Текст книги "Point of Dreams"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Lisa Barnett
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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

“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 shell 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?”

Rathe paused, remembering Aconin’s behavior. “I’m not sure. He was–very outspoken that he didn’t want me involved, or anyone from Point of Dreams, and then that he didn’t want a necromancer. And then he made damn sure he was gone before you got here.”

“We don’t get along,” b’Estorr said, mildly, and Rathe grinned in spite of himself.

“No.” He sobered quickly. “I suppose the main thing was how determined he was to downplay–all this, when I’d expect anyone to be screaming murder and crying vengeance on whoever did it. I wondered what he knew that he wasn’t telling.”

“It wasn’t a curse,” b’Estorr said positively. “A warning, I suppose?”

That was the second time someone had suggested that, and it still didn’t feel right. Rathe shook his head, less in disagreement than in puzzlement. “I suppose. But he didn’t seem frightened, either, just stood there dropping flowers out the window.”

“What?” b’Estorr’s attention sharpened visibly.

“There was a vase of them,” Rathe said. “On the table. They were wilted, and he tossed them out the window.”

“All at once, or one at a time?” b’Estorr asked.

“One at a time.” Rathe frowned. “All right, what am I missing?”

b’Estorr shook his head in turn, looking almost embarrassed. “I may be seeing too much in it, but–a vase of flowers, untouched in this mess? A posy he had to take apart flower by flower? It sounds like something out of the Alphabet to me.”

“A spell, you mean.” Rathe frowned, thinking of Leussi’s Alphabet, the flowers that might have caused his death. “Istre, did you get any message from Trijn today?”

The necromancer shook his head. “Should I have? I was in classes until the runner from Knives found me.”

“You will hear,” Rathe said grimly. “There’s another copy of the Alphabet that needs to be examined.”

“There are phytomancers I’d trust with it,” b’Estorr said.

Rathe made a face, looking back at the empty vase. “So that would be the counter to a posy? Taking it apart like that?”

b’Estorr nodded. “If the Alphabet exists, if you even suspect it exists and that it might work, that would be one way to counteract an arrangement, taking it apart. If, of course, you assume it works. And if it works, assuming it’s not too strong a spell.”

“Yeah.” Rathe glanced at the sheet of paper he’d separated from the rest, folded it carefully and tucked it into his daybook. Another list of flowers to give to the phytomancers, he thought, and to check against Leussi’s Alphabet. “And if anyone seems likely to make that assumption, Aconin would be the one. It didn’t feel like a spell, Istre.”

“It’s the university’s considered opinion that the Alphabet is a fraud,” b’Estorr answered, with a smile that showed teeth. “For what that’s worth, considering they’ve never seen a copy. But even if you knew that, would you take the chance?”

“Not when I was looking at this mess,” Rathe answered, and nodded: “I’ll have words with him, believe me. But in the meantime, I don’t see much reason to stay.”

“Nor do I,” b’Estorr answered, and stooped to blow out the first of the lamps. Rathe collected the lantern, adjusting its shutters so that it cast a welcome beam, while the other man doused the remaining candles.

“I’ll walk you to the bridge,” he said aloud. “And return this with my report.”

They headed back through Point of Knives toward Point of Dreams, leaving the unquiet darkness of the Court behind them, crossing the more respectable neighborhoods where most people were already at their dinners, behind shuttered windows and locked doors. Many had small lanterns burning, either at the doors or in a front window, honoring the ancestors who returned during the ghost‑tide. Rathe felt something brush his calf; at any other time of the year he would have swiped at a rat or a gargoyle and cursed but tonight, out of the corner of his eye, he caught the memory of the small rag‑eared, wire‑coated dog who had been his constant companion from boyhood into apprenticeship. He started to click his fingers to call it, then looked at b’Estorr, inexplicably embarrassed. b’Estorr smiled.

“It wouldn’t be ghost‑tide without Mud, Nico. There’s nothing to be ashamed of in so constant a ghost.”

Rathe laughed softly. “I’ve lost kin, Istre, and friends, but who do I see? My dog.”

“And I’ve got a really difficult ancient king of Chadron, and his favorite, and I’m no kin and had nothing to do with their deaths. We don’t choose our ghosts, Nico.”

Rathe nodded. They had reached the edge of a market square, where cressets burned in front of a well‑appointed tavern, and the smell of a tavern dinner, savory pie and hot wine, hung heavy for a moment in the cold air before the wind and the smoke drowned it again. They turned onto the wider avenue that led to the Hopes‑point Bridge, and Rathe felt himself relax a little, grateful to be away from the Court of the Thirty‑two Knives. Even in daylight, and even known as he was, and today brought in by Mirremay herself, it was a chancy place; the streets here, between Hopes and Dreams, were far safer, even with only the lantern to light their way.

Even as he thought that, he heard the sound of footsteps, running hard up the side street that led away from the river, looked sharply into the darkness as the cry followed them. He saw nothing, maybe the suggestion of a movement, a shadow shifting against the lesser dark where the street joined Beck’s Way, but he knew what he’d heard, couldn’t mistake the choked, wet sound of it, and dove into the darkness, flipping the lantern’s cover as wide as it would go. b’Estorr followed, metal sliding softly against leather as he drew his long knife, and Rathe swore, seeing the crumpled shape lying against the windowless wall of the nearest building. It looked more like a pile of discarded clothes than a man, but b’Estorr dropped instantly to his knees, sliding the knife back into its sheath, and reached to probe for a wound. Rathe stood still, the lantern still held high, tilting his head to listen for any further movement. Whoever had attacked the man was long gone, he was sure of it, had been the running footsteps they had first heard, but he stood watching anyway, not wanting to be taken by surprise. The street–it wasn’t much more than an alley, its central gutter rimed with ice and mud, the walls to either side broken only by a pair of carters’ gates, both closed and barred against the night–was empty, nothing moving in the lantern’s uncertain light, and he turned slowly, letting the wedge of light sweep behind them as well.

“Nico,” b’Estorr said, and at the urgency in his voice, Rathe lowered the lantern again, spilling its light over the wounded man.

“How is he?”

“Not good, but I can’t tell how bad.”

Rathe knelt beside him, wincing as he saw the blood still flowing hard over b’Estorr’s fingers. The wounded man looked serene enough, eyes closed, heedless of the sleet that splashed his face and hair. Not a good sign, Rathe thought, and set the lantern carefully on the cobbles, turning it so that the light fell strongly across the wounded man. The blood was still flowing, despite b’Estorr’s hand pressed hard on the wound–too low for the heart, but high enough to kill–and he reached for his stock, unwinding the length of linen.

“Let me,” he said, and b’Estorr nodded, shifting sideways so that Rathe could press the new pad into the wound. The blood slowed a little, or perhaps the man had simply bled as much as he was going to. “See if you can find a surgeon hereabouts, there must be someone. If not, I guess you’d better send for Fanier.”

“They’ll know at the tavern,” b’Estorr answered, and pushed himself to his feet.

Rathe nodded, keeping his hand pressed tight against the wound. The bleeding was definitely slowing, he thought, and tried to tell himself it was a hopeful sign. The man’s face was waxen in the lamplight, and he grimaced, knowing their efforts were likely to go for nothing, that it would be Fanier, not a doctor, who would be needed.

He looked at the assortment of garments covering the wounded man–a threadbare coat, shirt with sleeves too short, patched jerkin and breeches, castoffs, all of them, or temple handouts–and shrugged himself awkwardly out of his own coat, not taking his hand from the wound. He laid it over the stranger, knowing it was probably a futile gesture, and looked away, examining the cobbles for any signs left by the attackers. The sleet was heavier now, the ice collecting in the gaps between the stones, threatening to wash away any indication of what had happened. And there was precious little, he thought, not even a footprint in the mud of the gutter. Whoever had attacked the man was too clever to make that mistake. There was a dark stain on the wall above his head, probably where the man had fallen against it, and Rathe sighed, looked back at the man’s face. There was something familiar about it, an image teasing at the edge of memory, and then from somewhere he caught a whiff of evergreen, and he knew. Grener Ogier had been his parents’ friend, his mother’s in particular, they were both gardeners, had worked together more than once when he was a child at the dame school. But they’d drifted apart, not unfriendly, but on different paths, led by different stars, and the city had swallowed Ogier, spat him back now possibly dying, and Rathe shivered, knowing it was more than the sleet. A talented gardener, his mother had said, she who was always so sparing of her praise, a man under whose hands the most unlikely plots flourished.

He dipped his head, swallowing tears, and saw Ogier’s eyes flicker open. The pupils were huge, unfocused, probably sightless, but still he made a sound, as though he was trying to speak. Rathe leaned closer, trying to shield him from the worst of the sleet, and heard footsteps from the head of the alley. He turned, free hand reaching for his truncheon, relaxed as he saw b’Estorr, a woman in a carter’s longcoat trailing at his heels. Rathe frowned, but then he saw the apothecary’s badge on the cuff of her close‑buttoned coat. She knelt beside him, shifting the lantern a fraction to give better light, and nodded for him to move aside, her hand sliding briefly over his as she reached for the wound. Rathe relinquished it gladly, wiping his hands on his breeches before he’d thought, swore under his breath at the thought of the laundress’s bill.

The apothecary murmured something, probing, and Rathe caught a whiff of tobacco and sweetherb clinging to her hair and coat. Still, her hands were steady enough, and she moved with the ease of experience to probe the wound. The blood was still flowing, but sluggishly, and she sat back on her heels, shaking her head.

“Not even a surgeon could help him, masters, but damnation, this was a bungled job.”

“What do you mean?” Rathe asked. He was shivering now, without his coat, and wrapped his arms tightly around his body, tucking his hands into his armpits.

The woman shook her head. “He can’t live, but he’s likely to be a while yet dying, poor bastard.” She looked up at him, then her wide face suddenly, unhappily alive. “Maybe it’s a clue, pointsman. Find the one soul in this city who doesn’t know how to wield a knife properly, and you’ll have his murderer.”

Rathe bit back an angry retort, recognizing the reaction, and b’Estorr said, “Is there anything we can do?”

“You could finish the job–you’d do it for a horse or a dog.” The apothecary shook her head, her hair falling forward to hide her eyes. She swept it back with an angry hand, scowled at the coat covering the body. “Keeping him warm was a kindly thought. I don’t suppose you know his stars?”

b’Estorr shook his head, but Rathe said, “He was a gardener. And had the stars for it, I was told.”

The necromancer gave him a startled glance. “You know him?”

“From a long time ago,” Rathe answered. “He’s a friend of my mother’s.”

“A gardener,” the apothecary said. “Metenere, then, most likely.” She reached into her bag, brought out a jar marked with symbols that Rathe didn’t recognize.

“What are you doing?” he asked, and the woman looked up at him.

“A last chance, pointsman, to name his killer. Something his ghost can’t do.”

Rathe dropped to his knees beside her, heedless of the icy rime. “Will it hurt him?”

The apothecary shook her head. “He’s beyond pain.” She nodded to the bandage, so soaked in blood now that it was almost invisible. “Hold that.”

Rathe did as he was told, wincing as he felt the feeble pulse, and the apothecary uncorked her jar, waved it under Ogier’s nose. For a long moment, nothing happened, and then, suddenly, the man’s eyes flickered open again, blinked and focused.

“Who–”

Rathe shifted so that Ogier could see him clearly, if he could see at all. “Who did this, Ogier? It’s Nico Rathe, remember me? Do you know who did this?”

He broke off as Ogier’s eyes widened, and one hand lifted, fumbling at his sleeve. “Nico.”

Rathe caught the hand, ice‑cold, ice damp, held it tight. “Who did this?”

It was an awkward position, one hand still on the bandage, the other holding Ogier’s, and the apothecary made a soft noise, moved to take the bandage. Rathe sat back on his heels, grateful for the relief, and Ogier’s head moved slowly from side to side.

“Madness,” he whispered. “You remember. I was good. Too good…”

“One of the best,” Rathe said. “My mother said so. Who would do this? Why?”

Even as he spoke, Ogier’s eyes closed, the clasp of his fingers relaxing. Rathe tightened his own grip, but the hand in his was slack, falling into death.

The apothecary shook her head, released her hold on the bandage to touch wrist and mouth, then touched the closed eyes, the gesture more ritual than useful. “Well, that was quicker than I expected. I suppose the weather helped.”

“Why do you bother?” Rathe demanded, and her eyes fell.

“Did you want the poor bastard to linger?”

“And if easing his passing was the most important thing to you,” Rathe snapped, “why did you raise him long enough to speak?”

“I–” The apothecary made a face. “I hate waste. I hate deaths like this. You’re the pointsman, you can do something. Easing his death–that would be an office for his friends. If he had any.”

Rathe sighed, the anger draining from him. “He had friends. I know he did, at least once.”

“The Starsmith give him ease,” the apothecary said. She found a rag in her kit, scrubbed her hands. “Will you find his killer?”

“I don’t know,” Rathe said. “I will try.” He closed his eyes for a moment, still kneeling on the cold stones. There were too many deaths, first the landseur–no, first Leussi– and then de Raзan, and the watchman, and now Ogier, who had nothing to do with any of that, who had no enemies that he could imagine. But obviously he had had one enemy, and that was what he had to find. He pushed himself to his feet, aware for the first time that his breeches and stockings were soaked through, that his hair was dripping on his shoulders.

“I’ve got a cart,” the apothecary said. “You can use that, if you’d like.”

To deliver the body, Rathe knew she meant, either to Fanier directly or to Dreams. To Dreams, he decided, he’d had enough of the deadhouse lately to last a lifetime, and nodded. “Thank you. I’d appreciate it.”

She nodded, straightening. “I’m just a couple of streets over. I won’t be long.”

Rathe nodded again, too tired to speak, and she turned away, the carter’s coat shedding the worst of the sleet. Rathe shivered again, feeling the touch of ice on his scalp, and beside him b’Estorr shook his head.

“The poor man. What she did, it’s technically forbidden, but the gods know, it’ll do no harm in this case.” The necromancer paused. “So you knew him, then?”

Rathe nodded. He should search the body, he knew, but for the moment it was beyond him. “He was a friend of my mother’s–both my parents’, in actual fact, but he was a gardener, too, like her.”

He was babbling, he knew, and shook himself, made himself kneel again on the freezing stones. There was nothing in the coat pockets, and only a worn leather purse in the pocket of Ogier’s breeches–not much coin, only a few seillings, but if robbery had been the intent, the thief would surely have made certain of them. There was a sprig of some dried herb, a twisted branch of short, spiky leaves, and Rathe sniffed curiously at it, but could detect no aroma. It was new to him, whatever it was, and he tucked it back into the purse, slid that into his own pocket. He checked the cuffs of the coat then, thinking of Eslingen, but Ogier hadn’t shared the soldier’s habit of sliding odd bits of paper into them. There was only another scrap of greenery, a flower not quite out of the bud, faded and dried. It had probably fallen there while Ogier was working, Rathe thought– but if he was working, why was he dressed so badly? Ogier had always been a tidy man, not one to spend unnecessary money on his clothes, but these garments looked more like temple handouts even than working gear. Had he fallen out of favor, lost all his employment, to leave him so shabbily dressed with winter coming on? He’d never been one to tie himself to any one house, and he’d been good enough that he’d never had to, had always had the rich, merchants and even the city‑living landames, vying for his services. Maybe they’d all finally tired of the dance? Rathe shook his head, and sat back on his heels. There was no telling, though he’d make it his business to find out, “Maybe if he’d had a patronne, he’d still be alive.”

“Or maybe he did find one,” b’Estorr murmured, and Rathe looked sharply at him.

“What do you mean?”

b’Estorr shook his head. “Sorry, that’s a Chadroni thought. A patronne protects, yes, but–” He shrugged. “They’re also notoriously chancy.”

There was a sound of wheels and, miraculously, the slow clop of horse’s hooves, and Rathe pushed himself to his feet. The apothecary had been better than her word: not just a cart, but a small, shaggy, city‑bred pony in its harness. It snorted, smelling the blood, and b’Estorr went instantly to its head, turning it upwind of the body. The apothecary nodded her thanks, and stooped to help lift the body into the cart.

“Do you want your coat? It won’t do him any good.”

No more would it, Rathe thought, but shook his head. He was wet through already, and there was blood already on his clothes. “No, let him keep it. But can I get your name and direction?”

The woman made a face. “Madelen de Braemer. You can find me at the Grapes.”

That would be the tavern they had passed. Rathe nodded, not bothering to reach for his tablets. It was too cold, he was too wet, and besides, he was unlikely to forget the incongruously aristocratic name. “Thank you, dame.”

The apothecary was already moving away, but stopped as though a thought had struck her. “And where do I send for my horse, anyway? The deadhouse?”

“No, Point of Dreams,” Rathe answered. “He’ll go to the deadhouse from there.”

“Easier on the old boy anyway,” the apothecary said, and Rathe realized she meant the pony. “I’ll come by in the morning.”

“I’ll leave your name, if I’m not there,” Rathe answered, and she turned away.

“Shall I walk with you?” b’Estorr asked softly, and Rathe gave him a grateful glance.

“I’d take it kindly.” It wouldn’t be that long a walk, he thought, but it would be easier with live company.

By the time Rathe had written cursory reports, and sent a request to the Temple to handle the notification of any kin of Ogier’s, it was after midnight, and he was grateful for the idle escort of a junior pointsman, patrolling that way, to take him partway home. The winter‑sun was risen, at least, dispelling the worst of the darkness, and the sleet had ended, a few stars showing through the breaking clouds, but he was glad to come to his own gate. There were no lights in the weaver’s rooms as he crossed the courtyard–too late–and none in the actors’ rooms under the garrets–too early, probably– but lamplight shone in his own windows, a welcome that was still unexpected, and he climbed the stairs with more haste than he would have thought possible.