Point of Dreams a-2

by Melissa Scott

  There had to be a way to undo the arrangements, some way safely to neutralize their power, even without knowing the key flower. The Alphabet, of course, didn’t indicate which one that might be in any arrangement, and simply disrupting an arrangement was far too dangerous, as he had learned to his pain. No one would create this dangerous magistry without providing a better safeguard, at least for herself–proving once again, Rathe thought grimly, that Aconin had to know more than he had been telling. Surely someone at the university would know, he thought, and hoped b’Estorr would hurry with his answer. But that was going to take time, time to find the scholar, time to explain what was needed, time to find a phytomancer willing to analyze the Alphabet, time even to return to Point of Dreams… There was a knock at the door, and he looked up sharply.

  “Come in.”

  “Pardon, Adjunct Point.” It was one of the younger runners, bundled in a cut‑down carter’s coat wrapped tight over coat and knitted jerkin. “This is from the magist, the one you sent to.”

  Rathe took the folded paper, its edges a little damp from the snow, frowning as he recognized b’Estorr’s elegant hand. It was only a few lines, and he swore under his breath as he took in the sense of them. b’Estorr was still searching for a phytomancer who was willing to take the Alphabet seriously enough to help them; if I haven’t found one by second sunrise, he finished, I’ll come myself and do what little I can.

  Rathe took a deep breath and forced calm as the runner give him a wary glance. He dismissed the boy with a smile and a demming, and made himself look again at the open book. That was not the answer he had wanted, nothing like it–this was magists’ business, not something for the points–and then he shoved the thought away. There was nothing else he could do, except what he’d promised Trijn. He shook his head, turning another page, and caught his breath. It had been there all along, tucked in the plant dictionary, a simple plant, even familiar, something he’d seen now and then in the ditches at the edge of the city. The Alphabet labeled it “the Universal Panacaea,” but he knew it as hedgebroom, and salvarie. And I know where to get it, too, he thought, and shoved himself back from his table.

  “Chief!”

  Trijn looked up from her own work, wariness and hope warring in her expression. “Well? Has b’Estorr come?”

  “No, not yet, he’s still trying to find someone who’s willing to help. He’ll be here at second sunrise, if he doesn’t find one. In any case, I may have an answer,” Rathe said. “But I have to find it, have to pick up something–there’s a plant, Chief, you may know it, hedgebroom–”

  Trijn nodded, but he rushed on anyway, turning the book to show the illustration, wanting to be sure.

  “Tall, rangy, pale blue autumn‑blooming flowers.”

  “I know it,” Trijn said. “Go on.”

  “The Alphabet calls it the Panacea, it should neutralize any magistical arrangement–”

  “But who in Metenere’s name saves hedgebroom?” Trijn demanded. “It’s a weed. Gods, Rathe, the last of it bloomed two months ago.”

  “Aubine will have it,” Rathe said with sudden certainty. “Anyone who knows the Alphabet this intimately will grow it, just in case of accident.”

  “That hardly helps us,” Trijn said.

  Rathe nodded. “I wasn’t proposing to ask him for it–or the university, either, I doubt they’d grow it. I know someone else who may have it.”

  Trijn paused, staring, then nodded. “Go. I’ll deal with b’Estorr, if–when he comes.”

  It wasn’t a long walk to the Corants Basin, but the snow was in his face the whole way, a fine, stinging mist that caught in his hair and scarf in spite of the cap pulled low on his ears. The top of the Chain Tower was dark against the snowy sky, the banner at its peak pulled straight out by the wind. His mother’s house was closed tight, but lamplight showed in the gaps between the shutters, and when he knocked, he heard the faint sound of music. It stopped instantly, and a moment later a young woman opened the door. Not an apprentice, he thought automatically, and wondered if it was her he had heard singing.

  “I need to see Caro Rathe,” he said, and the girl’s eyes widened with recognition.

  “You must be her son. Come in.”

  “Thank you.” Rathe followed her down the long hall toward the stillroom that stood opposite the kitchen, surprised as always that his mother’s friends saw any resemblance between them. It wasn’t physical, couldn’t be–they were very different, bar a few tricks of voice and gesture–but somehow his mother’s friends seemed to know he was her child.

  The stillroom was warm, a hearty fire roaring in the stove, and the scent of lavender warred with the homelier smells of a slow‑cooking dinner on the kitchen fire. His mother looked up from her place at the long workbench, surprise and pleasure turning to wariness as she studied his face.

  “What is it, Nico?”

  Rathe shook his head. “Nothing amiss, or at least not with us, anyone we know. But I need your help.”

  Caro nodded, wiping her hands on her apron, and set aside the heavy brass mortar. “Name it.”

  “Did you dry and keep hedgebroom this year?” Rathe held his breath for the answer;. saw Caro blink in surprise, and relaxed only when she nodded.

  “Some, yes. Why?”

  “May I take it?” Rathe was scanning the bunches that hung from the ceiling as he spoke, and Caro frowned.

  “Yes, I suppose–but why? I keep it for Dame Ramary, you know.”

  “Sorry.” Rathe shook his head, getting his own impatience under control with an effort. “It’s the theatre murders, I think I know who’s doing it, and why.” He reached into his pocket, brought out the red‑bound Alphabet, and opened it to the right page. “I am right, this is hedgebroom, isn’t it?”

  Caro accepted the book, nodding slowly as she read through the text. “Yes, that’s hedgebroom, all right, salvarie they call it out west and by the coast. I’ve never heard of it as a panacea, though.”

  “Magistical, not medicinal,” Rathe said.

  “Obviously. But I haven’t known any magists to use it, either.”

  “Sorry,” Rathe said again, and took a breath. “I’m–we’re not able to do the things we should do, to stop the man, and I’m trying to find other ways.”

  “Does this have anything to do with Grener’s death?” Caro asked, and Rathe nodded.

  “I think so. Well, I’m certain, but I don’t have the evidence to call a point. Yet.”

  “Poor Grener,” Caro said, and rose from her stool, walking along the long beams where the dried plants hung in bundles. “Here’s what I have,” she said at last. “Is it enough?”

  The bundle she lifted from the hook looked meager enough, barely a dozen stalks bound with a loop of string. The stems were brittle, their rich green faded almost to the pallor of straw, and only a few of the flowers remained. They, too, had faded, were no longer the startling blue that caught the eye at the end of summer. But at least they are there, Rathe thought. Assuming, that is, that it’s the flowers that are important.

  “Which is the active part?” he asked, and Caro smiled, this time with approval.

  “It’s all active, actually, at least for what I do. You boil the stems and leaves to make a decoction, or you can use the leaves in a tea. The flowers can go in the tea as well–they have a sharper taste–or you can use them alone. Dame Ramary tops her small‑cakes with them, the savory ones, serves them for her eyes.”

  “That’s something,” Rathe said, and hoped the same would hold true for its magistical power. He glanced around, looking for some easy way to carry the bundle, and his mother stepped forward, plucked a single stalk from among the tangle. She tucked it into the front of his coat, a poor man’s posy, and stepped back.

  “If it’s good against this murderer’s work, I want you wearing it.”

  “Thank you,” Rathe said, knowing the words were inadequate, and Caro looked away, stooped to rummage blindly in the bins below the shelves that held
her tools.

  “Here,” she said at last, and held out a linen bag. “And be careful.”

  Rathe took it, tucking the bundle of plants carefully inside, and slipped the ties over his belt. “I will,” he said, and hoped he could keep the promise.

  Eslingen took a careful breath, watching the last of the chorus–his trainees–make their way off the stage. They still weren’t perfect, and he’d be ashamed to lead them in a proper drill, but at least they wouldn’t disgrace themselves on the day. Even as he thought that, one of the landseurs tripped, dropping his half‑pike with a clatter and nearly bringing down the man following him, and Eslingen couldn’t restrain a groan.

  “Don’t worry,” Siredy said softly. “It’ll be all right tomorrow.”

  Eslingen gave him a glance, and the other man managed a smile.

  “Better to get that over with today, right?”

  “If you say so.” Eslingen winced as another landseur stumbled over his own toes.

  “Trust me,” Siredy said. “Let them get the worst over with now, and they’ll be fine tomorrow.”

  “I hope so,” Eslingen answered. That was the last scene for which the masters had responsibility, and he allowed himself a sigh of relief as the actors playing Ramani’s henchmen made their entrance. Just the aftermath of the battle to get through, and the final scene, the restoration of the palatine, and then the massed chorus performing the final valediction. At least he didn’t have anything to do with that, he thought, and looked away as Aubine moved past them, a trug filled with flowers and greenery tucked over his arm. Eslingen had been doing his best to stay away from the landseur, and he was careful not to meet his eye this time, trying not to shiver at the thought of what the flowers in the trug might be capable of doing. So far, everything had been excruciatingly normal, Aubine busy in the corners, adding and subtracting stalks, culling blooms that had passed their prime, and more than once Eslingen had wondered if Rathe had gotten it right after all. Surely no one plotting something this outrageous could be so calm–and yet it was the only answer that fit.

  Siredy touched his arm, and he jumped, met Siredy’s amused smile with a grimace.

  “Let’s go out front,” the other master said. “You haven’t had a chance to see how it’ll play.”

  Eslingen followed the other man back behind the backpiece and out the actors’ entrance into the hall, where the theatre’s doorman sat in solitary silence, a jug of ale at his side. Siredy rolled his eyes at that, and Eslingen nodded, making a face at the sour smell of beer rolling off the man. Drinking off his tips, most likely, he thought, all the bribes he’d earned for carrying messages and gifts–and telling tales to the broadsheets, probably–and he suppressed the unworthy urge to kick over the jug as he passed. Only one more night, anyway, one more night to watch and keep the stagehouse safe, and after that, the man could do as he pleased.

  Siredy brought them out not into the pit, but into the two‑seilling seats in the first gallery, not the best seats–those were in the royal box, directly above–but certainly better than anything Eslingen had ever been able to afford. He had not seen the stage fully dressed, and caught his breath at the sight, impressed in spite of himself. To either side, the versatiles displayed the walls of de Galhac’s palace, with the mountains sloping away to a narrow valley in the distance. The actors stood well downstage, clothes gleaming in the light of the practicals, all their attention focused on the two ragged messengers who had brought the news of the palatine’s victory. De Galhac was overthrown, despite her armies and her magic, and the palatine stood in her palace, the rightful monarch restored. Eslingen shook his head in wonder, not really hearing the words–he’d heard them too many times already to be more than vaguely conscious of their rhythms– wondering instead how the play would look without the masque’s trappings overlaid on it. After all, de Galhac might have lost, but she was definitely the center of the play, the best part, or bes’Hallen would never have consented to play it; the second best part was Ramani, and the palatine was a poor third, not a villain, but not nearly as compelling as the other two. But it was the formal shape of the play that mattered, at least for the purposes of the masque: the rightful ruler was restored, and that was enough.

  The practicals’ light glittered on the palatine’s crown, and she bent to accept a sheaf of snow‑white flowers from the highest ranking of the chorus. That was another magistical gesture, Eslingen knew, symbolic submission to the royal will and authority, and he leaned forward against the railing as the palatine finished her final speech. The chorus glided onstage behind her, the professional musicians hidden offstage already beginning the anthem, and he shook his head, amazed in spite of himself at the spectacle unfolding in front of him. This was the moment for which the chorus had been waiting, for which they had spent hundreds of crowns of their own money, and the rich fabrics caught the light, real gold and silver and gems outshining the paste jewels that decorated the actors’ costumes. By comparison, the two huge flower arrangements, one at each side of the forestage, looked almost drab, their colors drained by the glitter. The other arrangements looked normal, though, Eslingen thought, craning his head to see them all–great bunches of them hanging from the side boxes, another pair of massive arrangements set on the floor in front of the stage itself–and he wondered for an instant if he was seeing some manifestation of Aubine’s magistry. Then the light changed, subtly, and the moment was past. The chorus began its part of the song, voices swelling in an ancient litany. It was older than the masque itself, had been sung for the monarch at midwinter since time immemorial, and Siredy leaned back, sighing.

  “It’ll play,” he said, and Eslingen wondered if the other master was trying to convince himself.

  “What happens once the masque is done? To the play, I mean.”

  Siredy reached across to tap one of the carved acorns that decorated the side of the box. “Tyrseis willing, we all take a week’s holiday, and then Mathiee announces a new version of The Alphabet of Desire–opening around the twenty‑fifth of Serpens, probably, that’ll give us about three weeks to pull all the extraneous stuff out of it and make any changes. Assuming that Aconin deigns to put in an appearance, that is.” He paused, gave the other man a curious look. “You don’t think Aconin killed all these people, do you?”

  Eslingen shook his head. “I don’t.”

  “Then where is he?”

  Hiding, if he knows what’s good for him. Eslingen said, “I wish I knew. He could answer a few questions, I think, if he were here.”

  Siredy gave him another sideways glance. “I hear the points are looking for him.”

  I wouldn’t know. Eslingen killed the lie, knowing it wouldn’t be believed, said instead, “Even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you. You know that, Verre.”

  Siredy grinned. “True enough. I can’t help asking, though.” Onstage, the chorus was coming to an end, and he straightened, sighing. “Come on. Mathiee’s bound to have some last notes for us, and then I’m for home.”

  They came back to the stage through the all but empty pit, passing a trio of chamberlains huddled in final conference, and threaded their way through the sudden crowd backstage, found themselves at last beside the left‑hand wave. Duca was there, too, scowling to hide his own nervousness, and he beckoned them close.

  “I saw you in the boxes. How’d it look?”

  “Good,” Eslingen said, and Siredy nodded in agreement.

  “It’ll play, Master Duca.”

  “It had better,” Duca answered.

  Gasquine had detached herself at last from the chamberlains, and made her way onto the stage, the bookholder calling for attention. The hum of conversation quieted, even the chorus falling silent almost at once, and Gasquine took her place center stage, lifting her hands.

  “My ladies, my lords, all my fellows.” She paused, and then smiled suddenly, like the true sun rising. “What is there to say? We’re ready–go home, get a good night’s sleep, and be back here tomorrow at t
he stroke of nine.”

  Eslingen blinked, startled, and Siredy grinned. “Well, that’s a good sign. Come on, Philip, I’m for the baths. Why don’t you join me?”

  It was tempting, and Eslingen wished that the masque was all he had to worry about. “Sorry,” he said, “I’m promised elsewhere.”

  Siredy nodded without offense. “Your pointsman, I’m sure. Another time, then.”

  “Another time,” Eslingen echoed, and let himself be drawn into the stream of people leaving the theatre.

  To his surprise, the square in front of the Tyrseia was less crowded than usual–or rather, he amended, the crowds were restricted to the far side of the area, by the tavern, and a bonfire burned in the center of the square, the snowflakes hissing as they landed in the flames. There were figures around the fire, familiar shapes, men with pikes and muskets and the queen’s white sash bright in the firelight, and he stopped abruptly, shaking his head. It looked like Coindarel’s badge, his regiment, or what was left of it, but the last he’d heard, they’d been quartered in the Western Reach, near the queen’s palace. What were they doing here, set out as what looked like a perimeter guard around the theatre?

  “Philip!”

  Eslingen turned at the sound of the familiar voice, his mood lightening in spite of everything, and Rathe hurried to join him, picking his way carefully over the snow‑slicked cobbles. “What’s Coindarel doing here?” he asked, and Rathe took his arm, drawing him deeper into the shadows.