Point of Dreams a-2

by Melissa Scott

  “Not dead–hurt?” Rathe asked, his hands very still.

  Eslingen shook his head. “Not even much hurt, just a bad scratch. And they were friends again, left together to go home and consult a physician.”

  “So what caused it?” Rathe came to his feet, settled automatically into the chair opposite.

  “Siredy says it’s nerves, stage fright making tempers short,” Eslingen answered.

  “I’ve never heard of actors doing anything like that,” Rathe said.

  “Ah, but they aren’t actors,” Eslingen answered. “At least that’s the explanation that’s being accepted–I think mostly because no one wants to let anything else go wrong. But–” He leaned back in his chair, fumbling with his coat, and finally produced the pair of flowers. “But afterward, I found these backstage. They were just lying there, on the floor, a yard or so, maybe, from the nearest arrangement. Each one with its–neck, I don’t know–broken.”

  Rathe took them, frowning, turning them over in his fingers. “They weren’t there before?”

  Eslingen shook his head. “Too dangerous, with all the dancing and the fights. The scenerymen keep the floor clear and dry, spotless. No, these weren’t there before the fight, and they were afterward.”

  “You think there was a posy, something from the Alphabet.”

  “There’s more,” Eslingen said, and heard Rathe sigh.

  “There always is.”

  “When the duel scene started, I saw Aubine working with the flowers, the big bunches right downstage. And I am certain he dropped this one–I saw him with it in his hand, I’m all but certain of it, right before he offered the landames the use of his carriage to take them home.”

  Rathe was very still. “Getting them away before they could think how odd it was, do you suppose?”

  “It’s possible.” Eslingen took a breath. “Nico, if it’s Aubine–”

  “First things first,” Rathe said, and pushed himself away from the table. “I brought this home, wanted to study it, see if there was anything special about it–and it hasn’t been reprinted, by the way, not this edition.” He came back with the red‑bound copy of the Alphabet that he had received from Holles, slid it across the table. Eslingen caught it with a groan, knowing what came next, and Rathe nodded. “I want you to see if you recognize any of the arrangements.”

  “I’m not a gardener,” Eslingen said.

  “You can read,” Rathe answered. “And you have eyes–I know you’re observant. Just see if you can recognize them.”

  Eslingen bowed his head obediently, turning the soft pages. It was very like all the other editions of the Alphabet he’d looked at in Rathe’s workroom, woodcuts on one page, text on the page opposite, and he skimmed through them quickly, trying to remember the pattern he had seen. “This one,” he said at last, pointing to an arrangement labeled “Confusion.”

  “And Anger.”

  Rathe nodded, leaning over his shoulder now to study the pictures. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? Confusion to blur the new friendship–and all of you, your thoughts, to make it seem reasonable that landames should behave like this–and Anger to trigger the feud again. But why now?”

  “A test?” Eslingen suggested, leaning back to see the other man’s face. “To make sure–something else–is going to work?”

  “Oh, that’s an ugly thought,” Rathe said. “But it makes sense.” He shook his head. “I said if I knew how, this time, I’d know who. And if it’s the flowers, it has to be Aubine. He knows more about them than anyone. And nobody else has a connection to all the dead–including Ogier, he’s the only one who is connected to both Ogier and the masque. But I’ve no idea why.”

  “Is he connected to any of the potential claimants?” Eslingen asked, and Rathe shook his head.

  “In that, he’s as innocent as the snow.”

  “Because he can?”

  Rathe looked down at him, frowning. “Sorry?”

  Eslingen made a face. “It was something he said once. True enough, in the original context–he was talking about providing flowers for the masque, and for all the rehearsals, too, all because he could–but it struck me odd then.”

  “If that’s the case,” Rathe said, “then he’s well and truly mad. And mad he may well be, but it didn’t strike me as that kind of lunacy.”

  “I agree,” Eslingen said, and Rathe reached for the Alphabet again, his scowl deepening as he nipped through the pages. “What is it?”

  “Maybe I’m the madman. I’ve gone through all the flowers I know I’ve seen at the theatre, and while a few of them are in here, they’re not–not in the right combinations, or the right seasons, or anything, to give me any idea what he might be planning.”

  Eslingen shook his head, slowly. “They’re not the flowers that will be there for the masque. He’s changed them almost every day– brought in all new ones today.”

  His voice trailed off as he realized what he’d said, and Rathe swore under his breath. “Were they different?”

  “Some were,” Eslingen answered. “Maybe most were. The arrangements were certainly different.”

  “Of course they would be,” Rathe said. “Damn the man.” He shook his head. “And if it’s Aubine, then he’s killed everyone who’s gotten in his way. Starting with Leussi.”

  “Leussi?” Eslingen frowned. “I know that was murder, but how does it fit in to the theatre deaths?”

  “Leussi was a chamberlain,” Rathe said. “He would have ruled on the masque. He had a copy of the Alphabet–an old copy, a practical copy, maybe even the same edition Aubine has. He of all people would have seen just how dangerous this might be, he was testing it out before he died. And his ghost was bound because even if he couldn’t name his murderer, he might have been able to warn his fellows, or at least Holles, against the play. As it is, Aubine was careful enough–Holles has no idea where the plant came from, he hardly noticed it, couldn’t even say when it arrived.”

  “But why?” Eslingen asked. He took the book gently from Rathe’s hands, flipped back‑to the arrangements he’d seen earlier that day. Yes, that was them, no mistaking it, and he shook his head in confusion. “What’s he going to do with this play that’s so important that he’ll kill to preserve it? If it has nothing to do with the succession… ”

  Rathe ignored him, his eyes fixed on something invisible, beyond the shadows. “De Raзan… I don’t know, I’ve never been able to fit him in, but there’s something so–well planned, well thought out– about his death that I almost wonder if it was a punishment, some private thing between them. But Ogier, Ogier’s easy, he worked in the succession houses, he knew what plants were being grown, knew enough of phytomancy that he could have suspected, if not the Alphabet, then some magistry. And he was running from a magist when he died, I’m sure of that from the way he burned his clothes. Guis– Guis used an arrangement, and he could have said where he got it, which meant he had to be killed. Aconin–”

  “Aconin wrote the play,” Eslingen said. “So he had to have something to go on. And he’s been one of Aubine’s intimates. Plus, of course, he and Guis were still close. You might have thought to look to Aconin as soon as Guis was killed.” He paused, remembering. “And, Nico, I never thought anything of it, but at least twice when I thought Aconin wanted to talk to me, it was Aubine who interrupted us. I just thought Chresta didn’t want to be overheard.”

  “Sofia,” Rathe breathed. “It fits, Philip, it fits all too neatly.”

  Eslingen nodded. “But why?” He glanced down at the book again, his eyes straying from the list of plants and their properties to the stories that accompanied them. Both Confusion and Anger were accompanied by stories about love–love denied, love scorned–and he flipped through a few more pages, looking for the most harmful arrangements, the ones designed to kill and maim. All were matched with stories of love, lost love, love rejected and turned to hate, and he looked back up at Rathe, eyes going wide. “Look at the stories. They’re all about revenge–the
stories aren’t, actually, but that’s the suggestion. The arrangements are revenge for love gone wrong.”

  “Revenge for his leman,” Rathe said.

  Eslingen closed his eyes, wishing he could reject his own idea. “His common‑born leman,” he corrected. “Murdered by his grandmother. And, Seidos, that could explain de Raзan, couldn’t it? Everybody knew about him and Siredy, how de Raзan wanted him back just for the convenience–do you think that’s why Aubine killed him, that it hit too close to home?”

  Rathe hesitated, then nodded slowly. “It could be. And it might have been a nice chance to test out a new arrangement.”

  Eslingen shivered at the thought. “But you said the grandmother’s been dead for what, seven years?”

  “At least that.” Rathe frowned down at the book. “Sweet Sofia, we don’t have nearly enough to call a point–we’ve only just got enough to start asking questions–and the masque plays the day after tomorrow.” He shook his head. “There isn’t enough time. Not to prove this–any of this.”

  “Can it be postponed?” Eslingen asked, and Rathe shook his head.

  “I don’t know. It’s never happened, not in my lifetime–but then, there’s never been cause before.” Rathe pushed himself upright, frowning at the vegetables still soaking in the basin, and pulled them out one by one to lay them gently on a folded cloth. “We’ll have to go to Trijn.”

  “Do you want me to go with you?” Eslingen asked, and Rathe smiled.

  “I think you’d better.”

  Trijn lived in Point of Dreams, but in the narrow band of guildmistresses’ houses, well away from the theatres. Expensive houses, Rathe thought automatically, and found himself checking the garden walls for loose bricks. He had begun his career as a pointsman in just such a neighborhood, had learned all the ways a clever thief could slip into an unwary household, make off with food, linens, spare clothes, even the family silver. The householders here seemed to know the same techniques, left nothing to chance, no loose bricks for a foothold, no, windows unshuttered, lamps lit and personal watchmen drowsing in corner boxes, ready to raise the alarm. A few of them lifted their heads, watching two strangers pass along their street, and one even lifted his lantern in question and warning before he saw the truncheon at Rathe’s belt.

  “A nice neighborhood your chief point lives in,” Eslingen whispered. “She does well in fees?”

  “She comes from good family,” Rathe answered, his own voice low. He didn’t know much about Trijn’s attitude toward fees, now that he thought of it–he hadn’t been at Dreams long enough for it to become an issue–but he doubted she needed them, not if her sister was the grande bourgeoise.

  “She must,” Eslingen said, looking at the houses, and Rathe paused to study the carving over the nearest door. Trijn lived in the house of the two hares, according to the directions he had memorized right after coming to Point of Dreams; this house was decorated with a cheerful frieze of rats feasting on a sea of overflowing grain bags, and he moved on, shaking his head slightly. The original owner must have been born in the Rat Moon, or have Tyrseis strong in her natal horoscope, to have chosen that design.

  The house of the two hares lay two doors down, a comfortable, prosperous house perhaps a little smaller than its neighbors. The twin hares lay face‑to‑face in the niche above the doorway, the light of the rising winter‑sun adding texture to the carved fur, and when Rathe stepped forward to knock at the main door, the heavy iron striker was forged in a variation of the pattern, one hare sitting, the other standing beside it. The door opened quickly at his knock, a footman out of livery frowning at him for a moment until he saw the truncheon at Rathe’s waist.

  “Pointsman–?” he began, and Rathe took a quick step forward.

  “Adjunct Point Rathe. I need to see the chief, urgently.”

  “Of course.” The footman didn’t blink, but threw the door open, beckoning them into the chill hall. He didn’t leave them there, either, but brought them into a receiving room, where a fire burned low in a painted fireplace, bowed again, and disappeared. Rathe moved automatically toward its warmth, Eslingen at his shoulder, stood holding his hands out to the radiating embers.

  “Most impressive,” Eslingen said under his breath, and Rathe let himself glance around the room. It was small, but nicely kept, expensively furnished, and he wasn’t surprised to see a double corm the size of a man’s fist waiting in a jar by the window. He didn’t recognize the species, but the care with which it was placed, set in the center of a delicate inlaid table, made him think it had to be one of the expensive ones.

  “Rathe. What is it?”

  He turned to see Trijn in the doorway, a lamp in one hand, her unbelted house gown half open, showing the rich wool of her heavy skirt. If he’d seen her like this, Rathe thought, instead of in the practical common wear she chose for the station, he would have known at once that she came of better than average family. One did not usually find daughters of the merchants resident entering points’ service.

  “I think I know who’s behind the theatre murders,” he said, and Trijn nodded as though she were not surprised, came into the room, setting the lamp on the mantel.

  “Stir up the fire, then, and sit down. And tell me about it.”

  Rathe did as he was told, finding the logs ready to hand, and seated himself opposite the chief point. Eslingen came to stand at his shoulder, watchful and silent, and Trijn smothered a laugh.

  “Sorry. I’d never understood the black dog comments before.”

  Rathe kept his face expressionless, knowing that Eslingen’s eyebrows would be up, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It’s Aubine, Chief,” he said, and Trijn sobered instantly. “It has to be.”

  Quickly, he outlined what Eslingen had seen, and Aubine’s connections to the dead men, but even before he had finished, Trijn was shaking her head.

  “It’s thin. Rathe. Very thin. Aubine sponsored the masque, for Sofia’s sake.”

  “To use it,” Rathe answered. “To get revenge for the leman his grandmother had murdered.”

  In this house, he didn’t like to say common, but Trijn nodded slowly. “I remember the matter,” she said. “It was never referred to the points, but there were always rumors, whispers that it was more than they claimed. But the soueraine took the boy away with her, and there was nothing we could do.” She shook her head, shaking memory away. “All right, assuming you’re right–and I think I believe you, Rathe–what’s the point of it all? What are these–arrangements–supposed to do?”

  “I don’t know,” Rathe answered. “The grandmother’s dead, long dead, and if he was blaming the sister, surely there were easier ways to attack her. Ones that required less elaborate planning, anyway.”

  “They’re on good terms.” Trijn shook her head. “Or so it’s seemed, anyway.”

  “The only thing I can think of–” Rathe stopped abruptly, not wanting to voice his sudden fear, as though saying it would somehow make it more likely to be true. “The only thing I can think of is revenge on the law, the law that let his leman die and offered no justice. The law in the person of the queen.”

  “Sofia’s tits,” Trijn said. She drew a shaken breath. “I hope you’re wrong, Rathe.”

  “Can you take the chance he’s not?” Eslingen asked, and the points looked at him as though they’d forgotten he was there.

  Trijn scowled. “No. But what in hell’s name do you expect me to do about it? I’ll say it again, there’s not nearly enough to call a point on the man, not for a single one of these deaths, and we’d be laughed out of court if we tried.”

  “Postpone the masque,” Rathe said.

  Trijn laughed aloud, an angry, frustrated sound. “And how likely do you think that is? If I can’t call a point, what chance do I have of persuading the necessary authorities–and that’s the regents and the chamberlains, Rathe, who aren’t particularly fond of you–that this is necessary?” She shook her head. “The masque has to be done in con
junction with the solstice, for the queen’s health and the health of the realm. The stars have to be right for the magistry to work.”

  “And if Aubine wants to kill the queen,” Rathe said, “what better occasion than the one time and place he knows she must be? There must be precedent. It must be possible.”

  “But not without cause,” Trijn said again. “To postpone–to change anything about the masque–we’d need the approval of the regents, and the chamberlains, to see if it can be done without destroying it. And I cannot see how we can convince them without more proof.”

  She was right, that was the problem, and Rathe shook his head. “Is there anyone else who has authority?”

  “The queen herself, of course,” Trijn said, “but that doesn’t get us anywhere. Astreiant–” She stopped, anger turning to something more speculative, and Rathe leaned forward again.

  “Would she listen?”

  Trijn nodded, slowly. “She might. It’s worth a try, at any rate.”

  “Will she listen to you?” Eslingen asked, and Trijn gave him a glittering smile.

  “I–the metropolitan knows me. She’ll give me an audience, she owes me that much.”

  And I don’t think I want to know why, Rathe thought. He said, “And if she doesn’t agree–or if she can’t?”

  Trijn took a breath. “I was hoping you’d have some suggestions, Rathe.”

  “Bar Aubine from the Tyrseia,” Rathe said. “Remove all the flowers–”

  “If you can move them without triggering their effects,” Eslingen said. “Remember the last time you tried that.”

  Rathe winced at the memory, but nodded in agreement. “All right, maybe moving the flowers wouldn’t be a good idea. But we can make sure he doesn’t–for example–offer Her Majesty any posies as a token of his esteem.”

  “I think I can persuade Astreiant of that much, at least,” Trijn agreed. “But keeping Aubine away from his own play–Sofia, if you’re wrong, Rathe, or even if you’re right and we can’t prove it, we’ll lose everything. I’ll lose my station, and you, Rathe, will never call another point. Is it worth that much to you?”