Текст книги "Point of Dreams"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Lisa Barnett
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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

“Gavi,” he called, and the younger man turned at once. His hair had been cropped short for The Drowned Island, to accommodate the young hero’s massive wigs, and the short curls set off the sharp bones of his face, made him look like a Silklands carving. “Over here, if you would.”

Jhirassi moved to join him, and Rathe climbed down the short stairs into the pit, moving him away from the other actors. He was aware of Forveijl’s eyes following them, and did his best to ignore it, took a deep breath of air that smelled suddenly and strongly of Aubine’s plants.

“What’s all this about things being–disturbed–in the dressing rooms?”

Jhirassi raised his eyebrows, spread both hands in a gesture that was gracefully uncertain. “What about it? A bunch of us complained to Mathiee–you don’t mean that’s why poor Artinou was killed?”

“I don’t know,” Rathe answered. “And, frankly, Gavi, I don’t even know exactly what happened, so…”

He let his voice trail off, and Jhirassi gave a wincing smile. “Sorry. We’re all a bit–unsettled–today.” He took a breath, visibly collecting his thoughts. “Sorry. What happened. Well, it wasn’t much, really, but it was disturbing, thinking someone had been in the dressing rooms. It was like someone had been through everything, all our goods and clothes–”

“Looking for something, do you think?” Rathe asked.

Jhirassi gestured helplessly. “I don’t think so? I don’t know. There was enough for the taking, Tyrseis knows, I’d left a nice gilt chain by mistake, but it was there, just moved from one hook to another. And some clothes were taken out of the press, Guis’s coat was dropped in a corner–”

“That could have been Guis,” Rathe said, in spite of himself, remembering Forveijl’s habits, and Jhirassi grinned.

“No, I saw him hang it up this time. The wardrobe mistress was going to fine him if he didn’t take better care of it, and she did charge him a demming anyway.” His smile vanished. “And there was more. All the paint pots were moved around–one was broken, Anjesine’s best rouge–and she had a posy for her throat, tea herbs, and they’d been pulled apart and rearranged.” He paused. “I think that was the strangest thing, someone bothering to rearrange a bunch of herbs.”

Rathe nodded. “Tell me about Artinou.”

“What’s to tell?” Jhirassi made a face. “I’m sorry, that sounds terrible, but he was the watchman. I didn’t know him very well.”

“Aconin says he ran errands for people, carried notes and such.”

“So do all the watchmen,” Jhirassi answered. “If anything, Artinou had more sense than most–he could remember who you wanted to see, and who was being hinted away.”

“A useful talent,” Rathe said. And potentially a dangerous one, if the watchman had remembered more than he should. He took the actor through the rest of his questions without learning more than he’d already heard from Gasquine, and when he’d finished stood for a moment, hands on hips, trying to decide who to question next. Sohier was working her way through the actors; maybe he should leave them to her, he thought, and concentrate on the masters. Even as he thought that, Eslingen stepped into his line of sight.

“Excuse me, Adjunct Point?”

Rathe frowned at the formal address, and Eslingen took a step closer.

“If I could have a word?”

Rathe’s frown deepened, but he nodded, stepping back out of earshot of the group still gathered in the pit.

“I think there’s someone here who doesn’t belong,” Eslingen said. “He’s not one of the actors, or a master–I thought he was Aubine’s man, but his lordship says not.”

“Where?” It took all of Rathe’s self‑control not to turn and stare. It had been known to happen, murderers returning compulsively to the scene of their crimes, particularly when a madman was involved…

“Toward the back of the pit,” Eslingen answered. “On the edge of the group of actors–by the biggest tub of plants. He’s an older man, brown coat, brown hair.”

Rathe nodded, letting his eyes drift sideways, scanning the crowd. The edges of the pit were in shadow, the sunlight that filtered through the canvas roof not adding much to the mage‑lights, but he found the man at last, leaning on the edge of the handcart that had carried Aubine’s plants. And that was probably how he’d gotten in, Rathe guessed, offering to help carry pots and then staying after Aubine had paid him off. No one would have noticed him, just another laborer.

“You know him,” Eslingen said, eyes narrowing, and Rathe nodded.

“Oh, yeah. All too well. That’s Master Eyes himself, come to see the scandal.”

“Master Eyes.” From the look on Eslingen’s face, he recognized the name– and well he should, considering how many broadsheets came from the bastard’s pen, Rathe thought. Not that Eyes wrote them himself, or not all of them, but his name, and his too‑astute observations, filled reams of paper. “What do we do about him?”

Rathe sighed. “He doesn’t have any right to be here, and I’m sure Mathiee would be glad to see his back, if she knew he was here. So I’ll do her a favor, kick him out myself–if you’ll help.”

“Of course.”

Rathe smiled lopsidedly. “Bear in mind that he has a lot to say about actors, and the Masters of Defense, for that matter.”

“I’m hardly important enough to catch Master Eyes’s notice, surely,” Eslingen answered. “What do you want me to do?”

It was hardly that simple, Rathe knew, but he didn’t have time to warn Sohier. Eyes would be gone at the first hint of trouble, fading back into the shadows where he could lose himself, where he could stay hidden until the theatre was cleared. “Get between him and the stairs–casually, like you’re looking for a place to catch a nap.”

“The Masters of Defense,” Eslingen said with dignity, “do not take naps during rehearsal.”

Rathe grinned in spite of himself. “For a tryst, then, or whatever it is the masters do allow themselves to do. Then I’ll flush him out.”

Eslingen nodded. “I’m at your service, Adjunct Point.”

He turned away, threading his way between the benches, and Rathe reached for his tablets, made a minor show of opening them, carving letters into the stiff wax. Not for the first time, he felt foolish, playacting in front of actors, but no one seemed to notice. Sohier was talking to another woman now, one of the masters, Rathe thought, and behind them he saw Eyes moving closer, easing toward them in hopes of catching a word or two. He ducked his head over the tablets again, not wanting to alarm the man, a part of his mind wondering if Eyes could have anything to do with these murders, or at least with Artinou’s death. By his previous record, there wasn’t much Eyes wouldn’t do to find a scandal he could sell to the printers–but then, Rathe amended, on his previous record, Eyes was more likely to invent scandal than to create it himself. He was not notably a man of his hands, preferred to let his pen do his fighting for him. Rather like Aconin in that, Rathe thought, and glanced up at the stage. The playwright was still there, standing a little apart from the others, arms folded across his chest as though he was cold. He was looking at something in the middle distance, Rathe realized, and frowning slightly, let his eyes follow the playwright’s gaze, found himself looking at the landseur Aubine, fussing over an uncovered tub of flowers. They were beautiful, brought to bloom only a few months early, the vivid blue stars of spring greeters bright even in the dimly lit theatre. He had a bank of them himself, tucked into a sheltered corner of his shared garden–they grew from corms, too, though far humbler than anything sold at market–had told himself it was for the bulb, good against fever, but the truth of it was, the bright flowers always lifted his spirits. They bloomed always in the last weeks of the Spider Moon, shoving up through snow if necessary, a full two weeks before the hardiest spring flowers showed their heads. They seemed an odd choice for the masque, there was no magistical significance that he knew of, but then, the color was certainly bright enough to show well in the theatre.

Eslingen was in position, leaning into a swordsman’s stretch that brought him between Eyes and the nearest staircase, and Sohier, Rathe saw, was between him and the tunnel that led to the door. He folded his tablets, trying to look casual, and took a careful step toward the group of actors. Eyes stayed where he was, still shadowed, then, as Rathe came closer, took a slow step backward, putting another tub of plants between himself and the approaching pointsman. Rathe kept coming, hurrying now, and Eyes took another backward step, almost tripping over a bench. Rathe allowed himself a grin, and the other man turned to run, stepping up onto and over the nearest bench. Eslingen straightened to attention, and Rathe shouted, “Hold him!”

Eyes darted sideways, floundering in the narrow space, and Eslingen lunged, caught him by the collar of his coat. The broadsheet writer writhed in his grip, trying to shed it, but Eslingen had him by the shirt as well, dragged him back and around until he could catch one arm and bend it backward.

“Is this your murderer, Adjunct Point?”

The guileless voice carried clearly, and actors and masters alike turned to stare. Rathe hid a grin– trust Philip to carry through–and managed a sober shake of the head. “No, I don’t believe so. But he doesn’t have any business here that I know of.”

“Master Eyes!”

The exclamation came from the actors, quickly stifled, and Rathe looked up at the stage, to see Gasquine staring down at them, something like horror filling her face. “He’s not part of your company, is he, Mathiee? Or yours, Master Duca?”

Gasquine shook her head warily. “Not of my company, no…”

“Nor mine,” Duca said, voice grim, and behind the writer’s shoulder Eslingen showed teeth in a cheerful smile.

“Then maybe he is your murderer.”

“Don’t think I don’t know who you are,” Master Eyes said. His voice was clear, tinged with a southriver accent. “And I know what you are to him, so don’t play games.”

“The only thing Orian ever murdered was a reputation,” Aconin said, from the stage. “But he has slain a few of those.”

“Master Eyes,” Rathe said, and felt the attention focus again on him, actors and masters alike. This must be something like what it felt like to be onstage, he thought, and wondered vaguely how they stood it. “You’re not of this company–of either company. I will have to ask you to leave.”

Eyes smiled with easy contempt. He was, Rathe thought remotely, surprisingly handsome, a pleasant face under brown hair just starting to show threads of grey, not at all what one would expect from his acid writing. “I’ll leave if I must, Adjunct Point. But don’t think I haven’t seen and heard more than enough to fill a dozen broadsheets.”

“I daresay you have,” Rathe answered. “But bear in mind you are talking about the masque. There’s a printer’s ban on the details, so I’d be very careful what I said, if I were you.”

Eyes laughed. “A good try, Adjunct Point, but it won’t wear. Besides, everyone is much more interested in the details of these deaths. The masque itself pales in comparison–no criticism meant of Master Aconite.”

It was true enough, and Rathe sighed. “Bring him, please, Lieutenant.”

Eslingen nodded, increasing the pressure on Eyes’s wrist until the writer gasped and took an involuntary step forward. Eslingen smiled, quite sweetly, and edged the man toward the tunnel. Rathe followed, taking a savage pleasure in the writer’s discomfort. He’d earned it, Sofia knew–but of course Eyes probably counted it as one of the hazards of his profession. Leenderts was still with the watchman and Siredy, the door barred behind them, and Rathe paused, beckoning to the other pointsman.

“Len. I need to make someone known to you.”

Leenderts nodded, his expression questioning, and Rathe smiled. “This is Orian Fiormi, better known to all of us as Master Eyes.”

Leenderts’s eyes widened almost comically, and Eyes swore under his breath. Anonymity was his stock in trade, Rathe knew, and allowed his smile to widen in turn. “Remember him,” he said, and Leenderts nodded.

“Absolutely, Adjunct Point. I won’t forget.”

“Good.” Rathe nodded to the doorkeeper. “Master Eyes was leaving.”

The doorkeeper nodded, scrambling to unfasten the bar and turn the heavy lock, and Eslingen eased his grip on the writer. Eyes straightened his shoulders, shrugging his coat back into place, looked from one to the other.

“You can’t stop the stories,” he said. “And Mathiee might have liked to have some say in them.”

“You can take that up with Mathiee,” Rathe answered. “Though I doubt you would have, frankly, offered her the chance. It’s so much easier to make things up out of whole cloth than to have to fit in unaccommodating things like facts. But this is a points matter, and you have no business with it.”

The door was open at last, and he nodded toward it. Eyes swept him a mocking bow, and stalked away, the skirts of his coat billowing in the breeze.

“Tyrseis,” Siredy said. “He’ll quarter us for that.”

“I hope not,” Rathe answered. “Or at least maybe he’ll put the blame where it belongs.”

“Master Eyes is never fair,” Siredy said.

That was all too true, and Rathe sighed. Eyes had seen the shrouded body carried out, had heard at least some of the actors’ gossip, knew as much and probably more than anyone except the murderer about de Raзan’s death… No, this was not going to make him friends in Dreams, and Trijn in particular was going to be livid. Keep things out of the broadsheets as long as possible, she had said, and if anyone could spot the political implications of the chorus, it would be Master Eyes. He shook himself then. That was borrowing trouble; still, the best thing to do would be to go straight to Trijn, and tell her what had happened.

He made it back to Dreams station in record time, but Trijn herself had gone out. Rathe stared down at the daybook, flipping back through the pages to hide his relief. He could leave her a note, then, and spare himself the lecture– or, more likely, put it off until tomorrow. Still, it was a reprieve of sorts, and he flipped back through another day’s entries, wondering if he should go to the deadhouse himself. Fanier would do the job as quickly and efficiently if he wasn’t there, but a part of him felt as though he should be present, somehow help shepherd the body through the alchemist’s rites. And that was foolish, he knew, and turned another page. Voillemin had been to Little Chain, he saw, and frowned as he read the brief notation. Spoke with stallholder, who had a story about flowers bought according to the Alphabet. Misadventure?

“What do you know about this?” he asked, and the duty point– Falasca again–looked up quickly.

“Not much. He’s been working on a report for a couple of days now.”

“Do you know if he ever spoke to Holles?” Rathe saw the woman shrug, and said, “Leussi’s leman. The one who found the body.”

“Oh.” Falasca shook her head. “I don’t think so–but of course I could be wrong. I think, my impression is, that he thinks this wraps up the case. He said something about the matter being resolved.”

“Resolved.” It was an odd word, not one that went with murder, and Rathe had to take a careful breath to control his anger. “Do you know what he found?”

“No,” Falasca answered. “I’m sorry.”

“Is Voillemin in?” Even as he asked, Rathe knew it was a forlorn hope, and Falasca shook her head again.

“He has the night watch, sir, he won’t be in until after second sunrise.”

Another four hours. Rathe looked back at the daybook, at Voillemin’s neat, well‑schooled handwriting. If he really had found information that would allow him to–resolve–the investigation surely he would have made his report by now; if the information wasn’t good enough, surely he would have spoken to Holles. Which meant that his fears, and Holles’s, were coming true: Voillemin was looking for a way to brush the case aside. He shook himself, frowning now at his own suspicions. It was just as possible that Voillemin was being conscientious, was making sure his conclusions could be justified, before he committed his opinion to a report–but if that were the case, why hadn’t he talked to Holles yet? Rathe hesitated, then reached for his daybook to copy the name and direction of the stallholder who claimed to know so much. It wasn’t his business to check up on Voillemin, and the regents would have a fit if they ever found out, but he couldn’t not follow up on this, if only for Leussi’s sake. With any luck, he’d simply confirm what Voillemin had found, and everyone could rest easier.

He crossed the Sier at the landings beside the Chain Tower, where in generations past the first watch towers had protected the city against attack from the west. The city had spread beyond the towers now, and it had been at least a hundred years since queen or regents had ordered chain strung from jetty to jetty to foul enemy ships, but the massive links were still stacked ready, greased and rewound twice a year by the Pontoises, the company of boatmen responsible for law on the river. Today a pack of children, too young even to work as runners, were playing tag around the pile of iron, their cries carrying like riverbirds’ in the cold air. The boatman was surly, sunk into a triple layer of heavy jerseys, fingers wrapped in wool beneath the leather palms, and Rathe was glad to pay him his fee, resolving to walk back to the Hopes‑point Bridge before he ventured on the water again.

Voillemin’s note had said that the woman was a stallholder in the Little Chain market, but a single glance at the stall, well painted and double‑sized, with cressets already lit against the gathering dusk and a banner of a star and bell, was enough to make Rathe swear under his breath. Whatever else Levee Estines was, she was more than a mere stallholder, and Voillemin should have known better than to take her that lightly. The woman herself was not at the stall, but the man who tended it, busy among jars and baskets of dried herbs and flowers, pointed him willingly enough to his mistress’s house. The house itself was neat and well kept, new plaster bright between the beams, and a glasshouse leaned against the southern wall where it could take the sunlight. The glass was fogged now, and in spite of everything Rathe felt a slight pang of envy. Glasshouses were expensive to build, even more expensive to heat through Astreiant’s long winter; his mother had always wanted one, and in the same breath called them a waste of coin and effort. This one was small, just a lean‑to, really, so that even a small woman would have to crouch to tend the plants on the lowest shelves, but he could see greenery through the clouded glass, and knew it was doing its job.

The maidservant who answered his knock seemed unsurprised to find a pointsman on their doorstep, and ushered him into what at second glance had to be a buyer’s receiving room. It faced away from the glasshouse, the single window giving onto what in the summer had to be an uncommonly pretty garden, and Rathe took a step toward it anyway, admiring the shapes of the empty beds. Half a dozen corms stood ready in forcing jars, already sending up vigorous green shoots, and he wondered again exactly what Estines’s trade was. Herbs and flowers, from her stall, but did she also trade in medicines, or perfumes, or even food, or just in the raw materials?

“Adjunct Point?” The voice broke off. “Oh. You’re not who I expected.”

Rathe turned to see a round woman frowning at him from the doorway. Her hair was caught up under a lace cap, her only concession to fashion, and as though she’d guessed his thought she shook her skirts down from where they’d been caught up for work.

“My name’s Nicolas Rathe, mistress, from Point of Dreams. I understood you wanted to speak to someone from our station.”

“But I spoke to someone.” Her voice was wary, and Rathe made himself smile. This was one of the reasons that checking up on a fellow pointsman was difficult.

“I know. To Adjunct Point Voillemin, right?”

“Yes.” Estines drew the word out into two syllables.

“I have some reason to believe that this case is connected to one of mine,” Rathe lied. “So I wondered if you could spare me a few moments to talk to me as well.”

“Connected?” Estines’s eyes grew very round. “Oh, surely not. That would be–” She checked herself and repeated, “Surely not.”

Damn Voillemin for not putting in his reports on time. Rathe said, “Oh? Why do you say that?”

Estines looked as though she wished she hadn’t spoken. “I don’t want to tell you your business, I know nothing of points’ affairs–”

Rathe smiled again, tried for his most soothing voice. “You sent to us, said you had information on the intendant Leussi’s death. What was that?”

“But I told the other man,” Estines said.

“I’d like to hear it again, from you.” It was one of the oldest tricks in the book, but Estines nodded slowly.

“Please, Adjunct Point, sit down,” she said, and seated herself in the chair closest to the hearth. A fire had been laid there some hours ago, by the look of the embers, but Rathe seated himself opposite her, grateful for the steady warmth. Estines folded her hands together, setting them on her knees like a schoolgirl. “I sent for you because the intendant had been a customer of mine, for flowers and such–I grow flowers for half the houses in Hearts, Adjunct Point, and herbs for the midwives, too.”

“I saw your stall,” Rathe said, “and your garden.”

Estines allowed herself a shy smile. “Thank you.”

“And the intendant?” Rathe prompted, when she seemed disinclined to continue, and Estines made a face.

“As I said, a customer of mine. And he came to me two weeks before he died–or at least I think it was then he died, the other pointsman wouldn’t tell me when, exactly, as if I’d sell it to the printers. But he came to me to buy flowers out of season–I have a glasshouse, and I make that a specialty of mine, I pride myself that I can have any flower all year long. At any rate, to make the story short, he came to me with a list of flowers that he wanted, and I had them all. But what struck me–you must understand, my dearest friend is a printer in University Point, she’s just done an edition of the Alphabet, a licensed edition–he was reading from a list, just like one of the posies the book calls for. I’m sure he was making a posy, and–” She broke off, ducked her head, her fingers tightening on each other. “I was afraid it might somehow have harmed him.”

“A posy from the Alphabet,” Rathe said. “Not your friend’s book?”

“Oh, no.” Estines shook her head for emphasis. “Not that edition. But there are so many, and I thought… Of course, I don’t know it was the Alphabet, but it seemed so odd, the choices, and so with the play and everything, I thought that had to be it. The other pointsman seemed to think so.”

Voillemin would, Rathe thought. No wonder he’d said “resolved” and “misadventure.” This was the perfect excuse, some experiment that went wrong and could be safely brushed aside, smoothed over to the content of the regents– and I suppose it could be that. Except I think Holles would have known. He said, “Does that mean you remember what the flowers were, mistress?”

“Oh, yes.” Estines smiled again. “That was what struck me so oddly then, and later, too. They don’t–I don’t know if you know flowers, Adjunct Point?”

“A little.”

Estines nodded. “Moonwort and trisil and trumpet flower and red star‑vine, bound with lemon leaves and demnis fern.”

Rathe’s eyebrows rose. The flowers were individually pretty, and the trisil was strongly fragrant, but its sweetness would be buried under the still stronger scent of the lemon leaves, just as the moonwort would be lost under the showier blooms of the trumpet flower. And the demnis fern was just the wrong shade of green to match the others.

Estines nodded again, harder this time. “You see. Not a posy for looks, or for any herbal use I know. So of course I thought of the Alphabet.”

And Leussi had a copy, Rathe remembered suddenly, a copy that’s locked in my own strongbox even now. Is that why Holles gave it to me? He shook the thought away–Holles was not the sort to play games, at least in their short acquaintance–and reached for his tablets again. “You’re sure of that list, mistress?”

“Completely sure,” Estines answered. “It’s my trade.”

That was unanswerable, and Rathe quickly jotted down the names. “Had he ever bought bunches like that before?”

“Never. Usually he liked seasonal flowers, small things, posies for a gift and the like.” Estines sighed. “He said once his leman didn’t like flowers, so he bought them for other people. I thought that was sad, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Rathe said. And it was sad, though not just for Leussi’s sake, meant that Holles would be unlikely to know anything about his leman’s research. But Voillemin still should have questioned him, he thought, and folded his tablets again. “Mistress, I thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

“You’re welcome.” Estines stood stiffly, easing her back. “Adjunct Point, I wonder. I understand you can’t tell me when he died, that would be improper, I was told, but I did wonder–I would hate to think my flowers had anything to do with his death.”

Rathe gave her a sharp look, but saw only honest ‑grief in her round face. “I don’t know, mistress. On the face of it, it seems unlikely.”

“But the Alphabet…” Estines let her voice trail off, and Rathe shook his head.

“I’ve yet to see a copy that can be said to be effective, and we– not just Dreams, but all the stations–have examined forty or fifty copies. So far, it looks like just another midwinter madness.”

“Like The Drowned Island,” Estines said, nodding. “Well, one can hope. I’m sorry to have troubled you, if it’s nothing.”

“No trouble at all,” Rathe answered, and followed her to the door. She let him out into the sharp chill herself, the air smelling strongly of a hundred fires, and he stood for a moment, trying to catch his breath and order his thoughts. If it were any other pointsman, he wouldn’t distrust the findings, would be willing to wait for the report, to see what other evidence could be mustered to support death by misadventure, but Voillemin was too eager to see this put aside. He would have to see Holles, he decided, ask about flowers, but first, he’d need to see if that posy was listed in Leussi’s edition of the Alphabet, and what it was supposed to do.

7

« ^ »

rathe made sure he was early to Point of Dreams, stirred up the fire in the workroom stove even as the tower clock struck nine, and reached for his tablets, unfolding them to reveal the list of flowers. Moonwort, trisil, trumpet flower, red star‑vine, bound with lemon leaves and demnis fern: not a common posy, he thought again, and fumbled for the key of the lockbox. If it was listed in Leussi’s copy of the Alphabet, he would have to talk to Holles, find out if Leussi had said anything about testing the formulae–though if he had, surely Holles would have mentioned it–and then… He shook his head unhappily. He still wouldn’t have positive proof that Voillemin was failing in his job, failing the points, might only have proved that Leussi’s death was after all misadventure–except for the bound ghost. That was the work of an enemy–or could it be some bizarre side effect of the flowers? It seemed unlikely, but b’Estorr might know, or would know who could tell him, if the posy was in the Alphabet. And he had been told not to pursue the matter. The best thing might be to take the whole thing to Trijn, and let her sort it out. She was the chief point, after all; Voillemin was her responsibility, and it was her responsibility to sort out what was really happening here. He made a face, wishing it was his case, that he didn’t have to sneak around the edges to try to make sure the job got done, and there was a knock at the door. He looked up as the door opened, and a runner peered through the opening.

“Sorry, sir, but this just came. It looked important.”

Rathe nodded, beckoned her inside. Whatever it was, it dripped with ribbon and seals, and he held out his hand. “Who brought it?”

“It was a runner from All‑Guilds,” the girl answered. “Stuck‑up little prig.”

All‑Guilds. From the regents? Rathe turned the letter over, his frown deepening as he recognized the symbols on the seals. It was from the regents, all right, and he could guess what it was about. “Is she waiting for a reply?”

“No, sir.” The runner shook her head. “Said she had other business. Silly cow.”

“Mind your manners,” Rathe said without heat. “All right, that’ll be all for now.”

“Yes, sir,” the girl answered, and backed away, pulling the door closed again behind her.

Rathe glared at the letter, then abruptly broke the seals. The broad pen strokes filled the page, a sprawling clerk’s hand ordering him to appear before the regents at half past ten, to answer for unwarranted interference in a matter he had already been forbidden to handle. He swore under his breath, wondering how Voillemin had found out– Falasca, of course; she would still have been on duty when he arrived the night before–and swore again, wondering which of the regents was acting as Voillemin’s patronne. The clock struck half past nine then, and he shoved his keys back into his pocket, carefully refolded the letter, and headed for Trijn’s workroom.

She greeted him with a preoccupied smile, but the expression faded as he shoved the regents’ letter under her nose. “What’s this?”

“Read it, please, Chief.”

She made a face, but skimmed the brief paragraph, finally leaning back in her chair to lift an eyebrow. “And what’s brought this on? Have you been meddling?”

Rathe grimaced. “Yes and no, Chief.”

“I’d have preferred a simple no.”

“Nothing’s ever that simple,” Rathe answered. He reached for the chair that stood beside her desk, seated himself at her nod. “First, Kurin Holles came to me to complain that Voillemin hadn’t talked to him at all–and it was Holles who found the body, never mind anything else. I told Holles I couldn’t interfere, but I’d speak to Voillemin, which I did, to tell him that he shouldn’t worry about hurting Holles’s feelings, he was more than willing to speak to the points.”