Point of Dreams a-2

by Melissa Scott

  “Aconin says he ran errands for people, carried notes and such.”

  “So do all the watchmen,” Jhirassi answered. “If anything, Artinou had more sense than most–he could remember who you wanted to see, and who was being hinted away.”

  “A useful talent,” Rathe said. And potentially a dangerous one, if the watchman had remembered more than he should. He took the actor through the rest of his questions without learning more than he’d already heard from Gasquine, and when he’d finished stood for a moment, hands on hips, trying to decide who to question next. Sohier was working her way through the actors; maybe he should leave them to her, he thought, and concentrate on the masters. Even as he thought that, Eslingen stepped into his line of sight.

  “Excuse me, Adjunct Point?”

  Rathe frowned at the formal address, and Eslingen took a step closer.

  “If I could have a word?”

  Rathe’s frown deepened, but he nodded, stepping back out of earshot of the group still gathered in the pit.

  “I think there’s someone here who doesn’t belong,” Eslingen said. “He’s not one of the actors, or a master–I thought he was Aubine’s man, but his lordship says not.”

  “Where?” It took all of Rathe’s self‑control not to turn and stare. It had been known to happen, murderers returning compulsively to the scene of their crimes, particularly when a madman was involved…

  “Toward the back of the pit,” Eslingen answered. “On the edge of the group of actors–by the biggest tub of plants. He’s an older man, brown coat, brown hair.”

  Rathe nodded, letting his eyes drift sideways, scanning the crowd. The edges of the pit were in shadow, the sunlight that filtered through the canvas roof not adding much to the mage‑lights, but he found the man at last, leaning on the edge of the handcart that had carried Aubine’s plants. And that was probably how he’d gotten in, Rathe guessed, offering to help carry pots and then staying after Aubine had paid him off. No one would have noticed him, just another laborer.

  “You know him,” Eslingen said, eyes narrowing, and Rathe nodded.

  “Oh, yeah. All too well. That’s Master Eyes himself, come to see the scandal.”

  “Master Eyes.” From the look on Eslingen’s face, he recognized the name– and well he should, considering how many broadsheets came from the bastard’s pen, Rathe thought. Not that Eyes wrote them himself, or not all of them, but his name, and his too‑astute observations, filled reams of paper. “What do we do about him?”

  Rathe sighed. “He doesn’t have any right to be here, and I’m sure Mathiee would be glad to see his back, if she knew he was here. So I’ll do her a favor, kick him out myself–if you’ll help.”

  “Of course.”

  Rathe smiled lopsidedly. “Bear in mind that he has a lot to say about actors, and the Masters of Defense, for that matter.”

  “I’m hardly important enough to catch Master Eyes’s notice, surely,” Eslingen answered. “What do you want me to do?”

  It was hardly that simple, Rathe knew, but he didn’t have time to warn Sohier. Eyes would be gone at the first hint of trouble, fading back into the shadows where he could lose himself, where he could stay hidden until the theatre was cleared. “Get between him and the stairs–casually, like you’re looking for a place to catch a nap.”

  “The Masters of Defense,” Eslingen said with dignity, “do not take naps during rehearsal.”

  Rathe grinned in spite of himself. “For a tryst, then, or whatever it is the masters do allow themselves to do. Then I’ll flush him out.”

  Eslingen nodded. “I’m at your service, Adjunct Point.”

  He turned away, threading his way between the benches, and Rathe reached for his tablets, made a minor show of opening them, carving letters into the stiff wax. Not for the first time, he felt foolish, playacting in front of actors, but no one seemed to notice. Sohier was talking to another woman now, one of the masters, Rathe thought, and behind them he saw Eyes moving closer, easing toward them in hopes of catching a word or two. He ducked his head over the tablets again, not wanting to alarm the man, a part of his mind wondering if Eyes could have anything to do with these murders, or at least with Artinou’s death. By his previous record, there wasn’t much Eyes wouldn’t do to find a scandal he could sell to the printers–but then, Rathe amended, on his previous record, Eyes was more likely to invent scandal than to create it himself. He was not notably a man of his hands, preferred to let his pen do his fighting for him. Rather like Aconin in that, Rathe thought, and glanced up at the stage. The playwright was still there, standing a little apart from the others, arms folded across his chest as though he was cold. He was looking at something in the middle distance, Rathe realized, and frowning slightly, let his eyes follow the playwright’s gaze, found himself looking at the landseur Aubine, fussing over an uncovered tub of flowers. They were beautiful, brought to bloom only a few months early, the vivid blue stars of spring greeters bright even in the dimly lit theatre. He had a bank of them himself, tucked into a sheltered corner of his shared garden–they grew from corms, too, though far humbler than anything sold at market–had told himself it was for the bulb, good against fever, but the truth of it was, the bright flowers always lifted his spirits. They bloomed always in the last weeks of the Spider Moon, shoving up through snow if necessary, a full two weeks before the hardiest spring flowers showed their heads. They seemed an odd choice for the masque, there was no magistical significance that he knew of, but then, the color was certainly bright enough to show well in the theatre.

  Eslingen was in position, leaning into a swordsman’s stretch that brought him between Eyes and the nearest staircase, and Sohier, Rathe saw, was between him and the tunnel that led to the door. He folded his tablets, trying to look casual, and took a careful step toward the group of actors. Eyes stayed where he was, still shadowed, then, as Rathe came closer, took a slow step backward, putting another tub of plants between himself and the approaching pointsman. Rathe kept coming, hurrying now, and Eyes took another backward step, almost tripping over a bench. Rathe allowed himself a grin, and the other man turned to run, stepping up onto and over the nearest bench. Eslingen straightened to attention, and Rathe shouted, “Hold him!”

  Eyes darted sideways, floundering in the narrow space, and Eslingen lunged, caught him by the collar of his coat. The broadsheet writer writhed in his grip, trying to shed it, but Eslingen had him by the shirt as well, dragged him back and around until he could catch one arm and bend it backward.

  “Is this your murderer, Adjunct Point?”

  The guileless voice carried clearly, and actors and masters alike turned to stare. Rathe hid a grin– trust Philip to carry through–and managed a sober shake of the head. “No, I don’t believe so. But he doesn’t have any business here that I know of.”

  “Master Eyes!”

  The exclamation came from the actors, quickly stifled, and Rathe looked up at the stage, to see Gasquine staring down at them, something like horror filling her face. “He’s not part of your company, is he, Mathiee? Or yours, Master Duca?”

  Gasquine shook her head warily. “Not of my company, no…”

  “Nor mine,” Duca said, voice grim, and behind the writer’s shoulder Eslingen showed teeth in a cheerful smile.

  “Then maybe he is your murderer.”

  “Don’t think I don’t know who you are,” Master Eyes said. His voice was clear, tinged with a southriver accent. “And I know what you are to him, so don’t play games.”

  “The only thing Orian ever murdered was a reputation,” Aconin said, from the stage. “But he has slain a few of those.”

  “Master Eyes,” Rathe said, and felt the attention focus again on him, actors and masters alike. This must be something like what it felt like to be onstage, he thought, and wondered vaguely how they stood it. “You’re not of this company–of either company. I will have to ask you to leave.”

  Eyes smiled with easy contempt. He was, Rathe thought
remotely, surprisingly handsome, a pleasant face under brown hair just starting to show threads of grey, not at all what one would expect from his acid writing. “I’ll leave if I must, Adjunct Point. But don’t think I haven’t seen and heard more than enough to fill a dozen broadsheets.”

  “I daresay you have,” Rathe answered. “But bear in mind you are talking about the masque. There’s a printer’s ban on the details, so I’d be very careful what I said, if I were you.”

  Eyes laughed. “A good try, Adjunct Point, but it won’t wear. Besides, everyone is much more interested in the details of these deaths. The masque itself pales in comparison–no criticism meant of Master Aconite.”

  It was true enough, and Rathe sighed. “Bring him, please, Lieutenant.”

  Eslingen nodded, increasing the pressure on Eyes’s wrist until the writer gasped and took an involuntary step forward. Eslingen smiled, quite sweetly, and edged the man toward the tunnel. Rathe followed, taking a savage pleasure in the writer’s discomfort. He’d earned it, Sofia knew–but of course Eyes probably counted it as one of the hazards of his profession. Leenderts was still with the watchman and Siredy, the door barred behind them, and Rathe paused, beckoning to the other pointsman.

  “Len. I need to make someone known to you.”

  Leenderts nodded, his expression questioning, and Rathe smiled. “This is Orian Fiormi, better known to all of us as Master Eyes.”

  Leenderts’s eyes widened almost comically, and Eyes swore under his breath. Anonymity was his stock in trade, Rathe knew, and allowed his smile to widen in turn. “Remember him,” he said, and Leenderts nodded.

  “Absolutely, Adjunct Point. I won’t forget.”

  “Good.” Rathe nodded to the doorkeeper. “Master Eyes was leaving.”

  The doorkeeper nodded, scrambling to unfasten the bar and turn the heavy lock, and Eslingen eased his grip on the writer. Eyes straightened his shoulders, shrugging his coat back into place, looked from one to the other.

  “You can’t stop the stories,” he said. “And Mathiee might have liked to have some say in them.”

  “You can take that up with Mathiee,” Rathe answered. “Though I doubt you would have, frankly, offered her the chance. It’s so much easier to make things up out of whole cloth than to have to fit in unaccommodating things like facts. But this is a points matter, and you have no business with it.”

  The door was open at last, and he nodded toward it. Eyes swept him a mocking bow, and stalked away, the skirts of his coat billowing in the breeze.

  “Tyrseis,” Siredy said. “He’ll quarter us for that.”

  “I hope not,” Rathe answered. “Or at least maybe he’ll put the blame where it belongs.”

  “Master Eyes is never fair,” Siredy said.

  That was all too true, and Rathe sighed. Eyes had seen the shrouded body carried out, had heard at least some of the actors’ gossip, knew as much and probably more than anyone except the murderer about de Raзan’s death… No, this was not going to make him friends in Dreams, and Trijn in particular was going to be livid. Keep things out of the broadsheets as long as possible, she had said, and if anyone could spot the political implications of the chorus, it would be Master Eyes. He shook himself then. That was borrowing trouble; still, the best thing to do would be to go straight to Trijn, and tell her what had happened.

  He made it back to Dreams station in record time, but Trijn herself had gone out. Rathe stared down at the daybook, flipping back through the pages to hide his relief. He could leave her a note, then, and spare himself the lecture– or, more likely, put it off until tomorrow. Still, it was a reprieve of sorts, and he flipped back through another day’s entries, wondering if he should go to the deadhouse himself. Fanier would do the job as quickly and efficiently if he wasn’t there, but a part of him felt as though he should be present, somehow help shepherd the body through the alchemist’s rites. And that was foolish, he knew, and turned another page. Voillemin had been to Little Chain, he saw, and frowned as he read the brief notation. Spoke with stallholder, who had a story about flowers bought according to the Alphabet. Misadventure?

  “What do you know about this?” he asked, and the duty point– Falasca again–looked up quickly.

  “Not much. He’s been working on a report for a couple of days now.”

  “Do you know if he ever spoke to Holles?” Rathe saw the woman shrug, and said, “Leussi’s leman. The one who found the body.”

  “Oh.” Falasca shook her head. “I don’t think so–but of course I could be wrong. I think, my impression is, that he thinks this wraps up the case. He said something about the matter being resolved.”

  “Resolved.” It was an odd word, not one that went with murder, and Rathe had to take a careful breath to control his anger. “Do you know what he found?”

  “No,” Falasca answered. “I’m sorry.”

  “Is Voillemin in?” Even as he asked, Rathe knew it was a forlorn hope, and Falasca shook her head again.

  “He has the night watch, sir, he won’t be in until after second sunrise.”

  Another four hours. Rathe looked back at the daybook, at Voillemin’s neat, well‑schooled handwriting. If he really had found information that would allow him to–resolve–the investigation surely he would have made his report by now; if the information wasn’t good enough, surely he would have spoken to Holles. Which meant that his fears, and Holles’s, were coming true: Voillemin was looking for a way to brush the case aside. He shook himself, frowning now at his own suspicions. It was just as possible that Voillemin was being conscientious, was making sure his conclusions could be justified, before he committed his opinion to a report–but if that were the case, why hadn’t he talked to Holles yet? Rathe hesitated, then reached for his daybook to copy the name and direction of the stallholder who claimed to know so much. It wasn’t his business to check up on Voillemin, and the regents would have a fit if they ever found out, but he couldn’t not follow up on this, if only for Leussi’s sake. With any luck, he’d simply confirm what Voillemin had found, and everyone could rest easier.

  He crossed the Sier at the landings beside the Chain Tower, where in generations past the first watch towers had protected the city against attack from the west. The city had spread beyond the towers now, and it had been at least a hundred years since queen or regents had ordered chain strung from jetty to jetty to foul enemy ships, but the massive links were still stacked ready, greased and rewound twice a year by the Pontoises, the company of boatmen responsible for law on the river. Today a pack of children, too young even to work as runners, were playing tag around the pile of iron, their cries carrying like riverbirds’ in the cold air. The boatman was surly, sunk into a triple layer of heavy jerseys, fingers wrapped in wool beneath the leather palms, and Rathe was glad to pay him his fee, resolving to walk back to the Hopes‑point Bridge before he ventured on the water again.

  Voillemin’s note had said that the woman was a stallholder in the Little Chain market, but a single glance at the stall, well painted and double‑sized, with cressets already lit against the gathering dusk and a banner of a star and bell, was enough to make Rathe swear under his breath. Whatever else Levee Estines was, she was more than a mere stallholder, and Voillemin should have known better than to take her that lightly. The woman herself was not at the stall, but the man who tended it, busy among jars and baskets of dried herbs and flowers, pointed him willingly enough to his mistress’s house. The house itself was neat and well kept, new plaster bright between the beams, and a glasshouse leaned against the southern wall where it could take the sunlight. The glass was fogged now, and in spite of everything Rathe felt a slight pang of envy. Glasshouses were expensive to build, even more expensive to heat through Astreiant’s long winter; his mother had always wanted one, and in the same breath called them a waste of coin and effort. This one was small, just a lean‑to, really, so that even a small woman would have to crouch to tend the plants on the lowest shelves, but he could see greenery th
rough the clouded glass, and knew it was doing its job.

  The maidservant who answered his knock seemed unsurprised to find a pointsman on their doorstep, and ushered him into what at second glance had to be a buyer’s receiving room. It faced away from the glasshouse, the single window giving onto what in the summer had to be an uncommonly pretty garden, and Rathe took a step toward it anyway, admiring the shapes of the empty beds. Half a dozen corms stood ready in forcing jars, already sending up vigorous green shoots, and he wondered again exactly what Estines’s trade was. Herbs and flowers, from her stall, but did she also trade in medicines, or perfumes, or even food, or just in the raw materials?

  “Adjunct Point?” The voice broke off. “Oh. You’re not who I expected.”

  Rathe turned to see a round woman frowning at him from the doorway. Her hair was caught up under a lace cap, her only concession to fashion, and as though she’d guessed his thought she shook her skirts down from where they’d been caught up for work.

  “My name’s Nicolas Rathe, mistress, from Point of Dreams. I understood you wanted to speak to someone from our station.”

  “But I spoke to someone.” Her voice was wary, and Rathe made himself smile. This was one of the reasons that checking up on a fellow pointsman was difficult.

  “I know. To Adjunct Point Voillemin, right?”

  “Yes.” Estines drew the word out into two syllables.

  “I have some reason to believe that this case is connected to one of mine,” Rathe lied. “So I wondered if you could spare me a few moments to talk to me as well.”

  “Connected?” Estines’s eyes grew very round. “Oh, surely not. That would be–” She checked herself and repeated, “Surely not.”

  Damn Voillemin for not putting in his reports on time. Rathe said, “Oh? Why do you say that?”

  Estines looked as though she wished she hadn’t spoken. “I don’t want to tell you your business, I know nothing of points’ affairs–”