Текст книги "Point of Dreams"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Lisa Barnett
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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

“Will do,” Falasca said. “The chief’s out, but I sent word to her, and I’ll send her up when she comes. She’ll want to talk to you.”

“Thanks.” Rathe turned to the stairs, face set as he worked his way up, not willing to concede to his aching muscles. Eslingen, following close behind, was grateful when they finally reached the workroom, and Rathe let himself collapse into the large chair at his worktable.

“I need my books, Philip,” he began, and Eslingen shook his head.

“The stove first,” he said, and stooped to rake up the coals. “And then tea.” He found the pot, still half full of a dark, stewed brew, and added more water from the bucket that stood ready. “Now, what was it you wanted?”

“My books,” Rathe said again, but he was smiling. “On the shelf there.”

Eslingen crossed to the shelf that hung beside the long window. It was three‑quarters full of slim, board‑bound volumes, mostly octavos, but some larger, all held in place by an empty forcing jar. He lifted the first one down, and was not surprised to see a familiar title stamped on the dark blue cover. “Are these all the Alphabet?”

Rathe nodded, reaching for his lockbox. “All the licensed copies, and probably a tenth of the unlicensed ones.”

“So you really do think this was the Alphabet at work?” In spite of himself, Eslingen couldn’t quite keep the note of skepticism out of his voice as he set the first stack of books on the worktable.

“Yeah.” Rathe had the box open, took out a red‑bound octavo. “I know, I’m the one who said it wasn’t likely to be real, but this–I don’t have any other explanation.”

“So what exactly did happen?” Eslingen asked. There was a stool in the corner, and he pulled it over so that he could sit facing Rathe. Behind him, he could hear condensation hissing on the sides of the kettle, and the crackle of the rising fire.

Rathe made an embarrassed face. “I told you, Guis wanted to reestablish our relationship–which, I might add, has been over longer than it lasted. But that wouldn’t have mattered, except…” He shook his head. “It was the flowers, Philip, I’m sure of that. I could see the light gathering on them, I could hear it, it sounded like bees swarming, so I knew that was wrong, that I had to stop it. I knocked over the vase, and it shattered, and I felt, gods, I can’t explain. It hurt worse than anything I’d ever felt–it was like being hit by lightning, just the pure jolt of it, and the light, and that’s pretty much all I remember until you were holding me.”

Eslingen nodded, suppressing a shudder of his own. Magistical things, magistry itself, were not meant to be handled so roughly; it was a commonplace that a magist’s work disturbed was worse than a baited bull. He shook away the thought of what might have been, and said, his voice as level as he could manage, “That definitely sounds like the Alphabet.” He looked at the books scattered on the table. “But which one?”

“Yeah, that’s the question.” Rathe managed a tired grin. He was looking better, Eslingen thought, less pale and interesting, but still not his usual self. “I would swear I’d seen that arrangement, too, or at least one very like it, something in one of these books. Which was why I had to come back here.”

Eslingen nodded. The water was boiling now, and he rose to lift it off the heat, poured a cup for each of them before setting the kettle on the hob. “All right,” he said, “where do we start?”

“It’s a version that’s come across my desk, probably in the last week or so,” Rathe said, and took the proffered cup with an abstracted smile. “And it’s one that Guis would also have been able to see–assuming of course it was Guis who made it.”

“Which you have to admit is the most likely option,” Eslingen said. The tea was stewed, thick and bitter, but warming, and he wrapped his hands around the heated pottery.

Rathe nodded. “Which should mean it’s one of the more popular ones. Guis is the kind who’d buy the most popular version.”

“And obviously bought in Dreams?”

“Probably,” Rathe answered, “but that won’t help us, at least not now. The booksellers all carry all the versions, or a good selection. We can try tracking down the stall where he bought a copy, maybe even trace the exact copy that way, but that’s going to take time.”

“Which you don’t have,” Eslingen said, and Rathe nodded again.

“Not with a working copy of the Alphabet loose in Astreiant.”

There was a knock at the door, but before Rathe could say anything, the door swung open. A well‑dressed woman–well‑dressed pointswoman, Eslingen amended, presumably Rathe’s Chief Point Trijn–stood there, scowling impartially at both of them.

“What the hell is happening at that theatre, Rathe? First I get a runner telling me my senior adjunct was attacked, next I find Falasca–Falasca, of all people–telling me you’re alive and well, and then a runner shows up with a message about a bunch of flowers. For you, of course.”

She tossed a strip of paper onto the desk in front of Rathe, who took it, and gave Eslingen an apologetic look. “Falasca wanted my job,” he said. “We’ve been–sorting things out between us.”

Eslingen nodded, understanding, and Trijn glared at him.

“And who in Sofia’s name is this?”

“My leman.” Rathe hesitated, as though he’d suddenly heard what he had said. “Philip Eslingen.”

Eslingen blinked–this was not how he’d expected to hear it, though on the whole he had no objections–and he saw Rathe blush.

Oh, yes, we’ll talk about this later, the soldier thought, trying not to grin, and met Trijn’s stare guilelessly.

“Oh.” Trijn’s frown faded, and she gave Eslingen a look of almost genuine interest. “The other one who found the children. I was wondering what had happened to you.”

Working for Hanselin Caiazzo, and now at the theatre. Eslingen opened his mouth to explain, and closed it again, not knowing where to begin. “I’m one of the Masters of Defense now,” he said.

“Working on the masque,” Trijn said. “All right. Fine.” She looked back at Rathe. “What is all this about a bunch of flowers?”

“We have a problem, Chief,” Rathe said. “There’s a working copy of the Alphabet out there.”

Trijn blinked, and closed her mouth firmly over anything else she might have said. She closed the door quietly behind her, and leaned against it, folding her arms across her chest. “Tell me.”

Something–embarrassment, probably, Eslingen thought–flickered over Rathe’s face, but he ran through the events concisely, not sparing his own blushes. “And so I figured the best thing was to come back here and start checking the various editions.”

Eslingen frowned. “He has, of course, left out the fact that the physician told him to go home to bed.”

Trijn’s eyes flicked toward him. “Of course she did. You needn’t try to impress me with his dedication, Eslingen, I’m quite familiar with it. And his stubbornness.” She shook her head, crossed the room to perch in the embrasure of the window. “So. There’s a working copy out there. Any idea which one?”

Rathe shook his head. “No. But at least we know who made the arrangement.” He held up the scrap of paper. “Sohier says Tarran Estranger, who shares the dressing room, says Guis brought it in with him this morning, and the doorkeeper saw him with it, too. So it’s Guis’s doing.”

“Are you planning to call a point on this Forveijl?” Trijn asked. “You’ve got bodily harm at the least. Whether he knew what the effects would be when the flowers were disarranged or not, he took responsibility when he created the arrangement.”

Call it, Eslingen thought, and sighed when Rathe shook his head.

“It’s not worth it. It’d be like calling a point on a child–if I know Guis, he’s too scared right now to even think of trying anything like that again.”

“Too scared right now,” Eslingen said, and Trijn nodded.

“I agree. He may be too scared right now, but he’ll feel cocky again soon enough. I know the type.”

Rathe shook his head again, and this time it was Trijn who sighed. “All right. If not for battery, what about assault?”

Rathe gave a faint smile. “I don’t think the point would stand. It was planned as seduction, and that’s what it would have been. And the law doesn’t recognize that.”

“I do,” Eslingen said, under his breath, and Rathe frowned at him.

“You’re being very noble about this, Rathe,” Trijn said.

“I’m not,” Rathe said. “Look, everyone at the theatre knows what happened now. He has to face them–they’re not going to replace him, and he’s not going to drop the part, so he’s going to have to go into the Tyrseia every day from now till the masque, with everyone knowing that even with the Alphabet to help him, he couldn’t seduce his once‑besotted ex‑lover. That’s got to be a blow to his self‑regard.”

I doubt you were ever besotted, Eslingen thought, but knew better than to say it aloud.

“Anyway,” Rathe went on, “the main thing is the practical copy.”

Trijn nodded. “Your mother was a gardener, right? So presumably you picked up some of her trade.”

Rathe nodded, looking wary. “Some things, yeah.”

“Can you name the flowers?” Trijn asked. “Better, can you remember how they were arranged? If you can sketch that, you and I– and Eslingen here, we might as well make use of him–can get through these books in a lot less time.”

“Makes sense.” Rathe rubbed his temples. “I know the flowers, they were those white corms with the purple splotches, with silverthorn and winterspice–more silverthorn than spice–but I’m not so sure about the arrangement. Let me see what I can do.”

Trijn nodded. “Do what you can. In the meantime, Eslingen, you and I can at least look for those flowers in conjunction.”

Eslingen reached for the stack of Alphabets, picked one at random and handed it to the chief point, then chose a second for himself. This one was bound in purple cloth, but the woodcuts were cheap, done fast by a less‑than‑talented artist, and as if to make up for that, the printer or her writer had added a list of all the plants in each arrangement at the corner of the print. He skimmed through the book, spotting the corms twice, and the silverthorn half a dozen times, but never together with winterspice. He started to set it aside, shaking his head, and Trijn said, “Put it here.”

Eslingen did as he was told and reached for another volume. This time, the binding was plain, cheap, dark blue cloth, but the prints were beautiful, done with an unusual delicacy of line. The text was less interesting, doggerel verse followed by a prose vignette linking the flowers shown to some important event long past, but he turned these pages more slowly, caught in spite of himself by the illustrations. There were numbers in the bottom corners of some of the prints, he realized suddenly, numbers that looked like act and scene, and he frowned, looking up at Trijn.

“I thought no one was allowed to print anything about the masque until it had been played.”

The chief point gave him a wary stare, and Rathe looked up from his sketching. “What do you mean?”

“This Alphabet,” Eslingen answered, and held it up. “It’s got act and scene numbers for every event that’s in the play. Verse numbers, too, for some of it. Pretty much the whole story’s in here, if you want to make the effort. Does that count?”

Trijn took the book from him, and paged quickly through. “What an interesting question,” she murmured. “Probably not, it’s not the play per se, but it might be interesting to try to call it–after we’ve dealt with this practical version.”

Eslingen nodded, blushing, and Rathe sat up straight again, spinning his sketch so that the others could see. “That’s the best I can do,” he said, and frowned. “You know, I’d swear I’d seen it before.”

“I most sincerely hope so,” Trijn answered, not looked up from her own copy. “I’m already spending too much of this station’s budget on these damn things.”

Rathe made a noncommittal noise, his expression distant, then reached for the book he’d taken from his lockbox. He paged through that, scanning each of the prints, stopped with a noise of satisfaction. “There,” he said, and held out the book. “That’s it.”

Eslingen took it before Trijn could stretch for it, held it where they both could see. “Seduction,” he read. “Victory over an adversary. Regaining lost fortunes.” That was the caption, cryptic as any broadsheet; on the page opposite, a writer of middle talent had composed thirteen couplets on the Ancient Queens.

“This reads like market cards,” Trijn said.

“But it works,” Rathe said. “Unlike market cards.”

His voice was remote, as though he was trying to remember something, and he reached for the Alphabet again. Eslingen let him take it, watched the other man flip hurriedly through the pages, frown deepening as he got further into the text. Then he stopped, his face lightening abruptly, and he spun the book so that the others could see.

“I knew I’d seen that before. Chief, Leussi was growing this less than a full moon before he died.”

“So?” Trijn demanded. “Was it one of the ones he bought from that woman in Little Chain?”

Rathe shook his head. “No. No, we talked about it, I didn’t know what it was, and I asked him. He said it was a gift, but he didn’t say from whom. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but now–”

Eslingen nodded, staring at the plate. It didn’t show an arrangement, but a single plant, rangy and rather ugly, with hairy leaves and stems that supported a surprisingly delicate blue flower. “Bluemory,” the text named it, and gave instructions for planting and harvesting it safely. “What exactly does it mean, ‘deadly in the right stars’?” he asked, and Rathe showed teeth in a feral grin.

“Exactly what it says, and you notice that these how‑to‑plant‑and‑harvest‑it instructions actually tell you everything you need to make it a deadly poison.”

“So you think that’s what killed the intendant,” Trijn said.

Rathe nodded. “I think it’s a good bet–and I hope to all the gods that Holles can remember who gave him the plant.”

“So why wasn’t Holles killed?” Trijn asked.

“If his stars weren’t right, it wouldn’t hurt him,” Rathe answered. “Look, to keep it safe you have to plant it when the moon is in trine to your natal star, and you have to avoid harvesting it when the moon’s in your natal sign. It’s all dependent on the gardener’s signs, individual signs. The only general thing is you can’t pick it when the sun and Seidos are in conjunction.”

“I’ll send to the university,” Trijn said, “see if they know of the plant–the phytomancers might even grow it, if we’re particularly lucky. But either way, it gives Fanier something more to work with.” She held up her hand, forestalling anything else Rathe might have said. “And I’ll ask Holles about it, too. There’s no need to get you into any more trouble with the regents.”

“I have no desire to get into any more trouble with the regents,” Rathe answered. He shook his head. “I hope they’ve found Gus.”

“They’re taking their time about it,” Trijn said. “Which edition is this?”

Rathe grimaced. “That’s the thing. I don’t think it’s a recent one. Not one of the ones we’ve picked up in the markets. Holles gave it to me, after Leussi was killed.”

Trijn’s eyebrows rose at that, and Rathe spread his hands. Eslingen looked back at the print, wondering just how hard it would be to make use of these directions. One would need to know the intended victim’s stars, but that wasn’t too hard to find out, and then you’d need to know enough about gardening to bring the plant to a reasonable size–or would you? he wondered. Could something as small as a stalk or cutting kill? He pulled the book toward him, looking for the answer, but instead the last line of the description seemed to leap out at him: “the true name of Bluemory is Basilisk.”

“Then we’d better find out who is printing it,” Trijn said, “or who’s done a new edition.”

Rathe nodded, but anything he might have said was interrupted by a knock at the door. It opened before he could say anything, and Sohier stuck her head into the workroom.

“Oh, good, I’m glad I found you. Falasca said you were doing much better.”

“Better enough,” Rathe answered.

“We’re going to have to track Forveijl down at home, assuming one of the addresses we got from his friends is correct, and I wondered if you wanted to come with us.” Sohier tilted her head to one side, looking in that moment like a large and ungainly river bird.

“You don’t have to, surely,” Eslingen said, and Rathe shook his head.

“But I want to. What do you mean, Sohier, ‘one of the addresses’?”

The pointswoman shrugged uncomfortably. “Gasquine was busy, so we asked some of the other actors–”

“Not from Gasquine, who would know?” Trijn asked, and Eslingen cleared his throat.

“Ah. I know where he lives.” Both women looked at him, and he suppressed the urge to duck his head like a schoolboy. “When Aconin was shot–”

“Aconin was shot,” Trijn repeated. “And when was this?”

“He wouldn’t make the point,” Rathe said, and Trijn allowed herself a sigh as dramatic as any actor’s.

“Who shot him?”

“No idea, Chief,” Rathe answered, and Eslingen cleared his throat again.

“I walked him to Forveijl’s. He didn’t want to go home.”

“Not to the Court, no, he wouldn’t,” Rathe said. “Where is he living, anyway?”

“Close by the river, on Altmar Lane,” Eslingen answered, and Sohier nodded.

“That checks. Next to Armondit’s house.”

Rathe nodded, reaching for his coat, and Eslingen stood. “I’m coming with you.”

He thought for a moment that Rathe would protest, but Sohier nodded.

“I’d take it kindly, Lieutenant,” Trijn said, and Rathe’s frown deepened.

“It’s not necessary.”

“Answer me this,” Trijn said. “Are you that happy at the thought of seeing Forveijl again?”

Rathe hesitated, and she nodded. “Not that I blame you. So Lieutenant Eslingen is more than welcome to join you–as long as he keeps any murderous impulses well in check.”

Eslingen swept her a bow. “I am restraint itself, Chief Point.”

Forveijl’s lodgings looked very different in daylight, an old house kept in good repair, with a narrow band of fallow garden between it and the dirt of the street. Of course, it had to be kept up, Eslingen thought; Madame Armondit’s house was too expensive for her to tolerate a slovenly neighbor. She also didn’t like the points’ presence, he saw, with an inward grin, and nodded to the doorkeeper watching suspiciously from his little house.

“Second floor,” Sohier said. “Always assuming he’s home.”

That would be the question, Eslingen thought, following the others up the stairs, and if it were me, I’d be long gone. He glanced at Rathe, but the man’s face was expressionless, shuttered against any show of emotion. Sohier knocked on the door, first with her fist, and then, when there was no answer, with her truncheon. There was still no answer, and Rathe swore under his breath.

“I didn’t think he’d have the nerve to run.”

“I’ll get the landlady,” Sohier said, and Eslingen flattened himself against the wall as she clattered back down the long stairs.

“Do you think he’s gone to Aconin?” Eslingen asked, and Rathe tipped his head to one side, considering.

“He said it was over between them, though Sofia knows if he was telling the truth. But, no, I don’t think so, mostly because I doubt Aconin’s neighbors would want a stranger bringing his troubles into the Court.” Rathe turned back to the door, pounding it with his closed fist. “If he’s not here, I don’t know where he’d go.”

“Someone at the theatre will know,” Eslingen said. Privately, he wasn’t so sure–Forveijl had been solitary for an actor, seemed to keep very much to himself. “Or at whatever company he was with.”

“Master Forveijl?” The voice came from the stairwell, a quavering voice, sexless with age, so that Eslingen had to look to see that it was an old man, remembered him as the landlady’s man. “Are you sure you don’t want next door?”

“No,” Sohier answered, and from the sound of her voice, Eslingen guessed she’d answered the question before. “No, we don’t want Madame Armondit’s. Like I said, we need to get into Forveijl’s lodgings.”

“But he’s an actor, not–” The old man broke off in confusion, and Rathe tilted his head again.

“Not what?” His tone was genuinely curious, and the old man bobbed his head.

“Not a criminal, or I never would have thought so, not him.”

“We just want to talk to him,” Sohier said. “You said you could let us in.”

“But isn’t he there?” The old man blinked at her, and Rathe’s eyes narrowed.

“You heard him come in? When?”

“Noon, maybe?” The old man shook his head. “I’ve not heard him go out.”

“It’s urgent, master,” Rathe said, and there was a note in his voice that made the hair stand up on Eslingen’s neck. The old man seemed to hear it, too, and fumbled a ring of keys from under his short coat. He found the one he wanted, and fitted it into the lock, grunting as he struggled to turn it. The door swung back at last, and Rathe swore. Sohier caught the old man by the shoulders and swung him away from the opening, his mouth wobbling open in shock.

“Go across to Armondit’s, get her to send a runner to Point of Dreams. Tell them we’ll need someone from the deadhouse.”

The old man nodded, tottering down the stairs, and Eslingen stepped forward, bracing himself for the worst. Forveijl lay sprawled across the foot of his bed, one bed curtain pulled half off its rings to fall across the body. It was stained with blood, as were the disordered sheets and Forveijl’s shirt and waistcoat–too much blood for him to be left alive, Eslingen thought, but even so Rathe went to him, feeling for a pulse at first one wrist and then the other. He checked before he touched the throat, and straightened, shaking his head.

“Dead for sure, then,” Sohier said, and her voice cracked on the words.

“His throat’s been cut.” Rathe turned away from both of them, stood facing the shuttered window, and Eslingen winced. Bad enough that your ex‑lover attacks you, tries to seduce you, but then to find him dead like this, without a chance for either revenge or forgiveness… He shook his head, and looked at Sohier.

“You’d better see to the body.”

The pointswoman nodded, understanding, and bent to sort through the dead man’s pockets. “Nothing much here,” she announced after a moment. “But it wasn’t robbery, he’s got three pillars on him, plus a handful of small change.”

A month’s wages at least, Eslingen thought, though that depended on the contract he had negotiated with Gasquine, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Rathe turn back to them, his face set and grim.

“And we won’t have to ask the alchemists how this one died,” she went on, and then winced. “Sorry, Nico, I didn’t think.”

“It’s all right.” Rathe took a breath, glancing around the crowded room. It was tidy enough, Eslingen saw with mild surprise, though the man had probably had someone to clean for him. The bed curtains looked new, or at least well kept, and the door of the clothes‑press was open, revealing at least one other good coat. There were books everywhere, stacked in a case and on top of it and the scarred table. An open chest was stacked with the long, narrow sheets that were actor’s copies of their parts, and at least a dozen broadsheets lay on top of that, spilling out across the table, the one sign of clutter. Or had someone started to search the room? Eslingen wondered.

“What we need to know is how long he’s been dead,” Rathe said, and Sohier nodded.

“He’s cold.”

Rathe nodded, expressionless. “And the old man said he’d come home at noon, or thereabouts, he thought.”

“But he said he hadn’t heard him leave,” Sohier said. “Which means he didn’t hear the murderer leave, either.”

“At least not to notice,” Rathe answered. “We’ll have to talk to him about that. But for now–” He glanced around the room again. “First we find the Alphabet.”

Sohier nodded, and together the three went through the shelved books, plays mostly, Eslingen saw, and guessed they were ones Forveijl had done well in. He knew some of the names, but not all, paused for a moment over a copy of something called The Fair’s Promise and Payment. Aconin had put his own name down as playwright, he saw from the title page, and Rathe grimaced.

“I hope it reads better than it plays.”

“Oh?” Eslingen gave it a second, curious glance, and Rathe sighed.

“That’s the play Aconin wrote for him, wooed him and won him with it. I shouldn’t talk, I never saw it.”

Behind him, Sohier lifted her head, and then seemed to think better of anything she might have said, hunched one shoulder instead, and kept sorting through the papers. They worked their way across the room–it was a little like the looting after a fight, Eslingen thought, down to the body on the bed, except that he was careful to do as the others did, and put each piece back in its place. Sohier was first to straighten, hands on hips, but she waited until the others finished before she spoke.

“Sir, there’s no copy of the Alphabet here.”

“No.” Rathe sighed, his eyes straying back to the dead man. “He didn’t deserve this,” he said softly, then shook himself. “Sohier, I want Aconin, as soon as possible.”

“Aconin?” Sohier frowned. “Why him? I mean, this is hardly a lovers’ quarrel–”

Rathe was shaking his head, and she broke off instantly. “Sweet Sofia, I haven’t had a chance to report it, but the landseur Aubine told me this morning that someone had taken a shot at his coach as he left for the theatre.”

“At Aubine?” Eslingen felt himself flush, realizing he’d spoken aloud, and Rathe looked at him.

“Broke a window on his carriage, and threatened to freeze all the plants he was carrying. Aubine was riding on the box, mind you, or it might have been him. Why do you sound surprised?”

Eslingen spread his hands, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut. “I don’t know–I suppose I was wondering why anyone would want to kill him?”

“And he thinks Aconin did it?” Sohier asked.

Rathe shrugged. “He says that the man who did it was built like Aconin. But Aconin’s not at the theatre, when he’s been at every rehearsal since the beginning, or so Mathiee says, plus what Aubine says, plus he wrote the play using, I am certain, some copy of the Dis‑damned Alphabet, and when I go to question Aconin’s lover, look who ends up dead. I want him found.”

“You can’t think he did this,” Eslingen said, and was mildly surprised by his own vehemence. “It’s not like him–and besides, he’s been attacked twice himself.”

“Could you have done him more of an injury that evening, if you’d been the man with the pistol?” Rathe demanded.

Eslingen hesitated. “Probably–but I don’t know where the man was standing, or what his line of sight was like. The light was against him, that’s for certain.”

“And the second time he wasn’t attacked,” Rathe went on. “His rooms were destroyed. You said it yourself, that’s a warning, ‘no quarter. ’ It could be he’s fighting back.”

“I just don’t think it’s like him,” Eslingen said again. “Not Chresta. Oh, he’ll maim you with words, all six days of the week, but use a knife… It’s not his way.”

Rathe stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “How long has it been since you’ve known him?” he said at last, and Eslingen swore under his breath.

“Long enough.”

“People change,” Rathe said, almost gently. “Besides, if you’re right, he’s in worse danger than poor Guis ever was.”

That was true enough to close Eslingen’s mouth over any accusation he might have made. Whatever else it was, this wasn’t Rathe striking out blindly at the man who had stolen his former lover; that wasn’t Rathe’s style, any more than it was Aconin’s to lash out with a knife instead of a deadly pen. And that meant he was right: for whatever reason, Aconin had to be found.

10

« ^ »

the lights were different today, the common lanterns doused, the mage‑lights changed, set now into the elaborate practical housings, whose lenses and colored glass doors could turn their light to any time of day or night, and any weather. Even as Eslingen watched, a sceneryman made her final adjustment to one of the smaller globes, setting the last piece of ambered glass into its collar, and then placed a mage‑fire lamp carefully in the center of the iron sphere. Instantly, she was bathed in strong sunlight, sunset light, and she stepped back, motioning to another sceneryman. He hauled on one of the ropes running up into the fly space, and the globe rose majestically, sliding into its place among a cluster of other practicals. Eslingen squinted up at them, counting at least a dozen, mostly amber or red, some left plain, one or two tinted with green and yellow, and shook his head as he looked back at the stage. The light there was almost natural now, the steady, neutral sunlight of an early summer day. The colors of the chorus’s coats, which had seemed odd, too bright under the mage‑lights, now looked normal, and Aubine’s arrangements were vivid as a summer garden at the downstage corners of the stage.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Siredy said cheerfully. “At least this is a simple setting. Now, when I was in Aufilia’s Revenge, we had two night scenes, and a thunderstorm. I felt as though I was spending all my time making sure I was out of range of the thunderflashes.”

“You were in that?” That was Jhirassi, coming up beside them, his hair scraped back to go under a new wig. He wasn’t yet in full costume, just the underpieces, breeches and stiff vest, and his eyes were made enormous with makeup.

Siredy gave him an appreciative glance, and Eslingen bit back a smile. “I was the villain’s henchman–the one who never gets a line except, yes, mistress.”

“But the fights were marvelous,” Jhirassi said. “And I enjoyed the play.”

“So did I,” Siredy answered.

“Thunderflashes and all?” Eslingen asked, and both men looked at him as though they’d forgotten his presence. He smiled at them, and to his amusement, Siredy blushed.

“They made things interesting. Technically, it was a complicated piece.”

“And a great deal of fun,” Jhirassi added. “I’m sorry you didn’t see it, Philip.”

“So am I,” Eslingen said. He looked at Siredy. “Thunderflashes?”

“They’re sort of like the practicals,” the other master answered. “Except larger, and with a mirrored back that reflects the light.”