Point of Dreams a-2

by Melissa Scott

  Rathe paused. Trijn was right again, if he couldn’t prove his case, provide at least as much evidence as he would need to call a point and to win a conviction in the courts, Aubine would see him banished from the one profession he had ever wanted to follow. And suppose I’m wrong? Suppose I’ve misjudged everything, cast my figure and come up with a reading as false as a broadsheet astrologer’s? But there had been four deaths already, five if Leussi’s was indeed part of the sequence, five deaths unresolved, justice ignored, and a sixth– or possibly more–in the offing. More important even than the already dead was the chance to prevent another murder, and that was worth even this risk. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I’ll take the chance.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eslingen nod, silent support, and Trijn took a deep breath. “Then I’m with you, Rathe.” She rose to her feet, the heavy silk of her robe falling into place with a soft slur of sound. “Wear your good coat, if you have one. We’ll attend the metropolitan tomorrow morning.”

  11

  « ^ »

  trijn was as good as her word, arriving at Point of Dreams with a low‑flyer in hand. Rathe followed her across the station’s courtyard, newly aware that his best coat was several degrees below what anyone else would consider suitable for visiting the Metropolitan of Astreiant. Trijn looked as fine as ever, a dark, hooded cloak drawn close over a bottle‑green suit, her hair tucked under a stylish cap that still managed to cover her ears, and he wondered if perhaps he should have borrowed something from Eslingen. Not that it would have been that much of an improvement, he thought, settling himself on the cushions opposite the chief point. Eslingen was a good two inches taller, and thicker in the chest; his coats would hang on Rathe like an empty sack. But at least it would have been obvious that he’d made the effort.

  “Don’t worry,” Trijn said, as if she’d read the thought, and lowered the window just long enough to signal the driver. “Astreiant knows you don’t take fees. It wouldn’t do for you to look too presentable.”

  Rathe managed a smile and leaned back against the cushion as the low‑flyer jolted out of the station yard. In the cold light of morning, his conclusions seemed even less likely than before, and he wondered if he was making the worst mistake of his life. But nothing else explained all the deaths, he thought. Aubine’s presence, Aubine’s involvement in the dead men’s lives, was the single common thread– that and the Alphabet, he amended silently. Everywhere he looked, the Alphabet of Desire seemed to lurk, the lavish illustrations hiding deadly possibilities.

  “How much do you think Aconin knows about this?” Trijn demanded suddenly, and Rathe blinked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Enough to run away, in any event,” Trijn said. “Assuming he isn’t dead, too.”

  “There’s a happy thought.” Rathe rubbed his chin, glad he’d taken the time to be shaved this morning. He had done the barber a favor two summers past, in the matter of a stolen clock that had ended up in Point of Hopes; the man had been glad to open early for him, and had given him breakfast as well. “Philip said he was afraid of something–of Aubine, I’d guess–so I’m hoping he’s just gone to ground. If we could find him, Chief, he might be able to confirm what’s happening.”

  “If he was likely to do that,” Trijn said, “he’d’ve come to us with his problems.”

  “Not Aconin,” Rathe said. “But if he thinks the point will be called on him, he’ll talk quickly enough.”

  Trijn lifted an eyebrow at that, but Rathe looked mulishly away. It wouldn’t be that simple, of course, it never was, but once Aconin was found, he was confident a bargain could be made. If Aconin was still alive. He shoved that thought away, too–so far, Aubine hadn’t troubled to hide his bodies–and glanced out the low‑flyer’s narrow window. To his surprise, they were already in City Point–Trijn always seemed to find the drivers with Seidos strong in their stars– but they turned past the metropolitan’s official residence and turned onto the broad road that led into the Western Reach. So the metropolitan had agreed to see them at her town house, he thought, and felt his own eyebrows rise. Trijn was indeed well connected, if she could persuade the metropolitan to see them there.

  The metropolitan’s residence was a large and pleasant house, flanked by lower outbuildings and enclosed by a stone wall with a wrought‑iron gate. As the low‑flyer drew up to the narrow gatehouse, Trijn leaned forward, lowering the window again, and the first flakes of the winter’s snow swirled in on the cold air. They were expected, however, and the liveried gatekeeper bowed, waving them through as her assistants hauled back the heavy gate. Another woman in livery, red coat bound with ochre piping, a silver badge showing Astree and her scales on a scarlet ribbon at her neck, was waiting for them at the main door, and showed them into a long, narrow library, its shutters barely cracked even in the pale winter light. Astreiant herself was waiting there, but as they entered, she rose from behind her worktable, blowing out her lamp, and gestured for their escort to throw open two sets of shutters. The cool light streamed in–snow‑light, Rathe thought, watching the flakes scattering down out of the milky sky, the first threads of it blowing like dust across the narrow paved terrace that lay outside the windows–and he was grateful for the fires that blazed in the twin stoves.

  “Chief Point,” Astreiant said, and waved dismissal to the servant. “And Adjunct Point Rathe. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  Is it my imagination, Rathe thought, or did she lay the faintest of stresses on the word “you”? He managed a wary bow, and Astreiant gestured toward a pair of stools drawn close to the nearer stove.

  “Please, sit down, and let’s talk.” She seated herself in a tall chair as she spoke, stretching her feet toward the stove in unconscious habit. She was a tall woman, well built, with grey‑blue eyes that slanted down ever so slightly at the outer corners. There were lines on her face as well, and Rathe guessed she and he were probably much of an age, but the lines were good lines, echoing a ready smile.

  “You read my report, then,” Trijn said.

  Astreiant inclined her head, copper curls dancing. Her hair was almost red, Rathe realized with some amusement, but no one would dare tell the metropolitan she was out of fashion. “To be sure,” she said. “And tell me, Dema, what you expect me to do about it?”

  “Postpone the masque,” Trijn said promptly.

  “It can’t be done.” Astreiant lifted a hand to forestall any further protest. “I mean that literally. It cannot be done. The stars are most propitious at midwinter, and this year more so than usual, to postpone–to change the date at all–would be as bad as not performing it. And you know what the masque means to the realm, and to Her Majesty.”

  “Even though it’s proved detrimental to the health of at least four other people?” Trijn asked, and Astreiant frowned.

  “You haven’t proved that yet.”

  “The deaths are real enough,” Rathe said, in spite of himself.

  Astreiant ducked her head in apology. “I misspoke. The deaths are real, and I do not discount them, Adjunct Point, I promise you that. But I don’t see the connection to the masque.”

  “De Raзan and the theatre’s watchman died in the theatre,” Rathe said. “Guis Forveijl was actually in the masque–one of the actors, your grace. Leussi was a chamberlain who would have ruled on the masque, had he lived. And Grener Ogier worked for the man who is providing the flowers for the masque, knew what was being grown, and what it might be used for.”

  “That’s five,” Astreiant said.

  “I’m less certain about Leussi,” Trijn said. “But growing more so all the time.”

  Astreiant shook her head. “Heira forgive me, I took comfort in the watchman’s death. I thought sure that meant this couldn’t have anything to do with the succession.” She took a breath. “Take me through this again, Adjunct Point, in your own words. Why are you so sure this is all a connected plot?”

  Rathe took a breath in turn, trying to order his thoug
hts. “The first death was the intendant’s, Leussi’s. I am all but sure he was killed by a plant grown specially for the purpose, and listed in the Alphabet of Desire. I believe he was killed because he also owned a copy of this edition of the Alphabet, the working Alphabet, and could have seen what Aubine’s play could do. The second death was the landseur de Raзan.” He hesitated, knowing this was the weakest link in his chain, but made himself go on. “I believe the reason for his death is less important than the manner of it. He was found drowned, Your Grace, in the middle of a dry stage, with nothing around that could have held the water that drowned him. And the alchemists say he died where we found him. The body was not moved.”

  “But you have some idea of the reason?” Astreiant asked.

  Rathe took another breath. “I believe that he was killed because he was a useless man, and because he had behaved badly to a common lover of his, and possibly because Aubine”–Astreiant stirred, and Rathe said hastily, “The murderer, then, no name–wanted to test his arrangements.”

  “Aubine’s leman,” Astreiant murmured, and shook her head. “Thin, Rathe. Very thin. Go on.”

  “The watchman knew everything that happened in the theatre, knew that things, particularly posies, the actors’ gifts, had been rearranged,” Rathe went on. “Possibly he even saw Aubine at the theatre after hours, could testify to what he was doing there. The gardener worked for Aubine–”

  “I knew him,” Astreiant said. Her eyes strayed to the long window, the dormant garden beyond the terrace. “My head gardener thought the world of him. How did he die?”

  “Stabbed to death,” Trijn said.

  “I believe he knew something,” Rathe said. “He didn’t want to be found, Your Grace, he’d burned his own clothes and begged for Temple castoffs.”

  Astreiant nodded. “So he couldn’t be traced. Like the children this past summer.”

  “And like anyone who doesn’t want to be found using magistical means,” Rathe agreed.

  “And the actor?”

  “Also stabbed.” Rathe suppressed a pang, sorrow and vague guilt combined. With any luck, he would resolve this, and Forveijl would not become one of his ghosts. “He had put together an arrangement from the Alphabet of Desire, and while it had accomplished part of what he intended, it had also betrayed that there was a working copy of the Alphabet in existence, possibly in the theatre. I believe he was stabbed to keep us from finding out where he’d gotten it.”

  “What does Aconin say about all this?” Astreiant demanded. “It’s his play, he must know something.”

  “Aconin,” Trijn said, “has disappeared.”

  Astreiant grimaced.

  “He was friends with Aubine,” Rathe said. “Maybe more than friends. And he’s been afraid of something for most of the rehearsal period. Someone took a shot at him, and someone trashed his rooms, destroyed his household altar.”

  Astreiant’s eyes narrowed, and Rathe remembered that she had spent a season on the northern borders as a young woman. “Aconin is a Leaguer, is he not?”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Trijn said.

  “No quarter.” Astreiant shook her head. “Sofia, I wish you could find the man.”

  “So do I,” Rathe said, and Astreiant grinned in spite of herself.

  “I daresay.” She sobered quickly, looking at Trijn. “So I say again, Dema, what do you want me to do?”

  “Postpone the masque,” Trijn said again, and Astreiant waved the words away. “Failing that–must Her Majesty attend?”

  “What reason do you have to think that anything is aimed at the queen?” Astreiant demanded, and Trijn leaned forward on her stool.

  “There is the old story about Aubine’s leman, murdered and the killer–Aubine’s grandmother, at least indirectly–never brought to justice. Who is the symbol of justice in this realm?”

  Astreiant shook her head. “Thin,” she said again.

  Trijn spread her hands. “Then assume there is some other target, unknown–the sister, perhaps, or someone else. But can you risk allowing Her Majesty to walk unknowing into the middle of what we believe is intended to be a killing ground?”

  Astreiant took a deep breath, covered her mouth with one hand. Behind her, the snow was strengthening, clinging to the grass and low bushes of the garden. “I cannot postpone the masque,” she said, finally. “I said it before, and I meant it. Nor can I ask Her Majesty not to attend–that would violate the mystery, destroy the potency. And yet… I do believe this is a real threat, Dema.”

  “Will you grant me the authority to confine the landseur Aubine, then?” Trijn asked, and Rathe gave her a startled glance. That was more support than he’d really expected, and he was grateful for it.

  Astreiant hesitated, her eyes distant, and then, regretfully, she shook her head. “I can’t. First, I don’t have the authority–he may be resident here, but he’s a native of Ledey. My writ runs only to the city.”

  “But–” Trijn stopped as the other woman held up her hand.

  “Hear me out, will you? Second, times are chancy, with Her Majesty being prepared finally to name a successor. To imprison a noble now, without cause, would make me and, through me, Her Majesty look capricious and power‑hungry, now when we can least afford it.”

  And that, Rathe thought, is the first true confirmation that Astreiant will be queen in her turn. Trijn shook her head. “And what do you expect me to do, Your Grace, when you tie my hands?”

  “I don’t know,” Astreiant said. “Bring me evidence, solid evidence that would stand in the courts–that you, Adjunct Point, would consider enough to call a point on–and I’ll do whatever you need. But without that, it’s my hands that are tied.”

  Rathe let his head drop, knowing Astreiant was right, and the metropolitan went on, spreading her hands.

  “And if there is anything else you want, anything else you need, in Astree’s name, ask.”

  Trijn laughed. “The prince‑marshal and his men to guard the theatre these next two days?”

  Astreiant blinked, and nodded. “If it will help you, he’s yours.”

  “It couldn’t hurt,” Trijn said.

  Rathe nodded, more slowly. He was known to Coindarel, and more importantly, Coindarel knew and liked Eslingen. It might be possible to use him to keep Aubine from bringing in any more of his deadly arrangements–if he didn’t have everything in place already, of course, Rathe added, with an inward grimace. That might be the best first step, to search the Tyrseia, and see if he could identify any of the arrangements from his copy of the Alphabet.

  “I daresay it would amuse him, too.” Astreiant rose slowly to her feet, ending the interview, and the others copied her. “Very well, Chief Point, I shall draft the order this morning. Coindarel and his men will be at your–or Mistress Gasquine’s–disposal by three o’clock this afternoon.”

  Rathe bowed, grateful for this much support, and Trijn made a courtier’s curtsy. Astreiant lifted her hand.

  “But remember, if you find anything, anything at all, that would allow me to act–send to me, at whatever hour. I will be ready.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” Trijn said. “I pray Sofia we find something.”

  They rode in silence back to Point of Dreams, listening to the shouts of the street sweepers. This time, the driver took his time, let his horse pick its own pace across the icy bridge, and by the time they dismounted at the station’s main gate, the fine snow was already drifting in the corners of the buildings. Rathe waited, his back to the wind, as Trijn paid off the driver, and together they made their way across the courtyard and into the warmth of the main room. It was crowded with the aftermath of what looked like a quarrel between carters, and Trijn rolled her eyes.

  “Everything under control?” she asked, in a voice that presumed an affirmative answer, and started up the stairs without waiting for agreement. “Rathe, I need you.”

  “Yes, Chief.” Rathe followed, not sorry to avoid the arguments below. Leenderts seemed to have it we
ll in hand, anyway, and the carters seemed more concerned with cash values than with pride or status, which would make it easier to resolve.

  Trijn paused at the top of the stairs, looked back at the busy room. “Will Coindarel be a help or a hindrance?”

  “You asked for him,” Rathe answered, surprised, and Trijn gave a crooked smile.

  “I didn’t expect to get him.”

  “A help,” Rathe said.

  Trijn nodded. “I’ll expect you to deal with him as need be.”

  “I can do that,” Rathe said. Or rather, Eslingen could.

  “What about your magist friend,” Trijn asked. “Can we press him into service, too?”

  Rathe grimaced. “He’s a necromancer, Chief. And the phytomancers have been singularly reluctant to involve themselves with the Alphabet.”

  “Any chance of him prodding them a bit? Or finding someone else who can help? A magist’s eye couldn’t hurt.”

  “I’ll send to him,” Rathe said. “It can’t hurt to ask.” He shook himself. “If you’ll excuse me, Chief, there’s some work I need to do.”

  Trijn lifted an eyebrow. “There’s something we can do?”

  “I thought I’d look through my copy of the Alphabet, see if I can identify any of the arrangements at the theatre,” Rathe answered.

  “Not until they’ve left for the day,” Trijn said sharply. “We don’t want him to know he’s suspect–that’s about the only advantage we do have.”

  Rathe nodded, and turned into his workroom. The stove had gone out, this time, and he shouted for a runner, settled himself at his table while the girl brought kindling and made up the fire. He scribbled the note to b’Estorr as she worked, hardly knowing what to ask, except his help–but the magist understood as well as anyone what was happening, he told himself. He would find someone to help, if he couldn’t do it himself. The girl took the folded paper cheerfully, returned a few minutes later with the word that she’d sent one of the others to carry it to the university. She brought a pot of tea as well, sweet and smoky, thick with the candied rind of summer fruits, and Rathe sipped at it gratefully as he paged through the Alphabet. The trouble was, he thought, there was too much there, too many possibilities. It seemed as though every other story dealt with lost love, and the arrangements that matched them were all equally dangerous, in the right measure. And the one thing that was missing was the way to undo an arrangement without disrupting it–his own experience had been painful enough; he hated to think of what would happen if they tried to destroy Aubine’s arrangements without first rendering them harmless. There had to have been a dozen of them, onstage and in the theatre itself, when he was last at the Tyrseia.