Point of Dreams, page 26
“I pulled it out,” Aconin said. Beneath the remnants of his paint, he looked very pale. “They’d overfilled it, the damper shut down, so it was just smoldering.”
“Lucky,” Mirremay murmured. She had come a little farther into the room, careful not to step on spilled paint or torn clothing, stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the damage with a disapproving air. She wore her skirts short, well above her ankle, and her stockings were expensively clocked.
Rathe nodded, turning the papers over. Aconin used the crabbed university script, all abbreviations, harder to follow even than Mirremay’s scrawl, but from the crossed-out lines and words, and the notes scribbled in the margins, these had to be rough drafts of Aconin’s work. “This was personal,” he said, and set the papers carefully back where he’d found them.
“I’d’ve said business,” Mirremay said.
Rathe glanced at her as he pushed himself to his feet, brushing the ash off his fingers, and the head point met the look guilelessly.
“Burning these papers, Aconin’s work, surely that’s a personal thing.”
“I told you,” Aconin said wearily. “None of my enemies would do something like this.”
“I thought better of your enemies,” Rathe said, and to his surprise, Aconin managed a short laugh.
“So did I.”
Rathe took a deep breath, willing himself to remember that this was a point, that he had a job to do no matter how he felt about Aconin. “Aconin. Less than a week ago, someone took a shot at you—did you think Philip wouldn’t tell me, when he was there? And now this. Who have you offended this time?”
“I wish I knew.” Aconin spread his painted hands, a gesture that should have dripped sincerity. “As far as I know, this was theft, at least an attempt at it. I won’t know that until you let me see what’s missing.”
“Not that much,” Mirremay said. She reached out with one pointed shoe, lifted the tom collar of a lavender coat. An enameled medallion tumbled free, not expensive, but certainly salable; she kicked the coat a little harder, exposing a scattering of gilt embroidery at the skirt. “Now, I grant you, that wasn’t worth much, and it might have taken too much time to cut that gold thread free, but those buttons would fetch a few demmings, and that’s just one stroke of the knife. And there’s not a thief in this city who’d smash a pretty clock like that one, not with the fences paying two or three pillars for a piece like that.”
She nodded to her right, where the attacker—Rathe was more than ever inclined to agree that this was no thief—had swept a single shelf clear of all its ornaments. Dishes lay broken beneath it, spoons and a dinner knife scattered, but someone had taken the time to stamp on the carriage-clock that had stood with them. Its case lay broken, the mechanism crushed, and in spite of himself, Rathe winced at the sight.
“Damn it, Aconin, this is personal. Whoever did this, whoever had it done, that’s someone who wants you harmed, or worse.”
“I can’t think who,” Aconin said flatly. He had moved into the room, was staring now at the untouched vase of flowers, and out of the corner of his eye, Rathe saw Mirremay nod thoughtfully.
“Or it’s a warning, maybe. There’s the altar, too.”
Rathe turned to look where she’d pointed. Aconin had kept his altar in a scholar’s cabinet, with a double-doored shrine at the top and a drawer for supplies above a set of shelves. Books had been emptied from the shelves, leaves torn out and crumpled; one lay forlorn, facedown, the binding snapped and scarred as though someone had stamped on it. The drawer had been pulled out and tossed aside, its contents scattered, and each of the little figures had been roughly beheaded. The candle that served as Hearth had been cut into two pieces—one more bit of proof, Rathe thought, if we’d needed it, that this wasn’t an ordinary thieving—and the incense burner had been flattened. Cheap metal, Rathe thought, irrelevantly, not like the clock, and stepped closer to examine the shrine itself. There was no sign of blood, on the altar or on the floor around it, and he looked back at Mirremay.
“I think we should have a necromancer in, just in case.” The surest way to curse a person was to kill something in their household space or, worse still, on the altar itself, and at this level of destruction, he wanted to be sure that more ethereal means weren’t being employed against the playwright.
“Oh, for Sofia’s sake,” Aconin said. He pulled a flower from the vase, tossed it accurately through the broken window. “To what end?”
Mirremay nodded as though the playwright hadn’t spoken. “Sentalen. Send a runner to the university.”
“There’s no blood,” Aconin said. “Nothing’s been killed.”
“You’re very sure of that,” Rathe said.
Aconin paused, another flower dangling broken-stemmed between his fingers. It was out of season, Rathe saw, forced to bloom in some expensive glasshouse: the posy was no ordinary gift, and he wondered briefly if that was why it had been spared.
“There’s no blood,” Aconin said again, and dropped this flower after the other.
“Dead doesn’t need blood,” Mirremay said.
“Chief Point—” Aconin began, and the woman shook her head.
“Whatever troubles you’ve brought on yourself, Aconin, I’m not having this loose in my district. Send for a necromancer, Sentalen.”
“Ask for Istre b’Estorr,” Rathe interjected, and looked at Mirremay. “He’s one of the best.”
“Which we want,” Mirremay agreed, and nodded to the pointsman still hovering in the doorway. He backed away, and Rathe looked down at the broken figures that had stood on Aconin’s altar. One had been hooded Sofia, no surprise there, and another the Starsmith, but the other two were less obvious, the Winter-Son, god of wine, ecstasy, and suffering, and Jaan, the northern god of doorways and borders. Not that odd a choice, when you consider he comes from Esling, but still. He frowned then, a memory teasing him. Something Eslingen had said, some story about his days with Coindarel—about partisan raids along the borders, breaking into the leaders’ houses to smash the altars. It had meant something very specific, a deliberate message, but he couldn’t remember what. He shook his head then, seeing Aconin drop a third flower, and then a fourth, through the broken glass. He would ask Eslingen, of course, but he doubted it meant anything. It wasn’t likely that Astreianter bravos would know a Leaguer code.
“Chief Point,” Aconin said again. “I need to start cleaning….”
His voice trailed off, contemplating the chaos, and Mirremay’s voice was almost gentle. “When the necromancer’s done his work. It won’t get any worse, my boy.”
Aconin managed the ghost of a smile, but pitched the last of the flowers through the window with extra force. The clock struck then, the neighborhood clock perched in the station’s gable, and the playwright looked up, startled. “Tyrseis, I’m late—Mathiee wanted me today. Chief Point, do you need me anymore?”
Mirremay shook her head, looking almost indulgent, and the playwright wiped damp fingers on the skirt of his coat. He backed toward the door, and Rathe heard his footsteps recede down the stairs. He waited until he couldn’t hear them anymore, and smiled at Mirremay.
“Now why do I not believe that?”
“He’s done better on the stage,” Mirremay agreed.
The clock struck twice more before Sentalen’s runner reappeared, announcing that the magist was on his way, and the half hour was past before b’Estorr himself mounted the narrow stairs. He paused in the doorway, frowning at the destruction, and Rathe put aside the stack of half-burned papers. He had been sure that there would be some clue, some explanation, if not in the drafts of The Alphabet then in some broadsheet, but so far he’d seen nothing that should provoke this level of hostility. Mirremay rose gracefully to her feet, another expensive chain dangling in her hand—the fourth piece of decent jewelry she’d found untouched in the wreckage—amber eyes taking in the Starsmith’s badge pinned to b’Estorr’s sleeve.
“So this is your magist, Rathe?”
b’Estorr’s mouth twitched at that, and Rathe nodded. “Istre b’Estorr, necromancer and scholar—Head Point Mirremay, of Point of Knives.”
Mirremay looked briefly annoyed by the demotion, but b’Estorr’s bow was flawless, unobjectionable, and she pulled herself up. “Then I certify your arrival, and acknowledge his presence, but I can leave the rest of it to you, Rathe. I’ll want a proper report, of course.”
“Of course,” Rathe said.
“And I’ll send a runner with lanterns.” Mirremay glanced toward the windows. “It’ll be dark soon, with the clouds this low.”
And no one, particularly not a stranger, wanted to be caught even on the edges of the Court after dark with no lights. “Thanks,” Rathe said, and b’Estorr echoed him.
“It’s shaping to be an unpleasant night.”
Rathe glanced at the window, seeing the clouds dropping low over the housetops, moving faster as the rising wind caught them. He could smell a cold rain in the air that swirled through the broken glass, shivered in spite of himself at the thought. As chill as the nights had been lately, rain would turn to sleet before the second sunrise, and the winter-sun’s light would do little to melt the ice.
“And I intend to be home and snug before then,” Mirremay said. “I meant it about the report, Rathe.”
“You’ll have it,” Rathe said, and the head point nodded. She pushed the broken door closed again behind her, not bothering to force it closed, and b’Estorr shook his head, surveying the devastation. “This was not kindly meant.”
“No.” Rathe grinned in spite of himself at the understatement.
“Who does Aconin blame for it?” b’Estorr took a few steps farther into the room, picking his way cautiously through the debris, stopped with a frown as he saw the broken clock.
“No one,” Rathe said. “None of his enemies would do this, he says.”
b’Estorr nodded thoughtfully. “There’s truth in that.”
“Yeah. I thought so.” Rathe paused. “He also says he has no idea why it happened.”
“There’s the lie.” b’Estorr stooped to finger a torn piece of cloth, a shirtsleeve or perhaps the remains of a handkerchief. “You can practically smell the fear, but it’s not fear of the unknown, but of something he knows all too well.”
“I heard it when he was telling me,” Rathe said. “I didn’t know if he was actually lying, or just not telling me everything.”
b’Estorr smiled without humor. “With Aconin—it’s safer to assume he’s lying.” He stood again, surveying the room, his pale hair almost luminous in the gathering dusk. He was silent for a long moment, and in the distance Rathe heard a clock chime the quarter hour.
“This was business,” b’Estorr said at last, softly. “Hirelings’ work—at least two of them, maybe more. But a personal cause at the heart of it.”
“They burned his work,” Rathe said. “Drafts of at least The Alphabet—”
b’Estorr gave him a startled glance, and this time it was Rathe who laughed.
“The play, I mean, not the book. Though, come to think of it, I should see if he has a copy anywhere, he must have had something to base his play on.”
“Worth a look,” b’Estorr agreed.
But not until we have light. Rathe shook the thought away, glanced around the room again. “But burning the papers—your average bravo wouldn’t think of that. Not here in the Court.”
“They could have been instructed,” b’Estorr answered. “Were instructed, I would imagine, because I think your point’s well taken. But I’m sure there were hirelings here, and a single, personal hate at the back of it.” He paused, and a sudden smile flickered across his face. “That was what you wanted from me, yes?”
Rathe smiled back. “Part of it.” He heard footsteps on the stairs again, and reached for his truncheon in spite of himself. The door swung open at the runner’s touch, and the boy came awkwardly into the room, balancing a lit storm lantern and a trio of candle lamps.
“Excuse me, Adjunct Point, but the chief says, here’s a light, and I borrowed the rest from the lady downstairs. She says will you be sure to put them out before you go.”
“Of course,” Rathe answered, seeing b’Estorr’s amusement out of the corner of his eye, and took the heavy lantern, setting it on the table beside the empty vase. The runner nodded, already backing away.
“If there’s anything else?”
Rathe shook his head, and the boy was gone again, clattering back down the stairs. Rathe sighed, and moved to close the door behind him.
“Well, at least there’s light,” b’Estorr said, and carefully lifted two of the three shutters, turning the lantern so that the wind couldn’t blow out the flame. He lit the candles as well, set one on the shelf and the other, with only the slightest hesitation, on the defiled altar. Even with the blown-glass shields, the rising wind stirred the flames, making the shadows swell and vanish, and Rathe shivered again, wishing he were back at Point of Dreams. “So what was the other thing you wanted?”
“I want to be sure nothing was killed here,” Rathe answered.
b’Estorr nodded, unsurprised. “I don’t think so, but it’s as well to be certain.” He looked at the broken figures on the altar, reached for the nearest, gazing abstractedly at the beheaded Winter-Son.
“What?” Rathe asked.
“This one just seems an odd choice. He’s a playwright, so why not Tyrseis? He’d be more appropriate.”
“Well….” Rathe joined him, peered over his shoulder at the little statue. Like the others, it was decently made, not expensive, but chosen for its style. “He didn’t want you here—didn’t want us to call a necromancer, I mean, not you personally, but I don’t know if that means anything. Of course, I don’t know a single actor who doesn’t include Tyrseis on their altars, but maybe it’s not the same for playwrights.” He shrugged. “I suppose there’d be something to surprise me on everyone’s altar—including yours.”
“You’ve seen mine,” b’Estorr said absently. He laid the statue carefully beside the lantern. “Propitiating, maybe?”
“Maybe.”
b’Estorr nodded, his mind clearly elsewhere, and Rathe retreated again, leaning against the table. In the hectic light, b’Estorr’s hair glowed like silver gilt, and the badge of the Starsmith was dark on his cuff. He stooped to collect the rest of the headless figures, laying them carefully beside the Winter-Son, then reached into his pocket to produce a lump of chalk. Carefully, he drew a circle on the altar’s flat surface, then sketched symbols around and within it, frowning lightly now in concentration. Suddenly the air in the room was perceptibly warmer, and Rathe was briefly, keenly aware of b’Estorr’s ghosts, could almost—could see them, as he never had before. It had to be the ghost-tide, of course, even now that it was waning, the moon would pass out of the Maiden in the next day or so, but he’d never seen b’Estorr perform a ritual under these stars. There were three ghosts, he’d known that from the beginning: the old Fre whom b’Estorr had served in Chadron before the king had met the fate of so many Chadroni rulers, the other two figures from an older time, a king and his favorite whose deaths had been lost, forgotten until the only necromancer to be favored by a Chadroni king had touched their ghosts and uncovered the truth of their death, part of the violent cycle of succession in the putatively elective kingdom. But there were more ghosts, too, Rathe realized, not as clear, but still there, too many of them, drawn by the circle, by the ritual, like summer moths to a candle flame. The Court was full of ghosts, decades of them—centuries of them, perhaps, the Court was almost as old as Astreiant itself; of course they would come when a necromancer called, particularly at this time of year. He shook himself, made himself pick up the crumpled papers, deliberately turning his back on the other man as he began to sort through the half-burned sheets, looking for any hint of Aconin’s copy of the Alphabet. There were plenty of sheets that belonged to the play, but nothing more, except for a sheet that seemed to be notes of flower combinations. That I’ll keep, he thought, and glanced up just as b’Estorr swept his hand across the chalked circle, obliterating it. The room was suddenly chill again, and empty, the ghosts swept away with the same gesture, and Rathe shook himself back to normal.
“Was there anything?”
b’Estorr shook his head, his face bleached and tired in the uncertain lamplight. “Nothing—well, not nothing, you felt them, this is a populous neighborhood for the dead, but nothing recent, and nothing that belongs to Aconin.” He stopped then, tilting his head to one side. “That may not be strictly true, I could have sworn I felt almost—a ghost of a ghost, but there was no blood behind it.” He shook his head, dismissing the thought. “Someone, probably, close to him, who simply wouldn’t accept death. It happens.”
Rathe nodded. “But nothing killed?”
“Nothing,” b’Estorr said again. He paused, absently straightening the figures on the altar. “What made you think there might be?”
