Point of Dreams a-2

by Melissa Scott

  “It wouldn’t be ghost‑tide without Mud, Nico. There’s nothing to be ashamed of in so constant a ghost.”

  Rathe laughed softly. “I’ve lost kin, Istre, and friends, but who do I see? My dog.”

  “And I’ve got a really difficult ancient king of Chadron, and his favorite, and I’m no kin and had nothing to do with their deaths. We don’t choose our ghosts, Nico.”

  Rathe nodded. They had reached the edge of a market square, where cressets burned in front of a well‑appointed tavern, and the smell of a tavern dinner, savory pie and hot wine, hung heavy for a moment in the cold air before the wind and the smoke drowned it again. They turned onto the wider avenue that led to the Hopes‑point Bridge, and Rathe felt himself relax a little, grateful to be away from the Court of the Thirty‑two Knives. Even in daylight, and even known as he was, and today brought in by Mirremay herself, it was a chancy place; the streets here, between Hopes and Dreams, were far safer, even with only the lantern to light their way.

  Even as he thought that, he heard the sound of footsteps, running hard up the side street that led away from the river, looked sharply into the darkness as the cry followed them. He saw nothing, maybe the suggestion of a movement, a shadow shifting against the lesser dark where the street joined Beck’s Way, but he knew what he’d heard, couldn’t mistake the choked, wet sound of it, and dove into the darkness, flipping the lantern’s cover as wide as it would go. b’Estorr followed, metal sliding softly against leather as he drew his long knife, and Rathe swore, seeing the crumpled shape lying against the windowless wall of the nearest building. It looked more like a pile of discarded clothes than a man, but b’Estorr dropped instantly to his knees, sliding the knife back into its sheath, and reached to probe for a wound. Rathe stood still, the lantern still held high, tilting his head to listen for any further movement. Whoever had attacked the man was long gone, he was sure of it, had been the running footsteps they had first heard, but he stood watching anyway, not wanting to be taken by surprise. The street–it wasn’t much more than an alley, its central gutter rimed with ice and mud, the walls to either side broken only by a pair of carters’ gates, both closed and barred against the night–was empty, nothing moving in the lantern’s uncertain light, and he turned slowly, letting the wedge of light sweep behind them as well.

  “Nico,” b’Estorr said, and at the urgency in his voice, Rathe lowered the lantern again, spilling its light over the wounded man.

  “How is he?”

  “Not good, but I can’t tell how bad.”

  Rathe knelt beside him, wincing as he saw the blood still flowing hard over b’Estorr’s fingers. The wounded man looked serene enough, eyes closed, heedless of the sleet that splashed his face and hair. Not a good sign, Rathe thought, and set the lantern carefully on the cobbles, turning it so that the light fell strongly across the wounded man. The blood was still flowing, despite b’Estorr’s hand pressed hard on the wound–too low for the heart, but high enough to kill–and he reached for his stock, unwinding the length of linen.

  “Let me,” he said, and b’Estorr nodded, shifting sideways so that Rathe could press the new pad into the wound. The blood slowed a little, or perhaps the man had simply bled as much as he was going to. “See if you can find a surgeon hereabouts, there must be someone. If not, I guess you’d better send for Fanier.”

  “They’ll know at the tavern,” b’Estorr answered, and pushed himself to his feet.

  Rathe nodded, keeping his hand pressed tight against the wound. The bleeding was definitely slowing, he thought, and tried to tell himself it was a hopeful sign. The man’s face was waxen in the lamplight, and he grimaced, knowing their efforts were likely to go for nothing, that it would be Fanier, not a doctor, who would be needed.

  He looked at the assortment of garments covering the wounded man–a threadbare coat, shirt with sleeves too short, patched jerkin and breeches, castoffs, all of them, or temple handouts–and shrugged himself awkwardly out of his own coat, not taking his hand from the wound. He laid it over the stranger, knowing it was probably a futile gesture, and looked away, examining the cobbles for any signs left by the attackers. The sleet was heavier now, the ice collecting in the gaps between the stones, threatening to wash away any indication of what had happened. And there was precious little, he thought, not even a footprint in the mud of the gutter. Whoever had attacked the man was too clever to make that mistake. There was a dark stain on the wall above his head, probably where the man had fallen against it, and Rathe sighed, looked back at the man’s face. There was something familiar about it, an image teasing at the edge of memory, and then from somewhere he caught a whiff of evergreen, and he knew. Grener Ogier had been his parents’ friend, his mother’s in particular, they were both gardeners, had worked together more than once when he was a child at the dame school. But they’d drifted apart, not unfriendly, but on different paths, led by different stars, and the city had swallowed Ogier, spat him back now possibly dying, and Rathe shivered, knowing it was more than the sleet. A talented gardener, his mother had said, she who was always so sparing of her praise, a man under whose hands the most unlikely plots flourished.

  He dipped his head, swallowing tears, and saw Ogier’s eyes flicker open. The pupils were huge, unfocused, probably sightless, but still he made a sound, as though he was trying to speak. Rathe leaned closer, trying to shield him from the worst of the sleet, and heard footsteps from the head of the alley. He turned, free hand reaching for his truncheon, relaxed as he saw b’Estorr, a woman in a carter’s longcoat trailing at his heels. Rathe frowned, but then he saw the apothecary’s badge on the cuff of her close‑buttoned coat. She knelt beside him, shifting the lantern a fraction to give better light, and nodded for him to move aside, her hand sliding briefly over his as she reached for the wound. Rathe relinquished it gladly, wiping his hands on his breeches before he’d thought, swore under his breath at the thought of the laundress’s bill.

  The apothecary murmured something, probing, and Rathe caught a whiff of tobacco and sweetherb clinging to her hair and coat. Still, her hands were steady enough, and she moved with the ease of experience to probe the wound. The blood was still flowing, but sluggishly, and she sat back on her heels, shaking her head.

  “Not even a surgeon could help him, masters, but damnation, this was a bungled job.”

  “What do you mean?” Rathe asked. He was shivering now, without his coat, and wrapped his arms tightly around his body, tucking his hands into his armpits.

  The woman shook her head. “He can’t live, but he’s likely to be a while yet dying, poor bastard.” She looked up at him, then her wide face suddenly, unhappily alive. “Maybe it’s a clue, pointsman. Find the one soul in this city who doesn’t know how to wield a knife properly, and you’ll have his murderer.”

  Rathe bit back an angry retort, recognizing the reaction, and b’Estorr said, “Is there anything we can do?”

  “You could finish the job–you’d do it for a horse or a dog.” The apothecary shook her head, her hair falling forward to hide her eyes. She swept it back with an angry hand, scowled at the coat covering the body. “Keeping him warm was a kindly thought. I don’t suppose you know his stars?”

  b’Estorr shook his head, but Rathe said, “He was a gardener. And had the stars for it, I was told.”

  The necromancer gave him a startled glance. “You know him?”

  “From a long time ago,” Rathe answered. “He’s a friend of my mother’s.”

  “A gardener,” the apothecary said. “Metenere, then, most likely.” She reached into her bag, brought out a jar marked with symbols that Rathe didn’t recognize.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, and the woman looked up at him.

  “A last chance, pointsman, to name his killer. Something his ghost can’t do.”

  Rathe dropped to his knees beside her, heedless of the icy rime. “Will it hurt him?”

  The apothecary shook her head. “He’s beyond pain.” She nodded to
the bandage, so soaked in blood now that it was almost invisible. “Hold that.”

  Rathe did as he was told, wincing as he felt the feeble pulse, and the apothecary uncorked her jar, waved it under Ogier’s nose. For a long moment, nothing happened, and then, suddenly, the man’s eyes flickered open again, blinked and focused.

  “Who–”

  Rathe shifted so that Ogier could see him clearly, if he could see at all. “Who did this, Ogier? It’s Nico Rathe, remember me? Do you know who did this?”

  He broke off as Ogier’s eyes widened, and one hand lifted, fumbling at his sleeve. “Nico.”

  Rathe caught the hand, ice‑cold, ice damp, held it tight. “Who did this?”

  It was an awkward position, one hand still on the bandage, the other holding Ogier’s, and the apothecary made a soft noise, moved to take the bandage. Rathe sat back on his heels, grateful for the relief, and Ogier’s head moved slowly from side to side.

  “Madness,” he whispered. “You remember. I was good. Too good…”

  “One of the best,” Rathe said. “My mother said so. Who would do this? Why?”

  Even as he spoke, Ogier’s eyes closed, the clasp of his fingers relaxing. Rathe tightened his own grip, but the hand in his was slack, falling into death.

  The apothecary shook her head, released her hold on the bandage to touch wrist and mouth, then touched the closed eyes, the gesture more ritual than useful. “Well, that was quicker than I expected. I suppose the weather helped.”

  “Why do you bother?” Rathe demanded, and her eyes fell.

  “Did you want the poor bastard to linger?”

  “And if easing his passing was the most important thing to you,” Rathe snapped, “why did you raise him long enough to speak?”

  “I–” The apothecary made a face. “I hate waste. I hate deaths like this. You’re the pointsman, you can do something. Easing his death–that would be an office for his friends. If he had any.”

  Rathe sighed, the anger draining from him. “He had friends. I know he did, at least once.”

  “The Starsmith give him ease,” the apothecary said. She found a rag in her kit, scrubbed her hands. “Will you find his killer?”

  “I don’t know,” Rathe said. “I will try.” He closed his eyes for a moment, still kneeling on the cold stones. There were too many deaths, first the landseur–no, first Leussi– and then de Raзan, and the watchman, and now Ogier, who had nothing to do with any of that, who had no enemies that he could imagine. But obviously he had had one enemy, and that was what he had to find. He pushed himself to his feet, aware for the first time that his breeches and stockings were soaked through, that his hair was dripping on his shoulders.

  “I’ve got a cart,” the apothecary said. “You can use that, if you’d like.”

  To deliver the body, Rathe knew she meant, either to Fanier directly or to Dreams. To Dreams, he decided, he’d had enough of the deadhouse lately to last a lifetime, and nodded. “Thank you. I’d appreciate it.”

  She nodded, straightening. “I’m just a couple of streets over. I won’t be long.”

  Rathe nodded again, too tired to speak, and she turned away, the carter’s coat shedding the worst of the sleet. Rathe shivered again, feeling the touch of ice on his scalp, and beside him b’Estorr shook his head.

  “The poor man. What she did, it’s technically forbidden, but the gods know, it’ll do no harm in this case.” The necromancer paused. “So you knew him, then?”

  Rathe nodded. He should search the body, he knew, but for the moment it was beyond him. “He was a friend of my mother’s–both my parents’, in actual fact, but he was a gardener, too, like her.”

  He was babbling, he knew, and shook himself, made himself kneel again on the freezing stones. There was nothing in the coat pockets, and only a worn leather purse in the pocket of Ogier’s breeches–not much coin, only a few seillings, but if robbery had been the intent, the thief would surely have made certain of them. There was a sprig of some dried herb, a twisted branch of short, spiky leaves, and Rathe sniffed curiously at it, but could detect no aroma. It was new to him, whatever it was, and he tucked it back into the purse, slid that into his own pocket. He checked the cuffs of the coat then, thinking of Eslingen, but Ogier hadn’t shared the soldier’s habit of sliding odd bits of paper into them. There was only another scrap of greenery, a flower not quite out of the bud, faded and dried. It had probably fallen there while Ogier was working, Rathe thought– but if he was working, why was he dressed so badly? Ogier had always been a tidy man, not one to spend unnecessary money on his clothes, but these garments looked more like temple handouts even than working gear. Had he fallen out of favor, lost all his employment, to leave him so shabbily dressed with winter coming on? He’d never been one to tie himself to any one house, and he’d been good enough that he’d never had to, had always had the rich, merchants and even the city‑living landames, vying for his services. Maybe they’d all finally tired of the dance? Rathe shook his head, and sat back on his heels. There was no telling, though he’d make it his business to find out, “Maybe if he’d had a patronne, he’d still be alive.”

  “Or maybe he did find one,” b’Estorr murmured, and Rathe looked sharply at him.

  “What do you mean?”

  b’Estorr shook his head. “Sorry, that’s a Chadroni thought. A patronne protects, yes, but–” He shrugged. “They’re also notoriously chancy.”

  There was a sound of wheels and, miraculously, the slow clop of horse’s hooves, and Rathe pushed himself to his feet. The apothecary had been better than her word: not just a cart, but a small, shaggy, city‑bred pony in its harness. It snorted, smelling the blood, and b’Estorr went instantly to its head, turning it upwind of the body. The apothecary nodded her thanks, and stooped to help lift the body into the cart.

  “Do you want your coat? It won’t do him any good.”

  No more would it, Rathe thought, but shook his head. He was wet through already, and there was blood already on his clothes. “No, let him keep it. But can I get your name and direction?”

  The woman made a face. “Madelen de Braemer. You can find me at the Grapes.”

  That would be the tavern they had passed. Rathe nodded, not bothering to reach for his tablets. It was too cold, he was too wet, and besides, he was unlikely to forget the incongruously aristocratic name. “Thank you, dame.”

  The apothecary was already moving away, but stopped as though a thought had struck her. “And where do I send for my horse, anyway? The deadhouse?”

  “No, Point of Dreams,” Rathe answered. “He’ll go to the deadhouse from there.”

  “Easier on the old boy anyway,” the apothecary said, and Rathe realized she meant the pony. “I’ll come by in the morning.”

  “I’ll leave your name, if I’m not there,” Rathe answered, and she turned away.

  “Shall I walk with you?” b’Estorr asked softly, and Rathe gave him a grateful glance.

  “I’d take it kindly.” It wouldn’t be that long a walk, he thought, but it would be easier with live company.

  By the time Rathe had written cursory reports, and sent a request to the Temple to handle the notification of any kin of Ogier’s, it was after midnight, and he was grateful for the idle escort of a junior pointsman, patrolling that way, to take him partway home. The winter‑sun was risen, at least, dispelling the worst of the darkness, and the sleet had ended, a few stars showing through the breaking clouds, but he was glad to come to his own gate. There were no lights in the weaver’s rooms as he crossed the courtyard–too late–and none in the actors’ rooms under the garrets–too early, probably– but lamplight shone in his own windows, a welcome that was still unexpected, and he climbed the stairs with more haste than he would have thought possible.

  Eslingen was sitting at the narrow table, the lamp set to put the best light on a sheaf of broadsheets, chin resting on his cupped hands as he studied the awkward printing. His hair was loose, for once, falling forwar
d to hide his face, but he looked up as the door opened, shaking it back again. The lazy smile faded as he took in the condition of the other’s clothes, the dark eyes flicking from vital spot to vital spot, and Rathe smothered a tired laugh, seeing him relax again.

  “That had better not be your blood,” Eslingen said.

  “No.” Rathe shook his head, looked down at the stains as though he hadn’t seen them before. He would owe Ardelis for the cleaning of the station’s spare coat as well as his own laundress’s bill, that was obvious. “No, it’s not. I doubt I’d be standing here talking to you if I had this much outside me.”

  “Maybe you’re a ghost,” Eslingen said. He could practically feel the cold radiating off the other man, knew shock when he heard it, and swung himself gracefully up from his place at the table. Watching him, Rathe bit back another laugh, thinking it would play well onstage. Then Eslingen embraced him, pulled back to study his face, frowning in spite of his carefully light tone.

  “Not a ghost, there never was a ghost this cold. Seidos’s Horse, what were they thinking of, to let you go like this?”

  “That the senior adjunct wanted to go home,” Rathe answered. “I’m not hurt, Philip.”

  A flicker of relief crossed the taller man’s face, but he said only, “Just chilled to the bone, it seems. Get your clothes off.”

  Rathe obeyed, shrugging out of the borrowed coat, and instantly Eslingen was there to help, the gentle hand belying the rough words.