Point of Dreams, page 10
“It’s a matter for the chief point,” Rathe said, and Holles smiled again.
“Trijn has her own agenda in this, I think. I feel confident in you.”
That matched Rathe’s impression all too well, and in spite of himself Rathe nodded once. “He’s not a bad pointsman, not corrupt, I give you my word on that. And I will pass him the word that he need not worry about your sensibilities. And if anything else happens to concern you, you can come to me, and I will speak to Voillemin about it. I’m the senior adjunct here, my job is not to undermine the points under me. Do you understand that?”
Holles nodded, a rueful smile on his face. “That’s one of the many reasons I wish you were handling this investigation, Adjunct Point. I’ve said my piece, I won’t trouble you further.” He looked down at the parcel, and the smile twisted out of true. “Except one thing. A kind of jest, and probably in poor taste, but I thought you might appreciate it. Or an irony, at least. I found this at Bourtrou’s office in the Tour, and thought you might want to add it to your collection.”
Rathe took the package, frowning slightly, and unwrapped the paper to reveal a plainly bound octavo volume, the corners bent from hard use. There was no title stamped on spine or cover, and he opened it warily, only to laugh as he saw the title page. Well, why not? he thought, gazing down at it. It seemed a part of the way things were going these days.
It was a copy of the Alphabet of Desire.
Holles rose, bowing. “Thank you for your time, Adjunct Point. And for your help.”
“Thank you for this,” Rathe answered, but the other man was already gone. Rathe sighed, staring at the book he had been given. He should look at it, study it the same way he would study all the others that they’d collected, but his mind was on Holles’s complaint. The man knew how the points worked, that was the trouble, saw it day to day in Hearts, and could be forgiven if he was suspicious of anyone he hadn’t come to know personally. And in this case…. Rathe sighed, and shoved himself away from his table, heading back to the main room to consult the daybook.
“Anything of interest?” he asked, flipping back through the day’s notations, and the duty point shrugged.
“A couple more editions brought in.”
And one more that I should log, Rathe thought, then stopped, frowning. He had reached the previous day, and one of the entries did not make sense. “Is Voillemin about?”
“He’s got the bridge shift,” the duty point answered, and Rathe’s eyes went to the clock. Yes, the man should be here, was due to go off watch shortly.
“Has he done anything about this?” he asked, and pointed to the book.
The duty point craned her neck to see, and shook her head. “Not that I know. Want me to check?”
“No.” Rathe turned the book back toward her, moving carefully to hide his anger. “No. I’ll ask him.”
“Up to you. How were things at the Tour?”
“Fraught,” Rathe answered, and the woman smirked.
“I can imagine. It’s not a dull life, give us that.”
Rathe murmured something in answer, turned away to stare at the station clock. The story was that it had been a gift from one of Dreams’s greatest actresses, Herren Dornevil, in gratitude for the points’ quelling the student riots and thus keeping the theatres open. Another story said that a former chief point had liberated it from one of the few pleasure houses operating in Dreams instead of Hearts—that Dornevil had, in fact, given it to the proprietor of that house, for services rendered. Whatever its origins, the movements were near perfect, and Rathe let himself watch for a few minutes, let the steady swing of the pendulum clear his head so that he could think. He hadn’t thought that Voillemin was a fool, a coward, or lazy, but there was evidence of one of those in the daybook. One of the stallholders in Little Chain Market had sent a runner, claiming to have information about Leussi’s death—and, yes, Little Chain was in Hearts, but it was merely a matter of making a courtesy call on the chief there, and Voillemin would be free to proceed. But he hadn’t made any notation that he had, or planned to do so. In fact, there had been a line through the entry, indicating it had been considered and written off. And maybe there was cause, he told himself, damping down his anger, maybe there was something in the message that made it patently untrue, but if there was, he should have noted it. He took a breath, and started back up the stairs.
Voillemin shared a workroom with Leenderts, but the other half of the long table was empty, its surface swept clean of everything except a basket of slates weighting down a stack of papers. Rathe allowed himself a sigh of relief—he wanted no witnesses, if he had to interfere in this matter—and tapped on the door frame. Voillemin looked up with a fleeting expression of annoyance at the delay.
“Can I come in?” Rathe asked.
Voillemin nodded. “Yes, of course, Adjunct Point.”
Rathe closed the door carefully behind him, reached for Leenderts’s chair, and swung it to face the other man. “Tell me about the runner from Little Chain.”
Voillemin shrugged. “Not much to tell, really. One of the market brats came and said her mistress wanted to speak with me about the intendant’s death. She wouldn’t say who the mistress was, just that she was a stall holder, and she wanted to know when the intendant died.”
“And you did…?”
Voillemin looked honestly startled. “I made a note of it, but frankly, I thought it was, well, just a prank. To get the death-time, cast a horoscope, something like that.”
Possible, Rathe thought, striving for fairness, but not likely. “For what purpose?”
“You don’t know this district very well yet, Adjunct Point.” Voillemin’s voice held a note of grievance. “There are printers in Little Chain, same as everywhere. I suspected this one wanted to get information his competitors didn’t have, to bring out a scandal-sheet claiming Sofia knows what about the intendant’s death. And we have a policy here—I think it’s city-wide—of not feeding the broadsheets.”
“I understand that you haven’t yet spoken to Advocat Holles,” Rathe said.
Voillemin blinked, caught off balance by the change of subject. “Well, no, I thought—” He stopped, tried again. “I didn’t want to add to his burdens at such a time.”
“He found the body,” Rathe said gently, and a faint blush rose on Voillemin’s cheeks.
“There was plenty of information in the alchemist’s report….”
His voice trailed off, and Rathe sighed. “You haven’t questioned the first person to find the body. You didn’t follow up on a potential source of information about Leussi’s murder. You don’t even use the word ‘murder,’ I notice. Very well, that’s your prerogative, though prejudging a case is always dangerous, as you should well know. But you’ve been given this job, and it’s your responsibility as a pointsman, your responsibility to this station, never mind to the advocat, to do it right. Valuable information has come from the unlikeliest sources, as you should know—as an apprentice learns in her first year.” He took a breath, swallowing the rest of the lecture—Voillemin was an adjunct point, after all—and said carefully, “Advocat Holles sent word that he appreciates your scruples, but they’re unnecessary. As for the other, you will look into it. Today.”
“I’m about to go….” Voillemin realized his mistake as soon as he started to speak, and closed his mouth tightly against the words. Rathe nodded.
“To Little Chain. Good.”
The stage of the Tyrseia was set for a banquet, long tables placed in a square so that everyone could see and be seen, each one draped in spotless linen and set with dishes that gleamed in the doubled light from the mage-lights and the enormous candelabrum that hung center stage. The newly chosen noble chorus glittered in their second-best—none of them would have put on best for this meeting, and none would wear less than that, to show themselves among their peers—and the black robes of the marshaling chamberlains, bustling back and forth among the various groups, set them off to perfection. It was like a scene in a play, Eslingen thought, except that the food and the wine was real, the smells savory enough to make his stomach growl. Presumably they would be free to eat at some point; for now, he would wait with the other Masters of Defense, and hope that no one took too much notice of the stranger among them.
He recognized a few of the actors, women and men he’d seen a dozen times onstage, the best of Astreiant’s theatres, recognized, too, Rathe’s upstairs neighbor, the object of a hundred glances, and looked away to spare him at least that stare. He felt distinctly out of place in this bright company, and knew he couldn’t match the other masters’ ease, fell back on the stance he’d practiced as a new-made lieutenant—after all, he told himself, they’d hired him as a soldier, and a soldier he’d be. Siredy quirked a smile at him, very fair today under a black wig, and Eslingen returned the smile unspeaking. Siredy seemed to take that as encouragement enough, and edged closer, tipping his head toward the cluster of the chorus.
“They look very fine, our noble amateurs. I wonder if any of them can act.”
“What’s the usual way of it?” Eslingen asked, genuinely curious, and the other man shrugged.
“Oh, maybe one in ten has some talent, or at least experience, most of that from the university. But the hard part is persuading them to do what they’re told.”
That was no surprise, Eslingen thought, watching the landames greet each other with kisses and cries shrill as a seabird’s. Their skirts caught the light, the occasional silk overskirt hissing against fine linen and better wool, and their brothers and husbands, left behind, greeted each other more discreetly.
“At least you have the looks for it,” Siredy said, without jealousy, and Eslingen glanced at him.
“Does that really make so much difference?”
“You’d be surprised,” Siredy answered. “Though to be fair, it’s less the looks than the manners.” He smiled, this time with malice. “Soumet, now—he’s never been able to persuade a single one of them to do what he wants, for all that he actually does know what he’s doing.”
No, Soumet wouldn’t be to their taste, Eslingen thought, and shook himself. This was no different, or not much different, from serving with Coindarel. He’d drilled enough young nobles to know exactly how to handle them, how to flatter, when to drive, and how to make them proud to serve, even if it was a play this time, and not a regiment. He drew himself up, aware of a landame’s smile, hidden instantly behind a flourished fan, and Siredy said softly, “See, now? You’ve already won them.”
“Let’s hope so,” Eslingen answered, and Gasquine stepped out from among the actors. The movement was planned, drawing all eyes, and instantly the senior chamberlain moved to meet her, bowing with punctilious courtesy. She curtsied in answer, not deeply, and the chamberlain slammed his staff against the stage floor, calling in the same instant for silence. To Eslingen’s surprise, he received it, and Gasquine turned slowly, one hand outstretched, welcoming them all. She had dressed for the occasion, not in finery—she must have known she couldn’t compete with the chorus, Eslingen thought—but in a good, well-cut skirt and bodice, the sort of fine dark red wool that the city’s best merchants wore. It was high-necked, the collar closed beneath her chin, and she wore a simple gold chain, ornamented with a single flower. With a real flower, Eslingen amended, one of the winter corms forced to early bloom, its long stem woven into the links so that its pale, pink-tipped bell lay along the curve of one breast. A perfect touch, Eslingen thought, and repressed the urge to applaud.
“My friends and colleagues,” Gasquine said, “and the landames whom I hope will soon become our colleagues, welcome to the Tyrseia, and to our play. We are fortunate this year in our play, and in our noble sponsor, who has so generously pledged not only his name but his gift of flowers to make this piece the success it deserves to be. I ask you to begin by greeting him as he deserves: I present to you all the landseur Aubine, our patron and sponsor.”
Eslingen clapped politely. The actors were more enthusiastic, the noble chorus distracted, still whispering among themselves, and he had to look twice before he could pick out the landseur. He was an older man—well, perhaps not as old as he looked, Eslingen amended, but certainly dressed like an old man, all in grey wool and white linen, without even a line of braid to trim his coat. Even his buttons were plain jet, expensive but undemonstrative—there were actors who were better dressed than he, and the chorus outshone him without effort. His brown hair was equally undistinguished, and it had to be his own, hanging loose without curl across his shoulders as he made his bow.
“The flowers are really nothing,” he said. He had a good voice, Eslingen thought, surprised, low and resonant, and he knew how to project to be heard in the Tyrseia’s cavernous space. “A small thing, from my succession houses. But I hope you will all take them as a tangible sign of my hope for our success.”
“He has the most notable glass houses in the city,” Siredy said softly.
So of course he’d sponsor The Alphabet of Desire, Eslingen thought. Why not? Though it did make a certain amount of sense, given how obsessed the city seemed to be with flowers. He said aloud, “He doesn’t look like the sort to get involved in the theatre.”
Siredy gave a knowing smile. “Oh, that’s another story.”
Gasquine stepped forward again, introducing the senior chancellor, who in turn would introduce the noble chorus, and Eslingen couldn’t suppress a sigh. It was little to no surprise to him that Caiazzo was not present. He did not get involved with these things for the sake of either his name or reputation, he got involved with them because they were reasonable—and legal—investments. For a brief moment, he envied the merchant’s absence, though his acerbic comments would have been amusing. Siredy touched his arm, took a careful step backward. Eslingen copied him, and realized that they had stepped into the shadow of one of the massive set pieces, out of sight of the majority of the chorus, and the few actors waiting on that side of the stage. It was a giant triangular column, painted on each side with a different part of The Drowned Island’s elaborate scenery—there were at least five of them on each side of the stage, and glancing up he thought he recognized part of the buildings lining the Sier. The columns must turn, he decided, presenting a new side to the audience with each new scene—and the gods forbid that the scenerymen get their signals crossed or, more likely, the mechanisms were somehow linked, to make sure the proper images came into view.
“Leussi would never have done this,” Siredy said. “Introduced each of them, I mean. Sweet Tyrseis, we’ll be here an hour.”
“Leussi?” Eslingen repeated. The name was somehow familiar, but he couldn’t place it.
“He used to be the senior chancellor,” Siredy answered, “but he died, oh, not three weeks ago, poor man. He wasn’t old, either—younger than this one, at any rate.”
Rathe had mentioned the name, Eslingen remembered. That was the connection. And had seemed sorry at the loss himself, which was probably why it had stuck in his mind. He said, “Tell me about Aubine.”
Siredy smiled, visibly gratified. “Ah, well—and I’m not sure I should tell you this, since I understand you’re a friend of the points.”
“Of at least one pointsman,” Eslingen corrected. Siredy seemed to know entirely too much about everything—but then, it hardly mattered anymore. He wasn’t likely to lose this place for sleeping with a pointsman.
“So one hears.” Siredy glanced over his shoulder, lowered his voice until the other could just make out the words. “The landseur is the grandson of the Soueraine of Ledey, who was a lady of great pride in her lineage.”
“Sixteen quarterings and not a demming in her pocket?” Eslingen asked.
“Thirty-two, actually, and the money to back them,” Siredy answered. “And all the pride of the Ile’nord behind that. So the story is that, her daughter being sickly and unsuitable, she sent her grandchildren to court—the landseur and his sister, the present soueraine—to uphold the family name, and while they were there, young Aubine took a fancy for a life of learning. It being winter, and the roads into Ledey being blocked, the sister gave permission for him to enroll at the university—I understand he really is rather clever—and then to take lodgings in University Point. And of course while lodging with the common herd, he met another young man, a brewer’s boy, I think, or at least so I’ve heard, and they fell to a liking and then to love. They swore lemanry by midwinter, the sister turning a blind eye to the matter, but with the spring thaw, the word went out to the Ile’nord, and the next thing anyone knew, the soueraine herself descended on Astreiant and snatched both grandchildren out of the city. And the brewer’s boy was found beaten to death in an alley.”
“At the grandmother’s behest,” Eslingen said.
Siredy shrugged. “The points—and here is where I don’t wish to offend—the points said he died in the aftermath of a tavern quarrel. But, yes, that’s the story.”
“A sad one,” Eslingen said, and craned his neck to find Aubine. He was standing well back, not quite part of either the noble chorus or the little knot of officials, a quiet, sober man to be the center of such gossip. And not really handsome enough, either, or even striking, utterly without the kind of physical presence that would go with such a story. “Like The Drowned Island, only—sideways.”
Siredy suppressed a laugh, and earned a frown from Duca, standing to their left. “I suppose it is, at that. I wonder if Mistress Anonymous had the story in mind.”
“Anonymous?” Eslingen asked. There had been no playwright’s name on any of the copies he had seen, but all of them were pirated editions, would hardly be expected to credit the author when the printer could flaunt her cleverness at obtaining a copy.
“Oh, that’s a scandal for another day,” Siredy answered. “No, no one knows exactly who wrote it—though everybody has their suspicions—but it hardly matters. Tell me, what does your pointsman think of it?”
“Of The Drowned Island?” Eslingen stifled a laugh of his own. “We didn’t see it together.”
