Текст книги "Point of Dreams"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Lisa Barnett
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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Duca swore under his breath, and spun to examine the racks himself. “Nothing missing,” he said after a moment, and de Vicheau nodded in agreement.

“But they’re players’ weapons,” Siredy said. “Dulled and bated. Why would anyone bother with them?”

No one answered, and Eslingen looked past them into the darkness of the stagehouse. Something else was different, too, he thought, something teasing at the edge of memory–something not quite the way it had been the last time he’d seen it. The machinery loomed overhead, the versatiles locked in their first position, the ropes that held the traps and hanging scenery all taut and perfect–except one. One of the lilies was out of place, missing altogether, and he reached out to grab Siredy’s shoulder.

“The machines,” he said, and the other master’s eyes went wide.

“Tyrseis, not that.”

“Get the trap,” Duca ordered, and de Vicheau bent to lift the narrow door. It was dark below, but a mage‑fire lantern hung ready, and de Vicheau lit it with the touch of his hand, his face very pale.

“There are more below,” he said, but made no move to descend the narrow ladder.

“We’ll all go,” Duca said grimly, and swung himself down into the pit.

Eslingen followed more cautiously, found another of the mage‑lights hanging ready on the nearest pillar, and fumbled with the smoothly polished ring until it sprang to light. Siredy did the same, and the doubled sphere of light spread to fill the low‑ceilinged space. It looked much the same as it had before, Eslingen thought, or at least as it had the one time he’d been shown the machines. The windlass stood immobile, and beyond it, the massive gears that lifted the bannerdame’s towers were dark with new oil. Except there was something bright caught between the lower teeth, the merest rag of white, and Eslingen took a careful breath, fighting nausea; The rest of it was red‑tinged brown, the thick rusty shade of drying blood, and the white thing was the watchman’s stockinged leg.

“Master Duca,” he said, dry‑mouthed, and heard the big man swallow hard.

“I see it. The poor bastard.”

“It must be an accident,” Siredy said, his voice too high, and Eslingen made a face. This was worse than cannon fire, worse even than a sappers’ accident because there was more left to see, the legs all but severed from the crushed torso, the head invisible on the far side of the gear, only the one arm and the stocky legs holding a semblance of human shape. He choked, glad he had eaten lightly, cleared his throat with an effort.

“It is the watch, isn’t it?”

Duca nodded, though he made no move to look more closely. “Yes–at least, I’m almost certain. That’s his coat.”

“Mathiee told him to keep a better eye out these nights,” de Vicheau said. “Poor Artinou.”

“The rope must have given way,” Siredy said. “Gods, if it had been a performance…”

He let his voice trail off, but there was no need to finish the sentence. If it had happened during a performance, not only might a sceneryman have been killed, caught like the watchman in the suddenly moving gears, but the actors on the tower would have been brought down abruptly, perhaps thrown off the set piece into the mechanism as well. Eslingen shook his head, trying to banish the picture, and Duca said hoarsely, “And was it an accident?”

The master was looking at him, Eslingen realized, and he took a careful breath. “I don’t know,” he began, knowing what the other wanted to hear, and then shook himself. He had been around Rathe long enough to know what questions the pointsman might ask, knew what questions he’d ask himself. “If it was an accident, master, why are there no lights in sight? He wouldn’t come down here in the dark, surely. And the trap was closed, too.”

“He might have done that himself,” de Vicheau said, but the objection was halfhearted.

“But not without lights,” Duca said, and made a face as though he wanted to spit. “Sweet Tyrseis. What a way to kill a man.”

There aren’t many good ways to die, Eslingen thought, but this one is particularly ugly. “Leave him for now,” he said, and thought he saw Siredy give him a look of gratitude. “And send to Point of Dreams. It’s in their hands now.”

“The house was just purified,” Duca began, and shook himself to silence. “Right. Back onstage with all of you, and make sure no one comes down here.”

“And that the other trap isn’t open,” Siredy said.

Duca gave him a look. “Good thought. See to it, Verre. And you, Janne, send to Point of Dreams. I want Rathe, and don’t take no for an answer.”

They found the second trap closed as well, and Duca straightened from it, breathing heavily through his mouth. “This is hard on Mathiee,” he said, and winced as the tower clock struck the half hour. “And she should be along any minute now, with her keys to let us in. Sofia, what a welcome.”

“You found the man?” The voice came from the pit, and Eslingen stepped back out onto the stage to see Aubine looking up from the pit. He was surrounded by tubs of plants, at least half a dozen half barrels packed full of greenery and blooms, too bright after the darkness below the stage. From the look in Duca’s eyes, the other master was thinking the same thing, and Siredy turned away with a muffled curse, leaning hard against the nearest versatile.

“I’m afraid so, my lord,” Eslingen said.

“Dead, then?” Aubine sounded more surprised than anything. “Oh, surely not.”

“Caught in the machinery,” Duca said, and cleared his throat hard. “The biggest of the lifts.”

Aubine said nothing for a long moment, his face very still, and then, slowly, he shook his head. “I’ve only seen the machines once, Master Duca, but they struck me then as treacherous things. What a terrible accident.”

“If it is an accident,” Eslingen said, in spite of himself, and Aubine frowned.

“Surely you’re not–oh, no, not again.”

The landseur looked genuinely horrified, and Duca lifted both hands placatingly. “It may not be, my lord, but we have to be sure.”

“What will it do to the masque?” Aubine asked. “A second death, so soon–practically on the heels of poor de Raзan–if it is untimely, and I pray it is not, Seidos, will they allow us to continue?”

There was no answer to that, the same question the other masters had to have been asking themselves, and Eslingen glanced over his shoulder at the sound of women’s voices from the tunnel.

“So you got in all right without me, I see.” Gasquine was wrapped in a serviceable‑looking cloak of grey wool, her thick hair untidy beneath a linen cap. “What in the name of all the gods is going on? And where’s Artinou?”

“Dead,” Duca answered, and the actor stopped as though she had been struck.

“Dead?”

Duca nodded. “In the gears, below stage. It’s not pretty.”

Gasquine paused, her foot on the first step leading up to the stage. “Tyrseis. The Starsmith forge his soul anew.”

Duca touched his forehead in respect, and Eslingen, belatedly, copied him.

“Did a rope break?” Gasquine began, and answered her own question. “No, the cordage is new–and what was he doing down there anyway?”

“We don’t know,” Duca said. “But it may not be an accident, Mathiee. We’ve sent for the points.”

For a second, Gasquine looked old and tired, but then she straightened, pulling herself back together with an effort of will. “Good,” she said, and sounded as though she was trying to convince herself.

Rathe arrived within the half hour, flanked by a pair Eslingen recognized from the Dreams station. He quickly commandeered Gasquine’s replacement watchman, setting him to guard the single open door, then made his way onto the stage. He hardly looked as though he belonged there, Eslingen thought, a wiry, unexceptional man in a badly battered coat under the pointsman’s leather jerkin, but then he nodded to Gasquine, the gesture drawing all eyes, and Eslingen couldn’t repress a smile.

“Mathiee.” Although he spoke directly to the actress, Rathe was careful to let his voice carry, taking in the other authority, Duca’s and Aubine’s, as well. “I’m sorry to see you again, at least like this.”

Gasquine managed a wan smile. “As are we all, Nico. Gerrat says he doubts it was an accident, and I’m afraid so do I.”

Rathe nodded. “Who found the body?”

“Master Duca and his people. They were to have the stage early this morning.”

So much for that plan, Eslingen thought. As things were, they’d be lucky to get any work done at all today– and I suppose I should feel guilty for thinking it, but Seidos knows, there’s work enough to be done. Rathe’s eyes slid over him without acknowledgment, but then, as the pointsman turned back to face Gasquine, Eslingen thought he saw the hint of a smile.

“All right. Let’s get it over with. I take it the body’s below stage– and who found it, anyway?”

“We did,” Siredy said. “All of us together. Philip saw that a rope was missing, so naturally we looked to the machinery, and–”

He stopped abruptly, grimacing, and Eslingen said, “The body’s caught in the gears. It’s not nice.”

Rathe made a face as well, but nodded. “Show me.”

Duca pointed to the trapdoor, and de Vicheau, still pale, lifted the heavy boards. Rathe slid down easily enough, stood for a moment in the dark before Eslingen followed with a lantern. Rathe took it with a nod and moved forward into the shadows. Eslingen hung back, not wanting to see again, heard Rathe swear as he found the mangled body. There was a little silence then, Eslingen careful not to see, and then a scuffling sound, and Rathe came back, bringing the light with him. His expression, in the mage‑light, was unreadable, but he was rubbing one hand convulsively on the edge of his jerkin.

“Did someone identify the man?”

“Master Duca said he recognized him,” Eslingen said. “From the clothes.”

“Not from the face, by the look of him,” Rathe answered. He took a deep breath. “Was it like this when you found him?”

Eslingen nodded. “We didn’t touch anything, just came down to look, found him, and came away.”

“No lights?” Rathe asked, and Eslingen felt a perverse thrill of pride at having guessed the right question.

“None. The lanterns were hanging by the ladder.”

“And the trap was closed,” Rathe said.

“Both of them,” Eslingen answered.

Rathe sighed. “Are any of the scenerymen around?”

“I don’t think so,” Eslingen answered. “Unless Mathiee’s sent for them already.”

“She’d better,” Rathe said, and motioned toward the ladder. “Come on, let’s get back up. They’ll need help to get him out of there.”

Eslingen made a face at the all‑too‑vivid image, and heard one of the other pointsmen choke. He hadn’t realized they’d come down behind him until then.

“And we’ll want to know if the ropes gave way,” Rathe went on, as though he hadn’t heard, “or if anything else is wrong. Len, find something heavy and block off the other trap–these are the only two ways down, right, Philip?”

“As far as I know,” Eslingen answered, and pulled himself up onto the stage again.

“And then watch this one yourself,” Rathe went on. “Sohier, I want you to wait for the people from the deadhouse, see if you can slip them in discreetly–”

The pointswoman shook her head, the braided lovelock flying. “It’s not going to happen, Nico, I’m sorry. There’s already a crowd gathering, and the Five Rings is open for business.”

Rathe swore again. “I’ve a mind to call a point on them for contributing to the disturbance. All right, do what you can. Let’s hope they hurry.”

Gasquine had sent for her sceneryman already, and he arrived with the deadhouse carters and a knot of actors, the group swirling down the tunnel into the pit in a confusion of voices. Rathe straightened from his examination of the loosened rope, and bit back an exclamation of disgust. The apprentice alchemist–the same woman who’d collected de Raзan’s body, he saw without surprise–matched him stare for stare, but he ignored her, beckoned to Gasquine instead.

“Mathiee. Get your people under control, please–and now that they’re here, they can stay until I’ve had a word with them. Keep them here in the pit, and I’ll get to them as soon as I can.”

Gasquine nodded, turned away to give her own orders, and Rathe went on without a pause. “Leenderts, you watch the door. Make sure no one else gets in without my or Mathiee’s say‑so–”

“Adjunct Point!” That was the new watchman, hesitating at the head of the tunnel, and Rathe bit back another curse. “Adjunct Point, the chorus is here, or some of them, and what am I to tell them?”

“Tell them–” Rathe stopped, looking at the meager man, and swallowed what he would have said. “Sohier, hold the alchemists here, and wait for me. There’s a sceneryman to help with the machine.”

The alchemist nodded, clambering up the stairs behind the sceneryman.

“Right, Nico,” Sohier answered, and Rathe climbed back down to the pit. There were at least a dozen actors there, he saw, plus the masters and of course Aubine, standing among his flowers like a man bereft. I’ll deal with them later, he thought, and started back up the tunnel, only to stop short, seeing Eslingen and the younger master, Siredy, already standing in the now‑open door.

“My compliments to the vidame,” Eslingen was saying, his voice so polite as to be almost a parody, “and the rehearsal plans have changed again. If she’d be so good as to continue on to the Bells, the rehearsal will take place there instead.”

Someone–a woman in coachman’s livery, Rathe saw, her whip tucked up over her shoulder–asked a question, and Eslingen drew himself up to his full height.

“I wouldn’t know. I’m sure all your questions will be answered at the Bells.”

He stepped back, swinging the door closed almost in the coachman’s face, and looked back over his shoulder with a wry grin. “Sorry. The watch didn’t seem able to cope.”

Rathe nodded. “Thanks. Are they listening?”

“Reluctantly,” Eslingen answered. “They all want to know what’s going on.”

Rathe stooped to peer through the scratched and bubbled window that ran parallel to the doorway. As Sohier had warned, the tavern across the plaza was already open for business–two hours before its regular time, Rathe thought, and grimaced, seeing another serving girl scurry in the kitchen door. Clearly, the theatre murders were starting to rival The Drowned Islandin the popular imagination.

The long, low windows were crowded with staring faces, and there were still more people gathered along the edges of the square to stare and gossip. The alchemists’ cart stood ready, a flat‑faced man slouching on the tongue, shaking his head at a thin man in a torn coat. “So does everybody, it seems,” he said aloud, and waved the watchman forward. “Can you keep the door, Master–”

“Pelegrim.” The watchman touched his forehead again. “I’m doing my best, sir, honestly–”

“I’ll stay with him,” Eslingen offered. “Between us, we can keep things quiet.”

Rathe shook his head. “Actually, I may need you. But if you’d be willing to help Leenderts, Master Siredy…”

“Of course,” the other man said with a sweet smile, and the watchman ducked his head again.

“I’m doing my best, masters, all I can do.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Leenderts said, and Rathe nodded.

“I do my job,” the watchman said again, and Leenderts’s eyes met Rathe’s over the man’s shoulder.

Rathe nodded– the man’s been up to something, watch him– but there was no time to pursue the question as another knock sounded at the door. Pelegrim moved to answer it, Siredy at his back, and he waved Eslingen back toward the main house. “I’m sorry to do this, Philip,” he said aloud, “but there’s still the body to deal with.”

Eslingen grimaced, but nodded. “I’m at your disposal,” he said, and the tone was warmer than the formal words.

Sohier had collected both the sceneryman and the alchemists at the unblocked trap, saw them return with undisguised relief. “Nico–”

“The sooner you let us at the body, the sooner you’ll have your answers,” the alchemist said, riding over anything the pointswoman would have said, and Rathe took a breath, controlling his annoyance with an effort.

“Take them down, Sohier,” he said, and nodded to the sceneryman. “Master–?”

“Basa,” the sceneryman answered. He was an older man, easily a grandfather, with big hands marked by heavy, swollen joints. Retired from the river, maybe? Rathe guessed, when the winters got too hard to bear. “Pointsman, they tell me the machinery gave way, but I don’t see how. All the cordage, that’s all new, not two weeks old, we change all the ropes once a fortnight.”

“Expensive,” Eslingen said, and the sceneryman scowled.

“Cheaper than new actors.”

“Show me the rope that failed,” Rathe said, and the sceneryman pointed into the shadows.

“There’s not much to see, pointsman, that’s where that cable should be.”

“We noticed it was missing as soon as we looked,” Eslingen said.

Rathe nodded. “Show me,” he said again, and Basa hunched his shoulders.

“Over here.”

Rathe followed him into the wings, stepping carefully over cleats that held other ropes stretched taut, stopped as Basa crouched beside an opening in the floor. There was no sign of a rope there, but looking up, Rathe thought he could see the end of one dangling somewhere in the gloom overhead.

“Now, then,” the sceneryman said, and straightened, reaching for a pole that hung on the nearest pillar. It had a hook at one end, like a boathook, Rathe saw, and ducked as Basa reached up to catch a loop of leather that had been hanging, invisible, among the ropes. There was a rattle of metal, and then a length of rope dropped to the stage floor. Basa prodded at it, still scowling, then stooped again to hold it out like an accusation.

“Now, see there. That was in the brake.”

Rathe took it gingerly, not quite knowing what he was looking for. It was new cable, all right, still bright and barely scarred, five finger‑thick strands wound tight on each other. One end was bound with bright red cording, and the other hung loose, just starting to unwind from its tight twist.

“That’s not frayed,” Basa said. “And it’s not been cut, either. I’d stake my reputation on that.”

“So what then?” Rathe asked, and handed the length back to him. “A fault in the mechanism?”

Basa didn’t answer immediately, reversing the hook to probe through the hole in the stage floor, came up at last with a second length of rope. This one was still attached somewhere below, but the sceneryman caught it before it could slither back out of sight, laying it flat on the boards and pinning it with his hook.

“And that’s the other end.” He glared at it. “Not the mechanism, pointsman, but the splice, or at least that’s what someone wants you to think. But no line I mend gives way, not like this. There’s been murder done, pointsman, and I want it solved.”

Rathe stared at the new length of cable. It didn’t look that different from the first one, the same bright new rope, one end a little more frayed than the first one had been, and he looked back at Basa. “You’re saying that this was, what, unraveled?”

“See there?” Basa pointed with his toe, keeping the hook firmly on the length of line. Rathe squinted, thought he saw a length of thinner rope among the heavy strands. “The binding, there, see? The rope was spliced and the join bound off to make it stronger, that’s the way we always do it here. But someone’s unbound it, to make you think the rope failed.”

Rathe nodded slowly. “And you’re telling me–forgive me, Master Basa, but are you saying that the rope couldn’t have failed? That this join couldn’t have given way?”

Basa’s eyes flickered, and he shrugged one shoulder. “All right, I’ll never say never could happen. But I’ve never seen it done before.”

“What if the brake gave way?” Rathe asked again, and Basa shook his head.

“If the brake had let go, you’d find the whole coil down below, not just a part of it.”

Not that I expected anything different, not the way things have been going. Rathe took a deep breath, and Sohier appeared in the opening of the trap. Her face was very pale, but she had her voice well under control.

“Excuse me, Nico, but the alchemists would like a word with you. And with the sceneryman, if you please.”

Rathe nodded, glanced at Basa. “I’m sorry to do this, but–I think they’ll need your help getting the body free of the machinery.”

Basa made a face. “Oh, yeah. But I’ll need some backs to work the windlass, with the brake off.”

“How many?” Rathe asked.

“Three, at least,” Basa answered. “Four’s better.”

“Sohier and me,” Rathe said, and Eslingen’s head rose.

“And me, if you’d like.”

“Thanks,” Rathe said, and looked at Basa. “Enough?”

“It’ll do.”

They climbed back down into the understage, and Rathe was grateful for the overwhelming smell of the oil that coated the gears and the massive turnshaft. The alchemists were clustered around the body, mage‑lights poised to cast as much light as possible, and Rathe looked away from the too‑vivid picture. The woman apprentice– Ursine, Fanier had named her–looked over her shoulder at their approach, and came to join them, wiping her hands on her leather apron. There were new smears on it already, Rathe saw, and swallowed hard.

“You don’t deal in the common run of deaths, do you?” Ursine shook her head. “Dis Aidones, what a mess.”

And for an alchemist to say so… Rathe killed the thought, said, “What can you tell me?”

“Well, he’s dead for sure,” Ursine said with a fleeting smile. “But I’m not happy about this one, Adjunct Point. He–well, Master Fanier can say for sure, but I’d lay money he didn’t die where he’s lying.”

“Seidos’s Horse,” Eslingen said, and Rathe grimaced.

“You mean he died, or was killed, somewhere else, and then put into the machine?”

Ursine nodded, rubbing her hands on her apron again. “That would be my guess, Adjunct Point. But, as I say, Master Fanier can say for sure.”

“That’s an ugly thought,” Eslingen said, and Rathe nodded. It wasn’t hard to guess why someone would do it–the gears had crushed the man’s torso, would hide even a stab wound or a bullet hole, and without the alchemists’ testimony, there was a good chance that it would be taken for an accident–but it argued a colder heart than he’d thought they were dealing with. And it’s exactly the opposite of de Raзan’s death, he thought suddenly. He was found dead without apparent cause, with no chance of it being an accident, while what killed the watchman is almost too obvious, and almost too obviously an accident.

“I want to know as soon as possible,” he said aloud, and Ursine nodded again.

“We’ve done as much as we can here,” she said. “But I’m not sure of the best way to get him out of there.”

“I can help.” That was Basa, his voice cracking, and he cleared his throat. “Give me a minute, sir, dame, and I’ll get the machines switched over.”

He was as good as his word, pulling levers to move heavy bands of leather from one shaft to the next, careful to check each length of rope before he finally took his place at the main controls. “If you’ll take the windlass, pointsman–no, the other way–and just take up the strain…”

Rathe took his place at one of the long poles, saw Sohier and Eslingen do the same. He leaned his weight against the length of wood, felt the others doing the same, and then, slowly, the windlass moved, easily at first, and then more stiffly. The enormous shaft that ran the length of the understage turned with it, and there was a sigh of metal on metal as the great gears trembled behind them.

“Ready?” Basa called, and one of the alchemists lifted a hand.

“We’re ready.”

“Stay clear of the gears,” Basa warned, and Rathe bit down on unhappy laughter. Not that anyone should need that warning, with that object lesson staring them in the face.

“Clear,” the alchemist answered, and Basa dropped his hand.

“Go.”

Rathe threw his weight against the lever. There was a moment of resistance, and then it turned, more easily than he would have expected. The shaft turned, smooth and silent, and there was a muffled exclamation as the gears turned backward.

“Stop.”

Basa jerked two levers even as he spoke, and Rathe felt the windlass freeze under his hand. He straightened, catching a glimpse of the alchemists bending over the hunched body, and saw Basa, his face averted, adjusting levers and belts to hold everything in its place again.

“We’ll get on this one right away,” Ursine said, jerking her head toward the body, and Rathe nodded.

“I’d appreciate it,” he said, and Basa turned toward him.

“Pointsman–Adjunct Point. How soon can we–when can I bring my people down here, clean this up? The blood… I don’t want rats.”

Rathe swallowed hard, saw both Sohier and Eslingen flinch at the image. “We’re done,” he said aloud. “So the rest of it’s up to Mathiee.”

“Thank you,” Basa said, and shook his head. “Sweet Tyrseis, what a–the poor bastard.”

“Did you know him?” Rathe asked, almost on impulse, and the sceneryman shrugged.

“Not well. The actors would know him better. Who’d want to kill a man like him?”

“Like what?” Rathe asked, but the sceneryman was already out of earshot, scrambling back up the ladder to the stage itself. Rathe sighed, and looked at Sohier. “I’ll want an answer to that question. Let’s go.”

Gasquine was waiting on the stage, talking in an undervoice to the playwright. Aconin had changed his dark wig for one as pale as summer wine, and for once he looked genuinely worried. Rathe made a face–the last thing he wanted was to have to deal with Aconin– and beckoned to Sohier.

“You start with the actors, and any of the stagehouse staff. You know what I want, anything that might tell us why the man was killed. And I’ll talk to Mathiee.”

“He was the watchman,” Sohier said, and nodded. “You never know what he might have seen.”

Rathe nodded in agreement, and moved toward the company manager. She saw him coming, and broke off her conversation with Aconin, came toward him with a hand outstretched. “Is it–”

She broke off, as though she didn’t want to put it into words, and over her shoulder Aconin made a face.

“What else could it be, Mathiee?”

“An accident.” Gasquine frowned at him, but the playwright seemed not to see.

“What an ugly irony it would be if the man died for actually doing his duty. You couldn’t use it in a play.”

“ ‘Doing his duty’?” Rathe repeated, and looked at Gasquine. “I’m sorry, Mathiee, it’s most likely that this wasn’t an accident, so I’ll need to know anything you can tell me about him.”

“Tyrseis,” Gasquine said, and shook her head. “He’s been–he had been one of my watchmen for, oh, I suppose it’s been five years now. His father was an actor, comic parts, before your time, I think, but talented.”

“You gave him the job for his father’s sake?” Rathe asked, and Gasquine shrugged.

“Partly, I suppose. And I know his sister, too, she’s a seamstress–he lived with her and her man. So when I needed a watchman, and heard he was looking for work, it seemed to be a good match. He was willing enough.”

“So you’re saying he had no enemies that you know of,” Rathe said, though he thought he already knew the answer.

Gasquine shook her head again. “None, and I can’t imagine any. There are men who are born to be uncles, Nico, you know the sort, big sweet men who don’t want a household of their own, but live to indulge your own children. That was Artinou to the life, and he treated the actors all the same way. He was always doing them favors, carrying notes and flowers, that sort of thing.”

“And being well paid for it, too,” Aconin said.

Gasquine rounded on him with a frown. “And you, Master Aconite, can mind your tongue when you speak of the dead.”

“I don’t say he didn’t mean well,” Aconin said. “I believe he did. But be fair, Mathiee. He took coin for his pains, as much as any watchman did.”

“Master Aconin,” Rathe said. “What was it you meant about Artinou doing his duty for once?”

For the first time, the playwright looked uneasy. “Mathiee can tell you better than I can.”

“There’s no point in bringing that up,” Gasquine said, through clenched teeth.

Rathe suppressed a sigh. He’d seen this reaction a hundred times before, the grief that wanted only to see the best in the dead, and he made his voice as gentle as he could. “It could be important, Mathiee, you know that–might explain something.”

Gasquine grimaced, but nodded. “I had to speak to him yesterday. Some of the actors–not the chorus, just the actors–came to me and said things had been moved about in the dressing rooms.”

“Stolen?” Rathe asked, and Gasquine shook her head.

“No, that was the odd thing. I mean, theft’s a constant problem, there’s always someone new to the city who doesn’t know the jewels are paste–I can’t count the number of times we’ve redeemed Anfelis’s Crown from pawn, we’ve practically got an account with the old woman.” She broke off with an apologetic smile. “And actors are careless, they leave things about that they shouldn’t. But, no, nothing was stolen, just–moved around, or so the actors told me. And from what they said, it seemed it must have happened overnight. So I told Artinou to take special care to make sure the house–all of it, stage and backstage and understage and the house, too–was locked tight and no one was there who shouldn’t be.”

“And then he was found dead,” Rathe said.

Gasquine looked stricken. “Oh, Tyrseis. I wish I hadn’t said anything.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Aconin said. “You had to say something.”

“Did you know about these–disturbances?” Rathe asked, and the playwright hesitated, then shook his head in turn.

“Not I. By hearsay only. You’d have to talk to the actors about that.”

“I’ll do that,” Rathe answered, and looked back at Gasquine. “With your permission, of course, Mathiee.”

“Of course.” Gasquine took a deep breath. “Oh, Nico, I so wish this hadn’t happened.”

And not just for the sake of the play, either, Rathe thought, though that had to be looming in her mind. The company owner seemed genuinely distressed. He murmured what he hoped was a soothing response, and glanced at the knot of actors gathered now in the pit. Sohier was talking to one of them, a tall, lanky woman whom Rathe had always seen playing the heroine’s best friend, and the rest seemed to be trying to listen without actually being caught eavesdropping. Guis Forveijl was among them, carefully not meeting Rathe’s eye, but also Gavi Jhirassi, and in spite of himself, Rathe’s mood lifted. Jhirassi was as keen an observer as any actor, and more to the point, he could be trusted.