Point of Dreams a-2

by Melissa Scott

  He took his place in the wings, resting his halberd on the toe of his shoe to keep from making unwanted noise on the hollow stage, listening with half an ear to the end of the council scene. Ramani’s long speech was coming up, and then the council exited, and the battle–his responsibility–would begin. He could see Siredy waiting opposite, the duelists ready behind him, lined up two by two for the fighting entrance, and took a deep breath, willing everything to go right. The chorus had worked hard, and so had the masters; Tyrseis permitting, all would go well. This was stage fright, the demon that even the professionals propitiated as much as possible, and he looked back to the pit and galleries, trying to imagine them filled with faces. The thought was dizzying–a thousand faces, more, all watching his handiwork–and he took another breath, grateful that he had no onstage part in this particular performance. That might come, but, mercifully, not yet.

  He made a face, angry at his own fears, looked over his shoulder to see the great wave still looming over his shoulder. It was too large to move, would probably stay there until some other play needed the mechanism for a similar effect, or so the scenerymen had said, and he wondered how long that would be. Probably long enough that de Raзan’s death would have been long forgotten–already most of the actors and chorus talked about the dead watchman, and Forveijl, less about the landseur. But they all had to be connected, Eslingen thought, and stepped back automatically as Aubine slipped past him, murmuring an apology, a trug full of flowers hooked in the crook of his arm. All the deaths had to do with the same thing–certainly with the masque, and maybe with the succession, though exactly how that would work, he couldn’t begin to see. The broadsheets, especially those fostered by Master Eyes, were having a field day, lurid tales of the haunted theatre drawing avid buyers to the stalls. The only mercy, Rathe had said sourly, was that de Raзan’s death was the only one that could be construed as political, and no one had, as yet, made the connection between the members of the chorus, and the claimants to Chenedolle’s throne. The other deaths covered a wide range of Astreiant’s population, from guildmember to artisan to artist–no connection except for the theatre. And that was only enough for children’s tales of haunting, not for anything more substantial.

  Onstage, Ramani had finished her speech–Hyver was good, he thought, not for the first time, might be better than bes’Hallen someday–and stalked off, followed more slowly by the council. Above him, he heard the soft rumble of well‑greased pulleys, and the light brightened, yellow‑lensed practicals lowered to give the illusion of bright daylight. Across the stage, Siredy touched his leader’s shoulder–Simar, the landseur with the flowers, had proved to be far more sensible than his posies would suggest–and the pairs began to work their way onto the stage, swords clashing in steady rhythm. Eslingen released breath he hadn’t known he was holding as the second pair found their way past the first, took their place upstage and to the left. So far, he thought, so far, so good–except that Txi and de Vannevaux were out of step, Txi scowling at her erstwhile lover, her attacks too aggressive for pretense. Eslingen frowned, seeing the woman mouth something, saw de Vannevaux break the planned sequence with an attack, and swore under his breath. This was what they’d all been worried about, what they’d tried to drill out of the chorus, the excitement that said a fencer had to win at all costs. Txi cried out, wordless, stumbling back from another unexpected attack, and d’Yres missed a parry dodging away from her. The air was heavy suddenly, thick with tension, and the other duelists faltered, turning to see what was happening. In the pit, Gasquine rose to her feet, mouth open to call the halt, and Eslingen saw Siredy pale and staring in the far wing, as Txi swore, and wedged her blade against the stage floor, snapping the bate from the end of the blade.

  “Enough!” Siredy shouted, and in the same moment Gasquine cried out for them to hold, but the women ignored both of them, de Vannevaux struggling now to hold her own against the suddenly deadly blade. And it could be deadly, Eslingen knew, even without the point, just the jagged edge could wound, maim, even kill. He saw Siredy fumbling for his own sword, set somewhere out of reach, and launched himself onto the stage, snatching the bated blade from de Besselin’s slack fingers.

  “Hold!” he shouted, circling for a space to intervene, but the women ignored him, de Vannevaux swearing as she made a fruitless lunge, the bated blade bending harmlessly against Txi’s side. Txi’s riposte was instant and effective, would have been deadly if it hadn’t caught in the other woman’s corset, sliding across the metal boning to tear into the flesh of her upper arm. De Vannevaux screamed, more anger than pain, and Eslingen stepped between them, blade flashing out to engage Txi’s.

  “Enough!” Siredy shouted again, sword in hand, and Jarielle caught de Vannevaux by the shoulders, swinging her bodily away from the other woman. And then, as suddenly as a candle blown out by wind, the tension broke, and Txi sank to her knees, sword clattering unheeded to the stage as she clapped both hands over her mouth. De Vannevaux’s eyes were wide, disbelieving, and she looked from her erstwhile lover to the blood staining her shirt as though she expected one of them to vanish.

  “Tyrseis, protector of this place,” Gasquine said. “Would your ladyships care to explain what that was about?”

  Txi burst into gulping tears, bowing until she was bent double, skirts pooled about her on the bare stage. De Vannevaux shook her head as though she were dazed.

  “Madame–mistress,” she began, and shook her head again. “It’s–I think it’s my fault, we quarreled…” Her voice trailed off, as though she could no longer remember what she’d done, and she sank to her knees beside Txi, reaching for the other woman. Txi jerked herself away from de Vannevaux’s touch, never lifting her head, and Eslingen saw the matching tears in de Vannevaux’s eyes.

  “There’s no harm done,” Siredy said softly, kneeling in his turn beside Txi, “just nerves.” The look on his face belied the soothing words,

  “Oriane and her Bull,” Gasquine said. “If the two of you can’t control yourselves, I will personally take you over my knee and spank you as your mothers never did. I will not have this–this nonsense interfering with my play. Is that clear?”

  De Vannevaux nodded, still not speaking, and Txi lifted her head, showing a face streaked with tears and paint. “Mistress, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what got into me.”

  “It was my fault,” de Vannevaux said, almost in the same moment. “Oh, Anile, can you ever forgive me?”

  Txi burst into tears again, and threw herself into the other woman’s lap. “I hurt you,” she said, voice muffled against de Vannevaux’s skirt, and de Vannevaux hugged her, heedless of the pain of her injured arm.

  Gasquine stared at them for a moment longer, hands on hips, then slowly reseated herself. “This will not happen again,” she said, and Eslingen stooped to help de Vannevaux to her feet. “Now. We begin again, from your exit.”

  Eslingen glanced at Siredy, who tipped his head toward the nearer wing. He nodded, and tightened his hold on de Vannevaux’s shoulders, urging her toward the shadows. Siredy did the same with Txi, and together they brought the two women offstage, past the actors waiting to come on. Their eyes were bright and curious, and Txi buried her face in her hands again. Behind him, Eslingen could hear Simar giving a shaky count, and then the tramp of feet as the remaining duelists made their planned exit. The waiting actors made their entrance, not without backward glances, and Siredy patted Txi’s shoulder gently.

  “It’s nerves,” he said. “Stage fright. It takes people strange ways. You’ll be all right.”

  Txi nodded jerkily, her eyes on the other woman. “But Iais–oh, I’m so sorry.”

  “Let me see, madame,” Eslingen said, and turned de Vannevaux so that he could examine the wound. She let him move her, her eyes vacant, let him turn her arm palm out so that he could see the cut. It was little more than a long scratch up the underside of her upper arm, the bleeding already slowed, but he found a handkerchief in his pocket, folded it to
a pad, and pressed it against the wound. De Vannevaux flinched, but put her own hand over it obediently enough.

  “Anile,” she said. “Oh, gods, will you forgive me?”

  “I’m the one who needs forgiveness,” Txi answered, and something moved in the shadows behind her. Aubine, Eslingen realized, and thought for an instant that the landseur held something, in his left hand. Then he came forward into the light reflecting from the stage, eyes wide and appalled.

  “Anile, are you all right? What a terrible thing, you should go home and rest.”

  His hands were empty after all, Eslingen saw.

  De Vannevaux shook her head, but Txi straightened. “Aubine’s right,” she said. “You should have that seen to, and then, yes, you should rest. I’ll never forgive myself–”

  “Hush,” Siredy said, and blushed, as though he’d only just realized what he’d said, but Aubine nodded in agreement.

  “Quite right. There’s been enough–forgive me, Iais–there’s been enough raw emotion today. You need to be calm, take deep breaths. It will pass.”

  What will pass? Eslingen wondered. Stage fright, he supposed, if anyone was going to believe that explanation.

  Txi managed a shaky nod, her costume glittering as she did as she was told.

  “Iais,” de Vannevaux said. “Iais, I’ll go home–and, yes, to a physician, too, if we can find one that will be discreet–but only if you’ll go with me.”

  “You can’t want me,” Txi said, and de Vannevaux managed a watery smile.

  “I started it, Anile. I suppose I got what I deserved.”

  “Very wise of you both,” Aubine said briskly. “Why don’t you take my carriage? I’ll have my man bring it round, have him take you wherever you’d like to go.” He moved away, still talking, and the landames followed docilely, their attention on each other. Eslingen shook his head, watching them go.

  “Seidos’s Horse,” he said, not quite under his breath, and Siredy shrugged.

  “Passions run high at the last rehearsals, and theirs were high enough to start with. It’ll be worse tomorrow.”

  “Tyrseis preserve us all,” Eslingen answered, and surprised a smile from the other man. “Verre, you can’t mean it, that this always happens. Not like this.”

  Siredy paused, his smile turning wry. “Well, no, not quite like this, but then, we don’t usually have the quality onstage. But there’s always something, these last two days. They never pass without tears and screaming.”

  Eslingen shook his head, not convinced, and Siredy took a step away.

  “Anyway, we need to make sure the half‑pikes are ready. Will you help?”

  Eslingen started to nod, but a patch of something pale on the boards where Aubine had been standing caught his eye. “I’ll be along in a minute,” he said, and Siredy sighed.

  “See that you are.”

  Eslingen bit back an angry answer– and maybe Siredy is right, tempers are starting to fray, my own included–but waited until the other man had turned away before he stooped to collect the object. It was a flower, pale and bell‑shaped, its stem neatly snapped, and Eslingen stared at it for a long moment, unwelcome thoughts crowding his mind. Rathe had said that the right way to disrupt one of the Alphabet’s arrangements was to pull it apart flower by flower–to take the right flower from it, not to break it apart. Had the Alphabet been at work again–had that been the cause of the landames’ sudden quarrel? He shook his head, not wanting to believe it–but Aubine had been there, he remembered, slipping across the front of the pit to fiddle with his arrangements just as the duelists made their entrance. Not Aconin, then, but Aubine; not the playwright, but the sponsor who had put his name behind it, possibly commissioned it. Ignoring Siredy’s glare, he slipped across the back of the stage again, dodging actors and scenerymen, made his way to the front of the wings, looking for another patch of white. Sure enough, it was there, another broken flower, stem snapped and cast aside. He stared at it for a long moment, then craned his head to see the nearer of the two arrangements. There were no other flowers like this one in it, and its simplicity would have been lost among the showier blooms, but he was suddenly absolutely sure that it had been the keystone, the one piece that had made the arrangement active. Which means Aubine, he thought again, and that still makes no sense. Why would Aubine kill de Raзan, and the watchman–well, he might have killed the watchman for the same reason anyone would have, because the man knew what happened in the theatre after hours, and if Aubine had been testing his arrangements, the watch would have been the first to know, but there was no reason to kill Forveijl… Unless he, too, had suspected something. Rathe would know, he told himself firmly, Rathe would be able to figure it out. He tucked the flowers carefully into the pocket of his coat, and started back to join Siredy. The main thing now was to get through the rest of the rehearsal as quietly, as unobtrusively, as possible, and get the flowers and his suspicions home to Rathe before Aubine noticed that anything had changed.

  The day dragged to an end at last, and Eslingen was quick to leave the theatre, stretching his legs to get through the narrow streets. To his relief, Rathe was home before him, lamps and stove lit and welcoming. To his dismay, he wasn’t alone. b’Estorr was there, sitting at the small table, looking as disheveled as Eslingen had ever seen him, his long hands systematically destroying a small, common flower. Eslingen smoothed away an involuntary frown as Rathe looked round at him, a harried look on his own face easing when he saw Eslingen. Eslingen managed a smile he knew was strained. He needed to talk to Rathe now, needed to show him the flowers and hear what the pointsman had to say about these–quite fantastic–events. And that was hardly something he could do in front of b’Estorr: it was one thing to risk making a fool of himself in private, but he refused to have the magist for an audience.

  b’Estorr hardly seemed aware of his presence, though, not pausing in the flow of talk. “–and I’ve spoken to the phytomancers, all of them, including one I didn’t think was a fool, but she says only that there is no such thing as a verifiable copy, a working copy, of the Alphabet, that the Alphabet is pure folly, and that we should put this aside and look for more reasonable explanations.” He broke off then, looking, for the first time in Eslingen’s acquaintance, chagrined. “Oh. Hello, Philip.”

  Eslingen nodded, knowing he looked stiff. “Istre. Haven’t seen you in a while. How’re things at the university?”

  b’Estorr took a breath and gave a short, bitter laugh. “You can’t imagine. The College of Phytomancy has ruled their business is the properties of individual plants, not plants gathered into bunches, so the Alphabet is not their province even if it did work. Ybares–the one I didn’t think was a fool–says that even if it were their business, the Alphabet can’t work, so she doesn’t want to hear about it.”

  “It demonstrably does work,” Eslingen said. “After what happened to Nico–”

  “Oh, that didn’t happen,” b’Estorr said savagely. “Or if it happened, it didn’t happen the way we think. Or if it happened the way we think, it wasn’t the plants, and therefore it wasn’t the Alphabet.” He finished shredding the flower and flung the petals onto the table.

  “Welcome home, Philip,” Rathe said, and b’Estorr blushed, the color staining his fair skin.

  “I’m sorry, Philip, I’m ranting. But it’s driving me mad.”

  “I can see that,” Eslingen said, and Rathe frowned.

  “So if it’s none of those things, Istre, do they say what it might have been?”

  b’Estorr shook his head. “It’s not their province,” he repeated, unhappily brushing the mangled bloom into his hand.

  “They can’t mean it,” Eslingen said, and b’Estorr smiled without humor.

  “Of course they can. The politics of the university are easily as bad as the politics of Chadron.”

  “So what do we do about it?” Rathe asked.

  b’Estorr sighed, visibly taking himself in hand. “I honestly don’t know, Nico. I’d have though
t this was enough proof for any of them, but if it isn’t…” He took a breath. “I’ll keep talking, see if I can’t– persuade–at least one of them to reconsider.”

  “The stars don’t seem to favor that,” Eslingen said, in spite of himself, and b’Estorr shook his head.

  “No more do they.” He reached for his cloak, hanging by the door, and Rathe spoke quickly.

  “No need to go–”

  “I’m having dinner with Ybares,” b’Estorr answered grimly, and his tone did not bode well for the other magist. “I don’t want to be late.”

  “Good luck, then,” Rathe said, and shook his head as the door closed behind the necromancer. “I think you’re right, Philip, the folly stars have reached the university.” Without waiting for an answer, he crouched in front of the stove, began digging through the low flat box that stood beside it.

  Eslingen blinked. “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to find some vegetables for dinner.”

  “At this time of year?”

  “They keep,” Rathe said mildly. “You can help, or you can comment.”

  “I’ll comment,” Eslingen said, and unwrapped himself from his cloak. He’d given up on fashion over a week ago, and tonight he’d been particularly glad of the extra layers.

  “You would,” Rathe answered. “So, did anything happen at the theatre today that I should know about?” He found a final long finger of parsnip, and held it up triumphantly before dropping it into a basin of water to wash away the last of the clinging sand.

  “Yes,” Eslingen answered, and the other man straightened, dinner forgotten.

  “Tell me.”

  “The landames, the ones whose families are at feud?”

  Rathe nodded. “The ones who’ve been–”

  “Just so.” Eslingen took a breath, let himself drop into a chair close to the stove. “Today, at rehearsal, with a chamberlain watching, no less, all of a sudden the feud is alive again. They insult each other, and Txi finally snaps the bate of her weapon and they go at it in earnest.”