Rathe nodded, reaching for his lockbox. “All the licensed copies, and probably a tenth of the unlicensed ones.”
“So you really do think this was the Alphabet at work?” In spite of himself, Eslingen couldn’t quite keep the note of skepticism out of his voice as he set the first stack of books on the worktable.
“Yeah.” Rathe had the box open, took out a red‑bound octavo. “I know, I’m the one who said it wasn’t likely to be real, but this–I don’t have any other explanation.”
“So what exactly did happen?” Eslingen asked. There was a stool in the corner, and he pulled it over so that he could sit facing Rathe. Behind him, he could hear condensation hissing on the sides of the kettle, and the crackle of the rising fire.
Rathe made an embarrassed face. “I told you, Guis wanted to reestablish our relationship–which, I might add, has been over longer than it lasted. But that wouldn’t have mattered, except…” He shook his head. “It was the flowers, Philip, I’m sure of that. I could see the light gathering on them, I could hear it, it sounded like bees swarming, so I knew that was wrong, that I had to stop it. I knocked over the vase, and it shattered, and I felt, gods, I can’t explain. It hurt worse than anything I’d ever felt–it was like being hit by lightning, just the pure jolt of it, and the light, and that’s pretty much all I remember until you were holding me.”
Eslingen nodded, suppressing a shudder of his own. Magistical things, magistry itself, were not meant to be handled so roughly; it was a commonplace that a magist’s work disturbed was worse than a baited bull. He shook away the thought of what might have been, and said, his voice as level as he could manage, “That definitely sounds like the Alphabet.” He looked at the books scattered on the table. “But which one?”
“Yeah, that’s the question.” Rathe managed a tired grin. He was looking better, Eslingen thought, less pale and interesting, but still not his usual self. “I would swear I’d seen that arrangement, too, or at least one very like it, something in one of these books. Which was why I had to come back here.”
Eslingen nodded. The water was boiling now, and he rose to lift it off the heat, poured a cup for each of them before setting the kettle on the hob. “All right,” he said, “where do we start?”
“It’s a version that’s come across my desk, probably in the last week or so,” Rathe said, and took the proffered cup with an abstracted smile. “And it’s one that Guis would also have been able to see–assuming of course it was Guis who made it.”
“Which you have to admit is the most likely option,” Eslingen said. The tea was stewed, thick and bitter, but warming, and he wrapped his hands around the heated pottery.
Rathe nodded. “Which should mean it’s one of the more popular ones. Guis is the kind who’d buy the most popular version.”
“And obviously bought in Dreams?”
“Probably,” Rathe answered, “but that won’t help us, at least not now. The booksellers all carry all the versions, or a good selection. We can try tracking down the stall where he bought a copy, maybe even trace the exact copy that way, but that’s going to take time.”
“Which you don’t have,” Eslingen said, and Rathe nodded again.
“Not with a working copy of the Alphabet loose in Astreiant.”
There was a knock at the door, but before Rathe could say anything, the door swung open. A well‑dressed woman–well‑dressed pointswoman, Eslingen amended, presumably Rathe’s Chief Point Trijn–stood there, scowling impartially at both of them.
“What the hell is happening at that theatre, Rathe? First I get a runner telling me my senior adjunct was attacked, next I find Falasca–Falasca, of all people–telling me you’re alive and well, and then a runner shows up with a message about a bunch of flowers. For you, of course.”
She tossed a strip of paper onto the desk in front of Rathe, who took it, and gave Eslingen an apologetic look. “Falasca wanted my job,” he said. “We’ve been–sorting things out between us.”
Eslingen nodded, understanding, and Trijn glared at him.
“And who in Sofia’s name is this?”
“My leman.” Rathe hesitated, as though he’d suddenly heard what he had said. “Philip Eslingen.”
Eslingen blinked–this was not how he’d expected to hear it, though on the whole he had no objections–and he saw Rathe blush.
Oh, yes, we’ll talk about this later, the soldier thought, trying not to grin, and met Trijn’s stare guilelessly.
“Oh.” Trijn’s frown faded, and she gave Eslingen a look of almost genuine interest. “The other one who found the children. I was wondering what had happened to you.”
Working for Hanselin Caiazzo, and now at the theatre. Eslingen opened his mouth to explain, and closed it again, not knowing where to begin. “I’m one of the Masters of Defense now,” he said.
“Working on the masque,” Trijn said. “All right. Fine.” She looked back at Rathe. “What is all this about a bunch of flowers?”
“We have a problem, Chief,” Rathe said. “There’s a working copy of the Alphabet out there.”
Trijn blinked, and closed her mouth firmly over anything else she might have said. She closed the door quietly behind her, and leaned against it, folding her arms across her chest. “Tell me.”
Something–embarrassment, probably, Eslingen thought–flickered over Rathe’s face, but he ran through the events concisely, not sparing his own blushes. “And so I figured the best thing was to come back here and start checking the various editions.”
Eslingen frowned. “He has, of course, left out the fact that the physician told him to go home to bed.”
Trijn’s eyes flicked toward him. “Of course she did. You needn’t try to impress me with his dedication, Eslingen, I’m quite familiar with it. And his stubbornness.” She shook her head, crossed the room to perch in the embrasure of the window. “So. There’s a working copy out there. Any idea which one?”
Rathe shook his head. “No. But at least we know who made the arrangement.” He held up the scrap of paper. “Sohier says Tarran Estranger, who shares the dressing room, says Guis brought it in with him this morning, and the doorkeeper saw him with it, too. So it’s Guis’s doing.”
“Are you planning to call a point on this Forveijl?” Trijn asked. “You’ve got bodily harm at the least. Whether he knew what the effects would be when the flowers were disarranged or not, he took responsibility when he created the arrangement.”
Call it, Eslingen thought, and sighed when Rathe shook his head.
“It’s not worth it. It’d be like calling a point on a child–if I know Guis, he’s too scared right now to even think of trying anything like that again.”
“Too scared right now,” Eslingen said, and Trijn nodded.
“I agree. He may be too scared right now, but he’ll feel cocky again soon enough. I know the type.”
Rathe shook his head again, and this time it was Trijn who sighed. “All right. If not for battery, what about assault?”
Rathe gave a faint smile. “I don’t think the point would stand. It was planned as seduction, and that’s what it would have been. And the law doesn’t recognize that.”
“I do,” Eslingen said, under his breath, and Rathe frowned at him.
“You’re being very noble about this, Rathe,” Trijn said.
“I’m not,” Rathe said. “Look, everyone at the theatre knows what happened now. He has to face them–they’re not going to replace him, and he’s not going to drop the part, so he’s going to have to go into the Tyrseia every day from now till the masque, with everyone knowing that even with the Alphabet to help him, he couldn’t seduce his once‑besotted ex‑lover. That’s got to be a blow to his self‑regard.”
I doubt you were ever besotted, Eslingen thought, but knew better than to say it aloud.
“Anyway,” Rathe went on, “the main thing is the practical copy.”
Trijn nodded. “Your mother was a gardener, right? So presumably you picked up
some of her trade.”
Rathe nodded, looking wary. “Some things, yeah.”
“Can you name the flowers?” Trijn asked. “Better, can you remember how they were arranged? If you can sketch that, you and I– and Eslingen here, we might as well make use of him–can get through these books in a lot less time.”
“Makes sense.” Rathe rubbed his temples. “I know the flowers, they were those white corms with the purple splotches, with silverthorn and winterspice–more silverthorn than spice–but I’m not so sure about the arrangement. Let me see what I can do.”
Trijn nodded. “Do what you can. In the meantime, Eslingen, you and I can at least look for those flowers in conjunction.”
Eslingen reached for the stack of Alphabets, picked one at random and handed it to the chief point, then chose a second for himself. This one was bound in purple cloth, but the woodcuts were cheap, done fast by a less‑than‑talented artist, and as if to make up for that, the printer or her writer had added a list of all the plants in each arrangement at the corner of the print. He skimmed through the book, spotting the corms twice, and the silverthorn half a dozen times, but never together with winterspice. He started to set it aside, shaking his head, and Trijn said, “Put it here.”
Eslingen did as he was told and reached for another volume. This time, the binding was plain, cheap, dark blue cloth, but the prints were beautiful, done with an unusual delicacy of line. The text was less interesting, doggerel verse followed by a prose vignette linking the flowers shown to some important event long past, but he turned these pages more slowly, caught in spite of himself by the illustrations. There were numbers in the bottom corners of some of the prints, he realized suddenly, numbers that looked like act and scene, and he frowned, looking up at Trijn.
“I thought no one was allowed to print anything about the masque until it had been played.”
The chief point gave him a wary stare, and Rathe looked up from his sketching. “What do you mean?”
“This Alphabet,” Eslingen answered, and held it up. “It’s got act and scene numbers for every event that’s in the play. Verse numbers, too, for some of it. Pretty much the whole story’s in here, if you want to make the effort. Does that count?”
Trijn took the book from him, and paged quickly through. “What an interesting question,” she murmured. “Probably not, it’s not the play per se, but it might be interesting to try to call it–after we’ve dealt with this practical version.”
Eslingen nodded, blushing, and Rathe sat up straight again, spinning his sketch so that the others could see. “That’s the best I can do,” he said, and frowned. “You know, I’d swear I’d seen it before.”
“I most sincerely hope so,” Trijn answered, not looked up from her own copy. “I’m already spending too much of this station’s budget on these damn things.”
Rathe made a noncommittal noise, his expression distant, then reached for the book he’d taken from his lockbox. He paged through that, scanning each of the prints, stopped with a noise of satisfaction. “There,” he said, and held out the book. “That’s it.”
Eslingen took it before Trijn could stretch for it, held it where they both could see. “Seduction,” he read. “Victory over an adversary. Regaining lost fortunes.” That was the caption, cryptic as any broadsheet; on the page opposite, a writer of middle talent had composed thirteen couplets on the Ancient Queens.
“This reads like market cards,” Trijn said.
“But it works,” Rathe said. “Unlike market cards.”
His voice was remote, as though he was trying to remember something, and he reached for the Alphabet again. Eslingen let him take it, watched the other man flip hurriedly through the pages, frown deepening as he got further into the text. Then he stopped, his face lightening abruptly, and he spun the book so that the others could see.
“I knew I’d seen that before. Chief, Leussi was growing this less than a full moon before he died.”
“So?” Trijn demanded. “Was it one of the ones he bought from that woman in Little Chain?”
Rathe shook his head. “No. No, we talked about it, I didn’t know what it was, and I asked him. He said it was a gift, but he didn’t say from whom. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but now–”
Eslingen nodded, staring at the plate. It didn’t show an arrangement, but a single plant, rangy and rather ugly, with hairy leaves and stems that supported a surprisingly delicate blue flower. “Bluemory,” the text named it, and gave instructions for planting and harvesting it safely. “What exactly does it mean, ‘deadly in the right stars’?” he asked, and Rathe showed teeth in a feral grin.
“Exactly what it says, and you notice that these how‑to‑plant‑and‑harvest‑it instructions actually tell you everything you need to make it a deadly poison.”
“So you think that’s what killed the intendant,” Trijn said.
Rathe nodded. “I think it’s a good bet–and I hope to all the gods that Holles can remember who gave him the plant.”
“So why wasn’t Holles killed?” Trijn asked.
“If his stars weren’t right, it wouldn’t hurt him,” Rathe answered. “Look, to keep it safe you have to plant it when the moon is in trine to your natal star, and you have to avoid harvesting it when the moon’s in your natal sign. It’s all dependent on the gardener’s signs, individual signs. The only general thing is you can’t pick it when the sun and Seidos are in conjunction.”
“I’ll send to the university,” Trijn said, “see if they know of the plant–the phytomancers might even grow it, if we’re particularly lucky. But either way, it gives Fanier something more to work with.” She held up her hand, forestalling anything else Rathe might have said. “And I’ll ask Holles about it, too. There’s no need to get you into any more trouble with the regents.”
“I have no desire to get into any more trouble with the regents,” Rathe answered. He shook his head. “I hope they’ve found Gus.”
“They’re taking their time about it,” Trijn said. “Which edition is this?”
Rathe grimaced. “That’s the thing. I don’t think it’s a recent one. Not one of the ones we’ve picked up in the markets. Holles gave it to me, after Leussi was killed.”
Trijn’s eyebrows rose at that, and Rathe spread his hands. Eslingen looked back at the print, wondering just how hard it would be to make use of these directions. One would need to know the intended victim’s stars, but that wasn’t too hard to find out, and then you’d need to know enough about gardening to bring the plant to a reasonable size–or would you? he wondered. Could something as small as a stalk or cutting kill? He pulled the book toward him, looking for the answer, but instead the last line of the description seemed to leap out at him: “the true name of Bluemory is Basilisk.”
“Then we’d better find out who is printing it,” Trijn said, “or who’s done a new edition.”
Rathe nodded, but anything he might have said was interrupted by a knock at the door. It opened before he could say anything, and Sohier stuck her head into the workroom.
“Oh, good, I’m glad I found you. Falasca said you were doing much better.”
“Better enough,” Rathe answered.
“We’re going to have to track Forveijl down at home, assuming one of the addresses we got from his friends is correct, and I wondered if you wanted to come with us.” Sohier tilted her head to one side, looking in that moment like a large and ungainly river bird.
“You don’t have to, surely,” Eslingen said, and Rathe shook his head.
“But I want to. What do you mean, Sohier, ‘one of the addresses’?”
The pointswoman shrugged uncomfortably. “Gasquine was busy, so we asked some of the other actors–”
“Not from Gasquine, who would know?” Trijn asked, and Eslingen cleared his throat.
“Ah. I know where he lives.” Both women looked at him, and he suppressed the urge to duck his head like a schoolboy. “When Aconin was shot–”
�
�Aconin was shot,” Trijn repeated. “And when was this?”
“He wouldn’t make the point,” Rathe said, and Trijn allowed herself a sigh as dramatic as any actor’s.
“Who shot him?”
“No idea, Chief,” Rathe answered, and Eslingen cleared his throat again.
“I walked him to Forveijl’s. He didn’t want to go home.”
“Not to the Court, no, he wouldn’t,” Rathe said. “Where is he living, anyway?”
“Close by the river, on Altmar Lane,” Eslingen answered, and Sohier nodded.
“That checks. Next to Armondit’s house.”
Rathe nodded, reaching for his coat, and Eslingen stood. “I’m coming with you.”
He thought for a moment that Rathe would protest, but Sohier nodded.
“I’d take it kindly, Lieutenant,” Trijn said, and Rathe’s frown deepened.
“It’s not necessary.”
“Answer me this,” Trijn said. “Are you that happy at the thought of seeing Forveijl again?”
Rathe hesitated, and she nodded. “Not that I blame you. So Lieutenant Eslingen is more than welcome to join you–as long as he keeps any murderous impulses well in check.”
Eslingen swept her a bow. “I am restraint itself, Chief Point.”
Forveijl’s lodgings looked very different in daylight, an old house kept in good repair, with a narrow band of fallow garden between it and the dirt of the street. Of course, it had to be kept up, Eslingen thought; Madame Armondit’s house was too expensive for her to tolerate a slovenly neighbor. She also didn’t like the points’ presence, he saw, with an inward grin, and nodded to the doorkeeper watching suspiciously from his little house.
“Second floor,” Sohier said. “Always assuming he’s home.”
That would be the question, Eslingen thought, following the others up the stairs, and if it were me, I’d be long gone. He glanced at Rathe, but the man’s face was expressionless, shuttered against any show of emotion. Sohier knocked on the door, first with her fist, and then, when there was no answer, with her truncheon. There was still no answer, and Rathe swore under his breath.
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