Текст книги "Point of Dreams"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Lisa Barnett
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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Eslingen was sitting at the narrow table, the lamp set to put the best light on a sheaf of broadsheets, chin resting on his cupped hands as he studied the awkward printing. His hair was loose, for once, falling forward to hide his face, but he looked up as the door opened, shaking it back again. The lazy smile faded as he took in the condition of the other’s clothes, the dark eyes flicking from vital spot to vital spot, and Rathe smothered a tired laugh, seeing him relax again.

“That had better not be your blood,” Eslingen said.

“No.” Rathe shook his head, looked down at the stains as though he hadn’t seen them before. He would owe Ardelis for the cleaning of the station’s spare coat as well as his own laundress’s bill, that was obvious. “No, it’s not. I doubt I’d be standing here talking to you if I had this much outside me.”

“Maybe you’re a ghost,” Eslingen said. He could practically feel the cold radiating off the other man, knew shock when he heard it, and swung himself gracefully up from his place at the table. Watching him, Rathe bit back another laugh, thinking it would play well onstage. Then Eslingen embraced him, pulled back to study his face, frowning in spite of his carefully light tone.

“Not a ghost, there never was a ghost this cold. Seidos’s Horse, what were they thinking of, to let you go like this?”

“That the senior adjunct wanted to go home,” Rathe answered. “I’m not hurt, Philip.”

A flicker of relief crossed the taller man’s face, but he said only, “Just chilled to the bone, it seems. Get your clothes off.”

Rathe obeyed, shrugging out of the borrowed coat, and instantly Eslingen was there to help, the gentle hand belying the rough words.

“You’ll never wear those again,” Eslingen said, and tossed the bloodied shirt into a corner.

“I don’t know.” Rathe shivered, left in his smallclothes, and Eslingen stripped the top blanket from the bed. “My laundress is very skilled–”

“With blood,” Eslingen said, and wound the blanket around the other’s shoulders. “What interesting people you know, Adjunct Point. Did you find this in the line of business?”

Rathe smiled in spite of himself, let himself be turned and settled on the edge of the mattress. He drew his feet up under him, worked them under the sheets–cold linen, but warming to his touch–and hunched his shoulders under the blanket. “This doesn’t often happen–”

“So you tell me.” Eslingen’s voice was remote, his back to the bed as he fiddled with something on the stove. “So what was it this time?”

Rathe took a breath, feeling creeping back into his toes. His fingers were better already, and he worked his shoulders against the rough wool. He was desperately tired, painfully sad, but knew he wouldn’t sleep now, that trying would only make him wearier in the morning, worn out with the effort. Better to stay awake, let the thoughts and memories die–share them, since he could, he thought, and cleared his throat. At the station, sure, tell all to his fellow points and let them comfort him just by knowing, but Eslingen–Eslingen was somehow different.

“There was a man killed today. Istre and I found him. In an alley between Hopes and Dreams. Only I knew him. He was a gardener– not a physick gardener like my mother, but she knew him, and I remembered him being around when I was a boy. One of the best, she always said. Could make anything bloom, anytime, knew all the right conditions, how to create them as best as possible–Metenere was better aspected in his stars than anyone she’d ever known, she said.” Rathe shook his head. “He didn’t die immediately. There wasn’t anything we could do…”

Eslingen nodded, still stirring, not surprised or shocked– and of course he does know a lot of it, Rathe thought. He was a soldier, he knows about dead men, dying men and no help for them; if he doesn’t know about the failure of justice, the points’ failure, my failure, come down to it, well, at least he knows this much. Eslingen turned away from the stove, then held out a stoneware cup.

“Your mother, I daresay, would concoct something infinitely more salubrious, but this can only help.”

Rathe sniffed it, expecting beer, blinked at the smell of wine. He took a sip, and then a longer swallow, the liquid ropy with spices and sugar, let it burn its way down his throat, warming him.

“So it wasn’t a fight, then,” Eslingen said, and Rathe shook his head. “Any idea who might have done it?”

Rathe wrapped both hands around the cup, his knuckles reddening now as feeling returned. “Not a clue. It makes no sense whatsoever. I may know more in the morning, when Fanier tells me what he’s found–if that’s anything. I mean, there’s no doubt it was murder, a bloody great wound and no knife to be found. Istre was there, I didn’t think to ask him about the ghost–”

He broke off, shaking his head–one more thing to take care of in the morning–and Eslingen kicked off his shoes, settled himself on the far end of the bed, resting his back against the cold plaster of the wall. “What was he like?”

Rathe shrugged, the wine cup still hot between his hands. “A gardener, and a good one. He was unusual–he had the stars, when most men possess the stars to be groundskeepers, he had the stars to create, not just to maintain. He was in demand, I know that. Worked for a number of great houses, never stayed with one, never let one noble or another put her livery on him. It wasn’t arrogance– or maybe it was, but he always demanded the freedom to work for whomever he pleased. And it was better to get him for part of a season than not at all, so…”

“So everyone took what they could,” Eslingen said.

Rathe nodded. “And so that’s where I have to start in the morning. After I talk to Istre.”

“You really think you’re dealing with someone jealous of their gardener’s attention to a rival–plant?” Eslingen asked, and Rathe smiled in spite of himself.

“You’ve been working with the chorus these weeks, and you think it’s unlikely?”

Eslingen shook his head, grinning, and Rathe sighed, the moment’s good humor fading.

“I don’t know. It makes no sense, but it’s the only place to start. Only–”

“Nico, you have got to start finishing sentences.”

Rathe ignored him, staring past him into the shadows that gathered in the corners of the room. The lamplight spread only so far; they sat in pleasant shadow, and the edges of the room were dark, the shutters closed against the night air and the winter‑sun. A coal snapped in the stove, sparks flaring behind the grill, and he looked back at the other man. “Except that–Ogier was never really well dressed, he wasn’t fashionable, it didn’t make sense when you were working in the earth all the time, but he did know how to choose clothes and fabric, he did know how to be–presentable.”

“Unlike certain pointsmen we could mention,” Eslingen murmured.

Rathe waved the words away, intent on the memory. “But from what I could see, his clothes were old, worn–mismatched. Like Temple handouts.”

Eslingen blinked, frowned. “So they were old clothes. Maybe he’d been working today.”

“It’s nearly winter, Philip, most gardens have been put to bed weeks since.”

“Do you think he’d fallen out of favor?” Eslingen’s voice was soft now, intent, and Rathe gave him a grateful look.

“I don’t know. I’d lost track of him. I know who will know, however.”

“Your mother?”

Rathe nodded grimly. “And I’m not looking forward to telling her her old friend is dead–is murdered.”

“No.” Eslingen gave him a sidelong glance, as though gauging his recovery. Whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him, and he laced his fingers together around one knee. “Apparently Chresta had some excitement today, too.”

Rathe swore. Eslingen lifted an eyebrow, and the other man shook his head. “No, how were you to know? Oh, yes, he had plenty of excitement.”

“He said it was a theft, he was late because of it–but surely that would be a matter for Point of Knives?”

“He said that to us. And he’s still saying it.” Rathe shook his head, unreasonably angry with Aconin yet again. “Mirremay–she’s head point at Knives, head point, not chief point, because it’s not a full station, and no one wants a member of that family being chief of anything, not in the Court–” He broke off, took a breath. “She called me in, because it was Aconin, and because of–everything. And it wasn’t theft, Philip, no matter what Aconin’s saying. It was total destruction, and there were plenty of goods there for the taking.” He was warming, finally, and hitched himself round on the bed, holding out the cup of wine. Eslingen took it with a nod of thanks, and Rathe frowned again. “Didn’t you once tell me about smashing an altar being a kind of warning in the League?”

Eslingen’s face went very still. “Oh, yes, it’s a kind of warning.”

Rathe cocked his head at him. “What does it mean?”

“It’s the last warning. It means no quarter.”

8

« ^ »

eslingen leaned against the locked versatile, its sides painted now to create a mountain pass, the palatine’s palace, and de Galhac’s stronghold. To his untutored eyes, the rehearsal seemed to be going unusually well, even the chorus keeping its place for once, and he let himself relax, his eyes straying from the tidy lines to the wing where Aubine was arranging yet another of his massive bouquets. This one was the most spectacular he’d seen so far, at least a dozen of the red and white streaked, cup‑shaped blossoms vivid against a background of smaller yellow flowers. Rathe would know all their names, of course; he himself recognized only that both grew from corms. Aubine would be happy to explain, of course, there seemed to be nothing he enjoyed more than discussing his plants, as proud of them as he would be of a promising daughter, but there was always the danger that idle conversation would lead to exactly the questions Eslingen wanted to avoid.

Onstage, Gasquine clapped her hands, bringing her scene to an abrupt end just before Forveijl’s set speech. For a moment, Eslingen thought the actor was going to protest, but Gasquine smiled, shaking her head, and Forveijl seemed to relax again. He had been getting better, Eslingen admitted–maybe Aconin had had words with him, since they seemed to still be intimate. Or at least intimate enough that Aconin could still seek sanctuary with the actor, which implied that they were still lovers. Aconin’s ex‑lovers generally thought less kindly of him, though maybe that had changed since Aconin had come to Astreiant.

“Five minutes,” Gasquine called, and nodded to the bookholder, who hastened to turn a massive minute glass in its polished stand. “Five minutes, all, and then we go through the high battle scene. Swordplay first, and then scene eight.”

There was a sudden surge of voices as actors and chorus relaxed into conversation, and Eslingen looked around for the duelists. Five of them were already in sight, young de Besselin laughing with a fair girl almost his own age, while the landseur Simar idly toyed with another of his flamboyant posies. Aubine had spoken to him again about it, Eslingen thought, remembering the two men standing with their heads together at the beginning of the rehearsal, and wondered if Simar was trying to impress the other man. The horse‑faced landame, Jarielle, straddled one of the benches in the pit, rolling a pair of dice between her palms, smiling at the pile of coin lying between her and one of the scenerymen. Now, if she’d been the one to be found dead, I wouldn’t be surprised, Eslingen thought–Jarielle was a chronic gambler and a gossip to boot–but so far, at least, she’d lost enough to keep her opponents sweet. One of the remaining landseurs was watching her, soberly, Eslingen thought, until he saw the money change hands. He looked around for the remaining three, and saw Siredy and the banneret d’Yres crossing the stage toward them. They parted smiling, d’Yres climbing down into the pit to watch the dice game, and Siredy moved to join the other master, his smile fading as he saw Eslingen’s expression.

“What’s wrong?”

“Have you seen our missing landames?” Eslingen asked, and Siredy turned instantly to survey the pit.

“Oh, Tyrseis, we’re not missing Txi and de Vannevaux, are we?”

Eslingen nodded. “I think the points would look very poorly on another death, even with the excuse of a hundred‑year feud.”

“Five hundred years,” Siredy said, “or at least that’s what Txi told me. I take your point. Out back, do you think?”

It was the logical place to go, if the women wanted to settle the quarrel privately, and Eslingen nodded. “I’ll look there,” he said. “You check the dressing rooms.”

Siredy nodded, shot a quick look at the minute glass just as the bookholder turned it. “Three minutes,” he said, and turned away.

Eslingen made his way through the tangle of machinery, found the passage that led to the courtyard, and felt his way up it, blinded by the sudden darkness. No one had bothered to put mage‑lights here, since no one was supposed to be using the courtyard, and he hoped the landames hadn’t gone too far. At least there were no real swords in the theatre, unless, of course, they’d brought their own. He grimaced at the thought–Rathe would call a point on them if they had, dueling swords were by definition well over the legal limit for a knife blade carried inside the city limits–and unbarred the narrow door.

To his surprise, the courtyard was empty, without even a discarded bottle or a crumpled broadsheet, and he stood for a second, staring, before he shook himself back to life. If the two weren’t trying to kill each other, where were they? Probably not working out a solution to the feud, Eslingen thought bitterly, setting the bar back in its socket, and turned back into the theatre. There was nowhere else in the Tyrseia suitable for a duel, and to be fair, he doubted either woman would consent to anything less than a fair fight. Maybe the second tier, where the props from The Drowned Islandwere stored? It was the only other space that might remotely be considered large enough, and it had the added advantage of being off‑limits to everyone but the scenerymen. Or at least that was the theory, Eslingen thought, and swung himself up the narrow ladder. There was nothing to keep out a determined malefactor except Gasquine’s orders.

The second tier was quiet and crowded, all sound muffled by the heavy canvas drapes that covered the various set pieces and props. In the faint light that seeped in from the stage, the space seemed filled to capacity, crowded with pale shapes that only vaguely resembled the objects beneath the coverings. Like snow sculptures, Eslingen thought, dredging up a long‑forgotten memory, a too‑warm midwinter in Esling, snow sculptures melting on a sunny day. There was less room than he had thought, certainly not enough to fight a duel no matter how determined the participants might be. He had turned to slide back down the ladder when he heard the muffled cry.

He swung back at once, straining his eyes to see through the gloom, caught the hint of movement among the scenery stored toward the back of the tier. He took a breath and moved toward it, wishing he had his halberd, or even his bated sword, and the sound came again. It was coming from behind the tallest of the shrouded pieces, and he stepped carefully around it, trying to move silently on the hollow floor. Mage‑light startled him, a lantern turned low and carefully set to throw light on a property couch–part of d’Auriens’s furniture, from The Drowned Island, Eslingen realized, and stifled a laugh–that had been carefully freed of its wrappings, and on that couch the two landames were locked in a passionate embrace. Txi’s hair was falling loose from its elaborate knot, her eyes closed in delight as de Vannevaux buried her face between the other woman’s breasts. Txi’s own hands were under de Vannevaux’s skirts, and Eslingen took a quick step backward, embarrassed and embarrassingly aroused. He took another step, and then a third, deliberately scuffing his shoes on the hollow floor, and heard another muffled exclamation.

“Maseigne de Vannevaux?” he called. “Are you there?”

This time he was sure he heard a curse, and then a rustling, before de Vannevaux’s breathless answer. “Yes. Who–what is it?”

“Lieutenant vaan Esling. You’re wanted onstage, maseigne, the duel scene is about to begin.” Eslingen heard more scuffling, and then de Vannevaux appeared from behind the nearest shrouded set piece. Her clothes were in order, but she shook out her skirts anyway, scowling, and Eslingen succumbed to temptation. “Have you by any chance seen Maseigne Txi? She’s missing, too.”

The color swept up the young woman’s face, but she answered steadily enough. “I’m sure she’ll be along, Lieutenant. Shall we go?”

Eslingen waved toward the ladder, let her climb down ahead of him. “Mistress Gasquine won’t be happy if she finds out you’ve been up here.”

De Vannevaux looked up at him. “I assure you, it won’t happen again.”

And that, Eslingen thought, would almost be too bad. “Just take care,” he said aloud, and the woman nodded. “Now, if you please, join the others.”

For a moment, he thought she would protest, but then she nodded again, jerkily, and swept across the stage, head up. One strand of hair had worked itself loose, and was trailing free of her neat cap, falling almost to her waist. Siredy, standing in the wings opposite, saw her coming, and looked past her to meet Eslingen’s eyes, his eyebrows rising in silent question. Eslingen shook his head, waved for the other man to wait. Siredy’s mouth tightened, and he pointed to the minute glass in silent warning. Eslingen nodded, lifting both hands in what he hoped was a placating gesture, and in the same moment, he heard a noise from the ladder. He stepped back quickly, and saw Txi climbing down. She’d done her best to tidy herself, but there was no way she could repair her elaborate hairstyle without the assistance of a maid. She’d rewound the heavy strands into a passable knot, and refastened corset and bodice–except, Eslingen saw, suppressing a grin, she’d managed to misbutton the bodice.

“Maseigne,” he said softly, and she turned to glare at him.

“What do you want?”

“Your bodice,” he said, and Txi blushed even more deeply than de Vannevaux had done.

“Oh, Seidos’s balls.” She reached for the buttons, hastily rearranging them, and Eslingen looked away quickly as the bookholder called time. Txi swore again, and darted away, taking her place hurriedly in the forming ranks.

“And what,” a familiar voice asked, “was that all about?”

Eslingen turned without haste to see Aconin standing in the shadow of the nearest versatile.

“No,” the playwright went on, “don’t tell me. The landames have decided to settle their feud, and in the most decisive way possible.”

Eslingen hesitated–the last thing he should do was betray the women to Aconin, of all people, but they’d been a monumental trouble ever since he’d met them. Besides, he told himself, the story will be all over the theatre in a matter of hours. And it’s too good to keep. “What a good guess,” he said. “Is it what you would have written?”

Aconin’s jaw dropped. “You’re joking.”

“Not at all.” Eslingen shook his head. “I don’t know if the feud is over, but the current generation has at least found a way around it.”

Aconin blinked once, a slow smile spreading over his face. “Tyrseis. No, I don’t think I could write it, it would be too unlikely. But, oh, I wish I could.”

“I’m sure you will,” Eslingen answered, and the playwright laughed softly.

“You’re probably right. But not until the landames are safely out of town.”

“I never thought you’d be afraid of their reprisals,” Eslingen said.

To his surprise, Aconin seemed to flinch at that. “Not exactly. But why court trouble?”

Because you’ve made a career of it, by all accounts. Eslingen frowned. “First a warning shot, and then no quarter,” he said slowly. “You’ve angered somebody, Chresta. Can I help?”

Aconin hesitated, then glanced over his shoulder as though searching for eavesdroppers. Eslingen followed his gaze, but most of the actors were watching the work onstage. “I–I suppose I made a mistake, ended something badly.”

Your specialty, I thought. Eslingen swallowed the words, did his best to look encouraging.

“I took something when I left,” Aconin said. He made a face. “Oh, I was entitled to it, I thought–I’d been promised it, even– and I needed it, but still… It was a mistake.”

“And the person you took it from is angry,” Eslingen said. “Can you give it back?”

Aconin shook his head, looking, for the first time since Eslingen had known him, genuinely afraid. “It’s too late for that. I–the person–” He broke off, flinching, and Eslingen glanced over his shoulder, but all he saw was a knot of people, Simar, Aubine, his arms full of flowers, a couple of actors, including Forveijl, Rathe’s former and Aconin’s apparently still current lover. “It’s nothing,” Aconin said, and forced a smile that held more than a little of his old mockery. “Come along, Philip, when has my life ever not been a melodrama? This is nothing new.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Eslingen saw Aubine smile in rueful recognition, and Aconin turned away.

“You’d best get back to work,” he called over his shoulder. “I don’t think the landames will give their best without you.”

Eslingen made a face–he should be onstage, that much was true–but hesitated, watching the playwright out of sight. Whatever he said, Aconin had been honestly afraid, and that was something Rathe should know. More than that, he realized, Aconin had as much as admitted that he knew who attacked him– not that that should surprise either of us–and Rathe needed to know that, as well. If anybody can get the truth out of Master Aconite, it’ll be Nico– and I’d like to be there when he does.

It was mid‑afternoon before Rathe was able to free himself from a tangle of reports–Fanier’s on Ogier’s body, confirming that the man had died from the knife wound, a pair of notes from b’Estorr, one saying he thought the dead man’s clothing had indeed been Temple handouts, chosen perhaps in an attempt to throw some magistical pursuer off his trail, the second a pass‑along from one of the university phytomancers, saying that the posy Leussi had apparently made up was, in fact, harmless, as unlikely to bring about discord and harm as it was to bring about its promised concord. There was a long report from Mirremay turning the attack on Aconin’s rooms over to Point of Dreams, much to Trijn’s vocal displeasure. And she had a right to be displeased, Rathe thought, making the turn onto the Horse Road that led through the old city walls toward the Queen’s Eastern Highway. No chief point, and particularly not Mirremay, ever released a responsibility if she wasn’t sure it was going to be more trouble than it was worth. Part of him wanted to be at the theatre, questioning Aconin, but his first duty was to the dead man. The most recent dead man, he amended, sighing. The folly stars seemed to be compounded by something more deadly.

Ogier had lived on the outskirts of the city, only a little south of the crossroads where the Horse Road met the Highway, and crossed the Promenade that ran back west toward the queen’s residence and the nobles’ houses of the Western Reach. It was typical of Ogier, Rathe thought: it would only be an hour’s walk, at most, along the Promenade to reach the most distant of his clients, but it was far enough that none of them could claim to have him at their beck and call. A difficult man, he could almost hear his mother saying, but a clever plantsman, and he wished he’d had a chance to stop at her house, to ask her advice. She was as likely as anyone to know if Ogier had recently made enemies–but she lived by the Corants Basin, just east of the southern Chain Tower, across the city and on the far side of the Sier from the crossroads. Ogier’s kin first, he thought, but then I’ll find the time to see her.

He stopped at the neighborhood tavern, low‑ceilinged and comfortable, to get the final directions to Ogier’s house, found himself at last on a rutted lane bordered by tall rows of rise‑hedge, still green even in the depth of winter. They were overgrown, narrowing the street even farther, filling the air with the smell of cloves as his coat brushed against them. For an instant, he was surprised that Ogier hadn’t trimmed them, but then, the man was a gardener, not a groundskeeper, and the hedges were hardly his own to mend. The house itself stood at the very end of the street, an odd building barely more than one room wide, as though a series of rooms had been built one after the other, and tacked hastily together into a single building. It was neatly kept, though, the paint not new but not peeling, shutters and roof and yard all in good repair, and smoke drifted from the chimney. At least someone was home, he thought, and hoped the Temple priests had done their job.

He knocked gently at the door, and out of the corner of his eye saw a woman watching from the doorway of the house next door. She seemed to see him watching, whisked herself back out of sight as the door opened.

“Nico! Oh, sweet Sofia, I’m so glad it’s you.”

“Mother? What are you doing here?” Even as he asked, Rathe thought he could guess the answer. Ogier had been a friend, as well as being a guild‑mate; of course the man’s kin would send for her, in preference to any other, to help settle his affairs.

“Frelise sent for me,” Caro Rathe said, and stepped back, beckoning him into a spare room that smelled of pipe smoke. “That’s the sister. The same Temple initiate who broke the news was kind enough to come and fetch me. And of course, the crows are all flocking, trying to pick up the gossip.” She touched his arm, glancing over her shoulder toward the single darkened doorway. “She’s lying down, but–Nico, is it true? Grener was murdered.”

“I’m afraid so,” Rathe answered. He grimaced, looking around the room with its one good chair, the trestle table turned up against the wall to make more room. The only sign of indulgence was the stand of half a dozen corms, each in its own glass jar, positioned to take the light, and to be seen from the chair. “I was with him when he died, which is no comfort, I know.”

“How horrible for you.” She shook her head. “I’m glad you found the place. I couldn’t remember if I’d ever brought you here.”

“I asked at the Metenerie,” Rathe said. That was the guildhall; and even they had known only the direction, not a proper address. He shook his head again, wondering if Ogier had had cause to hide, or if it was simply his well‑known eccentricity.

“Sensible. I assume you’ll want to talk to Frelise?”

“Yes.” Rathe paused. “Is she an Ogier, too?”

Caro nodded. “There was no business in the family, and Frelise is a seamstress, so there wasn’t any need for him to take another name. She kept house for him, oh, it’s been years, now.”

There was a rustle from the doorway, and Rathe turned, to see a tall woman leaning against the frame. She was probably older than her brother had been, a plain woman with a lined, open face, her eyes red and swollen now, the tracks of tears still visible on her cheeks.

“Caro, who–”

Her voice was little more than a whisper, and Caro moved quickly to take her hand, drawing her into the room and settling her on one of the low stools that stood against the wall. Rathe frowned, wondering why his mother didn’t settle her in the chair, then realized it had been Ogier’s. Too much, too soon, to remind her again that he wasn’t coming back, and he moved to join them. The contrast between them was almost painful, his own mother browned and sturdy, her greying hair chopped short to fit beneath a gardener’s broad‑brimmed hat, Frelise pale as paper, well‑kept hands–hands that handled silks, Rathe realized–knotting in her lap. Caro’s hand, resting on her shoulder, looked even browner and more roughened by the contrast.

“It’s the pointsman, Frelise,” she said. “You knew they’d come. But there’s nothing to worry about, my dear, he’s my own son.”

There was a warning in her voice, and Rathe nodded, keeping his voice low and soft. “I’m Nicolas Rathe, mistress, adjunct point at Point of Dreams. I was with your brother when he died. I’m so very sorry.”

Frelise managed a watery smile. “Adjunct Point. Oh, that’s good of them, to send someone of rank, and Caro’s son, too. Tell me, did he suffer?”

Rathe dropped his head, hiding the wince. “No, mistress, not to speak of.” It was a lie, but the truth was unlikely to comfort. “I have some questions I have to ask, if you think you’re strong enough.”

“Yes.” Frelise nodded. “But–I don’t understand any of it! And Elinee, and Versigine, they kept saying that he must have done something, no respectable man should be murdered, not if he wasn’t doing something he oughtn’t…”

Her voice broke off in a gasp as she fought back tears, and Rathe glanced at his mother.

“The nearest neighbors,” she said softly. “I sent them packing, but not fast enough.”

“I wish it were true that folk were only murdered who deserved it,” Rathe said, and Frelise looked up at him, frowning, on the verge of offense. “I’m sorry, mistress, but I’ve seen people killed for no reason, for being an inconvenience, for having coin when someone else didn’t. It’s no shame to him or you that he was killed like this, just a tragedy.” He shook his head, aware that he was quoting Holles and his grief. “But we have to be sure, have to know if there was any cause, any old grudge, anything at all, that might help us find his killer.”

Frelise’s hands were locked together in her lap, and she fixed her eyes on them, still struggling for control. “I kept house for him, came in, oh, two or three days a week, dined with him perhaps one of them, but we didn’t talk all that much. He had his life, and I have mine.”

“So you don’t know of any quarrel, any enemy?” Rathe asked, his heart sinking.

Frelise shook her head. “No. He was stiff‑necked, stubborn, nobody’d know that better than me. But you don’t kill a man for being like that.”

Some people do. Rathe killed that thought, said instead, “Do you know who he’d been working for lately? They might know something.”