Point of Dreams a-2

by Melissa Scott

  “I do my job,” the watchman said again, and Leenderts’s eyes met Rathe’s over the man’s shoulder.

  Rathe nodded– the man’s been up to something, watch him– but there was no time to pursue the question as another knock sounded at the door. Pelegrim moved to answer it, Siredy at his back, and he waved Eslingen back toward the main house. “I’m sorry to do this, Philip,” he said aloud, “but there’s still the body to deal with.”

  Eslingen grimaced, but nodded. “I’m at your disposal,” he said, and the tone was warmer than the formal words.

  Sohier had collected both the sceneryman and the alchemists at the unblocked trap, saw them return with undisguised relief. “Nico–”

  “The sooner you let us at the body, the sooner you’ll have your answers,” the alchemist said, riding over anything the pointswoman would have said, and Rathe took a breath, controlling his annoyance with an effort.

  “Take them down, Sohier,” he said, and nodded to the sceneryman. “Master–?”

  “Basa,” the sceneryman answered. He was an older man, easily a grandfather, with big hands marked by heavy, swollen joints. Retired from the river, maybe? Rathe guessed, when the winters got too hard to bear. “Pointsman, they tell me the machinery gave way, but I don’t see how. All the cordage, that’s all new, not two weeks old, we change all the ropes once a fortnight.”

  “Expensive,” Eslingen said, and the sceneryman scowled.

  “Cheaper than new actors.”

  “Show me the rope that failed,” Rathe said, and the sceneryman pointed into the shadows.

  “There’s not much to see, pointsman, that’s where that cable should be.”

  “We noticed it was missing as soon as we looked,” Eslingen said.

  Rathe nodded. “Show me,” he said again, and Basa hunched his shoulders.

  “Over here.”

  Rathe followed him into the wings, stepping carefully over cleats that held other ropes stretched taut, stopped as Basa crouched beside an opening in the floor. There was no sign of a rope there, but looking up, Rathe thought he could see the end of one dangling somewhere in the gloom overhead.

  “Now, then,” the sceneryman said, and straightened, reaching for a pole that hung on the nearest pillar. It had a hook at one end, like a boathook, Rathe saw, and ducked as Basa reached up to catch a loop of leather that had been hanging, invisible, among the ropes. There was a rattle of metal, and then a length of rope dropped to the stage floor. Basa prodded at it, still scowling, then stooped again to hold it out like an accusation.

  “Now, see there. That was in the brake.”

  Rathe took it gingerly, not quite knowing what he was looking for. It was new cable, all right, still bright and barely scarred, five finger‑thick strands wound tight on each other. One end was bound with bright red cording, and the other hung loose, just starting to unwind from its tight twist.

  “That’s not frayed,” Basa said. “And it’s not been cut, either. I’d stake my reputation on that.”

  “So what then?” Rathe asked, and handed the length back to him. “A fault in the mechanism?”

  Basa didn’t answer immediately, reversing the hook to probe through the hole in the stage floor, came up at last with a second length of rope. This one was still attached somewhere below, but the sceneryman caught it before it could slither back out of sight, laying it flat on the boards and pinning it with his hook.

  “And that’s the other end.” He glared at it. “Not the mechanism, pointsman, but the splice, or at least that’s what someone wants you to think. But no line I mend gives way, not like this. There’s been murder done, pointsman, and I want it solved.”

  Rathe stared at the new length of cable. It didn’t look that different from the first one, the same bright new rope, one end a little more frayed than the first one had been, and he looked back at Basa. “You’re saying that this was, what, unraveled?”

  “See there?” Basa pointed with his toe, keeping the hook firmly on the length of line. Rathe squinted, thought he saw a length of thinner rope among the heavy strands. “The binding, there, see? The rope was spliced and the join bound off to make it stronger, that’s the way we always do it here. But someone’s unbound it, to make you think the rope failed.”

  Rathe nodded slowly. “And you’re telling me–forgive me, Master Basa, but are you saying that the rope couldn’t have failed? That this join couldn’t have given way?”

  Basa’s eyes flickered, and he shrugged one shoulder. “All right, I’ll never say never could happen. But I’ve never seen it done before.”

  “What if the brake gave way?” Rathe asked again, and Basa shook his head.

  “If the brake had let go, you’d find the whole coil down below, not just a part of it.”

  Not that I expected anything different, not the way things have been going. Rathe took a deep breath, and Sohier appeared in the opening of the trap. Her face was very pale, but she had her voice well under control.

  “Excuse me, Nico, but the alchemists would like a word with you. And with the sceneryman, if you please.”

  Rathe nodded, glanced at Basa. “I’m sorry to do this, but–I think they’ll need your help getting the body free of the machinery.”

  Basa made a face. “Oh, yeah. But I’ll need some backs to work the windlass, with the brake off.”

  “How many?” Rathe asked.

  “Three, at least,” Basa answered. “Four’s better.”

  “Sohier and me,” Rathe said, and Eslingen’s head rose.

  “And me, if you’d like.”

  “Thanks,” Rathe said, and looked at Basa. “Enough?”

  “It’ll do.”

  They climbed back down into the understage, and Rathe was grateful for the overwhelming smell of the oil that coated the gears and the massive turnshaft. The alchemists were clustered around the body, mage‑lights poised to cast as much light as possible, and Rathe looked away from the too‑vivid picture. The woman apprentice– Ursine, Fanier had named her–looked over her shoulder at their approach, and came to join them, wiping her hands on her leather apron. There were new smears on it already, Rathe saw, and swallowed hard.

  “You don’t deal in the common run of deaths, do you?” Ursine shook her head. “Dis Aidones, what a mess.”

  And for an alchemist to say so… Rathe killed the thought, said, “What can you tell me?”

  “Well, he’s dead for sure,” Ursine said with a fleeting smile. “But I’m not happy about this one, Adjunct Point. He–well, Master Fanier can say for sure, but I’d lay money he didn’t die where he’s lying.”

  “Seidos’s Horse,” Eslingen said, and Rathe grimaced.

  “You mean he died, or was killed, somewhere else, and then put into the machine?”

  Ursine nodded, rubbing her hands on her apron again. “That would be my guess, Adjunct Point. But, as I say, Master Fanier can say for sure.”

  “That’s an ugly thought,” Eslingen said, and Rathe nodded. It wasn’t hard to guess why someone would do it–the gears had crushed the man’s torso, would hide even a stab wound or a bullet hole, and without the alchemists’ testimony, there was a good chance that it would be taken for an accident–but it argued a colder heart than he’d thought they were dealing with. And it’s exactly the opposite of de Raзan’s death, he thought suddenly. He was found dead without apparent cause, with no chance of it being an accident, while what killed the watchman is almost too obvious, and almost too obviously an accident.

  “I want to know as soon as possible,” he said aloud, and Ursine nodded again.

  “We’ve done as much as we can here,” she said. “But I’m not sure of the best way to get him out of there.”

  “I can help.” That was Basa, his voice cracking, and he cleared his throat. “Give me a minute, sir, dame, and I’ll get the machines switched over.”

  He was as good as his word, pulling levers to move heavy bands of leather from one shaft to the next, careful to check each lengt
h of rope before he finally took his place at the main controls. “If you’ll take the windlass, pointsman–no, the other way–and just take up the strain…”

  Rathe took his place at one of the long poles, saw Sohier and Eslingen do the same. He leaned his weight against the length of wood, felt the others doing the same, and then, slowly, the windlass moved, easily at first, and then more stiffly. The enormous shaft that ran the length of the understage turned with it, and there was a sigh of metal on metal as the great gears trembled behind them.

  “Ready?” Basa called, and one of the alchemists lifted a hand.

  “We’re ready.”

  “Stay clear of the gears,” Basa warned, and Rathe bit down on unhappy laughter. Not that anyone should need that warning, with that object lesson staring them in the face.

  “Clear,” the alchemist answered, and Basa dropped his hand.

  “Go.”

  Rathe threw his weight against the lever. There was a moment of resistance, and then it turned, more easily than he would have expected. The shaft turned, smooth and silent, and there was a muffled exclamation as the gears turned backward.

  “Stop.”

  Basa jerked two levers even as he spoke, and Rathe felt the windlass freeze under his hand. He straightened, catching a glimpse of the alchemists bending over the hunched body, and saw Basa, his face averted, adjusting levers and belts to hold everything in its place again.

  “We’ll get on this one right away,” Ursine said, jerking her head toward the body, and Rathe nodded.

  “I’d appreciate it,” he said, and Basa turned toward him.

  “Pointsman–Adjunct Point. How soon can we–when can I bring my people down here, clean this up? The blood… I don’t want rats.”

  Rathe swallowed hard, saw both Sohier and Eslingen flinch at the image. “We’re done,” he said aloud. “So the rest of it’s up to Mathiee.”

  “Thank you,” Basa said, and shook his head. “Sweet Tyrseis, what a–the poor bastard.”

  “Did you know him?” Rathe asked, almost on impulse, and the sceneryman shrugged.

  “Not well. The actors would know him better. Who’d want to kill a man like him?”

  “Like what?” Rathe asked, but the sceneryman was already out of earshot, scrambling back up the ladder to the stage itself. Rathe sighed, and looked at Sohier. “I’ll want an answer to that question. Let’s go.”

  Gasquine was waiting on the stage, talking in an undervoice to the playwright. Aconin had changed his dark wig for one as pale as summer wine, and for once he looked genuinely worried. Rathe made a face–the last thing he wanted was to have to deal with Aconin– and beckoned to Sohier.

  “You start with the actors, and any of the stagehouse staff. You know what I want, anything that might tell us why the man was killed. And I’ll talk to Mathiee.”

  “He was the watchman,” Sohier said, and nodded. “You never know what he might have seen.”

  Rathe nodded in agreement, and moved toward the company manager. She saw him coming, and broke off her conversation with Aconin, came toward him with a hand outstretched. “Is it–”

  She broke off, as though she didn’t want to put it into words, and over her shoulder Aconin made a face.

  “What else could it be, Mathiee?”

  “An accident.” Gasquine frowned at him, but the playwright seemed not to see.

  “What an ugly irony it would be if the man died for actually doing his duty. You couldn’t use it in a play.”

  “ ‘Doing his duty’?” Rathe repeated, and looked at Gasquine. “I’m sorry, Mathiee, it’s most likely that this wasn’t an accident, so I’ll need to know anything you can tell me about him.”

  “Tyrseis,” Gasquine said, and shook her head. “He’s been–he had been one of my watchmen for, oh, I suppose it’s been five years now. His father was an actor, comic parts, before your time, I think, but talented.”

  “You gave him the job for his father’s sake?” Rathe asked, and Gasquine shrugged.

  “Partly, I suppose. And I know his sister, too, she’s a seamstress–he lived with her and her man. So when I needed a watchman, and heard he was looking for work, it seemed to be a good match. He was willing enough.”

  “So you’re saying he had no enemies that you know of,” Rathe said, though he thought he already knew the answer.

  Gasquine shook her head again. “None, and I can’t imagine any. There are men who are born to be uncles, Nico, you know the sort, big sweet men who don’t want a household of their own, but live to indulge your own children. That was Artinou to the life, and he treated the actors all the same way. He was always doing them favors, carrying notes and flowers, that sort of thing.”

  “And being well paid for it, too,” Aconin said.

  Gasquine rounded on him with a frown. “And you, Master Aconite, can mind your tongue when you speak of the dead.”

  “I don’t say he didn’t mean well,” Aconin said. “I believe he did. But be fair, Mathiee. He took coin for his pains, as much as any watchman did.”

  “Master Aconin,” Rathe said. “What was it you meant about Artinou doing his duty for once?”

  For the first time, the playwright looked uneasy. “Mathiee can tell you better than I can.”

  “There’s no point in bringing that up,” Gasquine said, through clenched teeth.

  Rathe suppressed a sigh. He’d seen this reaction a hundred times before, the grief that wanted only to see the best in the dead, and he made his voice as gentle as he could. “It could be important, Mathiee, you know that–might explain something.”

  Gasquine grimaced, but nodded. “I had to speak to him yesterday. Some of the actors–not the chorus, just the actors–came to me and said things had been moved about in the dressing rooms.”

  “Stolen?” Rathe asked, and Gasquine shook her head.

  “No, that was the odd thing. I mean, theft’s a constant problem, there’s always someone new to the city who doesn’t know the jewels are paste–I can’t count the number of times we’ve redeemed Anfelis’s Crown from pawn, we’ve practically got an account with the old woman.” She broke off with an apologetic smile. “And actors are careless, they leave things about that they shouldn’t. But, no, nothing was stolen, just–moved around, or so the actors told me. And from what they said, it seemed it must have happened overnight. So I told Artinou to take special care to make sure the house–all of it, stage and backstage and understage and the house, too–was locked tight and no one was there who shouldn’t be.”

  “And then he was found dead,” Rathe said.

  Gasquine looked stricken. “Oh, Tyrseis. I wish I hadn’t said anything.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Aconin said. “You had to say something.”

  “Did you know about these–disturbances?” Rathe asked, and the playwright hesitated, then shook his head in turn.

  “Not I. By hearsay only. You’d have to talk to the actors about that.”

  “I’ll do that,” Rathe answered, and looked back at Gasquine. “With your permission, of course, Mathiee.”

  “Of course.” Gasquine took a deep breath. “Oh, Nico, I so wish this hadn’t happened.”

  And not just for the sake of the play, either, Rathe thought, though that had to be looming in her mind. The company owner seemed genuinely distressed. He murmured what he hoped was a soothing response, and glanced at the knot of actors gathered now in the pit. Sohier was talking to one of them, a tall, lanky woman whom Rathe had always seen playing the heroine’s best friend, and the rest seemed to be trying to listen without actually being caught eavesdropping. Guis Forveijl was among them, carefully not meeting Rathe’s eye, but also Gavi Jhirassi, and in spite of himself, Rathe’s mood lifted. Jhirassi was as keen an observer as any actor, and more to the point, he could be trusted.

  “Gavi,” he called, and the younger man turned at once. His hair had been cropped short for The Drowned Island, to accommodate the young hero’s massive wigs, and the short cur
ls set off the sharp bones of his face, made him look like a Silklands carving. “Over here, if you would.”

  Jhirassi moved to join him, and Rathe climbed down the short stairs into the pit, moving him away from the other actors. He was aware of Forveijl’s eyes following them, and did his best to ignore it, took a deep breath of air that smelled suddenly and strongly of Aubine’s plants.

  “What’s all this about things being–disturbed–in the dressing rooms?”

  Jhirassi raised his eyebrows, spread both hands in a gesture that was gracefully uncertain. “What about it? A bunch of us complained to Mathiee–you don’t mean that’s why poor Artinou was killed?”

  “I don’t know,” Rathe answered. “And, frankly, Gavi, I don’t even know exactly what happened, so…”

  He let his voice trail off, and Jhirassi gave a wincing smile. “Sorry. We’re all a bit–unsettled–today.” He took a breath, visibly collecting his thoughts. “Sorry. What happened. Well, it wasn’t much, really, but it was disturbing, thinking someone had been in the dressing rooms. It was like someone had been through everything, all our goods and clothes–”

  “Looking for something, do you think?” Rathe asked.

  Jhirassi gestured helplessly. “I don’t think so? I don’t know. There was enough for the taking, Tyrseis knows, I’d left a nice gilt chain by mistake, but it was there, just moved from one hook to another. And some clothes were taken out of the press, Guis’s coat was dropped in a corner–”

  “That could have been Guis,” Rathe said, in spite of himself, remembering Forveijl’s habits, and Jhirassi grinned.

  “No, I saw him hang it up this time. The wardrobe mistress was going to fine him if he didn’t take better care of it, and she did charge him a demming anyway.” His smile vanished. “And there was more. All the paint pots were moved around–one was broken, Anjesine’s best rouge–and she had a posy for her throat, tea herbs, and they’d been pulled apart and rearranged.” He paused. “I think that was the strangest thing, someone bothering to rearrange a bunch of herbs.”

  Rathe nodded. “Tell me about Artinou.”

  “What’s to tell?” Jhirassi made a face. “I’m sorry, that sounds terrible, but he was the watchman. I didn’t know him very well.”