Point of Dreams, page 41
“He promised me the copy,” Aconin said again. “But then when the play was written and accepted, he told me I’d have to wait until the run was over, that he didn’t trust me not to take it to the broadsheets. So I took it.”
“But he still had enough information to make all this,” Eslingen objected, waving his hand toward the arrangements, and Aconin’s eyes fell.
“He had two copies.”
“And he’s had plenty of time to practice,” Rathe said. “So why hasn’t he killed you, Aconin? He’s killed everyone else who got in his way.”
“I think I’m left to take the blame for the last murder,” Aconin said. “Or maybe all of them.” He shook his head. “I crossed him, betrayed him, by his own lights, and he doesn’t take kindly to that.”
“How long have you known about this?” Rathe asked through clenched teeth, and Aconin looked away, refusing to meet his eyes.
“Not long enough to stop it, I swear to you. Not so that you could do anything about it.”
Liar. Rathe said, “I should call a point on you, for abetting these murders.”
Aconin looked up. “And if I had said anything, I’d be dead myself a week since.”
Rathe stared at him for a long moment, mastering his anger with an effort. There was some truth to what the playwright said—but not enough, not when so many people had died. “We’ll leave that for later,” he said at last. “For now—tell me this, and tell me the truth, for once. Does Aubine mean to kill the queen?”
Aconin nodded slowly. “Yes.” As though a dam had broken, the words tumbled out. “It’s the arrangements, of course, you figured that much out, but it’s also the play, little alterations his friends will make in the lines, nothing that wouldn’t pass for a stumble, a simple mistake, but, oh, gods, deadly, deadly in the right stars and with these plants to focus the power. You must believe me, I didn’t know, I had no idea what he would do—”
“His friends?” Rathe interrupted, and Aconin drew a shuddering breath, got himself under control with an effort that wracked his slender frame.
“Yes. It’s not just him, though the arrangements, the idea, it’s all his. He’s found others who’ve lost their loves, maybe not the same way he has, but for the same reasons, the differences of station driving them apart, and he’s promised them their chance at revenge, if only they’ll help him take his. A conspiracy of lovers, all of them hurt, hurt badly—that’s why de Raçan died, you know, for treating Siredy so badly.”
“Siredy’s not part of this, surely,” Eslingen said.
Aconin shook his head. “Call it a—generous impulse.”
“More likely he wanted to be sure the flowers would work,” Rathe said. “Can you name the conspirators, Aconin?”
“Some of them.” Aconin took a breath, and slid off the table, wobbling for a moment before Eslingen caught his arm. “There’s an intendant, Hesloi d’Ibre, I know for sure, her mother made her abandon her son by a common man, so she could have a granddaughter better born, and the Regent Bautry, she loved a woman too far above herself. And Gisle Dilandy, she’s the one who’ll speak the lines.”
Eslingen swore again, but Rathe nodded. He recognized those names, had always thought d’Ibre and Bautry to be honest women, had admired Dilandy’s acting. “Who else?” he demanded, and Aconin shook his head again.
“Those are the only ones I know for sure. But there’s a list, in the house. Aubine made it, made them sign it, to keep them loyal.”
Rathe sighed, grateful for the small favor. “Right, then,” he said. “First we cut as much hedgebroom as the three of us can carry—yes, you, too, Aconin, you’re coming with us—and then we find that list.”
“And then?” Eslingen asked.
Rathe took a breath. “And then we go back to the theatre. Thank Astree and the metropolitan that Coindarel is guarding the Tyrseia tonight.”
It took them the better part of three hours to harvest the hedgebroom and to fashion small protective posies for each of them, Rathe listening with growing impatience to the distant chime of the clock. They found covered baskets to carry their harvest, and then Rathe turned his attention to the door leading into the house.
“I’m worried about Aubine,” he said, reaching for his picks again. “Where the hell is he, anyway?”
“Probably with the others,” Aconin said, and Rathe straightened, glaring.
“What haven’t you told us?”
Aconin passed his free hand over his eyes. “I’m sorry, Rathe, I—keep forgetting what I’ve said. I think, I’m almost certain, the conspirators were dining together tonight. To be sure no one betrays the others at the last moment.”
Eslingen laughed softly. “Then they’d better spend the night together.”
“I have no idea,” Aconin answered. He was pale even in the light from the winter-sun, rising now above the roofs of the houses beyond the wall, and Rathe sighed.
“Let’s hope he’s right,” he said, and applied himself to the lock.
It didn’t take long to find the list. The house was dark and silent, the air thick with the smell of the flowers and the power they harnessed, and they moved through it as though through an invisible fog. It felt a bit like the ghost-tide, Rathe thought as they moved past another sleeping footman, except reversed, as though they were the ghosts moving secretly through the world of the living. Aubine’s study was impressively tidy, and the lockbox stood on a side cabinet, its presence and function equally blatant. It took Rathe two tries to work the lock, but at last it gave way, and he rifled quickly through the papers. As Aconin had said, the bond was there, a pledge signed by half a dozen women and men to support Aubine in his plan, and Rathe folded it carefully, tucking it into his pocket. Aubine had been wise enough not to specify just what the plan was, but coupled with everything else, and with Aconin’s evidence, it should be—barely—enough to call a point. Or at least I hope it is, he thought, and shepherded the others out of the house, locking the doors again behind them. It might not do much good, particularly if Aubine decided to check either his succession houses or the papers, but it might delay him for a few hours more.
There were no low-flyers to be found, of course, and it took another hour to walk from the Western Reach to the Tyrseia, shoes squeaking in the snow. It was almost over the tops of their shoes already, and Rathe knew the street sweepers would be cursing in their beds, thinking of the work ahead of them the next morning. Coindarel’s encampment, however, looked almost indecently comfortable. The bonfire still blazed in the center of the square, soldiers off watch huddling around it, hands wrapped around tankards that had probably come from the tavern opposite. Or maybe not, Rathe amended, seeing the sergeants on watch for stragglers. Coindarel seemed to be taking this seriously after all.
They were challenged as soon as they entered the square, but a quick word from Eslingen squelched the soldier’s automatic refusal, and they were brought at once to the tent Coindarel had had set up for his own headquarters. It was warm and lamplit, the snow no more than a memory, and Rathe set his basket down gratefully.
Coindarel himself was seated at a folding table beside the firebasket, and waved them closer to the glowing embers. “So, Adjunct Point. And Lieutenant vaan Esling, of course. Have you had success tonight? Your chief sent word, your magists are delayed.”
“Wonderful,” Eslingen said, not quite under his breath.
“Success of a sort,” Rathe answered. He would have preferred a magist’s help, but there was no time to wait for them. “First, this is Chresta Aconin—”
“The broadsheet writer,” Coindarel said, his eyebrows rising. “And this year’s playwright.”
Rathe nodded. “And a person we’ve been looking for these last four days. I would take it very kindly indeed, Prince-marshal, if you’d keep him in custody—for his own safety,” he added quickly, seeing Aconin ready to protest, “and as a witness.”
“You don’t have a choice, Chresta,” Eslingen said, and the playwright subsided, shaking his head.
“I can keep him safe,” Coindarel answered, and smiled thinly. “He’ll lodge with me tonight, will that satisfy you?”
“Thank you, Prince-marshal.” Rathe took a deep breath. This was the hard part, the biggest risk he’d ever taken to his career—but there was no other choice, he told himself firmly. They couldn’t take the chance that Aubine or one of his people might take mundane means to finish their revenge. “And there’s another thing I need from you.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the list. Coindarel took it from him, smoothing it out onto the tabletop, his frown deepening as he read.
“These are the people who have conspired with the landseur Aubine to kill Her Majesty,” Rathe said. “They must be kept from entering the theatre tomorrow morning, stopped and held for the points.”
“Do you really think you can call a point on one of the regents?” Coindarel asked, his voice almost amused. “Or on Aubine, for that matter?”
“The proof is there,” Rathe answered, with more confidence than he entirely felt. “And the queen’s life is at stake.”
“Treason is not a matter for the points,” Coindarel said, sounding shocked.
“Then whose is it?” Rathe demanded. “Prince-marshal, I am serious about this. Someone has to act. These people have to be stopped.”
The prince-marshal hesitated, the light from the firebasket reflecting up on his thin, hard-boned face. “And I can hardly see you sending a horde of pointsmen to do it.”
“Don’t I wish I could,” Rathe said fervently, and Coindarel’s grim face relaxed into a smile.
“Leveller to the core.” He looked down at the list. “Very well. No one on this list will enter the theatre, tomorrow or tonight. And I’ll keep your stray playwright safe as well—I’m sure he can answer any questions that might arise. Will that suffice, Adjunct Point?”
Rathe nodded. “And if you could order your men to stay out of the theatre, for their own sake—”
“I wouldn’t order them in there on a bet,” Coindarel answered. “You can have it all to yourself.”
“Thank you,” Rathe said with real gratitude. That left only the arrangements, and he looked at Eslingen. “Shall we?”
In the shifting light, it was hard to tell, but he thought Eslingen swallowed hard. “Let’s get on with it.”
If anything, it was even quieter in the theatre the second time they entered, and colder, the wind finding its way through the tiniest gaps in the canvas roof. There were tiny drifts of snow on the edge of the gallery, where a window fit imperfectly, and Eslingen paused, scanning the pit and the galleries above it.
“You don’t suppose it’s too cold for the plants,” he said, and Rathe shook his head.
“I wish it were. But Aubine will have taken precautions.”
“Damn the man,” Eslingen said, and hefted the baskets. “I liked him, Nico.”
“So did I,” Rathe said. “It—happens, Philip.”
“The man had cause.”
“But not for murder,” Rathe answered. “Not for all these murders.”
Eslingen nodded slowly. “No, I know, you’re right.” He touched the flowers at his buttonhole. “Let’s hope these work as well here as they did at the house.”
They made their way back onto the stage, past the arrangements still studded with the dried stalks of hedgebroom. At least the fresh plant seemed to be more potent, Rathe thought, and knew he should be grateful for that small favor. The air on the stage itself was heavy, more like midsummer than midwinter—and warmer, too, he realized, and guessed Aubine was making sure that his flowers would survive the night. But it was more than mere warmth, too; there was a sense of expectation, the heaviness of a summer storm, the lightning dormant in the thickening clouds. He shook the image away, impatient, but saw the same wariness in Eslingen’s eyes.
“He’s ready for us,” the soldier said, and Rathe shook his head, refusing to give in to the ridiculous sense of foreboding.
“Or he’s just ready for the play. Come on, it’s going to take us at least an hour to spike all of the vases.”
Eslingen nodded, forcing his voice to keep its normal tone. “Where do we start?”
Rathe looked around. There were too many flowers, he thought, too many little arrangements, as well as the big ones that dominated the forestage; he’d underestimated things, it would take most of the night to be sure they had them all. Maybe he should have waited for the magists after all. “Let’s start with the big ones,” he said, shoving away the thought, and hefted the heavy basket. I just hope there’s enough hedgebroom to go around.
He could feel the power in the arrangement as he came closer, and stopped just out of arm’s reach, skin tingling. It was like Forveijl’s arrangement, like the arrangements that had held Aconin captive, but heavier, stronger, the power leashed in it, heavy as an impending storm. It would take more than one stalk of hedgebroom to neutralize this, he knew instinctively, and bent to open his basket, looking for the largest, best-grown stalks.
“No!”
Rathe turned, cursing, to see Aubine emerging from between the last two versatiles, a pistol leveled in his hand.
“Step away from it, Adjunct Point,” Aubine said, almost sadly. “I won’t permit any interference now.”
“Or ever,” Rathe answered. He kept himself from looking at the other arrangement, saw Eslingen easing back out of Aubine’s line of sight, to vanish behind the first versatile. “How many men have you killed for this?”
Aubine flinched. “Too many. But I’ve suffered enough, and too long, with no redress. Stand away from the flowers.”
Rathe did as he was told, lifting his hands to show them empty. He thought he saw something move in the shadows between the versatiles, hoped it was Eslingen and not some trick of the magelight. “Maseigneur. What good does this do your leman?”
Aubine winced again, but shook his head. “It’s too late to stop this. I’ve gone so far, I cannot—I will not—end it now. Not without vengeance.”
“Vengeance isn’t justice,” Rathe protested, and Aubine managed something like a bitter smile.
“Justice was denied me twenty years ago and more. I’ll settle for this.”
“No—”
As Rathe spoke, Eslingen lunged from the wings, reaching for the landseur’s pistol. Aubine staggered sideways, the pistol discharging. Rathe ducked, and Eslingen flung himself forward, falling against Aubine in a clumsy attempt to bring him down. Not shot, Rathe thought, Dis Aidones, not shot, and then he saw Eslingen shake his head hard, black flecks scattering his cheek and the white linen of his stock. The pistol had discharged practically in his ear, Rathe realized, left him half stunned, and even as he moved to help, Aubine had thrown the pistol aside and seized Eslingen by the throat, a knife appearing in his other hand as if by magic. Rathe froze, too frightened even to curse, saw Eslingen struggle to get his feet under him, and stop dead as he realized what had happened.
“He’s your leman, isn’t he?” Aubine asked.
Rathe took a careful breath. “That’s not—”
Aubine lifted the knife. “Isn’t he? And it’s very much to the matter, Adjunct Point.”
“You know he is,” Rathe answered, and Aubine’s hand relaxed a fraction.
“You’ve made the same mistake I did,” Aubine said sadly. “A terrible, glorious mistake, and it cannot last. His family will kill you when they find out, and there will be no justice.”
Rathe blinked. Aubine believed in Lieutenant vaan Esling, believed that he was from an old and noble Leaguer family—oh, Dis, Philip, Duca’s plan’s worked too well this time. “So you’ll kill me first?” he asked.
“Your death is inevitable,” Aubine answered, still with the note of sorrow in his voice. “It was inevitable from the moment you swore lemanry with someone above your station.”
“Maseigneur.” Eslingen’s voice was strained, high and loud like a deaf man’s. “Maseigneur, you’re making a mistake. I’m no noble. I’m a motherless bastard from Esling, Gerrat Duca renamed me for the masque and the benefit of the Masters.”
Aubine shook his head. “Very noble, Lieutenant. I’m afraid I don’t believe you.” Even at a distance, Rathe could see his arm tighten on Eslingen’s throat, saw the ex-soldier wince, bracing himself against the new strain. “But tell me, Lieutenant—would you die for him? A common pointsman?”
“I’d rather live for him,” Eslingen said.
“I’ll fight you for him,” Rathe said, in the same instant, and Aubine shook his head again.
“No. Come here, Adjunct Point, away from the flowers.”
“No.” Rathe took a quick step sideways, putting himself in front of the arrangement of flowers. “Let him go, Aubine.”
“Come here,” Aubine said, his teeth clenched, “or I will kill him where he stands. And his blood will be on your hands, pointsman.”
“Touch him, and I’ll destroy this arrangement,” Rathe said. “I can have it over, broken, before you can stop me.”
“No!” Aubine’s eyes widened, but he steadied himself instantly. “No, I don’t think so. That would mean your death, pointsman, as well you know. You’ve seen what happens when the plants are disturbed before their time.”
Rathe swallowed. Oh, he knew, all right, could still feel the residual soreness in his ribs and arms—and this arrangement was easily twice as large as the one Forveijl had made. It was easy to believe that Aubine was telling the truth, that this could kill.
“If you kill him,” he said steadily, “I’ll have no reason to live.” He took another step backward, hand outstretched to the plants. He could feel their presence, could almost hear the angry humming, like bees disturbed in their hive. “I will do it if I must, Aubine. Let him go.”
“I will kill him,” Aubine said again, and from somewhere Rathe dredged up a laugh.
“And then we’ll all die.” He reached for the nearest flower, his fingers pierced by a thousand needles, and in the same instant Aubine shoved Eslingen away, drawing his sword. Eslingen stumbled to his knees, still half dazed by the pistol shot, and Rathe reached for his own knife. It was too short, too light; he caught the first blow on the hilt, but Aubine slid away as he tried to come to grips. He couldn’t match the landseur at swordplay—hadn’t the weapon for it, if nothing else, had to bring him to close quarters, where a street fighter’s skill could help him—and he danced away from the landseur’s thrusts, trying to force the man to close. Aubine was good, he realized, very good indeed, was forcing him upstage, away from the flowers. Aubine lunged again, drawing a thread of blood from the peak of his shoulder, and Rathe swore, backpedaling furiously. It wasn’t much of a wound, just a scratch, but it hurt, could slow him down—
