Текст книги "Point of Dreams"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Lisa Barnett
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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

And that, Rathe thought, I can certainly believe. Nobody was likely to think clearly while they were being shot at, and it would be easier to keep a carriage moving than to back it through the gates. “Did you get a good look at the man?” he asked, and Aubine shook his head.

“I’m sorry. It was a man, I’m sure of that, but he was wearing a driver’s coat and a big hat, it hid his face.”

“Did you see his hair?”

“No.” Aubine shook his head again. “It must have been short, or pulled back.”

Which could describe three‑quarters of the men in Astreiant, Rathe thought, but he hadn’t expected any better. “Was he heavy‑built, slim–anything at all you can tell me?”

Aubine pursed his lips. “Slim, I think. I couldn’t really tell his height, because of the wall, but I think–I would say he was built like Chresta, slim and light.”

Like Aconin. That name would come up once too often one of these days. Rathe kept his voice steady with an effort. “Could it have been Aconin, do you think?”

Aubine blinked, startled by the idea. “No, surely not. Why would he do such a thing?”

“But could it have been?” Rathe said, and Aubine shook his head, decisively this time.

“I can’t say it wasn’t, but I surely can’t, won’t, say it was. The man was built a little like him, that’s all.”

There’s something not right about this, Rathe thought, he’s lying somewhere. “You know Master Aconin,” he said aloud, and saw something flicker in the landseur’s eyes.

“We–I counted him a friend.”

“And no longer?” Rathe waited, saw Aubine’s mouth tighten.

“It’s a common enough occurrence, I believe, at least where Chresta is concerned. But he has been very much involved in this masque.”

And if he wants to believe that, who am I to disillusion him? For the first time, Rathe felt a stab of pity for the landseur. He himself knew what it was like to lose a lover; Aconin was notorious for the brutality of his partings. “You’d best get the rest of these inside,” he said, and Aubine nodded.

“Thank you, Adjunct Point. Oh, but–one more thing?”

“Yeah?”

“Is–can this be my official report to the points?” Aubine gave another of his soft smiles. “I’m reluctant to add any more to the stories about the masque.”

“I don’t blame you,” Rathe said. Aubine was, after all, the noble sponsor; all these disasters reflected as badly on him as they did on Gasquine, perhaps worse. And I’d hate to think what Caiazzo was making of all this. I daresay he’s watching very close from Customs Point. “I’ll make your report in private. But if I need to talk to you again, may I?”

“Of course.” Aubine nodded, the gesture almost a bow. “And thank you.”

Gasquine was watching from the wings, resting one hip on a tall stool, her hands folded across her chest. She looked exhausted, Rathe thought, with sympathy, and no wonder. The masque was hard enough in any year, but this time… She looked up then, seeing him, and her eyes narrowed.

“Not more trouble.”

Rathe laughed in spite of himself, shook his head. “I don’t think so, just the same old ones. I need to talk to Aconin.”

“Good luck to you,” Gasquine said. “He’s not here.”

There was a distinct note of annoyance in her voice. Rathe said, “I thought he was here every day, checking up on things.”

“Oh, yes, every day until today, making sure I do justice to his damned masterpiece.” Gasquine sighed. “No, that’s not fair, it is good, and to be even fairer, he doesn’t do as much harm as your average playwright. But today, when I need him, he’s nowhere to be found.”

“When you need him?” Rathe asked. “I thought the script was set.”

“It is,” Gasquine answered. “Or at least it should be. But there’s a speech one of the chorus–the landseur de Besselin–is having trouble with, and I’d like to cut it. But I don’t know if that will affect the magistry of it, and Aconin isn’t here to tell me. So we have to muddle on.”

“So I can assume you don’t have any idea where he might be,” Rathe said slowly, and the woman shook her head.

“Oriane knows. He’s probably holed up somewhere with a new discovery. Have you come to call a point on him?”

Rathe grinned. “No, or at least not yet. I just had some questions for him. Was he paying particular attention to anyone?”

“I have the managing of this masque, Nico,” Gasquine said. “That’s a cast of nearly three score, including a better‑born chorus than I’ve ever been unlucky enough to have to deal with. Plus two mysterious deaths in the theatre, and the broadsheets bleating about a haunted theatre or a cursed play, plus Master Eyes’s malice on top of it–you did me no favor there, Nico. Aconin’s affairs have been, I confess, outside my notice.”

“Sorry,” Rathe said, lifting his hands, and Gasquine sighed.

“Not your fault, I know. But I’m starting to feel that the stars are against me.”

“Mistress Gasquine?” That was one of the scenerymen, touching his hand to his forehead. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but–”

Gasquine sighed. “I’m needed?”

“Yes, mistress. Now.”

Gasquine spread her hands in wordless appeal, but slid off her stool and vanished into the shadows without a backward glance. Left to himself, Rathe glanced around, looking for Eslingen among the crowd in the pit. The soldier was nowhere in sight, and he grimaced, wondering if anyone else might know Aconin’s whereabouts.

“Nico?”

The voice was unwelcome– except, Rathe thought, of all the people here, Guis Forveijl is the person most likely to know where I can find Chresta Aconin. “Guis.”

“I wanted to talk to you,” Forveijl said. “I wouldn’t bother you except it’s important. It’s about Chresta. And–” He gestured to the stage, the movement surprisingly ineffective for an actor, and more compelling for it. “All this.”

Rathe stared at him, wondering if Aconin had finally abandoned the other man–and that, he told himself firmly, was an unworthy thought. Forveijl’s face was unusually sober, troubled, and Rathe made a face, capitulating. “All right, talk to me.”

Forveijl shook his head. “Please. Not here.”

He tilted his head to one side, and Rathe sighed again, seeing the rehearsal momentarily at a standstill. A dozen of the chorus were trooping onto the stage, all carrying property weapons–Eslingen was among them, he saw, met Rathe’s glance with a quick smile that was replaced almost instantly with the intent frown that was becoming as familiar to Rathe as any of Forveijl’s gestures had been–and several of the actors, dismissed from the stage, were watching them with open curiosity. No, he could hardly blame Forveijl for wanting to keep this conversation private. “Where, then?” he asked, and Forveijl looked over his shoulder again.

“The dressing rooms, I suppose. That should be private enough,”

Not from what Jhirassi had always told him, Rathe thought, but then, he had no particular desire to be closeted too closely with Forveijl. He nodded, and let the other man lead him through the wings and up a narrow staircase that ran along the theater’s rear wall. The dressing rooms were there, nearly a dozen of them, communal rooms for the common actors, tiny private rooms for the leading women, and Rathe wondered idly where Eslingen dressed. Or the chorus, for that matter: they could hardly enjoy being tucked into even the largest of the rooms, forced to share with half a hundred others. To his surprise, Forveijl pushed open the door of one of the smaller rooms–but then, Rathe thought, following the other man inside, Forveijl had earned his peers’ regard. Whatever Rathe thought of him, Forveijl had their respect.

The room was surprisingly warm, the air heavy with the smell of the flowers that filled a vase the size of a man’s head. Silverthorn, winterspice, and the purple‑splashed bells of yet another corm: someone had gotten an expensive gift, Rathe thought, blinking in the sunlight that streamed through the narrow window to reflect from the tall mirror, and wondered if it was Forveijl’s. A part of him hoped it was, and another, smaller part felt a touch of jealousy. But their affair was long over, Forveijl had chosen Aconin and he himself had been lucky enough to find Eslingen, and he put it aside, frowning. The light from the mirror bounced across the far wall as Forveijl knocked against the frame, and Rathe stepped away, wincing.

“All right,” he said, and closed the door behind him. “What did you have to tell me?”

“I needed to talk to you, Nico,” Forveijl answered, and there was something in his voice that made Rathe shake his head in warning.

“About Aconin, so talk.”

“Yes. And I will, I promise. But, Nicolas, I’ve missed you, and this is the first chance I’ve had to say so. It’s a shock to have you back in my life, probably the most pleasant shock of my life, but still–”

“I’m not back in your life,” Rathe said. “I’m trying to find out who killed two people just in this theatre. I’m sorry if it seems to you as though I’m doing it to torment you.” He broke off, not wanting to say the words that had risen to his lips– I wasn’t even thinking you might be here–and Forveijl took a step closer.

“You’re not tormenting me, Nicolas. But, Oriane, if you wanted to, you could. You always did.”

Rathe stared at him for a moment, caught by the gleam of sunlight in the other man’s hair. Forveijl was gilt, warm honey skin and golden hair, where Eslingen was jet and ivory, and the actor was still very beautiful. A part of him had never forgotten that, Rathe knew, would probably never forget even after he’d lost the memory of all the petty quarrels. He took a breath, newly aware of the plants almost at his side, and shook himself, hard. “You’ve nothing to the purpose to say, have you?”

“Very much so, I promise.” Forveijl smiled.

“About Aconin,” Rathe said.

“That, too.”

Rathe shook his head, stifling desire he hadn’t know he still carried. Forveijl was beautiful, yes, handsome, virile, and utterly untrustworthy. He’d proved that more than once. “I’m going,” he said, and realized Forveijl stood between him and the door.

“Are you sure you want to?”

No. Rathe took a careful breath, trying not to remember how Forveijl’s skin had felt under his hands, how his hair had smelled of spice and the paint he wore onstage. “Get out of my way,” he said, and knew he sounded less than convincing.

“I don’t want to,” Forveijl said softly. There was less than an arm’s length between them, in the tiny room, and even as Rathe thought that, Forveijl reached out to lay first one hand and then the other on Rathe’s shoulders. Rathe shivered at the touch, at the memory of other touches, and Forveijl touched his face. “I want you. I want you back in my life, shock or no shock.”

And I’m still not back in your life, I have a lover… Rathe couldn’t bring himself to step away, refused to give in to the caress. “What would Aconin say to that?”

Forveijl laughed. “Chresta dropped me long ago, as I daresay you knew he would. We’re friends now, nothing more.”

“I’m sure he got the performance he wanted out of you,” Rathe said, and winced at his own bitterness.

“You have to admit it worked,” Forveijl said, and Rathe shook his head.

“I never saw the play.”

“I know. I looked for you.”

“The theatre’s dark,” Rathe said, clinging to solid fact. “You never could have noticed.”

“I noticed.” Forveijl leaned forward then, brought his mouth down hard on Rathe’s. Not like Philip’s, Rathe thought, dazed, his hands tangling in Forveijl’s hair. This is worse than folly, it’s madness. I don’t want to be doing this.

Forveijl cupped his face between his hands. “You have missed me.”

“Not once,” Rathe answered. It was the truth, too, or had been until this hour, and he tried to pull back, but Forveijl’s gentle touch held him prisoner.

“Until now,” Forveijl said, and the words echoed Rathe’s own thoughts so closely that he flinched away.

“Maybe,” he answered, and knew the word sounded as weak as he felt.

Forveijl laughed softly, and bowed his head to kiss Rathe’s throat. It was the sunlight in the mirror that was blinding, Rathe thought, not the touch, but he shut his eyes anyway. This wasn’t like Forveijl, he was always too proper–a dressing room seduction was too common for him, not fine enough, elegant enough… He opened his eyes to see the sunlight shattered into rainbow shards, flecks of light dancing like dust motes in the relative shadow of the rest of the room, turning and swirling to gather above the vase of flowers, as though they were drawn like bees to the heavy blooms. The Alphabet, Rathe thought, and felt a surge of relief–not folly, not desire, but something from without, the flowers deluding them both. Aconin had drawn them out one by one, he remembered hazily, but he didn’t know, couldn’t tell, where to start. And Forveijl’s mouth was hot on him, it was past time to end it. He reached out blindly, fingers tingling as they touched the hovering light, shoved the flowers to the ground. The vase tumbled, spilling water and greenery, and Rathe cried out as the light seemed to turn on him, pain worse than the sting of a hundred bees lancing into his hand. It pooled there, a single heartbeat of agony, struck upward like lightning, and he dropped to his knees among the scattered flowers.

“Nico?” Forveijl’s voice was distant, drowned in the angry hum of bees, of swarming sunlight. “Nico!”

Rathe looked up at him, vaguely aware of other pains, cuts on hand and knee where he’d landed hard on shards of the broken vase, but the buzzing, the pain, drove over anything he might have said. Too much, he thought, too much to bear, and at last the light slipped away, fading as he fell forward onto the splashed and scarred floor.

Eslingen glanced toward the staircase that led to the dressing rooms, frowning as he saw Forveijl slip quietly down the last few steps and disappear into the wings. At least that meant Rathe should be on his way, he thought, and automatically shook his head at a landame who had started to move half a beat too soon. She froze, not graceful but at least not out of time, and stepped off properly with the rest of them, Eslingen counting the steps aloud. The chorus finished with a flourish, and young de Besselin stepped forward, bowing, to proclaim his speech. Today he wore a lieutenant’s sash slung from shoulder to hip, the massive rosette decorated with the palatine’s crest picked out in gilt and dark blue paint, and Eslingen hoped it would help him remember his lines. Not that the speech was easy, a long and to Eslingen’s ears earnestly dull recitation of the various claimants’ connection to the palatine’s line, and he wondered idly why Aconin had ever bothered with it. But of course there were parallels to the queen’s situation, he thought, and wondered then if Rathe had noticed. If not, he’d definitely want to bring it to the pointsman’s attention as soon as he came back down. Eslingen smiled then, recognizing his own jealousy. Not that he was jealous of Rathe, he added instantly, it was just Forveijl he didn’t trust–though come to that, he doubted even Forveijl was enough of a fool to think he could win Rathe back to his side. Not from what Rathe had told him, though he had to admit that in his experience it was the people who told you loudly and in detail why they would never go back to a former lover who usually found themselves in bed with them yet again. That was not a pleasant thought at all, and he glanced over his shoulder again. There was still no sign of Rathe, and he wondered unhappily just how long it would take him to get dressed. And that was ridiculous, he told himself sharply. More likely the pointsman had slipped out while Eslingen wasn’t looking, was already on his way back to Point of Dreams.

“Break!” the bookholder called.

Gasquine stepped out of the wings, nodding to de Besselin, and Eslingen wondered if the boy had finally gotten through the speech successfully. Apparently he’d done well enough to satisfy Gasquine; the manager waved to the bookholder, and then tucked her arm through the landseur’s, drawing him aside.

“Ten minutes,” the bookholder said, checking the expensive timepiece pinned to her bodice. “Clear the stage for a set change, please.”

Eslingen shuffled back out of the way along with the rest of the cast, watched as chorus and actors dispersed to their usual spots in the pit. There was still no sign of Rathe, and after a moment’s hesitation, he started up the stairs. Jhirassi met him at the top, smiling cheerfully, and Eslingen caught his shoulder before the actor could get away.

“Have you seen Nico?”

“No.” Jhirassi grinned. “Have you seen Verre?”

Siredy? Eslingen blinked. “He’s below. Gavi, wait.”

Jhirassi paused, looked back with a lifted eyebrow.

“Which one is Forveijl’s?”

Jhirassi’s eyebrows rose. “I wouldn’t worry, Philip, that’s been over for years.”

Eslingen shook his head. “It’s not that.” There was something wrong, he thought suddenly, Rathe should have been down by now, and the fear sharpened his voice. “Which one, Gavi?”

“Third from the far end,” Jhirassi answered, pointing, and Eslingen turned away.

The door was closed, he could see that from here, but he had to flatten himself against the wall as bes’Hallen stalked past, her antique petticoats taking up most of the narrow hall, before he could tap on the unpainted panels. There was no answer, and he reached for the latch, glanced over his shoulder to see Jhirassi still watching from the top of the stairs. To hell with it, Eslingen thought, and lifted the latch. To his surprise, the door opened, spilling sunlight across the worn floorboards, and he blinked to see Rathe sprawled on the floor like a heap of discarded clothes. There were flowers beneath him, and water; he was lying in a puddle, on top of the pieces of a broken vase. No blood, Eslingen thought, his own breath painfully short, and knelt quickly beside the body, groping for the pulse at the neck. It was there, and strong, and he rocked back onto his heels with a gasp of relief. A strong pulse, and no visible injury– did the bastard knock him down, knock him out, and just leave him? Eslingen wondered, running his hands over Rathe’s head and torso. There were no bruises, either, but no sign of returning consciousness–he looked, if anything, like a man lightning‑struck, except that he was breathing easily, but even so, Eslingen lifted each of Rathe’s hands in turn, looking for the faint burn. Maybe Forveijl had attacked him, then, he thought, but he couldn’t imagine the actor winning even an unfair fight, at least not without leaving a mark.

“Tyrseis!” Jhirassi’s shocked voice sounded from the doorway, and Eslingen looked up quickly.

“Fetch a doctor, please, Gavi. Quickly.”

“What’s wrong?” Jhirassi stood frozen, eyes suddenly huge, and Eslingen shook his head.

“I don’t know. He’s alive, but–send for a physician, please. He’s out cold.”

Jhirassi nodded, backing away, and a moment later, Eslingen heard his footsteps loud on the stairs, and the distant sound of his voice shouting for a runner. Thank Seidos for people who can make themselves heard, he thought, and carefully gathered Rathe into his arms, lifting him out of the spilled water. There was a scratch on the pointsman’s hand where he’d fallen on a shard of glass, and another on his shin, visible through a tear in the heavy stocking, but those had obviously happened when he fell, could not have caused this collapse. Eslingen touched Rathe’s cheek, feeling the first rasp of stubble, and to his relief the other man stirred slightly, opening his eyes.

“Guis–”

And was that accusation, or regret? Eslingen wondered, and stifled his own anger. “It’s me, Nico. Philip. Where are you hurt?”

“Philip.” That was definitely relief in Rathe’s voice, and Eslingen let out breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Where are you hurt?” he said again. “What happened, Nico?”

Rathe shuddered, a wracking, convulsive movement, and Eslingen gathered him more tightly into his arms. “Talk to me, Nico. Where–?”

“Besides all over?” Rathe managed a weak grin, and it was all Eslingen could do not to squeeze him still more tightly.

“Nico, look at me. Are you hurt anywhere in particular?”

Rathe’s head moved from side to side, not quite purposeful enough to be a headshake. “I–I’m not sure, I’m still…”

“What?”

“Tingling. The lights…” Rathe shook his head, more definitely this time. “I feel like I was hit by lightning.”

“That’s what you look like,” Eslingen said grimly. And damned unlikely, on a sunny day and no other sign of it.

“Do I?” Rathe tried to sit up, but Eslingen held him back.

“No, don’t push yourself. Tell me what happened.”

“I was an idiot,” Rathe answered, and Eslingen sighed.

“Possibly. It does seem to be going around. In what way were you an idiot?”

“I listened to Guis.”

“It seems that would qualify,” Eslingen said grimly, looking at the scattered flowers, and Rathe made a noise that might have been the start of laughter.

“Don’t. I hurt.”

“Where?” Eslingen asked, and Rathe grimaced.

“Everywhere.”

He was looking a little less pale, Eslingen thought, though the pupils of his eyes were still too wide, too black for the amount of light streaming in the window. “What happened?” he said again, and this time the words seemed to register.

“Guis,” Rathe began, then shook his head. “The flowers…” He stopped again, frowning, a little more color seeping back into his face, and Eslingen drew a slow sigh of relief. “Guis wanted me back–very convincing he was, too. But I don’t know if it was him or the flowers, this happened when I knocked them over. Philip, it’s important, you have to find out where these came from–”

Rathe’s hand closed on Eslingen’s arm, and the ex‑soldier winced at the grip, loosened the fingers carefully. “I’ll ask,” he said soothingly. “Don’t worry, we’ll find out, I will, or someone from Dreams.” And I’ll send someone else after Forveijl, he added silently, or the points will have another theatre murder on their hands. He didn’t doubt that the actor was long gone, and he took a careful breath, controlling his anger.

“It might have been aimed at Guis, too,” Rathe said painfully, and Eslingen snorted.

“Do you really believe that?”

Rathe shook his head, but whatever else he would have said was cut off by the sound of footsteps in the hall. Eslingen looked up quickly, to see Gasquine and a stocky, moon‑faced woman in a physician’s robe filling the doorway. There were more people behind them, Jhirassi and Siredy among them, and he made a face, thinking of the new rumors.

“And what’s the matter with this one?” the physician demanded.

The Phoebans were living up to their reputation, Eslingen thought. He said, “I don’t know, exactly. I found him like this.”

The woman squatted beside them, brushing flowers out of the way, tilted Rathe’s face up so that his eyes met her own. “Hah. Not drunk or drugged, and not lightning, either, on a clear day, not to mention it’s winter. Give me your left hand.”

Rathe held it out, and she nodded as though he’d passed the first test. “Your pulse is good,” she said after a moment, and reached into her case for a bodkin. Without warning, she pricked the tip of Rathe’s forefinger, nodded when she saw him wince, then touched the other fingers as well. “Good, you feel.”

“Yes,” Rathe said, and sounded almost indignant.

“So you tell me what happened.”

Eslingen saw the other man’s gaze flicker, knew he was debating telling the truth. “I don’t remember,” Rathe said after a moment, and the woman grunted.

“Well, if you don’t know what happened, all I can do is treat the symptoms. Which look damnably like you were hit by lightning.”

“I feel like I was hit by lightning,” Rathe said, and struggled to sit up. Eslingen released him reluctantly, sat back on his heels ready to catch the other man if he faltered.

“Not very likely,” the physician said, and caught Rathe’s right hand. “Do you feel this?”

Rathe winced. “Yes.”

“Where else do you hurt?”

“My shoulders, both arms, my ribs–the muscles along them, not the ribs themselves.” Rathe leaned forward slightly, grimacing as he tested his strength. “It’s better than it was.”

The physician grunted again. “And they’ll be worse tomorrow.” She looked at Eslingen. “If you’re his leman–hells, if you’re a friend–treat him to the baths tonight. He’ll feel like he’s been lifting barrels by morning.”

Eslingen nodded, and the woman went on. “For the rest, well, there’s arnica, which I would recommend for the bruising. You may or may not see it, but for my money you’re bruised inside. And a tissane of moonwort, to ease things. You can get those at any herbalist. Go home, lie down, let your muscles rest, but don’t sleep for a few hours. After that, it’s the best thing for you.” She pushed herself to her feet, frowning. “If you could remember what had happened to you, I might be able to offer more, but since you can’t, all I can do is treat the symptoms that I see.”

“Of course,” Rathe said, and Eslingen thought he looked faintly embarrassed.

“Nico,” Gasquine said, and Rathe grimaced, starting to push himself upright. Eslingen rose with him, steadying him, was pleased when the pointsman found his balance quickly. “What–where’s Guis?”

“I don’t know,” Rathe answered, his voice grim. “But I will want to talk to him.”

“Guis isn’t in the theatre,” one of the theater runners said, poking her head around the edge of the door, and in the same moment the crowd parted to admit Sohier, truncheon in hand. Someone was thinking, Eslingen thought, and felt almost giddy with relief.

“Nico?” Sohier asked, and Rathe waved his hand impatiently.

“I’m all right, or I will be. But I need two things from you, Sohier, quick as you can. First, find Guis Forveijl, someone here must know where to look. Second–” He glanced down at the flowers still littering the floor. “Find out where these came from. Who they were given to, and when.”

Sohier nodded, her long face intent. “We’ll get on it right away.”

“We?” Rathe asked, and swayed unsteadily. Eslingen caught him, unobtrusively, he hoped, and felt the other man shiver again.

“Leenderts and me,” Sohier answered. “And I can get Persilon as well. I didn’t know what would be needed.”

“Good woman,” Rathe said. “But we need the answers as soon as possible.”

“Understood,” Sohier answered, and backed away.

“All right,” Gasquine said sharply, and Eslingen suppressed a giggle, seeing half the crowd vanish as though by magic. “There’s work to be done, and you’ll all be disappointed to know, there’s no disaster to be gawked at. Get along.” She waited, hands on hips, while the last of the actors made their way back down the narrow hall, then turned to face the waiting men. “Did Guis do this?” she asked, and Eslingen was surprised by the pain in her voice.

“I–don’t really know,” Rathe answered. “It’s possible, or it might have been meant for him as well.”

“You’re fairer than I’d be,” Eslingen muttered, and Rathe managed a crooked smile.

“It’s my job, Philip.”

He was sounding weaker again, and Eslingen looked at Gasquine. “I’m taking him home, Mathiee. I just have to tell Master Duca–”

Gasquine held up a hand. “I’ll speak to Duca. Take a low‑flyer, Lieutenant.” She held out her hand, shaking her head at Eslingen’s automatic protest. “It was in my theatre, and maybe one of my people who did this. The least I can do is see him home safely. Now go.”

Eslingen kept his arm around the other man as they made their way down the stairs, aware of the stares from actors and chorus as they made their way out into the plaza. He found a low‑flyer quickly, for once, but as he held open the door, Rathe shook his head.

“No.”

“Nico,” Eslingen began, and Rathe shook his head carefully.

“I’m not going home, there’s work to do. I want to go to Point of Dreams.”

“The physician said…”

“I know, Philip, but my books, the books are at Dreams, and I need to look at them.”

Eslingen eyed him uncertainly, on the verge of sending the driver to Rathe’s rooms anyway, and Rathe shook his head again.

“No, I’m not babbling, truly, it’s just there are things I have to know now. Refore it’s too late. Please, Philip, trust me on this.”

Eslingen lifted his hands, and reached up to tap the driver on his knee. “Change of plans. Take us to Point of Dreams station.”

Rathe was silent on the short ride, resting against the hard cushions, but as they turned the last corner before the station, he roused himself, working his shoulders as though they still pained him. “I’m sorry, Philip.”

Eslingen gave him a startled look. “For what?”

Rathe shrugged, wincing. “For worrying you.”

Eslingen hitched himself around carefully on the low‑flyer’s nar‑row seat. “Ah, and here I thought you meant about disobeying the physician’s direct order to go to bed for the rest of the day.”

Rathe shook his head again. “I’m not getting into bed in the middle of the day.”

In spite of everything, Eslingen grinned. “That’s not what you’ve said before this.”

“There was never a bed available.”

“You’ll be fine,” Eslingen said dryly. “No, I understand. If there’s work to do–and besides, there’s always the nasty thought that it’s the surgeons, not the battle, that’ll be the death of one.”

Rathe smiled at that, and leaned his head back against the cushions, but Eslingen sighed, knowing it had all too often been the truth.

The low‑flyer brought them into the courtyard of the Dreams station, the runners gathering to stare, and Rathe made a particular effort to descend without a helping hand. Eslingen let him, reluctantly, then paid off the driver and followed the other man inside. The duty point was a stocky, handsome woman, who eyed Rathe with a mixture of horror and relief, then looked down at her book, visibly mastering her emotions.

“Glad to see you’re all right,” she said roughly. “When the runner came…” She let her voice trail off, lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “They find the bastard?”

“Not yet,” Rathe answered, “and at the moment we don’t even know for sure who’s responsible.”

Eslingen snorted at that–it would be Forveijl, for his money– and Rathe gave him an admonishing look.

“We don’t know,” he repeated, and looked back at Falasca. “When Sohier gets back, send her up to my workroom, will you? And anything else I need to know about.”