“A favor to Astreiant. Trijn asked if we could have them, if they would guard the theatre.”
“Not a bad idea. Though she might have asked for a magist or three.”
Rathe made a face. “We tried that. We haven’t got one yet.”
“Damn.” The wind was cold, driving the snow under the edges of his cloak, and Eslingen shivered. “So what now?”
“Yeah.” Rathe made a face. He was wrapped in a heavy cloak as well, more, Eslingen suspected, to hide the truncheon than to cut the wind. “Well, now we wait, make sure everyone’s left, and then– then we try spiking Aubine’s guns.” He grinned suddenly. “I think that’s the proper phrase.”
“Depends on what you have in mind.”
“I’ll tell you inside,” Rathe answered, his eyes shifting, and Eslingen turned to confront a familiar figure.
“Lieutenant Eslingen.”
The words were cool, and Eslingen braced himself for insult or worse: Connat Bathias was the real thing, a true twelve‑quarter noble, and not likely to suffer his usurpation of a title.
“Pardon me, vaan Esling. I understand your family has claimed you now.”
Eslingen frowned, suspicious, but the tone and the expression on the other man’s face was pleasant enough, and he decided to take them at face value. “I’m dealing with nobles, Captain. Better they think I’m one of them, when I don’t have the regiment to back me.”
Bathias nodded, soberly still, but without hostility, and looked back at Rathe. “The doorkeeper says they’ve all gone, Adjunct Point.”
Rathe nodded. “And the landseur Aubine?”
“Gone with them, I would assume,” Bathias answered, and Eslingen turned, hearing the sound of a carriage pulling away from the theatre.
“There’s his coach.”
“Right.” Rathe took a deep breath. “Let’s go, then.”
The actors’ door was closed, a soldier leaning at his ease against the painted wood. He straightened to something like attention at their approach, and Eslingen’s eyes narrowed. Six months ago, he would have had the right to give the man the lecture he deserved; as it was, he frowned, said nothing, and had the satisfaction of seeing the man pull himself to rights.
“You’re sure everyone’s gone?” Rathe asked, and the soldier nodded.
“The doorkeeper said so, and then the sergeant and I took a quick look around. No one there.”
“Good enough,” Rathe said, and pulled open the door. Eslingen hesitated–the theatre was a warren of passages, had too many odd corners for a “quick look” to be sufficient–then shrugged away his doubts, and followed Rathe into the broad tunnel. It was dark, but the simple mage‑lights were still lit over the stage, casting enough light to let them pick their way into the main body of the theatre. It was very quiet, the air utterly still, and cold now as the building emptied, and Eslingen could just hear the faint hiss of the snow on the canvas roof far overhead.
“So what are we going to do?” he asked after a moment, and realized he had spoken in a near‑whisper.
Rathe untangled himself from his cloak, and held out a crumpled linen bag. “I found something in the Alphabet, a panacea–it’s a plant, hedgebroom, I’ve also heard it called–that can neutralize any and all of these arrangements.” He smiled then, wryly. “At least, it’s supposed to. I thought we could begin by slipping a few stalks into each of these big arrangements.”
“Spiking the guns,” Eslingen said with new understanding. “Nico, a spiked gun explodes if you try to use it–”
“Let’s hope the analogy isn’t that accurate, then,” Rathe answered. He looked around, eyes widening as he took in the changed scenery. “Where do we start?”
“I suppose the big ones at the front of the stage,” Eslingen said after a moment. “I’m sure they were the ones that operated against the landames.”
“Right, then,” Rathe said, looking around for the short steps that had stood in the pit, and Eslingen shook his head.
“Not there, not with the performance so close. We’ll have to go through the stagehouse.”
Rathe nodded, and Eslingen led the way through the actors’ door, its carvings so closely matched to the wall around it that it was almost impossible to see. It was dark backstage as well, just the trio of mage‑lights glowing on the stage itself, and Eslingen paused for a moment, letting his eyes adjust.
“This way,” he said after a moment, and stepped into the light.
The blow caught him by surprise, a soundless explosion, as though he’d walked headlong into an invisible wall. He swore, startled, and his breath caught in his throat, as though the air itself had gone suddenly thick. Too thick to breathe, he thought, fingers going to his stock, and he stumbled to his knees, fighting for air. He choked, his mouth suddenly full of water, the bitter water of the Sier itself, and he looked up, searching for Rathe, but saw only the carved shape of The Drowned Island’swave, looming overhead. He spat, but his mouth filled again in an instant, sight failing now, as though the water was rising inside his body, an impossible tide covering his eyes. This had to be how de Raзan had died, he realized, realized, too, that there had to be flowers somewhere, and reached for them, willing to chance the lightning if only he could breathe again. His fingers scrabbled across bare boards, found nothing, and he wrenched his stock loose, lungs frozen, aching. If he breathed, he knew they would fill with water, and he would hold his breath as long as he could, fight somehow toward the surface of this impossible river, but he could feel the property ice below the stage, changing its nature and rising to cover him, trapping him in The Drowned Island’sfrozen Sier. In the distance, he could hear Rathe calling his name, but he had no breath to answer, no strength left for anything at all.
And then, miraculously, the pressure eased, and he spat out the last mouthful of river water, drew a whooping breath, coughed, and breathed again, his head hanging between his shoulders.
“Gods, Philip.” Rathe was beside him, kneeling on the bare, dry stage, and as Eslingen moved, Rathe wrapped an arm around his shoulders, one hand tightening on his arm. “Are you all right? Can you breathe?”
“Yes.” Eslingen coughed again, the taste of the Sier still filling his mouth, and Rathe thumped him on the back. “Seidos’s Horse. Was it–?”
He broke off, not quite knowing what his question was– was it the Alphabet, was it your plant that stopped it–and Rathe nodded. He was very pale, Eslingen saw, and he shifted to grip the other man’s hand.
“I’m all right,” he said, and Rathe nodded again.
“I think we know how de Raзan died,” he said, and his voice was less steady than his words.
Eslingen shivered, the memory too raw, and in spite of himself looked up again at the looming wave. “I saw that,” he said, “but I was–drowning–first. The wave just made it easier to believe. Like the ice.”
“Ice?” Rathe asked, and Eslingen nodded to the boards that covered the wave troughs.
“Under the stage. For the final scene. I was trying–to swim to the surface, I suppose, but the ice came over me, and held me down.”
“Sofia,” Rathe breathed, the word a prayer.
“But it didn’t touch you?” Eslingen pushed himself up, sat back on his heels, working his shoulders. His ribs would be sore in the morning, he thought, inconsequentially, but it was better than the alternative.
“No.” Rathe released his hands, visibly shook himself back to business. “I’m not completely sure why–I could feel it, like a current, like the river, but it wasn’t dragging me under. Maybe it was this.” He touched the breast of his coat, where a single ragged flower hung limply from a buttonhole.
“The panacea,” Eslingen said, and Rathe nodded.
“Plus you were first onto the stage. You crossed between the arrangements, they may have been meant to catch the first one through.”
Eslingen looked where the other man was pointing, saw two small vases tucked at the bases of the nearest versatiles. They were a
lmost pretty, pink cormflowers and pale yellow sweethearts wound about with a strand of the heavy vine that grew wild along the riverbank, and he shook his head, unable to believe that such a small thing could have nearly drowned him. But they had, he knew, seeing the stalks of hedgebroom tucked haphazardly among the flowers. Only the panacea had stopped them.
“I’ve been told more than once my stars are bad for water,” he said thoughtfully.
“And I grew up swimming in the Sier,” Rathe said. “If my stars would drown me, I’d’ve been dead long ago. It could make a difference.”
Eslingen nodded. “Those weren’t here when I left,” he said.
“I don’t doubt it,” Rathe answered, and pushed himself to his feet, a haunted look on his face. He held out his hand, and Eslingen let himself be drawn upright, wincing again at the ache in his ribs. He felt bloated, as though he’d swallowed gallons of river water, hoped the feeling would pass soon.
“Philip, we have a problem.” Rathe held up the linen bag, turned it upside down so that a few strands of fiber fell to the stage floor, a leaf and part of a stem and a few petals from a flower. Automatically, Eslingen stooped to collect them, tucked them into his pocket. “It took everything I had, everything my mother had saved, just to stop this one trap. I don’t have anything left to spike the other arrangements.”
Eslingen blinked, trying to focus. “What if we take these two apart, now that they’re neutralized, save the panacea and use it in the big arrangements?”
Rathe shook his head. “There’s not enough. I don’t know if it’s because it’s dried, not fresh like the flowers, but it took half a dozen stalks in each arrangement to make it safe. It’ll take more to neutralize those big arrangements, and Dis only knows what else he’ll have waiting for us.”
Eslingen looked down at the twin vases, the pale delicate flowers wound with vines and spiked with the furry stems of the panacea. “So what do we do?” he asked, and Rathe met his eyes squarely.
“Hedgebroom’s long past, it dies over the winter, and we won’t find any in the ditches, or anywhere else, for that matter. But Aubine will have it. If he’s playing with these powers, he will grow it, and in quantity.”
“You can’t think he’ll just give it to you,” Eslingen said, appalled.
“Not likely.” Rathe managed a faint, unhappy grin. “But he’s got four succession houses. He can’t be in all of them at once.”
Eslingen blinked again, wondering if the near drowning had affected his hearing. Surely Rathe couldn’t be suggesting that they rob the landseur’s house–succession houses, he corrected himself. Not with Aubine presumably at home, along with all his household… “It’s not going to work,” he said, and Rathe scowled.
“I’m open to better ideas, believe me.”
“I wish I had one.” Eslingen looked down at the flowers again, and shivered as though the icy waters had soaked him to the skin. In a way they had, he thought; he could still feel their touch beneath his skin, in his lungs and guts, and he shuddered again, thinking of de Raзan. “Poor bastard. A nasty way to die.”
“Are you with me?” Rathe demanded, and Eslingen nodded.
“Oh, yes, I’m with you. But let’s see if we can’t find a more practical way to steal a landseur’s plants.”
“Maybe if one of us provides a diversion,” Rathe said without much hope.
Eslingen shrugged. “We’ll see when we get there.”
12
« ^ »
aubine’s house stood still and silent, only a few servants’ lights showing between the shutters, and Rathe drew a careful breath, hoping that was a good sign. Most of the other houses on the avenue were shuttered as well, against the snow and against the long night. The winter‑sun had not yet risen, and the street was very dark, just a few lamps burning at doorkeepers’ boxes, casting more shadows than light. He touched Eslingen’s shoulder, drawing him farther into the shadow of the house opposite, out of sight of the nearest box. With any luck, he thought, the watchman would be tucked up in the warmest corner, his feet firmly planted on his box of coals. Midwinter Eve was no time for thievery, bad luck in the professionals’ eyes, and even Astreiant’s most desperate poor could find shelter at the temples and hospitals. As they passed close to a shuttered window, feet slurring in the snow that was beginning to drift against the foundation, he heard faint music, a cittern inexpertly played.
They skirted the last box successfully, and drew together in the shadow of the stable wall to study their approach. Their breath left clouds in the cold air, and Eslingen rubbed his gloved hands together, hunching his shoulders under his cloak. Still chilled from the drowning spell, Rathe thought, and hoped the effect would pass off soon.
“Over the wall, do you think?” Eslingen asked softly, his voice muffled further by the thin snowfall, and Rathe tipped his head back to study the structure. Ordinarily, it wouldn’t be impossible to climb; the stones had been well fitted, but there were cracks and projections that would take feet and hands, and the spikes at the top would merely require extra care. Tonight, however, with the snow, it would be much more difficult, take more time and risk discovery, and he shook his head slowly.
“I don’t know that we can. Tell me, how would you storm the place?”
“With a company at my back, for one thing,” Eslingen answered, and Rathe saw his teeth gleam as he smiled. “Seidos, I’m not sure. Distract the guard, for one thing, and get you over the wall to open the gate.”
Rathe glanced back at the wall. If he didn’t have to worry about the watchman, he could probably do it, and he nodded. “All right. What did you have in mind for a distraction?”
“What about a drunken noble who can’t find his way to his lodging?” Eslingen answered. “I’ll let him set me on the right road, and then slip back and join you.”
“Thin,” Rathe said, and realized he was quoting Astreiant. He made a face, looking again at the relative positions of the gate and the watchman’s box. It might be possible–just possible–for Eslingen to pass along the wall itself without attracting attention, and if he had the door open by then… “But I guess it’ll have to do,” he said aloud, and Eslingen nodded, stooping to collect a handful of snow.
“No time like the present,” he said, and flung the snowball at the box. It hit with a soft thump, not enough to wake the neighbors, but certainly enough to jar the doorkeeper, and Eslingen stepped out into the middle of the street. There was no response from the box, and Rathe frowned. Sleeping off too much drink? That was more likely tomorrow night, when the household presents were traditionally given. He saw Eslingen bend again, brushing snow aside to come up with a pebble. The soldier shied it accurately at the box, and it hit with a clatter that made Rathe look reflexively over his shoulder at the nearest house, but still nothing moved in the box.
Eslingen looked back at him, gave an exaggerated shrug, and stepped up to the doorway, leaning inside for a moment before he backed away.
“Nico!”
Eslingen’s voice was low, wouldn’t carry more than a yard beyond where Rathe stood, but the pointsman winced anyway. Eslingen beckoned urgently, and Rathe moved to join him, scowling.
“What–?”
“Look.” Eslingen took a step backward, and Rathe peered through the open doorway. The watchman was curled into the warmest corner, all right, wrapped in a heavy blanket that smelled faintly and pleasantly of horses, his feet propped up on the warming box that was making its presence felt in the confined space, but he was sound asleep, head down on his chest. Eslingen tapped sharply on the door frame, enough to wake the soundest sleeper, and Rathe ducked back out of sight, cursing under his breath. The watchman didn’t move.
“So what’s wrong with him?” Eslingen asked.
Rathe shook his head. Sleep like this wasn’t natural, not in a watchman, chosen as they were for nocturnal stars to be the sort of folk who lay wakeful all night, and he stepped into the box before he could change his mind, letting his coat fall b
ack so that his truncheon showed at his belt.
“Here, now,” he said, and grabbed the watchman’s shoulder, shaking him lightly. The watchman’s head rolled back, releasing a sort of snore, but his eyes stayed firmly shut. The blanket slipped down from his shoulder, and Rathe caught his breath, seeing the posy pinned to the watchman’s coat. “Gods. Philip, look at this.”
The light dimmed as Eslingen leaned closer, and he heard the other man whisper a curse. “Aubine’s work.”
Rathe nodded, and eased the watchman back into his corner, careful to draw the blanket up around him again. The hot coals and the man’s own body heat would keep the box warm enough that he shouldn’t freeze, sheltered as he was from the wind and the snow.
“I suppose he wanted to be free to work, without the danger of witnesses,” he said aloud, and turned to go. Eslingen stepped out of his way, fell in at his shoulder as Rathe turned to the main gate.
“You’re not just going to pick the lock, right here on the open street.”
“Why not?” Rathe managed a grin, reaching into his purse for the set of picks he carried with him. “Look, if anyone’s watching, which I doubt, they saw us go to the box, speak to the doorkeeper, and come out with the key.” He slipped the first pick into the ancient lock, nodded with satisfaction as the wards slid home under his probing. “And here we are.”
Eslingen shook his head, grinning. “And you an honest pointsman, too.”
Rathe returned the smile briefly, closing the gate again behind them. When he had been to the succession houses before, he had been taken through the main house–not really a practical option just now, he thought, but the glasshouses stood separate from the main building, in a courtyard of their own. With any luck, the alley between the stables and the house would lead there, but that road passed one of the few lit and unshuttered windows. No hope for it, he thought, and pointed to the passage.
“This way.”
He saw Eslingen’s eyebrows rise, but the other man followed him obediently enough, scuffing his feet to blur their tracks. The snow of the courtyard looked almost untouched, Rathe saw, and wondered what the household was doing. As they came closer to the window, Eslingen caught his shoulder, pulling him back until he could whisper in Rathe’s ear.
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