“Done already, Adjunct Point? Or is there more trouble?”
“No and no,” Rathe answered. “Or not exactly.” He held up a hand, forestalling Coindarel’s indignant question. “Prince‑marshal, I need you to send for Trijn–I’ll write what’s needed, you can read it if you’d like. But Aubine is dead, and we need help to make the theatre safe again.”
“Dead?” Aconin said, eyes wide, and Coindarel ignored him.
“Dead how?”
Rathe took a breath, trying not to remember too closely. “He attacked us–he was in the theatre, guarding the plants, I suppose, and when we started to spike the arrangements, he tried to stop us. One of the wave effects fell and crushed him.”
“I dropped it on him,” Eslingen corrected. “In self‑defense.”
Coindarel’s eyes flickered as he took in the marks of the fight, Rathe’s torn coat and bloodied shirt and the burn on Eslingen’s neck and chin, and he smiled faintly. “That explains the faint, strange noises reported to me not a quarter hour past. I very nearly sent a troop in to investigate.”
“Thank you, sir,” Eslingen said.
Rathe said, “He’s dead on the stage, Prince‑marshal, which makes it a matter for the chamberlains, or so I’d think. And we still need to neutralize all the arrangements.”
Coindarel waved vaguely at the traveling desk that stood opposite the firebasket, the gesture far more languid than the look in his eyes. “Write all you will, Adjunct Point, I’ll see the notes delivered.”
“Thanks.” Rathe seated himself at the desk, a wave of dizziness washing over him. Reaction, he knew, and shook it angrily away. There would be time for that later, he told himself, and reached for a sheet of the fine paper stacked in a traveler’s box. It seemed a shame to use all of it for such a short message, and he tore it in half, writing small and neat to get everything in. Just a note to Trijn, he thought; she could see to the rest of it.
“Lieutenant,” Coindarel said. “You’ll find the makings for punch on that table. You always had a talent for it.”
“Yes, sir,” Eslingen said again, and Rathe heard the clank of bottles and glass, but didn’t look up until the note was finished. It was longer than he’d intended, filled most of the half sheet, and he only hoped it would be clear enough for Trijn to understand what was needed.
“I’ll take that,” Coindarel said, and twitched the paper away before Rathe could change his mind. “Sergeant!”
“Drink this,” Eslingen said, and slid a steaming cup under the other man’s nose. Rathe took it gratefully, smelling sweet wine and spices. There was brandy in it, too, and he took a deeper swallow, glad of the inner fire.
“I’ll be drunk if I have much more,” he said, and blushed to realize he’d spoken aloud.
“No harm if you are,” Eslingen answered. “Let the rest of Dreams take care of things.”
“We’ll have to show them how to neutralize the arrangements,” Rathe protested, and Eslingen shook his head.
“We can tell them that–I can tell them that, if it comes to it. Drink up. You need it.”
The inward shivers were easing, and Rathe nodded, took another, more careful swallow of the punch, edging his chair closer to Coindarel’s fire. The prince‑marshal was nowhere in sight, he realized, and guessed he was making sure that the theatre was still secure.
Trijn arrived within the half hour, just as the clock struck three, a tousled Sohier at her side. Most of Dreams’s personnel was there, Rathe realized, as he followed one of Coindarel’s soldiers out into the courtyard, the day watch dragged early from their beds as well as the night watch.
“The prince‑marshal tells me we’ll need the chamberlains,” Trijn said abruptly. “And their magists to cleanse the stage. b’Estorr’s finally coming, too, with phytomancers in tow, I understand.”
Rathe suppressed a shudder, thinking of the more mundane cleaning that would be required first, and nodded, “Yes, Chief.”
“Are you all right?” Trijn shook her head. “Never mind. Tell me what happened.”
Rathe took a careful breath, all too aware of the other points huddling close to hear, and did his best to order his thoughts. “After I found the panacea, Chief, I brought what I had to the theatre, but it–wasn’t enough to neutralize all the arrangements. It was dried, you see, and we needed fresh.”
“We being yourself and Lieutenant vaan Esling?” Trijn asked.
Rathe nodded, suddenly aware that Sohier was scribbling his words into her tablets. “Yeah. I knew Aubine would have the panacea, had to be growing it, with everything he was doing with the plants, so we went to his succession houses.”
“Intending to steal it?” Trijn gave a thinlipped smile.
“Intending to get it however I could,” Rathe answered. He had known there would be an official record, an explanation that could be shown to the regents and anyone else who feared the points’ influence, but he’d hoped it could wait until after the masque. He shook himself, frowning, chose his words with care. “I would have asked the landseur’s permission, but when we reached his house, we found all his household asleep, bespelled with flowers.” He went through the rest of the story in equally careful detail, emphasizing Aconin’s testimony and the list they had found in Aubine’s study, glossing over the details of the fight to keep as much blame as possible from Eslingen. “And the landseur is dead,” he finished at last, “and his arrangements still have to be neutralized before Her Majesty arrives at the theatre.”
“You say that neutralizing them just means adding springs of hedgebroom to each one?” Falasca demanded.
Rathe nodded, too tired to wonder when she’d arrived. “But carefully. You–well, when you get close to one, you’ll feel it. There should be a gap, though, among the flowers, where you can add a stem or two.”
Trijn nodded. “We’ll take care of that,” she said.
“The hedgebroom is in baskets,” Rathe said. “We left them on the stage. There should be enough…”
His voice trailed off, and Trijn nodded again. “We’ll take care of it,” she said, her voice unexpectedly gentle. “Us and b’Estorr’s people, and I’ve sent to the chamberlains, told them we need their magists as well as them. The flowers will be neutralized. And I’ll send to the other stations, make sure they call points on Aubine’s co‑conspirators.”
“Thank you.” Rathe shook himself. “The flowers, I can show you how–”
“No,” Trijn said. “Rathe–I’m sorry, Nico, but I’m calling the point on you, for Aubine’s death.”
“You can’t do that,” Eslingen protested. “Seidos’s Horse, if he hadn’t stopped him, I hate to think what would have happened tomorrow.”
“A man lies dead, and by his own admission, through Rathe’s actions,” Trijn said. “I have to call the point.”
“I killed him,” Eslingen said. “I was the one who worked the lever–I dropped the damned wave on him. If you call a point on him, you have to call one on me.”
“Rathe’s actions were the first cause of the landseur’s death,” Trijn said. “You acted on his orders and to defend him.”
“He was defending himself,” Eslingen said, and Rathe touched his arm.
“It’s all right, Philip. This–” His mouth twisted into a wry smile. “This is necessary, right, Chief? To keep the regents off your back.”
Trijn had the grace to blush, but she met his gaze squarely. “That’s right, Rathe. And I’d rather keep my place and have a chance to protect heroes like you than lose it when it might be prevented.”
“But–” Eslingen began, shaking his head, and Rathe’s grip tightened.
“Philip. It won’t mean anything. The law is clear. This is just a formality.”
“A formality that keeps her in office,” Eslingen said, “and puts you in a cell.”
“Let it go,” Rathe said. “Please.”
Eslingen drew a ragged breath. “All right. But, Chief Point, if you’re going to call the point on him, you sho
uld take me in, too. It was my hand that struck him down.”
“If you insist, I will,” Trijn answered. “But if you’re free, you can see that he gets all the amenities while he’s in the cells–good meals, wine, clean clothes.”
“Don’t you feed your prisoners, Chief Point?” Eslingen asked.
“Not as well as you’d like,” Trijn answered, and Eslingen sighed, defeated, glanced sideways at Rathe.
“Are you sure about this, Nico?”
There was a lot that could go wrong, Rathe thought, remembering other cases that had seemed equally clear until a clever advocat had her say, but he made himself nod. Trijn would see him right, he trusted her that far, and her influence seemed to be considerable. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
“Will you permit that?” Eslingen demanded, and Trijn gave him an ironic glance.
“I’ll even let you escort him, Lieutenant. You see how I trust you.”
Eslingen swept an equally ironic bow, and turned away. Rathe hesitated.
“You’re sure you can handle the flowers, Chief?”
“There are magists on the way if we can’t,” Trijn answered. “And the sooner you’re gone, the sooner we can begin.”
Rathe nodded, defeated, let Eslingen turn him away. Beyond the theatre, the streets were dark and empty, the snow not yet trampled and rutted by the day’s traffic. It was very quiet, the usual sounds deadened by the snow, and Eslingen shook his head, rubbing at his ear again.
“If she trusts you so much, couldn’t we spend the night in our own bed, turn you in in the morning?”
Rathe hesitated, sorely tempted–the cells at Dreams were penitential–but shook his head. “No, I promised.”
Eslingen nodded, looking suddenly exhausted, and Rathe touched his shoulder in sympathy. They were almost at the station now, turned the corner to see the station’s lights blazing in the unshuttered windows. Trijn hadn’t left many people on duty, Rathe knew, and he pitied the day watch, called to early duty. Then a thought struck him, and in spite of everything he smiled.
“What?” Eslingen asked, and held the gate for them both.
Rathe shook his head, unable to lose the smile. “I just realized, this will be the first midwinter in–oh, it must be fifteen years or more that I’m not working.”
Eslingen’s eyebrows rose. “Don’t make a habit of it,” he said, and they stepped together into the station’s welcome warmth.
13
Epilogue
The day of the masque passed, and the routine of Dreams station returned to normal, except for the fact that its senior adjunct was kicking his heels in the station’s best cell, and the best was still, as Rathe had described it, penitential. But it was clean, the small stove kept it warm enough, and Eslingen had left the evening before only to fetch dinner from Laneten’s, and in the morning brought breakfast from the markets. But he couldn’t stay; Duca expected all his masters present that day to help clean, sort out, and restore the weapons to their proper places at the salle. By the afternoon of this second day, the enforced inactivity was fretting Rathe almost more than anything else, or so he told himself, resolutely putting aside fears that the point for Aubine’s death might be upheld. But he realized, even without Trijn’s pointing it out, that he was better off taking his chances with the judiciary and the intendancy than seeing it fall to the regents. Bad enough he had been involved in the landseur’s death, far worse would be the fact that he had been right–about Leussi’s death, about Aubine’s involvement.
He set aside the broadsheet he had been reading–Eslingen had brought him a sheaf of them along with breakfast that morning, all extolling Astreiant, now officially named the queen’s successor–and looked at his report on the events, ready to hand it over when it was required, and when he was reinstated. There was nothing more to add, and he pushed it aside as well, got restlessly to his feet. He could move about the station itself, under escort, but he was reluctant to pull anyone from their actual duties and besides, he found it galling that he should need to. He prowled the length of the chamber. He couldn’t expect Eslingen back again until evening, and b’Estorr was stuck at the university, reading the riot act to the phytomancers who had viewed the Alphabet as, in b’Estorr’s own words, so many market games.
So he was surprised at the rap on the door, and to see Sohier stick her head in. “Sorry to bother you, Nico, but–it’s the advocat Holles to see you.”
Rathe hid a grin–she was acting as though he were in his usual workroom, blithely disregarding anything so inconsequential as a point for murder–and then she had stepped aside for the advocat.
Holles waited till the door was closed behind him before he said quietly, “I feel terrible about this, Rathe.”
Rathe looked at him. “Advocat?”
Holles gestured around the small room. “After all you did–and not just for me–you shouldn’t be in here.”
It was funny, Rathe thought, that he was the one comforting and reassuring his friends–not Eslingen, he had given that up, and just listened to his leman’s rants about the unfairness–about a couple of days spent in Dreams’s best cell. He gestured for the advocat to take the chair, and sat down himself on the edge of the cot.
“It’s better if we observe all the formalities,” he said with a wry smile. “You wouldn’t throw me to the regents, would you, sir?”
“Sweet Sofia, no!” Holles said, horrified, then slowly smiled in turn as he realized what Rathe had done. “Bourtrou always spoke well of you. I can see why he liked you. You’re a good man, Rathe,” he said quietly.
Rathe shrugged. “And a lucky one, if truth be told.”
Holles nodded. “I still don’t understand, though–why Bourtrou?” It was the question, torn from the heart, that Holles had managed not to ask until this point, but he deserved an answer, although it would cause him more pain. Rathe stared down at the floor for a moment, then took a breath. He had put it all together for Trijn. Holles deserved no less.
“Leussi was one of the chamberlains this year. Which meant he would have passed judgment on the play for the masque. The version of the Alphabet he had–the one you gave me–was authentic. It was the same edition Aubine was working from. But Leussi never suspected any ill of Aubine, probably suspected Aconin instead, summoned Aubine to warn him about the dangers of the play he was sponsoring. Aubine listened, was probably politely appalled–and then brought him as a gift, as thanks, the bluemory. Which was fatal under those stars to someone with Leussi’s stars. Quickly fatal, Istre tells me. That gave him the time he needed to bind the ghost.” It sounded harsh, was harsh, stated so simply, but Rathe didn’t know any way to cushion the words. Holles at least had known his leman had been murdered; now he knew why. A bitter comfort, but then, most knowledge was.
The advocat was staring at a shaft of sunlight that was creeping across the floor from the high, narrow window. “It seems so unreal,” he murmured. “It makes no sense–for Aubine to have deprived me–and others–of loved ones, lemen, because of his own loss.”
“I know.” Unbidden, the memory of Eslingen on the stage of the Tyrseia, Aubine’s knife at his throat, rose in his mind, and he shook it away physically. “He was beyond rational thought. I don’t think he meant, don’t think he thought about the pain it would cause you. He only knew that Leussi was dangerous to his plan. Leussi died because he was an honorable man, a learned man, and too damned good at his job.”
Holles looked up at Rathe, his eyes bleak, but a small smile on his lips. “Not a bad eulogy, Rathe. I would hope to earn as much.”
“Not for a number of years yet, I hope, sir.”
“No.” Holles stood up. “I am in your debt. Aside from this”–he gestured with expansive contempt around the cell–“there is the matter of your having been called before the regents. I put you in an impossible situation with your superior and them, Rathe, and I’m sorry.”
“Rut you were right about Voillemin, sir, and I might have chosen not to believe it if you
hadn’t come to me.”
“What happened to that one?” Holles wouldn’t even say the name.
“Voillemin?” Holles nodded, and Rathe’s eyes glinted with humor. “Oh, he’s been demoted from adjunct point–even the regents had to admit he had only gotten so far on his mother’s guild‑standing. He’s a common duty point now, and will be for a while, I would say.”
“Still here?”
Now Rathe grinned openly. “No, sir. It was felt he had been protected and privileged for too long. He’s been sent to Fair’s Point.”
It was not lost on Holles: Fair’s Point was the newest, most junior of the official districts. Voillemin was now the most junior of adjuncts in the entire city. Holles nodded slowly, his face grave, but his eyes betraying a grim satisfaction.
“The surintendent has a remarkable sense of justice.”
Rathe nodded. “He does that. If it had been up to me, I might not have been able to resist sending him someplace grittier, more southriver. Like Knives, say.”
Holles laughed out loud. “The good citizens of Knives surely don’t deserve that visited upon them.”
“No, but seeing him dealing with the descendants of the bannerdames in the Court might have been worth it. But Fourie has, I think, a soft spot in his heart for the district.”
“If he does, it’s the first soft spot I’ve heard of Fourie possessing,” Holles said dryly, and got to his feet. “I am in your debt, Rathe, and I won’t forget it.”
“Then I’d better hope I don’t have any cases that come before you. You’re an honorable man, Advocat. Let’s not talk of debts between us. You helped me when you gave me the intendent’s copy of the Alphabet. We’re quit.”
“Not until you’re out of here, justly,” Holles said, his voice quiet, but implacable, and for the first time since he had acquiesced in Trijn’s actions, Rathe felt confident that justice would, in fact, fall to him.
Eslingen paused at the Owl and Lamb’s kitchen door to settle the cover more securely on the basket. Two days Rathe had spent in Point of Dreams’s best cell, and no matter what Rathe said, it wasn’t justice. And he still wanted to say as much to Trijn, would do it as soon as Rathe was released–except, of course, that would only make things worse.
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