Point of Dreams a-2

by Melissa Scott

  “If you’ll come with me, Adjunct Point. The landseur is busy in the succession houses, and asked if you’d join him there.”

  Rathe nodded, not at all sorry to have the chance to see them, and followed her through the house to a narrow stone‑floored hall that led to a shallow courtyard. The greenhouses lay beyond, four long, glass‑walled houses, smoke rising from their narrow chimneys, the rippled glass fogged by the warmth inside. They were easily the largest Rathe had ever seen, made Estines’s little house look like a child’s toy, and he shook his head, amazed. The girl led him to the one at the far end, opened the door and hurried him inside, careful to close the door again behind her before she spoke.

  “Adjunct Point Rathe, maseigneur.”

  Rathe had been expecting warmth, but not the heat of summer. The reddened light poured through the glass, and for a second he could almost believe that it was a summer sun that set beyond the walls. But the winter‑sun hadn’t risen, no pinpoint of brilliance standing high in the sky, and he shook himself back to the present, impressed again. Aubine stood at a gardener’s bench, coat and waistcoat discarded on a form, his shirtsleeves rolled back and a dozen plants standing unpotted, ready for his hand. All around him, the shelves were crowded with summer plants, most of them close to blooming, and that, Rathe realized, was part of the disorientation. The glasshouse smelled of summer, flowers and dirt and heat, and even the smoke from the stove couldn’t quite destroy the illusion.

  “Adjunct Point,” Aubine said. “It’s a surprise to see you away from the theatre.” He lifted a heavy, short‑bladed knife, gestured apologetically with it, scattering dirt. “Forgive me for receiving you like this, but as you know, it’s a busy time for me.”

  “Not at all,” Rathe answered. He thought for a second of saying how glad he was to have a chance to see the succession houses, but decided against it. Let the man assume he knew less than he did; if Aubine wanted to lie, this would be a chance to catch him. “I’m pleased to find you here, actually. I was afraid you might be at the theatre.”

  Aubine smiled, tipping a plant into a pot that stood ready for him. The girl reached instantly for a bucket that stood nearby, sloshed water over the new dirt. “Ah. Thank you, Bice. I would love to be there, but if the flowers are to be ready for the masque, well, there’s still much work to be done. Bice tells me you have news of Ogier?”

  “Some questions, first, if I may,” Rathe said, and realized Aubine was staring at him. “Sir?”

  Aubine shook himself. “Of course. Ask what you must.”

  “When did you last see Ogier?”

  “Ah.” Aubine blinked, eyes focusing on something in the invisible distance. “That would be–what, Bice, one week ago? Two?”

  “Almost two weeks ago, sir,” Bice answered. She reached for another pot, but Rathe saw the flicker of distress cross her face. The girl had liked Ogier, that much was obvious, and he winced at the thought of the coming sorrow.

  “What happened?” he said aloud. “Did he send word, just not show up one morning?”

  “Exactly that, Adjunct Point,” Aubine answered. “He simply didn’t arrive. I thought perhaps he was sick, but then he didn’t come the next day, either, or the day after that. I have no idea where he lives, or I would have sent for him–it’s probably just as well I don’t, I don’t think I would have been very moderate in my summons.” He laughed softly, ruefully. “Master Aconin has not made my job easy, I assure you. Only someone utterly unversed in flowers would manage to feature all the most difficult to bring into bloom at the same time. But I wish Ogier had warned me. I need his help, and he knew it, knew I was counting on him. Have you found him?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Rathe said reluctantly, and kept his eye on the girl. “He was murdered last night, in Point of Dreams.”

  Bice gasped, her face suddenly as white as chalk, and she set the pot hastily on the table. Aubine took it blindly, his expression still uncomprehending.

  “We had his name,” Rathe said, “but we had no notion he worked for you until today. My understanding was that he never attached himself to any one household.”

  “No,” Aubine said, “no, that’s quite true. But I asked–he had worked for me before–and he graciously agreed to give me a large portion of his time so that we could get the flowers ready for the masque. I think he liked the idea of being involved in that–and of working in my houses, I know he enjoyed that.” He shook himself then, as though Rathe’s words had finally made sense. “But–murdered? How? And where did you say?”

  “He was stabbed,” Rathe said. The second question was an odd one, and he watched the landseur closely. “On the border of Hopes and Dreams, in actual fact, an alley there. He died shortly after he was found.”

  Aubine dropped his knife, stared at it for a long moment before stooping to pick it up. “This is terrible news. And there I was, talking about my inconveniences, when the poor man was dead. What you must think of me. I hope he didn’t suffer.”

  Rathe slanted a glance at the girl, saw her still listening, and gave the same lie he had told Frelise. “Not much, no.”

  “Did he name his attacker?” Aubine went on. “Was it robbery? He could be difficult, but–why in Demis’s name would anyone kill him? Why would anyone murder a gardener?”

  And that’s the question, isn’t it? Rathe thought. There could be a dozen reasons for asking if Ogier had named his killer, not least among them the desire to see that person punished, but still, there was something about Aubine’s question that raised the hackles on the back of his neck. And that was probably unfair, he told himself, but chose his words carefully. “It’s early days yet, maseigneur, we’re still trying to answer that. But, no, it wasn’t robbery. He had his purse on him, and it was untouched.” He looked down at the nearest plant, a tiny sundew, pretending to study the pattern of the gold‑edged leaves, watching Aubine from under his lashes. “I can’t imagine he would have had anything else of value on him, besides his purse.”

  “No,” Aubine said, and shook his head. “I paid him what he was worth, of course, and I think I paid him only a day or so before he disappeared, but–” He broke off, met Rathe’s curious stare wide‑eyed. “This is simply terrible.”

  In spite of himself, his eyes moved, taking in the shelves of plants–thinking of the work to be done, Rathe guessed, and all the more difficult without a helper, and he wasn’t surprised to see the landseur’s shoulders sag. But then Aubine straightened, drawing himself up to his full height, and the moment passed.

  “Had he family?”

  “A sister,” Rathe answered. “She did some of his housekeeping.”

  “Bice.”

  The girl straightened, face pinched and still, and Rathe hid a grimace of sympathy.

  “Tell Jonneau to prepare a gift for–” Aubine looked at Rathe.

  “Frelise Ogier.”

  “Frelise Ogier,” Aubine repeated. “She mustn’t suffer for her brother’s death. And, please, Adjunct Point, I’d have you do all you can to discover who’s responsible. I will pay any fee you require…”

  “I’ll find out who killed him, my lord,” Rathe answered, “but I don’t take fees.”

  Aubine’s eyebrows rose. “You don’t? But how do you survive?”

  “It is a paid post,” Rathe said dryly.

  “Oh, I know, but I’ve read… I’ve heard…” Aubine took a breath. “Forgive me, Adjunct Point. I hope I didn’t offend.”

  “It’s a common assumption, and mostly accurate,” Rathe answered. “No offense taken.” He hesitated, remembering the story Eslingen had related. “May I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.” Aubine’s expression was controlled, and perfectly courteous.

  “I’ve heard stories,” Rathe said, “and forgive me now if I offend, that the points failed to investigate the death of your leman some years back, a death that was very probably, if not certainly, murder. Is that true?”

  Aubine fixed his eyes on the plant still
waiting on the table, brought the knife down in a single sharp blow, neatly severing the tangled ball of roots. He heeled one half into a trough set ready, set the other into a half‑empty pot, and only then took a careful breath. “I do believe that to be true, Adjunct Point. That my leman was indeed murdered. I don’t blame the points, though, please understand that.” He looked up, managed a wavering smile. “The death was ordered by my grandmother, who, in practice if not in theory, would have been outside their reach, even if he was killed in Astreiant.” He set the knife aside, rested both hands flat on the scarred table. “That’s why it was so important to me to be part of the masque, to give to it, even if it’s just the flowers, and it’s one of the reasons I love, and fear, being there, at the theatre. It’s so easy there, all the orders, all the proprieties of rank and station, they’re all thrown aside, but when the doors close again, you daren’t forget just how real they truly are. It was that way at the university, certainly, and the theatre– so much more so. It hurts, and I know I’m seeing people who are going to do themselves harm–I wonder if that isn’t what happened to poor de Raзan–but they’re all so eager to throw themselves into this, all so fearless. And they should fear, Adjunct Point, I know that so well.”

  It was more than he’d expected to hear, and Rathe nodded in sympathy, the easy words dying on his tongue. Aubine was right, and most of the actors knew it, knew how to play by the rules when they had to, and when they could discard them, Siredy had proved that, but one miscalculation, and they could end up as dead as Aubine’s lost love. “Thank you,” he said softly, and cleared his throat. “Maseigneur, I’m sure–I hope you understand that we’ll want to talk to your people as well, at least the ones who knew Ogier.”

  The landseur nodded, his hands slowly brushing soil from the table into a bucket, repeating the movement even though he had to know, as Rathe knew, that it was futile. The dirt was worked into the grain of the wood, the table would never be truly free of it, but the gesture looked more like habit, repeated for comfort, like someone stroking a dog. “Of course, Adjunct Point. And if I or anyone remembers anything that might be of use, I shall assuredly let you know.” He smiled then, the expression crooked. “If I remember at the theatre, should I send word by way of Lieutenant vaan Esling?”

  So the gossip’s got that far, Rathe thought, not knowing why he felt a chill. “No,” he said, “send word to Point of Dreams. Even if I’m not there, it will reach me.”

  “Ah.” Aubine’s smile widened briefly. “I beg your pardon, Adjunct Point. If I remember anything, I will let you know.”

  There were lights in his windows again, and as he went up the stairs the smell of food wafted down to meet him. Not Eslingen’s cooking, he guessed–the ex‑soldier’s kitchen skills were limited–and he wasn’t surprised to see a pair of covered iron dishes stamped with the moon and twin stars that was Pires’s tavern’s mark. One was still covered, waiting on the hob to keep warm; the other was simmering gently on the stove itself. Eslingen was sitting at the table in shirt and waistcoat, and Rathe didn’t have to look to know that the man’s coat was hung neatly on its stand behind the door. A tankard of beer sat in front of him, perfuming the air, and Rathe wrinkled his nose.

  “Are we celebrating something?”

  Eslingen grinned. “There’s a bottle of wine for you, too. In the cold safe.”

  “So what are we celebrating?” Rathe pulled off his jerkin, draped it carelessly on its hook, freed himself of coat and truncheon as well. Eslingen kept the little room warmer than he himself would have done, but so far the price of charcoal was good this winter. He lifted the lid on the warming pot, saw and smelled a mix of root vegetables spiced with butter and horseradish, saw, too, a fresh loaf of bread set above the safe.

  “The end of a five‑hundred‑year feud,” Eslingen answered, and Rathe blinked.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “My landames, remember? I told you about them.”

  “The ones who were fighting,” Rathe answered, nodding, and reached into the safe for the wine. There was a new wedge of cheese as well, and he shook his head as he tugged open the bottle. “You’ll spoil us both, Philip.”

  “Well, they decided to stop fighting today,” Eslingen said. “Or maybe it was before then, I can’t be sure.”

  “Try beginning at the beginning,” Rathe suggested, and seated himself opposite the other man. The wine was good, the same cheap flinty wine from Verniens that he always drank, and he took another long swallow, relaxing in spite of himself.

  “They were missing when Gasquine called us to rehearse the swordplay,” Eslingen said obligingly. “So of course we, Siredy and I, thought they’d decided to settle the feud once and for all. But when I went looking for them, I found them in the props loft, in–shall we say–a most compromising position.”

  “They weren’t,” Rathe said, grinning himself now, and Eslingen nodded.

  “Oh, but they were. I’d say the feud was settled.”

  “The poor women,” Rathe said. “The story must be all over the theatre by now–how old are they, anyway?”

  “Old enough to know how to manage an affair,” Eslingen said. “Honestly, Nico, after all I’ve heard about their thrice‑damned families and their five‑hundred‑year feud, I’m delighted to see them embarrassed. And before you say it, I didn’t have to say anything. Maseigne Txi was foolish enough to wear her hair in an arrangement she couldn’t redo without help.”

  In spite of himself, Rathe laughed, the day’s sorrows receding even further. However they’d gotten to this point, it was good to sit here with Eslingen, good to share a drink and dinner and even this joke. “Aconin must have loved it. It’s just the sort of thing he does well.”

  Eslingen’s smile faltered, and he leaned forward, resting both elbows on the table. “Aconin… I had a talk with him today, Nico. I think you want to question him.”

  “Oh?” Back to business, Rathe thought, but couldn’t resent it. Here in the warmth of his own room, supper waiting on the stove, Eslingen’s easy presence across the table, it was almost like an ordinary profession, the comfortable chat of guild‑mates, not the fraught world of the points. I know it’s serious, deadly serious, but, Sofia, it’s so good to be a little free of it.

  “Sorry.” Eslingen smiled regretfully. “But he knows who attacked him, I’m sure of that. You could probably get it out of him, he’s scared enough he might tell you.”

  “What did he say?” It wasn’t exactly a surprise, Rathe thought, he’d been sure of it since he saw the playwright in his ransacked room.

  Eslingen closed his eyes for a second, as though that would help him remember. “He said he’d made a mistake, taken something that had been promised to him–something he needed, he said. And that was what was behind all this.”

  “Nothing more?” Rathe asked.

  “No.” Eslingen reached for the pint bucket, ladled himself another tankard of beer. “Some people came up to us–he was afraid of being overheard–and then I was needed onstage. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize, that’s more than we had before.” Rathe’s eyes narrowed. “Afraid of being overheard… Do you think it’s someone at the theatre?”

  “Well, it has to be, doesn’t it, considering?” Eslingen answered, and Rathe shook his head.

  “That wasn’t what I meant, I meant someone at the theatre today, at that moment, in fact.”

  Eslingen shook his head in turn. “I’m afraid that doesn’t narrow it down very much. We had the whole chorus there–though not all the actors, not that I ever suspected them particularly. And the staff, and everyone.”

  “Was Aubine there?” Rathe asked slowly.

  “Yes, fiddling with his damn flowers. The arrangements just keep getting bigger and brighter, they’re going to be spectacular for the performance.” Eslingen paused. “Actually, he was one of the people who came up–you can’t suspect him, Nico.”

  “Why not?”

  Eslingen
spread his hands. “He’s too–polite. Too calm. I just can’t see it.”

  “Polite men have committed murder before this, Philip.”

  “All right, why, then?”

  Rathe stopped, frustrated. “I don’t know. I just…” He let his voice trail off, shook his head again. “I spoke to him today–Ogier worked for him, did I tell you that? Worked on the flowers for the masque, so his death is probably part of all this. But I spoke to Aubine, and… There’s something about him, Philip, makes my hackles rise. As you said–he’s too polite.”

  “A landseur treats you with respect, so you suspect him of murder?” Eslingen asked, grinning, and in spite of himself, Rathe smiled back.

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. No, I don’t trust the man, and I couldn’t tell you why. Sofia, I’d give a pillar or two to see his stars.”

  “Is there someone you can ask?” Eslingen asked, and Rathe shook his head, shaking himself back to reality.

  “No, no one. His family aren’t even Astreianter, so there won’t be servants to ask, even if I thought they’d tell me. No, I’ll start with Aconin, that sounds a lot more promising. But–” He hesitated, wishing he could put a finger on the cause of his uncertainty, recalled Aubine’s offer to send word via the Leaguer. “Be careful, Philip.”

  Eslingen nodded. “I always am.”

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