His expression, in the mage‑light, was unreadable, but he was rubbing one hand convulsively on the edge of his jerkin.
“Did someone identify the man?”
“Master Duca said he recognized him,” Eslingen said. “From the clothes.”
“Not from the face, by the look of him,” Rathe answered. He took a deep breath. “Was it like this when you found him?”
Eslingen nodded. “We didn’t touch anything, just came down to look, found him, and came away.”
“No lights?” Rathe asked, and Eslingen felt a perverse thrill of pride at having guessed the right question.
“None. The lanterns were hanging by the ladder.”
“And the trap was closed,” Rathe said.
“Both of them,” Eslingen answered.
Rathe sighed. “Are any of the scenerymen around?”
“I don’t think so,” Eslingen answered. “Unless Mathiee’s sent for them already.”
“She’d better,” Rathe said, and motioned toward the ladder. “Come on, let’s get back up. They’ll need help to get him out of there.”
Eslingen made a face at the all‑too‑vivid image, and heard one of the other pointsmen choke. He hadn’t realized they’d come down behind him until then.
“And we’ll want to know if the ropes gave way,” Rathe went on, as though he hadn’t heard, “or if anything else is wrong. Len, find something heavy and block off the other trap–these are the only two ways down, right, Philip?”
“As far as I know,” Eslingen answered, and pulled himself up onto the stage again.
“And then watch this one yourself,” Rathe went on. “Sohier, I want you to wait for the people from the deadhouse, see if you can slip them in discreetly–”
The pointswoman shook her head, the braided lovelock flying. “It’s not going to happen, Nico, I’m sorry. There’s already a crowd gathering, and the Five Rings is open for business.”
Rathe swore again. “I’ve a mind to call a point on them for contributing to the disturbance. All right, do what you can. Let’s hope they hurry.”
Gasquine had sent for her sceneryman already, and he arrived with the deadhouse carters and a knot of actors, the group swirling down the tunnel into the pit in a confusion of voices. Rathe straightened from his examination of the loosened rope, and bit back an exclamation of disgust. The apprentice alchemist–the same woman who’d collected de Raзan’s body, he saw without surprise–matched him stare for stare, but he ignored her, beckoned to Gasquine instead.
“Mathiee. Get your people under control, please–and now that they’re here, they can stay until I’ve had a word with them. Keep them here in the pit, and I’ll get to them as soon as I can.”
Gasquine nodded, turned away to give her own orders, and Rathe went on without a pause. “Leenderts, you watch the door. Make sure no one else gets in without my or Mathiee’s say‑so–”
“Adjunct Point!” That was the new watchman, hesitating at the head of the tunnel, and Rathe bit back another curse. “Adjunct Point, the chorus is here, or some of them, and what am I to tell them?”
“Tell them–” Rathe stopped, looking at the meager man, and swallowed what he would have said. “Sohier, hold the alchemists here, and wait for me. There’s a sceneryman to help with the machine.”
The alchemist nodded, clambering up the stairs behind the sceneryman.
“Right, Nico,” Sohier answered, and Rathe climbed back down to the pit. There were at least a dozen actors there, he saw, plus the masters and of course Aubine, standing among his flowers like a man bereft. I’ll deal with them later, he thought, and started back up the tunnel, only to stop short, seeing Eslingen and the younger master, Siredy, already standing in the now‑open door.
“My compliments to the vidame,” Eslingen was saying, his voice so polite as to be almost a parody, “and the rehearsal plans have changed again. If she’d be so good as to continue on to the Bells, the rehearsal will take place there instead.”
Someone–a woman in coachman’s livery, Rathe saw, her whip tucked up over her shoulder�
�asked a question, and Eslingen drew himself up to his full height.
“I wouldn’t know. I’m sure all your questions will be answered at the Bells.”
He stepped back, swinging the door closed almost in the coachman’s face, and looked back over his shoulder with a wry grin. “Sorry. The watch didn’t seem able to cope.”
Rathe nodded. “Thanks. Are they listening?”
“Reluctantly,” Eslingen answered. “They all want to know what’s going on.”
Rathe stooped to peer through the scratched and bubbled window that ran parallel to the doorway. As Sohier had warned, the tavern across the plaza was already open for business–two hours before its regular time, Rathe thought, and grimaced, seeing another serving girl scurry in the kitchen door. Clearly, the theatre murders were starting to rival The Drowned Islandin the popular imagination.
The long, low windows were crowded with staring faces, and there were still more people gathered along the edges of the square to stare and gossip. The alchemists’ cart stood ready, a flat‑faced man slouching on the tongue, shaking his head at a thin man in a torn coat. “So does everybody, it seems,” he said aloud, and waved the watchman forward. “Can you keep the door, Master–”
“Pelegrim.” The watchman touched his forehead again. “I’m doing my best, sir, honestly–”
“I’ll stay with him,” Eslingen offered. “Between us, we can keep things quiet.”
Rathe shook his head. “Actually, I may need you. But if you’d be willing to help Leenderts, Master Siredy…”
“Of course,” the other man said with a sweet smile, and the watchman ducked his head again.
“I’m doing my best, masters, all I can do.”
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Leenderts said, and Rathe nodded.
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