Текст книги "Point of Dreams"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Lisa Barnett
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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Frelise shook her head again. “A few, I think–it was busier than you’d think, this time of year, and the corms everyone’s mad for, they made for extra work.” She nodded to the jars standing on the narrow table. “Those were gifts, they’re supposed to be very fine. He said half the people buying them don’t know what to do with them, and so some of his regulars were referring new people to him, and he couldn’t say no. Not to the people, I mean, he could do that, but not to the plants. He couldn’t stand to see them mistreated.”

Caro nodded in agreement, and Rathe found himself nodding with her. He’d felt the same thing, more than once. He said, “Do you know the names of any of these people, the regulars or the new ones?”

“They’d be in his book,” Frelise said, and looked around almost helplessly. “Caro, did you see it?”

“Not yet,” Caro answered, her voice comforting, but she met her son’s eyes with sudden worry. “I’m sure it’s here.”

“Do you happen to know any of them yourself?” Rathe asked. If the gardener’s notebook was missing, that might well be a sign that it was one of his clients, or at least someone connected with their household, who had murdered the man.

“A few.” Frelise frowned, loosed her fingers at last to touch her temples, as though she had the headache. “There was a vidame, Tardieu, I think. And an intendant in Point of Hearts, I can’t remember, but it was a man. And the landame Camail. Donis, I can’t remember.”

Her voice rose in a wail, and Rathe glanced at his mother, wondering if he should withdraw.

“But there was someone else, dear,” Caro said. “You mentioned someone special, I think, all kinds of extra work?”

Frelise’s hand flew to her mouth. “Donis, you must think me a fool.”

“Never that,” Caro said. “Never that.”

“It was the succession houses,” Frelise said. “The landseur Aubine’s houses–four of them, Grener said, the finest in the city, and all of them busy just now, producing flowers for the midwinter masque.”

Ogier had worked for Aubine. Rathe closed his eyes, letting his head drop for an instant. So this was another theatre death, at least potentially, another death connected with the masque. Except that the manner was different, none of the theatricality of the other deaths, just a good, old‑fashioned knife through the ribs.

“And there was another thing,” Frelise said. “This I truly don’t understand. When I came in this morning, before the girl came from the Temple, I found clothes in the stove. Grener’s clothes, all burnt to ash. There’s nothing left but the buttons.” She shook her head. “I can’t think why he’d burn them. It’s more like him to sell them, or give them to the Metenerie.”

But I can think why. Rathe kept his face expressionless with an effort. I think I know why. He’d burned his clothes, was found wearing temple handouts, Istre confirmed that– he must have feared that someone would track him by magistical means, and tried to break the trail. And that’s another link to the theatre deaths: they have the stamp of magistry on them as well. “You’re sure they were his?” he asked, without much hope, and Frelise nodded.

“Oh, yes, his usual daywear. Clothes are my trade, you know.” Her face crumpled again. “I made that shirt myself.”

Caro patted her hand gently, and the other woman smiled her thanks, drew a deep breath. “I’ll look for his book, pointsman. I’m sure it must be here somewhere.”

I doubt it, Rathe thought, but nodded. “I’d be grateful, mistress.”

“I’ll stay with you,” Caro said. “If you’d like.”

“Do you have someone to stay with you tonight, mistress?” Rathe asked, and Frelise nodded.

“I live with my mistress–guildmistress, I mean, above the shop, she’s been very kind. And there’s a journeyman who’ll keep me company if I need it.”

Rathe smiled, relieved, and his mother said, “I’ll keep you company until you’re finished, and then I’ll see you home.”

Frelise nodded, and Rathe touched his mother’s arm, drew her aside. “And who’s going to see you home, especially if you’re late? The stars seem–chancy–these days, you have to admit.”

Caro smiled. “I’m not a child, Nicolas. I’ll take a low‑flyer, even if it is an extravagance.”

Rathe kissed her cheek. “Your safety’s not an extravagance.”

“Neither is hers,” Caro said, but her tone was less sharp than the words. “Or yours. Be careful, Nico.”

“I will,” Rathe answered, and hoped he could keep his word.

It was, as he had guessed, a little less than an hour’s walk along the Promenade from Ogier’s little house to the Western Reach, a pleasant walk, except for the carriages that crowded even the wide pavement. The sprawling complex of buildings that was the queen’s residence and the Reach were busier than ever, nobles visiting for the masque and the rumored naming of the heir tucked into every available room and rentable house. Rathe felt distinctly out of place, on foot, his shapeless coat hanging loose from his shoulders, and he wondered just what the passing landames thought of him, seeing the truncheon hanging at his belt.

There was no points station in the Reach, of course, but the adjunct at Point of Hearts was happy to direct him to Aubine’s residence–owned, she pointed out, not rented; the man was a permanent resident. He would have to be, to have built succession houses that caught Ogier’s fancy, Rathe thought, but thanked her nicely, and retraced his way through the streets until he found the house. It was smaller than its closest neighbors, but perfect, a jewel of a building, three storeys to the roof– which means, Rathe thought, that this younger son isn’t kept short of funds. This house required staff and funds to maintain both, and it would cost even more to maintain the succession houses. They were invisible, tucked somewhere in the gardens behind the building, but he knew from his mother’s conversation that even a small glasshouse cost a small fortune to heat, never mind the cost of building it in the first place. Four succession houses would easily consume even a landseur’s income, would explain why Gasquine had sought Caiazzo’s coin for the masque, content to let the landseur loan his name and flowers only.

He knocked at the door, carefully not looking to see if he’d tracked mud onto the scrubbed and swept stones of the stoop, and it was opened almost instantly by a very young girl, a child, almost, in miniature livery. Her lack of expression, however, was perfectly adult, the polite disinterest of a well‑trained servant, and like a good servant, she waited for him to speak.

“Adjunct Point Rathe, to see the landseur, if he’s home.” If he’ll be home to me, Rathe added silently, and the girl looked up at him.

“I–I think he’s in the succession houses, pointsman–Adjunct Point, I mean. Will you wait here? And may I tell him what this is about?”

“It’s about his gardener. Or possibly ex‑gardener. A man named Ogier.”

Her eyes widened, her voice suddenly and completely southriver. “Oh, sir, have you found Ogier? We’ve all been worried–the landseur’s been most unhappy since he left, we all have.”

“You liked him, then,” Rathe said, and the girl nodded.

“Oh, yes, sir. I miss him.” Her manner changed with her voice, so that she was suddenly a child again, despite the drilled manners and the livery, but then she shook herself back to her duty. “Please step in. If you’ll permit, Adjunct Point.”

Rathe did as he was told, grateful for his own childhood. He’d worked hard enough, his parents had needed the extra hands more than once, for harvest and planting and in high summer, when the groundsman’s work was at its height, but there had always been time for play, for pleasure. He hadn’t had to take on adult responsibilities until he’d become a runner, and he’d been older than this girl. She disappeared down the long hall without a backward glance, and Rathe made himself look around. He could smell the ashes of a fire somewhere close at hand, but the hall itself was almost cold, the last of the sunset filtering through the narrow window above the door. The light fell on a series of engravings, fine work, better than the average woodcut, and Rathe took a step closer. They all showed a great estate, the same estate, and its gardens, each drawn from a different angle, playing up a different feature, and he wondered if it was Aubine’s ancestral home, or some as‑yet‑unrealized dream. There were drawings of plants as well, single plants in the various stages of their growth, hand‑colored–all late‑year plants, he saw, and wondered if Aubine had another set for each of the seasons. The drawing of the winter‑creeper was particularly fine, the pale berries luminous against the tangle of vines, and he started when the girl cleared her throat.

“If you’ll come with me, Adjunct Point. The landseur is busy in the succession houses, and asked if you’d join him there.”

Rathe nodded, not at all sorry to have the chance to see them, and followed her through the house to a narrow stone‑floored hall that led to a shallow courtyard. The greenhouses lay beyond, four long, glass‑walled houses, smoke rising from their narrow chimneys, the rippled glass fogged by the warmth inside. They were easily the largest Rathe had ever seen, made Estines’s little house look like a child’s toy, and he shook his head, amazed. The girl led him to the one at the far end, opened the door and hurried him inside, careful to close the door again behind her before she spoke.

“Adjunct Point Rathe, maseigneur.”

Rathe had been expecting warmth, but not the heat of summer. The reddened light poured through the glass, and for a second he could almost believe that it was a summer sun that set beyond the walls. But the winter‑sun hadn’t risen, no pinpoint of brilliance standing high in the sky, and he shook himself back to the present, impressed again. Aubine stood at a gardener’s bench, coat and waistcoat discarded on a form, his shirtsleeves rolled back and a dozen plants standing unpotted, ready for his hand. All around him, the shelves were crowded with summer plants, most of them close to blooming, and that, Rathe realized, was part of the disorientation. The glasshouse smelled of summer, flowers and dirt and heat, and even the smoke from the stove couldn’t quite destroy the illusion.

“Adjunct Point,” Aubine said. “It’s a surprise to see you away from the theatre.” He lifted a heavy, short‑bladed knife, gestured apologetically with it, scattering dirt. “Forgive me for receiving you like this, but as you know, it’s a busy time for me.”

“Not at all,” Rathe answered. He thought for a second of saying how glad he was to have a chance to see the succession houses, but decided against it. Let the man assume he knew less than he did; if Aubine wanted to lie, this would be a chance to catch him. “I’m pleased to find you here, actually. I was afraid you might be at the theatre.”

Aubine smiled, tipping a plant into a pot that stood ready for him. The girl reached instantly for a bucket that stood nearby, sloshed water over the new dirt. “Ah. Thank you, Bice. I would love to be there, but if the flowers are to be ready for the masque, well, there’s still much work to be done. Bice tells me you have news of Ogier?”

“Some questions, first, if I may,” Rathe said, and realized Aubine was staring at him. “Sir?”

Aubine shook himself. “Of course. Ask what you must.”

“When did you last see Ogier?”

“Ah.” Aubine blinked, eyes focusing on something in the invisible distance. “That would be–what, Bice, one week ago? Two?”

“Almost two weeks ago, sir,” Bice answered. She reached for another pot, but Rathe saw the flicker of distress cross her face. The girl had liked Ogier, that much was obvious, and he winced at the thought of the coming sorrow.

“What happened?” he said aloud. “Did he send word, just not show up one morning?”

“Exactly that, Adjunct Point,” Aubine answered. “He simply didn’t arrive. I thought perhaps he was sick, but then he didn’t come the next day, either, or the day after that. I have no idea where he lives, or I would have sent for him–it’s probably just as well I don’t, I don’t think I would have been very moderate in my summons.” He laughed softly, ruefully. “Master Aconin has not made my job easy, I assure you. Only someone utterly unversed in flowers would manage to feature all the most difficult to bring into bloom at the same time. But I wish Ogier had warned me. I need his help, and he knew it, knew I was counting on him. Have you found him?”

“I’m afraid so,” Rathe said reluctantly, and kept his eye on the girl. “He was murdered last night, in Point of Dreams.”

Bice gasped, her face suddenly as white as chalk, and she set the pot hastily on the table. Aubine took it blindly, his expression still uncomprehending.

“We had his name,” Rathe said, “but we had no notion he worked for you until today. My understanding was that he never attached himself to any one household.”

“No,” Aubine said, “no, that’s quite true. But I asked–he had worked for me before–and he graciously agreed to give me a large portion of his time so that we could get the flowers ready for the masque. I think he liked the idea of being involved in that–and of working in my houses, I know he enjoyed that.” He shook himself then, as though Rathe’s words had finally made sense. “But–murdered? How? And where did you say?”

“He was stabbed,” Rathe said. The second question was an odd one, and he watched the landseur closely. “On the border of Hopes and Dreams, in actual fact, an alley there. He died shortly after he was found.”

Aubine dropped his knife, stared at it for a long moment before stooping to pick it up. “This is terrible news. And there I was, talking about my inconveniences, when the poor man was dead. What you must think of me. I hope he didn’t suffer.”

Rathe slanted a glance at the girl, saw her still listening, and gave the same lie he had told Frelise. “Not much, no.”

“Did he name his attacker?” Aubine went on. “Was it robbery? He could be difficult, but–why in Demis’s name would anyone kill him? Why would anyone murder a gardener?”

And that’s the question, isn’t it? Rathe thought. There could be a dozen reasons for asking if Ogier had named his killer, not least among them the desire to see that person punished, but still, there was something about Aubine’s question that raised the hackles on the back of his neck. And that was probably unfair, he told himself, but chose his words carefully. “It’s early days yet, maseigneur, we’re still trying to answer that. But, no, it wasn’t robbery. He had his purse on him, and it was untouched.” He looked down at the nearest plant, a tiny sundew, pretending to study the pattern of the gold‑edged leaves, watching Aubine from under his lashes. “I can’t imagine he would have had anything else of value on him, besides his purse.”

“No,” Aubine said, and shook his head. “I paid him what he was worth, of course, and I think I paid him only a day or so before he disappeared, but–” He broke off, met Rathe’s curious stare wide‑eyed. “This is simply terrible.”

In spite of himself, his eyes moved, taking in the shelves of plants–thinking of the work to be done, Rathe guessed, and all the more difficult without a helper, and he wasn’t surprised to see the landseur’s shoulders sag. But then Aubine straightened, drawing himself up to his full height, and the moment passed.

“Had he family?”

“A sister,” Rathe answered. “She did some of his housekeeping.”

“Bice.”

The girl straightened, face pinched and still, and Rathe hid a grimace of sympathy.

“Tell Jonneau to prepare a gift for–” Aubine looked at Rathe.

“Frelise Ogier.”

“Frelise Ogier,” Aubine repeated. “She mustn’t suffer for her brother’s death. And, please, Adjunct Point, I’d have you do all you can to discover who’s responsible. I will pay any fee you require…”

“I’ll find out who killed him, my lord,” Rathe answered, “but I don’t take fees.”

Aubine’s eyebrows rose. “You don’t? But how do you survive?”

“It is a paid post,” Rathe said dryly.

“Oh, I know, but I’ve read… I’ve heard…” Aubine took a breath. “Forgive me, Adjunct Point. I hope I didn’t offend.”

“It’s a common assumption, and mostly accurate,” Rathe answered. “No offense taken.” He hesitated, remembering the story Eslingen had related. “May I ask you a question?”

“Of course.” Aubine’s expression was controlled, and perfectly courteous.

“I’ve heard stories,” Rathe said, “and forgive me now if I offend, that the points failed to investigate the death of your leman some years back, a death that was very probably, if not certainly, murder. Is that true?”

Aubine fixed his eyes on the plant still waiting on the table, brought the knife down in a single sharp blow, neatly severing the tangled ball of roots. He heeled one half into a trough set ready, set the other into a half‑empty pot, and only then took a careful breath. “I do believe that to be true, Adjunct Point. That my leman was indeed murdered. I don’t blame the points, though, please understand that.” He looked up, managed a wavering smile. “The death was ordered by my grandmother, who, in practice if not in theory, would have been outside their reach, even if he was killed in Astreiant.” He set the knife aside, rested both hands flat on the scarred table. “That’s why it was so important to me to be part of the masque, to give to it, even if it’s just the flowers, and it’s one of the reasons I love, and fear, being there, at the theatre. It’s so easy there, all the orders, all the proprieties of rank and station, they’re all thrown aside, but when the doors close again, you daren’t forget just how real they truly are. It was that way at the university, certainly, and the theatre– so much more so. It hurts, and I know I’m seeing people who are going to do themselves harm–I wonder if that isn’t what happened to poor de Raзan–but they’re all so eager to throw themselves into this, all so fearless. And they should fear, Adjunct Point, I know that so well.”

It was more than he’d expected to hear, and Rathe nodded in sympathy, the easy words dying on his tongue. Aubine was right, and most of the actors knew it, knew how to play by the rules when they had to, and when they could discard them, Siredy had proved that, but one miscalculation, and they could end up as dead as Aubine’s lost love. “Thank you,” he said softly, and cleared his throat. “Maseigneur, I’m sure–I hope you understand that we’ll want to talk to your people as well, at least the ones who knew Ogier.”

The landseur nodded, his hands slowly brushing soil from the table into a bucket, repeating the movement even though he had to know, as Rathe knew, that it was futile. The dirt was worked into the grain of the wood, the table would never be truly free of it, but the gesture looked more like habit, repeated for comfort, like someone stroking a dog. “Of course, Adjunct Point. And if I or anyone remembers anything that might be of use, I shall assuredly let you know.” He smiled then, the expression crooked. “If I remember at the theatre, should I send word by way of Lieutenant vaan Esling?”

So the gossip’s got that far, Rathe thought, not knowing why he felt a chill. “No,” he said, “send word to Point of Dreams. Even if I’m not there, it will reach me.”

“Ah.” Aubine’s smile widened briefly. “I beg your pardon, Adjunct Point. If I remember anything, I will let you know.”

There were lights in his windows again, and as he went up the stairs the smell of food wafted down to meet him. Not Eslingen’s cooking, he guessed–the ex‑soldier’s kitchen skills were limited–and he wasn’t surprised to see a pair of covered iron dishes stamped with the moon and twin stars that was Pires’s tavern’s mark. One was still covered, waiting on the hob to keep warm; the other was simmering gently on the stove itself. Eslingen was sitting at the table in shirt and waistcoat, and Rathe didn’t have to look to know that the man’s coat was hung neatly on its stand behind the door. A tankard of beer sat in front of him, perfuming the air, and Rathe wrinkled his nose.

“Are we celebrating something?”

Eslingen grinned. “There’s a bottle of wine for you, too. In the cold safe.”

“So what are we celebrating?” Rathe pulled off his jerkin, draped it carelessly on its hook, freed himself of coat and truncheon as well. Eslingen kept the little room warmer than he himself would have done, but so far the price of charcoal was good this winter. He lifted the lid on the warming pot, saw and smelled a mix of root vegetables spiced with butter and horseradish, saw, too, a fresh loaf of bread set above the safe.

“The end of a five‑hundred‑year feud,” Eslingen answered, and Rathe blinked.

“What are you talking about?”

“My landames, remember? I told you about them.”

“The ones who were fighting,” Rathe answered, nodding, and reached into the safe for the wine. There was a new wedge of cheese as well, and he shook his head as he tugged open the bottle. “You’ll spoil us both, Philip.”

“Well, they decided to stop fighting today,” Eslingen said. “Or maybe it was before then, I can’t be sure.”

“Try beginning at the beginning,” Rathe suggested, and seated himself opposite the other man. The wine was good, the same cheap flinty wine from Verniens that he always drank, and he took another long swallow, relaxing in spite of himself.

“They were missing when Gasquine called us to rehearse the swordplay,” Eslingen said obligingly. “So of course we, Siredy and I, thought they’d decided to settle the feud once and for all. But when I went looking for them, I found them in the props loft, in–shall we say–a most compromising position.”

“They weren’t,” Rathe said, grinning himself now, and Eslingen nodded.

“Oh, but they were. I’d say the feud was settled.”

“The poor women,” Rathe said. “The story must be all over the theatre by now–how old are they, anyway?”

“Old enough to know how to manage an affair,” Eslingen said. “Honestly, Nico, after all I’ve heard about their thrice‑damned families and their five‑hundred‑year feud, I’m delighted to see them embarrassed. And before you say it, I didn’t have to say anything. Maseigne Txi was foolish enough to wear her hair in an arrangement she couldn’t redo without help.”

In spite of himself, Rathe laughed, the day’s sorrows receding even further. However they’d gotten to this point, it was good to sit here with Eslingen, good to share a drink and dinner and even this joke. “Aconin must have loved it. It’s just the sort of thing he does well.”

Eslingen’s smile faltered, and he leaned forward, resting both elbows on the table. “Aconin… I had a talk with him today, Nico. I think you want to question him.”

“Oh?” Back to business, Rathe thought, but couldn’t resent it. Here in the warmth of his own room, supper waiting on the stove, Eslingen’s easy presence across the table, it was almost like an ordinary profession, the comfortable chat of guild‑mates, not the fraught world of the points. I know it’s serious, deadly serious, but, Sofia, it’s so good to be a little free of it.

“Sorry.” Eslingen smiled regretfully. “But he knows who attacked him, I’m sure of that. You could probably get it out of him, he’s scared enough he might tell you.”

“What did he say?” It wasn’t exactly a surprise, Rathe thought, he’d been sure of it since he saw the playwright in his ransacked room.

Eslingen closed his eyes for a second, as though that would help him remember. “He said he’d made a mistake, taken something that had been promised to him–something he needed, he said. And that was what was behind all this.”

“Nothing more?” Rathe asked.

“No.” Eslingen reached for the pint bucket, ladled himself another tankard of beer. “Some people came up to us–he was afraid of being overheard–and then I was needed onstage. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, that’s more than we had before.” Rathe’s eyes narrowed. “Afraid of being overheard… Do you think it’s someone at the theatre?”

“Well, it has to be, doesn’t it, considering?” Eslingen answered, and Rathe shook his head.

“That wasn’t what I meant, I meant someone at the theatre today, at that moment, in fact.”

Eslingen shook his head in turn. “I’m afraid that doesn’t narrow it down very much. We had the whole chorus there–though not all the actors, not that I ever suspected them particularly. And the staff, and everyone.”

“Was Aubine there?” Rathe asked slowly.

“Yes, fiddling with his damn flowers. The arrangements just keep getting bigger and brighter, they’re going to be spectacular for the performance.” Eslingen paused. “Actually, he was one of the people who came up–you can’t suspect him, Nico.”

“Why not?”

Eslingen spread his hands. “He’s too–polite. Too calm. I just can’t see it.”

“Polite men have committed murder before this, Philip.”

“All right, why, then?”

Rathe stopped, frustrated. “I don’t know. I just…” He let his voice trail off, shook his head again. “I spoke to him today–Ogier worked for him, did I tell you that? Worked on the flowers for the masque, so his death is probably part of all this. But I spoke to Aubine, and… There’s something about him, Philip, makes my hackles rise. As you said–he’s too polite.”

“A landseur treats you with respect, so you suspect him of murder?” Eslingen asked, grinning, and in spite of himself, Rathe smiled back.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. No, I don’t trust the man, and I couldn’t tell you why. Sofia, I’d give a pillar or two to see his stars.”

“Is there someone you can ask?” Eslingen asked, and Rathe shook his head, shaking himself back to reality.

“No, no one. His family aren’t even Astreianter, so there won’t be servants to ask, even if I thought they’d tell me. No, I’ll start with Aconin, that sounds a lot more promising. But–” He hesitated, wishing he could put a finger on the cause of his uncertainty, recalled Aubine’s offer to send word via the Leaguer. “Be careful, Philip.”

Eslingen nodded. “I always am.”

9

« ^ »

for once, Rathe let Eslingen leave before him, biding his time until the clock struck half past nine and he was sure the playwright would be at the Tyrseia. The square in front of the theatre was quiet, the tavern closed, though he was aware of the owner watching from an upstairs window– probably wondering if there was going to be another body, he thought, and smiled in spite of himself. This was probably more excitement than they’d seen since The Drowned Islandclosed and the apprentices went home. As he came around the curve of the building, he saw a familiar carriage, every available space filled with bundled plants, and sighed to realize that Aubine was there before him. In the same moment, the landseur turned, motioning for his coachman to remain where he was, and moved to intercept him.

“Adjunct Point. I hadn’t hoped you would be here this morning, I thought I would have to send for you.”

“I had other business here,” Rathe answered, and knew he sounded wary.

“Unfortunately, I have–business–of my own for you,” Aubine said, and gave a small, sad smile. “Please, over here.”

Rathe followed him over to the carriage, frowning as he saw the torn leather curtain in its single window. Aubine reached through the window to open the door, and Rathe caught his breath. The floor of the carriage was covered with shards of glass, glass and water already freezing into ice, and a bouquet of summer flowers lay wilting on the seat. The warming box was cold to the touch, the coals extinguished, Rathe guessed, by the water that had spilled.

“Someone,” Aubine said, “shot at my carriage this morning.”

Rathe took a breath, shaking himself back to his duty. “When, maseigneur?”

Aubine looked at the coachman, who rolled his eyes almost as nervously as his horse. “I was told to bring the carriage at half past eight,” he said, “and then it took half an hour or more to load the flowers. So a little after nine, then, maseigneur.”

“A little after nine,” Aubine said.

Rathe fingered the torn curtain. It would have been stretched taut to keep out as much of the cold as possible; the hole was small, about the size of his little finger, but the ball had clearly hit the vase with enough force to shatter it, and that would easily have been enough to wound, probably to kill. For a second, he wished Eslingen were there–he didn’t have much experience with firearms himself, the average Astreianter bravo preferred knives–but pushed the thought away. Time enough to ask him later; for now, there were other matters to determine. “And where were you, maseigneur?”

“I was riding on the box.” Aubine looked almost embarrassed. “There were so many flowers, you see, and all of them delicate.”

“So there were more flowers in the coach?” Rathe asked, and leaned in to examine the floor and seats more closely. Sure enough, there was a tear in the far wall, where the ball had ripped through the coach itself. And it had to be a ball, he thought, couldn’t have been a birdbolt or any other projectile. Anything else would have been slowed by the curtain and the glass, and he would have found it somewhere among the broken pieces. And Aubine, sitting on the box with the driver, would have been, was muffled up against the cold like anyone, no one would expect him to be riding outside, or recognize him when he was.

“Yes,” Aubine said. “But we brought them inside, I didn’t want them to die in the cold. They were already wilting when we got here. I only hope they’ll recover–” He broke off, shaking his head, and Rathe gave him a curious look. At least Aubine realized how his obsessions must sound to outside ears.

“And where did it happen?” Rathe straightened so that he could see the other man clearly.

“Just at our gate,” the coachman said. “We’d just come up to it, the boy had it open, and I heard the shot.”

“The man was standing on our wall,” Aubine said. “Well, not on it, not quite, but looking over it–perhaps he had a ladder on the other side? I don’t know. I told Hue to drive on, and the man dropped out of sight. And we came on here.”

“And why was that, maseigneur?” Rathe asked. “Surely you’d have been safer if you’d waited in your own house, with your own people.”

“I–” Aubine sighed. “I’m not really sure, Adjunct Point. I suppose it would have been, at that. But I heard the shot, and I didn’t think. All I wanted was to get away. Not very brave, I admit, but there have been too many deaths already.”