Point of Dreams, page 18
Rathe sighed, knowing she was right. “I’m really that ungracious?”
“You know you are,” Annechon answered. “But I am flattered. It’s not every woman who can still fluster her first nurseling.”
“Hardly that,” Rathe protested. “You were the child-minder. Never a nurse.”
“Would you rather I said first suitor?”
“I’d take it more kindly if you’d forget that,” Rathe said, and she grinned.
“Even more ungracious. But probably wise, if the tale I hear is true. Did you finally bring your black dog to heel?”
Rathe felt the color stain his cheeks. “Yes.”
“And that’s all I’m to hear of it?” Annechon said.
“I need your help,” Rathe said, in something like desperation, and she leaned back in her painted chair.
“And you’ll have it—if I can, of course. Have you had breakfast?”
The remains of hers was on a side table, and Rathe couldn’t help a longing glance. “I’ve eaten,” he said, and she waved toward it.
“Well, have some more, there’s plenty. Ring for more tea if it’s cold.”
The plate of pastries, barely touched, was too tempting, and Rathe took one, biting into a pocket of dried fruits flavored with Silklands spices. It dripped, of course, and he caught the blob of filling awkwardly, feeling more than ever like a child again. Annechon laughed without malice, and after a moment, he smiled back.
“What do you want of me?” she asked.
“Do you know the castellan de Raçan?” Rathe asked around a second bite of pastry, and Annechon managed a theatrical sigh.
“Never the question I want from you, Nico. Yes, I know of her—we don’t move in the same circles, mind you, or not much, but we have friends in common.”
“I thought it was interesting she took a house in Point of Hearts,” Rathe said.
Annechon nodded. “Interested in her pleasure, that one, and doesn’t care a bit for her reputation. What I know of her, I like, there’s no pretense there.”
“And her ambitions?”
“She hasn’t any that I know of,” Annechon answered, and Rathe made a face.
“Aspirations, then.”
“Purely of pleasure,” Annechon said. “Raçan’s a cold holding, so I hear, so she spends her winters rather warmer.” She paused. “Is it true it was her brother who was killed at the Tyrseia?”
“Yeah.” Rathe hesitated in turn. “Did you know him, Anne?”
“Not that one. He’s—he was just as intent on his pleasure as his sister, but not as generous. It could be she kept him short of funds, but I think it was more a habit of his own.”
Which went with what Siredy had said, Rathe thought. “Did he have political ambitions at all?”
“That one?” Annechon laughed. “Why in Oriane’s name would you ask that?”
“Because they’re somehow related to the crown,” Rathe answered, “by blood, not stars, and he was in the masque that’s designed to bring health to the state of Chenedolle. I have to ask it.”
“Then you can consider yourself answered,” Annechon said. “The de Raçans, Larivey or Visteijn both, don’t give a gargoyle’s kiss for affairs of state. Affairs of the heart only, except I believe that isn’t the organ either prefers.”
“Enemies, then?” Rathe asked, without hope, and wasn’t surprised when she shook her head.
“I doubt anyone would bother.” She paused, frowning slightly now. “Have I been any help at all?”
“In a negative way,” Rathe answered frankly. “But I pretty much expected that.”
“I hate meeting expectations,” Annechon said. “And now you’ll meet mine, and find some excuse to scurry away again.”
“I have work to do,” Rathe said, and knew the truth sounded like a lame excuse. Annechon laughed and waved him away, offering a last pastry just as she had when he was a boy, and Rathe accepted it, following her maidservant back down the unfashionable stairs past a trio of waiting gallants. It would do for lunch, he told himself, hearing the clock strike noon, and he was due at the Bells.
Sohier was there before him, as he’d expected, but the lurking runner was quick to fetch her, and they found another of the quiet alcoves in which to confer.
“You read my report?” she asked, and Rathe nodded.
“You’re sure?”
“Sure as can be.” Sohier shook her head. “There was nothing, Nico, nothing bigger than a barber’s basin, and I’d hate to try to drown a man in that. Even stunned, or drugged.” She paused. “There’s already talk.”
“No surprise,” Rathe said again. “We’ll keep it as quiet as we can, not that there’s much we can do about it. What have you found today?”
“Not much,” Sohier answered, and reached beneath her skirt for her own tablets. “Let’s see, two people have said he’d spoken of a marriage with the Heugenins—with the vidame herself, according to one young miss, trying to recoup his debts—but the vidame herself says she was trifling. She’d have bedded him, maybe settled an allowance on him if they were successful—she’s childless—but swears she had no intention of making a contract with him.”
“That’s the most promising thing we’ve heard so far,” Rathe said, and Sohier shook her head.
“Not wanting to disappoint, Nico, but I believe her. Even the people who mentioned it in the first place said it was all de Raçan boasting, nothing they really believed.”
Rathe sighed. Sohier’s judgment was generally reliable, too; if she said de Heugenin was telling the truth, odds were she was. “What’s left for the day?”
“We’re just about done with the chorus,” Sohier answered.
“Nobles taking precedence?” Rathe asked with a grin, and the younger woman shook her head.
“They’ve been easier to find. Gasquine’s been working the actors hard.” She glanced over her shoulder. “In fact, I should be getting back to them.”
Rathe nodded. “Go ahead. I’ll be along as soon as I can catch a word with Mathiee.”
“Good luck to you,” Sohier answered, and turned away.
The rehearsal was well under way, he saw, the chorus idle while two of the principals held the stage. It was the first time Rathe had heard more than a few lines of the play, the first full scene he’d heard, and in spite of himself he found himself standing silent between two of the massive set engines, caught in the story’s moment. Anjesine bes’Hallen, a Silklands scarf standing in for the old-fashioned veil she would wear later, held center stage with the ease of long practice, commanding in her silence, while Caradai Hyver raged around her, reminding her leman of promises made and broken. Hyver belonged to Gasquine’s company, bes’Hallen to Savatier’s; the chance to see them onstage together, in the two leads, would bring Astreiant flocking to the masque, and to the play. Hyver paused—she played the Bannerdame Ramani, whose stars made her a great general—but bes’Hallen remained still a heartbeat longer, long hands posed against her skirt. Then, slowly, she shook her head, rejecting not her leman but the anger she carried, swallowing her pride again for the sake of the kingdom. And that much, at least, was legend, Rathe thought. The Soueraine de Galhac had held her hand as long as she could, swallowed insult after insult, until finally the Palatine of Artins refused the marriage, her daughter to de Galhac’s son, that would have restored the fortune de Galhac had ruined in her service. On the stage, Hyver paused in her turn, then swept into a deep curtsy, skirts pooling on the stage around her. It was the obeisance one gave a queen, and from leman to leman it was disconcerting and strangely moving, and the pause before bes’Hallen moved to raise her friend was even more unsettling. But then, the play didn’t deny the ambition on both sides, the need of the palatine to be free of de Galhac, and de Galhac’s need to dominate in Artins.
The actors moved off, arm in arm, never quite leaving their characters even after they were well out of sight in the far wing, and Rathe drew a slow breath. Oh, they were good, both of them, bes’Hallen at the top of her career, Hyver only a little behind, but without Aconin’s lines to speak, those gestures would have fallen flat, meaningless. Something moved then, in the shadows to his left, andhe looked over, startled, to see Aconin watching from behind a painted pillar. The playwright’s eyes fell, as though he was embarrassed—something I never thought to see—but then he straightened and came toward the other man.
“Well, Adjunct Point, how’d you like the scene?”
The tone was mocking, as was the punctilious insistence on the proper title—but the question, Rathe realized, was genuine. Aconin had been watching not the actors, but the man watching them, and he was good enough, the play was good enough, to deserve an honest answer. “You’ll have Astreiant at your feet if there’s any justice.”
Aconin paused, but then his painted lips quirked up into a smile. “Have you seen The Drowned Island?”
In spite of himself, Rathe grinned. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Is it by way of business? Or about the play?”
“Both.”
Aconin spread his hands, a graceful, easy movement that displayed the black and gold paint and his long fingers. “I’m at your service, Adjunct Point.”
“Where’d you get the idea for the play?”
“And how does that have to do with your business?” Aconin asked. “If I’d stolen someone else’s idea, they’d beat me to death, not complain to the points.”
Rathe smiled again, recognizing the truth of the playwright’s words. One thing he’d learned since coming to Point of Dreams, the players tended to settle their own affairs as much as possible. “I was thinking more about the way you use the Alphabet, actually. I don’t remember that being part of the de Galhac tales.”
“Ah.” Aconin’s eyes slid sideways, and Rathe followed his gaze, to see the landseur Aubine frankly listening, a self-deprecating smile on his plain face. “Not in Astreiant, as far as I know, but in the west, there are tales that make her to be a descendant of the Ancient Queens, and a magist herself.”
The Ancient Queens were also known as the Southern Witches. Trust Aconin to find them appealing. Rathe nodded, not wanting to break the thread, but Aconin shrugged one shoulder, said nothing more.
“So why the Alphabet?” Rathe asked after a moment, and Aconin sighed.
“I don’t—honestly, I couldn’t say, it just seemed…suitable. I suppose because there was all the talk last spring about the verifiable copy, and it stuck in my head.” He shrugged again. “It’s an anachronism, of course, but I don’t think anyone will care.”
There was something not quite right about the playwright’s answer, Rathe thought. Maybe he wasn’t being fair, but somehow he was certain that Aconin always knew exactly why he’d made his choices. “Did you read it?” he said aloud, and could have sworn that Aconin jumped.
“What?”
“Did you read it—this verifiable copy?”
Aconin smiled, already turning away. “There’s no such thing.”
And you’re lying, Rathe thought. Either you’ve seen it or, more likely, you know it exists, but you are lying. He took a step forward, intending to pursue the matter, and Aubine cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, Chresta, but Mathiee wants to talk to you.”
Rathe swore under his breath, and Aconin spread his hands again. “I’m in demand. If you’ll excuse me, Adjunct Point—”
“Of course,” Rathe said, knowing the moment was lost, and the playwright disappeared between another set of scenery. Aubine gave him an apologetic smile, and Rathe returned it. It wasn’t the landseur’s fault that he’d been given a message—but one of these days, Chresta, you and I will finish this conversation.
“Do you believe in the Alphabet, Adjunct Point?” Aubine asked, and Rathe shook himself back to the present.
“I find it hard to believe there could be so many false editions of something that never existed.”
Aubine’s smile seemed genuine enough. “I’d never thought of it that way.” He turned away, losing himself in the stack of hampers and cases that filled the backstage. Waiting to be carted to the Tyrseia, Rathe guessed, and realized he’d lost track of Gasquine.
The actors were rearranging themselves for the next scene under the watchful eye of one of Gasquine’s assistants, and Rathe winced, hearing a once-familiar voice. He had managed to forget, or at least ignore, the fact that Guis Forveijl had been chosen for the masque, but there he was, tall and still good to look at, with hair of just the right shade of gold to be popular at any season. He seemed to be playing some sort of messenger—to be setting up one of the drills or dances, Rathe realized, and even as he thought it, he saw Eslingen coming down one of the backstage stairways. He looked as fine as any of the nobles, a new red coat warm in the mage-light, and he inclined his head gracefully to listen to something one of the landseurs was saying to him. Lieutenant vaan Esling is settling in all too well. Rathe thought, and was ashamed of his jealousy. He had been jealous of Forveijl, too, jealous of the friendships and the parts that had seduced him away more than once before the final, showy role that Aconin had given him. They had been together for three years then, almost lemanry, though Rathe thanked Sofia he hadn’t committed at least that folly; to see it all vanish for the sake of a play, no matter how good, was almost enough to sour him on the theatre. Maybe Philip’s finding a place here wasn’t such good fortune after all, he thought, and winced as Gasquine strode onto the stage, waving her hands to stop the action. Forveijl listened, head drooping, as she corrected something in the performance, and Rathe was grateful she kept her voice down.
“Nico,” Eslingen said, and Rathe turned to greet him, forcing a smile. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“There’s still plenty to be done,” Rathe answered, and Eslingen sighed.
“I know that, I meant, when you weren’t here this morning. I looked for you, you know.”
Rathe felt his smile become more genuine. “I had business with the family. And how has your morning been?”
Eslingen rolled his eyes. “Like nothing in this world—” He broke off as a smiling woman touched his shoulder, murmuring something in his ear as she passed, and Rathe suppressed another stab of jealousy. Eslingen smiled back, but the expression faded as he turned back to face the other man. “As you see. And there’s a deal of gossip about the death, as you can well imagine. Some people are saying they’ll have to call in the necromancers to clear the stagehouse.”
“I doubt that,” Rathe said. “Besides, a necromancer’s already seen the body.”
“b’Estorr, of course,” Eslingen said, and a new voice spoke from behind them both.
“Of course. You must know about Nico’s white dog, Lieutenant.”
Forveijl, Rathe realized, and damned himself for not realizing the scene had ended. Eslingen gave him his most blandly cheerful smile.
“Keeps pocket terriers, does he?”
Forveijl blinked at the non sequitur, and Rathe took a breath, turning to face him. “Guis.”
“Nicolas. We’re keeping you busy these days.”
“Among other things,” Rathe answered. Forveijl opened his mouth to say something more, but someone—Gasquine’s assistant, by the sound of it—called his name. Forveijl smiled, sweeping a too-deep bow, and moved away in answer. Eslingen lifted an eyebrow. “That one…?”
Rathe, to his own surprise, laughed softly. “Bad judgment, coming back to haunt me.”
Eslingen shrugged. “Your life never started with me. But whatever did you see in him?”
“I’m not sure anymore,” Rathe answered.
Eslingen’s eyebrow rose even higher. “I hope he was at least—amusing?”
“Oh, yeah, that, certainly.”
“I’d like to think you got something out of it,” Eslingen said.
“It seemed enough at the time,” Rathe answered. The stage was crowded now, chorus and actors and even a few scenerymen milling about in the open space, and he shook his head, thinking of the Tyrseia. “The whole thing’s backwards,” he said, and realized he’d spoken aloud only when Eslingen cocked his head at him.
“From the usual run of murdered landseurs?”
“From any other murder I’ve handled,” Rathe said. He paused, but there was no one in earshot. “I’m talking about the pure mechanics of the thing. Usually, it’s pretty straightforward how someone was killed, that’s not the problem. The problem is who, and you look hard and deep, and one reason usually stands out, and that’s the why that gives you the who. But you start from how.” He shook his head. “I have a bad feeling that with this one, if I can just figure out how de Raçan was killed, I might have a chance at figuring out who.”
Eslingen whistled softly, but anything more he would have said was cut off by a call from the stage itself. “That’s us,” he said, and quirked a smile. “I wouldn’t stay.”
“Not a pretty sight?” Rathe asked with a grin, and Eslingen rolled his eyes.
“If they were my company, I’d have the lot of them digging ditches.”
He was gone then, and Rathe turned away. He’d find Sohier, he decided, and see if they could finish the interviews before the day’s rehearsal ended.
The rehearsal was going about as well as could be expected, considering that neither he nor the chorus really understood yet what was expected of them. Eslingen rested the butt of his half-pike against his shoe, grateful for the break while Gasquine argued with Hyver about some trick of gesture. At least it was real, the proper weight and heft, brought out of the weapons pawned and abandoned at the Aretoneia, unlike everything else onstage. He let his eyes skim past the arguing actors—not quarreling, they never quarreled, but discussed or at worst argued—looking for Rathe, but the pointsman was nowhere in sight, had already left, taking Eslingen’s advice. He turned his attention back to the stage, trying to imagine his work seen from the pit. The chorus had broken out of their tidy lines, the banners drooping as they relaxed to murmured conversation, and Eslingen sighed, the moment’s vision lost. This was one of the smaller set pieces, an entrance for the Bannerdame Ramani, but already they’d spent half the afternoon on it.
“You know you are,” Annechon answered. “But I am flattered. It’s not every woman who can still fluster her first nurseling.”
“Hardly that,” Rathe protested. “You were the child-minder. Never a nurse.”
“Would you rather I said first suitor?”
“I’d take it more kindly if you’d forget that,” Rathe said, and she grinned.
“Even more ungracious. But probably wise, if the tale I hear is true. Did you finally bring your black dog to heel?”
Rathe felt the color stain his cheeks. “Yes.”
“And that’s all I’m to hear of it?” Annechon said.
“I need your help,” Rathe said, in something like desperation, and she leaned back in her painted chair.
“And you’ll have it—if I can, of course. Have you had breakfast?”
The remains of hers was on a side table, and Rathe couldn’t help a longing glance. “I’ve eaten,” he said, and she waved toward it.
“Well, have some more, there’s plenty. Ring for more tea if it’s cold.”
The plate of pastries, barely touched, was too tempting, and Rathe took one, biting into a pocket of dried fruits flavored with Silklands spices. It dripped, of course, and he caught the blob of filling awkwardly, feeling more than ever like a child again. Annechon laughed without malice, and after a moment, he smiled back.
“What do you want of me?” she asked.
“Do you know the castellan de Raçan?” Rathe asked around a second bite of pastry, and Annechon managed a theatrical sigh.
“Never the question I want from you, Nico. Yes, I know of her—we don’t move in the same circles, mind you, or not much, but we have friends in common.”
“I thought it was interesting she took a house in Point of Hearts,” Rathe said.
Annechon nodded. “Interested in her pleasure, that one, and doesn’t care a bit for her reputation. What I know of her, I like, there’s no pretense there.”
“And her ambitions?”
“She hasn’t any that I know of,” Annechon answered, and Rathe made a face.
“Aspirations, then.”
“Purely of pleasure,” Annechon said. “Raçan’s a cold holding, so I hear, so she spends her winters rather warmer.” She paused. “Is it true it was her brother who was killed at the Tyrseia?”
“Yeah.” Rathe hesitated in turn. “Did you know him, Anne?”
“Not that one. He’s—he was just as intent on his pleasure as his sister, but not as generous. It could be she kept him short of funds, but I think it was more a habit of his own.”
Which went with what Siredy had said, Rathe thought. “Did he have political ambitions at all?”
“That one?” Annechon laughed. “Why in Oriane’s name would you ask that?”
“Because they’re somehow related to the crown,” Rathe answered, “by blood, not stars, and he was in the masque that’s designed to bring health to the state of Chenedolle. I have to ask it.”
“Then you can consider yourself answered,” Annechon said. “The de Raçans, Larivey or Visteijn both, don’t give a gargoyle’s kiss for affairs of state. Affairs of the heart only, except I believe that isn’t the organ either prefers.”
“Enemies, then?” Rathe asked, without hope, and wasn’t surprised when she shook her head.
“I doubt anyone would bother.” She paused, frowning slightly now. “Have I been any help at all?”
“In a negative way,” Rathe answered frankly. “But I pretty much expected that.”
“I hate meeting expectations,” Annechon said. “And now you’ll meet mine, and find some excuse to scurry away again.”
“I have work to do,” Rathe said, and knew the truth sounded like a lame excuse. Annechon laughed and waved him away, offering a last pastry just as she had when he was a boy, and Rathe accepted it, following her maidservant back down the unfashionable stairs past a trio of waiting gallants. It would do for lunch, he told himself, hearing the clock strike noon, and he was due at the Bells.
Sohier was there before him, as he’d expected, but the lurking runner was quick to fetch her, and they found another of the quiet alcoves in which to confer.
“You read my report?” she asked, and Rathe nodded.
“You’re sure?”
“Sure as can be.” Sohier shook her head. “There was nothing, Nico, nothing bigger than a barber’s basin, and I’d hate to try to drown a man in that. Even stunned, or drugged.” She paused. “There’s already talk.”
“No surprise,” Rathe said again. “We’ll keep it as quiet as we can, not that there’s much we can do about it. What have you found today?”
“Not much,” Sohier answered, and reached beneath her skirt for her own tablets. “Let’s see, two people have said he’d spoken of a marriage with the Heugenins—with the vidame herself, according to one young miss, trying to recoup his debts—but the vidame herself says she was trifling. She’d have bedded him, maybe settled an allowance on him if they were successful—she’s childless—but swears she had no intention of making a contract with him.”
“That’s the most promising thing we’ve heard so far,” Rathe said, and Sohier shook her head.
“Not wanting to disappoint, Nico, but I believe her. Even the people who mentioned it in the first place said it was all de Raçan boasting, nothing they really believed.”
Rathe sighed. Sohier’s judgment was generally reliable, too; if she said de Heugenin was telling the truth, odds were she was. “What’s left for the day?”
“We’re just about done with the chorus,” Sohier answered.
“Nobles taking precedence?” Rathe asked with a grin, and the younger woman shook her head.
“They’ve been easier to find. Gasquine’s been working the actors hard.” She glanced over her shoulder. “In fact, I should be getting back to them.”
Rathe nodded. “Go ahead. I’ll be along as soon as I can catch a word with Mathiee.”
“Good luck to you,” Sohier answered, and turned away.
The rehearsal was well under way, he saw, the chorus idle while two of the principals held the stage. It was the first time Rathe had heard more than a few lines of the play, the first full scene he’d heard, and in spite of himself he found himself standing silent between two of the massive set engines, caught in the story’s moment. Anjesine bes’Hallen, a Silklands scarf standing in for the old-fashioned veil she would wear later, held center stage with the ease of long practice, commanding in her silence, while Caradai Hyver raged around her, reminding her leman of promises made and broken. Hyver belonged to Gasquine’s company, bes’Hallen to Savatier’s; the chance to see them onstage together, in the two leads, would bring Astreiant flocking to the masque, and to the play. Hyver paused—she played the Bannerdame Ramani, whose stars made her a great general—but bes’Hallen remained still a heartbeat longer, long hands posed against her skirt. Then, slowly, she shook her head, rejecting not her leman but the anger she carried, swallowing her pride again for the sake of the kingdom. And that much, at least, was legend, Rathe thought. The Soueraine de Galhac had held her hand as long as she could, swallowed insult after insult, until finally the Palatine of Artins refused the marriage, her daughter to de Galhac’s son, that would have restored the fortune de Galhac had ruined in her service. On the stage, Hyver paused in her turn, then swept into a deep curtsy, skirts pooling on the stage around her. It was the obeisance one gave a queen, and from leman to leman it was disconcerting and strangely moving, and the pause before bes’Hallen moved to raise her friend was even more unsettling. But then, the play didn’t deny the ambition on both sides, the need of the palatine to be free of de Galhac, and de Galhac’s need to dominate in Artins.
The actors moved off, arm in arm, never quite leaving their characters even after they were well out of sight in the far wing, and Rathe drew a slow breath. Oh, they were good, both of them, bes’Hallen at the top of her career, Hyver only a little behind, but without Aconin’s lines to speak, those gestures would have fallen flat, meaningless. Something moved then, in the shadows to his left, andhe looked over, startled, to see Aconin watching from behind a painted pillar. The playwright’s eyes fell, as though he was embarrassed—something I never thought to see—but then he straightened and came toward the other man.
“Well, Adjunct Point, how’d you like the scene?”
The tone was mocking, as was the punctilious insistence on the proper title—but the question, Rathe realized, was genuine. Aconin had been watching not the actors, but the man watching them, and he was good enough, the play was good enough, to deserve an honest answer. “You’ll have Astreiant at your feet if there’s any justice.”
Aconin paused, but then his painted lips quirked up into a smile. “Have you seen The Drowned Island?”
In spite of himself, Rathe grinned. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Is it by way of business? Or about the play?”
“Both.”
Aconin spread his hands, a graceful, easy movement that displayed the black and gold paint and his long fingers. “I’m at your service, Adjunct Point.”
“Where’d you get the idea for the play?”
“And how does that have to do with your business?” Aconin asked. “If I’d stolen someone else’s idea, they’d beat me to death, not complain to the points.”
Rathe smiled again, recognizing the truth of the playwright’s words. One thing he’d learned since coming to Point of Dreams, the players tended to settle their own affairs as much as possible. “I was thinking more about the way you use the Alphabet, actually. I don’t remember that being part of the de Galhac tales.”
“Ah.” Aconin’s eyes slid sideways, and Rathe followed his gaze, to see the landseur Aubine frankly listening, a self-deprecating smile on his plain face. “Not in Astreiant, as far as I know, but in the west, there are tales that make her to be a descendant of the Ancient Queens, and a magist herself.”
The Ancient Queens were also known as the Southern Witches. Trust Aconin to find them appealing. Rathe nodded, not wanting to break the thread, but Aconin shrugged one shoulder, said nothing more.
“So why the Alphabet?” Rathe asked after a moment, and Aconin sighed.
“I don’t—honestly, I couldn’t say, it just seemed…suitable. I suppose because there was all the talk last spring about the verifiable copy, and it stuck in my head.” He shrugged again. “It’s an anachronism, of course, but I don’t think anyone will care.”
There was something not quite right about the playwright’s answer, Rathe thought. Maybe he wasn’t being fair, but somehow he was certain that Aconin always knew exactly why he’d made his choices. “Did you read it?” he said aloud, and could have sworn that Aconin jumped.
“What?”
“Did you read it—this verifiable copy?”
Aconin smiled, already turning away. “There’s no such thing.”
And you’re lying, Rathe thought. Either you’ve seen it or, more likely, you know it exists, but you are lying. He took a step forward, intending to pursue the matter, and Aubine cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, Chresta, but Mathiee wants to talk to you.”
Rathe swore under his breath, and Aconin spread his hands again. “I’m in demand. If you’ll excuse me, Adjunct Point—”
“Of course,” Rathe said, knowing the moment was lost, and the playwright disappeared between another set of scenery. Aubine gave him an apologetic smile, and Rathe returned it. It wasn’t the landseur’s fault that he’d been given a message—but one of these days, Chresta, you and I will finish this conversation.
“Do you believe in the Alphabet, Adjunct Point?” Aubine asked, and Rathe shook himself back to the present.
“I find it hard to believe there could be so many false editions of something that never existed.”
Aubine’s smile seemed genuine enough. “I’d never thought of it that way.” He turned away, losing himself in the stack of hampers and cases that filled the backstage. Waiting to be carted to the Tyrseia, Rathe guessed, and realized he’d lost track of Gasquine.
The actors were rearranging themselves for the next scene under the watchful eye of one of Gasquine’s assistants, and Rathe winced, hearing a once-familiar voice. He had managed to forget, or at least ignore, the fact that Guis Forveijl had been chosen for the masque, but there he was, tall and still good to look at, with hair of just the right shade of gold to be popular at any season. He seemed to be playing some sort of messenger—to be setting up one of the drills or dances, Rathe realized, and even as he thought it, he saw Eslingen coming down one of the backstage stairways. He looked as fine as any of the nobles, a new red coat warm in the mage-light, and he inclined his head gracefully to listen to something one of the landseurs was saying to him. Lieutenant vaan Esling is settling in all too well. Rathe thought, and was ashamed of his jealousy. He had been jealous of Forveijl, too, jealous of the friendships and the parts that had seduced him away more than once before the final, showy role that Aconin had given him. They had been together for three years then, almost lemanry, though Rathe thanked Sofia he hadn’t committed at least that folly; to see it all vanish for the sake of a play, no matter how good, was almost enough to sour him on the theatre. Maybe Philip’s finding a place here wasn’t such good fortune after all, he thought, and winced as Gasquine strode onto the stage, waving her hands to stop the action. Forveijl listened, head drooping, as she corrected something in the performance, and Rathe was grateful she kept her voice down.
“Nico,” Eslingen said, and Rathe turned to greet him, forcing a smile. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“There’s still plenty to be done,” Rathe answered, and Eslingen sighed.
“I know that, I meant, when you weren’t here this morning. I looked for you, you know.”
Rathe felt his smile become more genuine. “I had business with the family. And how has your morning been?”
Eslingen rolled his eyes. “Like nothing in this world—” He broke off as a smiling woman touched his shoulder, murmuring something in his ear as she passed, and Rathe suppressed another stab of jealousy. Eslingen smiled back, but the expression faded as he turned back to face the other man. “As you see. And there’s a deal of gossip about the death, as you can well imagine. Some people are saying they’ll have to call in the necromancers to clear the stagehouse.”
“I doubt that,” Rathe said. “Besides, a necromancer’s already seen the body.”
“b’Estorr, of course,” Eslingen said, and a new voice spoke from behind them both.
“Of course. You must know about Nico’s white dog, Lieutenant.”
Forveijl, Rathe realized, and damned himself for not realizing the scene had ended. Eslingen gave him his most blandly cheerful smile.
“Keeps pocket terriers, does he?”
Forveijl blinked at the non sequitur, and Rathe took a breath, turning to face him. “Guis.”
“Nicolas. We’re keeping you busy these days.”
“Among other things,” Rathe answered. Forveijl opened his mouth to say something more, but someone—Gasquine’s assistant, by the sound of it—called his name. Forveijl smiled, sweeping a too-deep bow, and moved away in answer. Eslingen lifted an eyebrow. “That one…?”
Rathe, to his own surprise, laughed softly. “Bad judgment, coming back to haunt me.”
Eslingen shrugged. “Your life never started with me. But whatever did you see in him?”
“I’m not sure anymore,” Rathe answered.
Eslingen’s eyebrow rose even higher. “I hope he was at least—amusing?”
“Oh, yeah, that, certainly.”
“I’d like to think you got something out of it,” Eslingen said.
“It seemed enough at the time,” Rathe answered. The stage was crowded now, chorus and actors and even a few scenerymen milling about in the open space, and he shook his head, thinking of the Tyrseia. “The whole thing’s backwards,” he said, and realized he’d spoken aloud only when Eslingen cocked his head at him.
“From the usual run of murdered landseurs?”
“From any other murder I’ve handled,” Rathe said. He paused, but there was no one in earshot. “I’m talking about the pure mechanics of the thing. Usually, it’s pretty straightforward how someone was killed, that’s not the problem. The problem is who, and you look hard and deep, and one reason usually stands out, and that’s the why that gives you the who. But you start from how.” He shook his head. “I have a bad feeling that with this one, if I can just figure out how de Raçan was killed, I might have a chance at figuring out who.”
Eslingen whistled softly, but anything more he would have said was cut off by a call from the stage itself. “That’s us,” he said, and quirked a smile. “I wouldn’t stay.”
“Not a pretty sight?” Rathe asked with a grin, and Eslingen rolled his eyes.
“If they were my company, I’d have the lot of them digging ditches.”
He was gone then, and Rathe turned away. He’d find Sohier, he decided, and see if they could finish the interviews before the day’s rehearsal ended.
The rehearsal was going about as well as could be expected, considering that neither he nor the chorus really understood yet what was expected of them. Eslingen rested the butt of his half-pike against his shoe, grateful for the break while Gasquine argued with Hyver about some trick of gesture. At least it was real, the proper weight and heft, brought out of the weapons pawned and abandoned at the Aretoneia, unlike everything else onstage. He let his eyes skim past the arguing actors—not quarreling, they never quarreled, but discussed or at worst argued—looking for Rathe, but the pointsman was nowhere in sight, had already left, taking Eslingen’s advice. He turned his attention back to the stage, trying to imagine his work seen from the pit. The chorus had broken out of their tidy lines, the banners drooping as they relaxed to murmured conversation, and Eslingen sighed, the moment’s vision lost. This was one of the smaller set pieces, an entrance for the Bannerdame Ramani, but already they’d spent half the afternoon on it.
