Текст книги "Point of Dreams"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Lisa Barnett
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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

“The climactic duel takes place at the height of a raging storm,” Jhirassi added. “Lit by lightning at carefully planned moments.”

“Most impressive,” Eslingen said.

Siredy made a face. “When the timing is right, yes. Anyway, there’s a small flash charge in each pot–something chemical, I think, it stank to the central heavens–and a piece of slowmatch to set it off. Once those are lit and set, there’s nothing you can do to stop them, so half the time, Bernarin and I were trying to time the fight to the flashes, instead of the other way round.”

Jhirassi looked even more impressed, and Eslingen had to swallow a laugh. But still, it was impressive–he’d dealt with slowmatch before, in the field, and knew how hard it was to gauge how long it would take a length to burn. “You needed a sapper,” he said aloud, and Siredy nodded.

“This was at the old Merveille,” Jhirassi said. “Now the Bells. It just hasn’t been the same since Madame Ombredanne died.”

“For which some of us are grateful,” Siredy said. “And yes, Gavi, it was impressive, but you have to admit, most of the shows were just new ways to show off her toys.”

“Oh, I know,” Jhirassi answered. “But they were such good toys.”

Siredy lifted an eyebrow at that, but before he could say anything, the bookholder called Jhirassi’s name. The actor lifted a hand in instant obedience, and took his place in the forming scene. It was the last council meeting, leading up to the climactic duel, and Siredy looked over his shoulder, automatically counting heads, before he turned back to Eslingen.

“All there,” he said. “Gavi’s right, it was exciting to watch. But I doubt he was ever onstage with any of the devices.”

“Worse than The Drowned Island?” Eslingen asked idly, letting his eyes slide past the other. Yes, the duelists were all in readiness, and even in their proper costumes, antique longcoats crusted with cheap cut‑glass stones and broad sashes with huge rosettes. De Besselin looked almost as pale as his shirt, and Eslingen hoped the boy could remember his lines this time.

“Much worse,” Siredy said. “Madame Ombredanne believed in pyrotechnics.”

Eslingen choked back a snort, remembering the lecture he’d gotten about fire backstage, and Siredy nodded.

“Exactly so. There were two small fires at the Merveille just in the year I played there. Madame used to hire half a dozen rivermen just to stand by with buckets. I’m surprised any of us lived to tell the tale.”

Eslingen laughed appreciatively, but his eyes strayed to the duelists again. Still all there, though for once the two landames weren’t standing arm in arm, and he hoped nothing had happened to damp their friendship. They had defied the looks and whispers, and Aconin’s acid tongue, to maintain their affair openly; it would be a shame if the family enmities won after all. “Do you want to herd them on, or shall I?” he asked, and Siredy lifted his eyebrows.

“I’ll send them on, if you’ll get them off again.”

Eslingen nodded, knowing he’d been given the easier job, and grateful for it, and turned away, heading deeper into the backstage area so that he could cross the stage behind the massive backpiece. He had seen it from the pit for the first time just the day before, and it had taken his breath away: a mountain landscape, hills rising steeply to either side to frame the narrow valley. In the first act, and in the third, it was the Pass of Jetieve, in the second and fifth, the view from de Galhac’s fortress, and in the rest, all the mountains that bordered the palatinate; the versatiles were painted to change and complete each different setting. They were almost ready for the performance, everything in place except the final blessings of the chamberlains and their magists, and Eslingen paused at the center of the backpiece, peering out through the single narrow slit in the stiff canvas. Only the amateurs used it, or so he’d been told, but he’d also seen more than one of the professionals pausing to glance through the tiny gap. The only difference was that they didn’t use their hands to widen it, and risk spoiling the illusion.

Through the slit, he could see the actors standing in a semicircle around bes’Hallen, who stood stage center, draped in a floor‑length veil that gleamed like gold in the warm light of the practicals. Between their bodies, posed in stiff formality, he could see the empty benches of the pit, and the dark shadows of the galleries–except, he realized, the pit wasn’t entirely empty. Gasquine was sitting on one of the center benches, perhaps eight or ten rows back, her head and shoulders just visible as she watched intently. The chief sceneryman sat with her, and a tall woman in a long black gown who had to be one of the chamberlains. By rights, Eslingen thought, Aconin should be with them, but the playwright was still missing–not at the theatre, and not, according to Rathe, at his lodgings, or anywhere else he had been known to frequent. The gossips whispered that maybe he had caused the deaths, that at the least he was likely to be the person who’d put Forveijl up to trying the trick with the flowers, and quite possibly the one who killed Forveijl for it afterward, though there was a minority opinion that insisted that Rathe himself had done it. No one had said that to his face, of course, and Eslingen could guess that there were probably a few people who thought he could have done it–defending his lover–but that was easy to ignore. But Aconin wasn’t responsible, he thought, and turned away from the backpiece, crossing to the far side of the stage. It was more crowded there, and he had to press himself against the brick wall to avoid a pair of scenerymen hauling what looked like a roll of canvas. Another scenepiece, he guessed, or a carpet for one of the soueraine’s entrances. It wasn’t like Aconin to set someone up like that–or at least it wasn’t like him not to hang around to enjoy his victim’s disgrace. Eslingen made a face, remembering a childhood beating for stealing fruit from a neighbor’s garden. Aconin had put him up to it, and had enjoyed the outcome, the shouts and the pursuit and Eslingen’s wails, almost as much as he would have enjoyed the stolen plums. He’d gotten his own back, of course, and Aconin had learned better than to try that again, but the playwright had never been able to resist that kind of manipulation. And that, he thought, is why I’m so sure he isn’t behind any of this. If he was, he’d still be at the theatre, too secure in his own cleverness to think of running away. But that was almost impossible to explain to Rathe–the pointsman was right, it had been years since he’d been in contact with Aconin, but he doubted Aconin had changed fundamentally in those years.

He took his place in the wings, resting his halberd on the toe of his shoe to keep from making unwanted noise on the hollow stage, listening with half an ear to the end of the council scene. Ramani’s long speech was coming up, and then the council exited, and the battle–his responsibility–would begin. He could see Siredy waiting opposite, the duelists ready behind him, lined up two by two for the fighting entrance, and took a deep breath, willing everything to go right. The chorus had worked hard, and so had the masters; Tyrseis permitting, all would go well. This was stage fright, the demon that even the professionals propitiated as much as possible, and he looked back to the pit and galleries, trying to imagine them filled with faces. The thought was dizzying–a thousand faces, more, all watching his handiwork–and he took another breath, grateful that he had no onstage part in this particular performance. That might come, but, mercifully, not yet.

He made a face, angry at his own fears, looked over his shoulder to see the great wave still looming over his shoulder. It was too large to move, would probably stay there until some other play needed the mechanism for a similar effect, or so the scenerymen had said, and he wondered how long that would be. Probably long enough that de Raзan’s death would have been long forgotten–already most of the actors and chorus talked about the dead watchman, and Forveijl, less about the landseur. But they all had to be connected, Eslingen thought, and stepped back automatically as Aubine slipped past him, murmuring an apology, a trug full of flowers hooked in the crook of his arm. All the deaths had to do with the same thing–certainly with the masque, and maybe with the succession, though exactly how that would work, he couldn’t begin to see. The broadsheets, especially those fostered by Master Eyes, were having a field day, lurid tales of the haunted theatre drawing avid buyers to the stalls. The only mercy, Rathe had said sourly, was that de Raзan’s death was the only one that could be construed as political, and no one had, as yet, made the connection between the members of the chorus, and the claimants to Chenedolle’s throne. The other deaths covered a wide range of Astreiant’s population, from guildmember to artisan to artist–no connection except for the theatre. And that was only enough for children’s tales of haunting, not for anything more substantial.

Onstage, Ramani had finished her speech–Hyver was good, he thought, not for the first time, might be better than bes’Hallen someday–and stalked off, followed more slowly by the council. Above him, he heard the soft rumble of well‑greased pulleys, and the light brightened, yellow‑lensed practicals lowered to give the illusion of bright daylight. Across the stage, Siredy touched his leader’s shoulder–Simar, the landseur with the flowers, had proved to be far more sensible than his posies would suggest–and the pairs began to work their way onto the stage, swords clashing in steady rhythm. Eslingen released breath he hadn’t known he was holding as the second pair found their way past the first, took their place upstage and to the left. So far, he thought, so far, so good–except that Txi and de Vannevaux were out of step, Txi scowling at her erstwhile lover, her attacks too aggressive for pretense. Eslingen frowned, seeing the woman mouth something, saw de Vannevaux break the planned sequence with an attack, and swore under his breath. This was what they’d all been worried about, what they’d tried to drill out of the chorus, the excitement that said a fencer had to win at all costs. Txi cried out, wordless, stumbling back from another unexpected attack, and d’Yres missed a parry dodging away from her. The air was heavy suddenly, thick with tension, and the other duelists faltered, turning to see what was happening. In the pit, Gasquine rose to her feet, mouth open to call the halt, and Eslingen saw Siredy pale and staring in the far wing, as Txi swore, and wedged her blade against the stage floor, snapping the bate from the end of the blade.

“Enough!” Siredy shouted, and in the same moment Gasquine cried out for them to hold, but the women ignored both of them, de Vannevaux struggling now to hold her own against the suddenly deadly blade. And it could be deadly, Eslingen knew, even without the point, just the jagged edge could wound, maim, even kill. He saw Siredy fumbling for his own sword, set somewhere out of reach, and launched himself onto the stage, snatching the bated blade from de Besselin’s slack fingers.

“Hold!” he shouted, circling for a space to intervene, but the women ignored him, de Vannevaux swearing as she made a fruitless lunge, the bated blade bending harmlessly against Txi’s side. Txi’s riposte was instant and effective, would have been deadly if it hadn’t caught in the other woman’s corset, sliding across the metal boning to tear into the flesh of her upper arm. De Vannevaux screamed, more anger than pain, and Eslingen stepped between them, blade flashing out to engage Txi’s.

“Enough!” Siredy shouted again, sword in hand, and Jarielle caught de Vannevaux by the shoulders, swinging her bodily away from the other woman. And then, as suddenly as a candle blown out by wind, the tension broke, and Txi sank to her knees, sword clattering unheeded to the stage as she clapped both hands over her mouth. De Vannevaux’s eyes were wide, disbelieving, and she looked from her erstwhile lover to the blood staining her shirt as though she expected one of them to vanish.

“Tyrseis, protector of this place,” Gasquine said. “Would your ladyships care to explain what that was about?”

Txi burst into gulping tears, bowing until she was bent double, skirts pooled about her on the bare stage. De Vannevaux shook her head as though she were dazed.

“Madame–mistress,” she began, and shook her head again. “It’s–I think it’s my fault, we quarreled…” Her voice trailed off, as though she could no longer remember what she’d done, and she sank to her knees beside Txi, reaching for the other woman. Txi jerked herself away from de Vannevaux’s touch, never lifting her head, and Eslingen saw the matching tears in de Vannevaux’s eyes.

“There’s no harm done,” Siredy said softly, kneeling in his turn beside Txi, “just nerves.” The look on his face belied the soothing words,

“Oriane and her Bull,” Gasquine said. “If the two of you can’t control yourselves, I will personally take you over my knee and spank you as your mothers never did. I will not have this–this nonsense interfering with my play. Is that clear?”

De Vannevaux nodded, still not speaking, and Txi lifted her head, showing a face streaked with tears and paint. “Mistress, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what got into me.”

“It was my fault,” de Vannevaux said, almost in the same moment. “Oh, Anile, can you ever forgive me?”

Txi burst into tears again, and threw herself into the other woman’s lap. “I hurt you,” she said, voice muffled against de Vannevaux’s skirt, and de Vannevaux hugged her, heedless of the pain of her injured arm.

Gasquine stared at them for a moment longer, hands on hips, then slowly reseated herself. “This will not happen again,” she said, and Eslingen stooped to help de Vannevaux to her feet. “Now. We begin again, from your exit.”

Eslingen glanced at Siredy, who tipped his head toward the nearer wing. He nodded, and tightened his hold on de Vannevaux’s shoulders, urging her toward the shadows. Siredy did the same with Txi, and together they brought the two women offstage, past the actors waiting to come on. Their eyes were bright and curious, and Txi buried her face in her hands again. Behind him, Eslingen could hear Simar giving a shaky count, and then the tramp of feet as the remaining duelists made their planned exit. The waiting actors made their entrance, not without backward glances, and Siredy patted Txi’s shoulder gently.

“It’s nerves,” he said. “Stage fright. It takes people strange ways. You’ll be all right.”

Txi nodded jerkily, her eyes on the other woman. “But Iais–oh, I’m so sorry.”

“Let me see, madame,” Eslingen said, and turned de Vannevaux so that he could examine the wound. She let him move her, her eyes vacant, let him turn her arm palm out so that he could see the cut. It was little more than a long scratch up the underside of her upper arm, the bleeding already slowed, but he found a handkerchief in his pocket, folded it to a pad, and pressed it against the wound. De Vannevaux flinched, but put her own hand over it obediently enough.

“Anile,” she said. “Oh, gods, will you forgive me?”

“I’m the one who needs forgiveness,” Txi answered, and something moved in the shadows behind her. Aubine, Eslingen realized, and thought for an instant that the landseur held something, in his left hand. Then he came forward into the light reflecting from the stage, eyes wide and appalled.

“Anile, are you all right? What a terrible thing, you should go home and rest.”

His hands were empty after all, Eslingen saw.

De Vannevaux shook her head, but Txi straightened. “Aubine’s right,” she said. “You should have that seen to, and then, yes, you should rest. I’ll never forgive myself–”

“Hush,” Siredy said, and blushed, as though he’d only just realized what he’d said, but Aubine nodded in agreement.

“Quite right. There’s been enough–forgive me, Iais–there’s been enough raw emotion today. You need to be calm, take deep breaths. It will pass.”

What will pass? Eslingen wondered. Stage fright, he supposed, if anyone was going to believe that explanation.

Txi managed a shaky nod, her costume glittering as she did as she was told.

“Iais,” de Vannevaux said. “Iais, I’ll go home–and, yes, to a physician, too, if we can find one that will be discreet–but only if you’ll go with me.”

“You can’t want me,” Txi said, and de Vannevaux managed a watery smile.

“I started it, Anile. I suppose I got what I deserved.”

“Very wise of you both,” Aubine said briskly. “Why don’t you take my carriage? I’ll have my man bring it round, have him take you wherever you’d like to go.” He moved away, still talking, and the landames followed docilely, their attention on each other. Eslingen shook his head, watching them go.

“Seidos’s Horse,” he said, not quite under his breath, and Siredy shrugged.

“Passions run high at the last rehearsals, and theirs were high enough to start with. It’ll be worse tomorrow.”

“Tyrseis preserve us all,” Eslingen answered, and surprised a smile from the other man. “Verre, you can’t mean it, that this always happens. Not like this.”

Siredy paused, his smile turning wry. “Well, no, not quite like this, but then, we don’t usually have the quality onstage. But there’s always something, these last two days. They never pass without tears and screaming.”

Eslingen shook his head, not convinced, and Siredy took a step away.

“Anyway, we need to make sure the half‑pikes are ready. Will you help?”

Eslingen started to nod, but a patch of something pale on the boards where Aubine had been standing caught his eye. “I’ll be along in a minute,” he said, and Siredy sighed.

“See that you are.”

Eslingen bit back an angry answer– and maybe Siredy is right, tempers are starting to fray, my own included–but waited until the other man had turned away before he stooped to collect the object. It was a flower, pale and bell‑shaped, its stem neatly snapped, and Eslingen stared at it for a long moment, unwelcome thoughts crowding his mind. Rathe had said that the right way to disrupt one of the Alphabet’s arrangements was to pull it apart flower by flower–to take the right flower from it, not to break it apart. Had the Alphabet been at work again–had that been the cause of the landames’ sudden quarrel? He shook his head, not wanting to believe it–but Aubine had been there, he remembered, slipping across the front of the pit to fiddle with his arrangements just as the duelists made their entrance. Not Aconin, then, but Aubine; not the playwright, but the sponsor who had put his name behind it, possibly commissioned it. Ignoring Siredy’s glare, he slipped across the back of the stage again, dodging actors and scenerymen, made his way to the front of the wings, looking for another patch of white. Sure enough, it was there, another broken flower, stem snapped and cast aside. He stared at it for a long moment, then craned his head to see the nearer of the two arrangements. There were no other flowers like this one in it, and its simplicity would have been lost among the showier blooms, but he was suddenly absolutely sure that it had been the keystone, the one piece that had made the arrangement active. Which means Aubine, he thought again, and that still makes no sense. Why would Aubine kill de Raзan, and the watchman–well, he might have killed the watchman for the same reason anyone would have, because the man knew what happened in the theatre after hours, and if Aubine had been testing his arrangements, the watch would have been the first to know, but there was no reason to kill Forveijl… Unless he, too, had suspected something. Rathe would know, he told himself firmly, Rathe would be able to figure it out. He tucked the flowers carefully into the pocket of his coat, and started back to join Siredy. The main thing now was to get through the rest of the rehearsal as quietly, as unobtrusively, as possible, and get the flowers and his suspicions home to Rathe before Aubine noticed that anything had changed.

The day dragged to an end at last, and Eslingen was quick to leave the theatre, stretching his legs to get through the narrow streets. To his relief, Rathe was home before him, lamps and stove lit and welcoming. To his dismay, he wasn’t alone. b’Estorr was there, sitting at the small table, looking as disheveled as Eslingen had ever seen him, his long hands systematically destroying a small, common flower. Eslingen smoothed away an involuntary frown as Rathe looked round at him, a harried look on his own face easing when he saw Eslingen. Eslingen managed a smile he knew was strained. He needed to talk to Rathe now, needed to show him the flowers and hear what the pointsman had to say about these–quite fantastic–events. And that was hardly something he could do in front of b’Estorr: it was one thing to risk making a fool of himself in private, but he refused to have the magist for an audience.

b’Estorr hardly seemed aware of his presence, though, not pausing in the flow of talk. “–and I’ve spoken to the phytomancers, all of them, including one I didn’t think was a fool, but she says only that there is no such thing as a verifiable copy, a working copy, of the Alphabet, that the Alphabet is pure folly, and that we should put this aside and look for more reasonable explanations.” He broke off then, looking, for the first time in Eslingen’s acquaintance, chagrined. “Oh. Hello, Philip.”

Eslingen nodded, knowing he looked stiff. “Istre. Haven’t seen you in a while. How’re things at the university?”

b’Estorr took a breath and gave a short, bitter laugh. “You can’t imagine. The College of Phytomancy has ruled their business is the properties of individual plants, not plants gathered into bunches, so the Alphabet is not their province even if it did work. Ybares–the one I didn’t think was a fool–says that even if it were their business, the Alphabet can’t work, so she doesn’t want to hear about it.”

“It demonstrably does work,” Eslingen said. “After what happened to Nico–”

“Oh, that didn’t happen,” b’Estorr said savagely. “Or if it happened, it didn’t happen the way we think. Or if it happened the way we think, it wasn’t the plants, and therefore it wasn’t the Alphabet.” He finished shredding the flower and flung the petals onto the table.

“Welcome home, Philip,” Rathe said, and b’Estorr blushed, the color staining his fair skin.

“I’m sorry, Philip, I’m ranting. But it’s driving me mad.”

“I can see that,” Eslingen said, and Rathe frowned.

“So if it’s none of those things, Istre, do they say what it might have been?”

b’Estorr shook his head. “It’s not their province,” he repeated, unhappily brushing the mangled bloom into his hand.

“They can’t mean it,” Eslingen said, and b’Estorr smiled without humor.

“Of course they can. The politics of the university are easily as bad as the politics of Chadron.”

“So what do we do about it?” Rathe asked.

b’Estorr sighed, visibly taking himself in hand. “I honestly don’t know, Nico. I’d have thought this was enough proof for any of them, but if it isn’t…” He took a breath. “I’ll keep talking, see if I can’t– persuade–at least one of them to reconsider.”

“The stars don’t seem to favor that,” Eslingen said, in spite of himself, and b’Estorr shook his head.

“No more do they.” He reached for his cloak, hanging by the door, and Rathe spoke quickly.

“No need to go–”

“I’m having dinner with Ybares,” b’Estorr answered grimly, and his tone did not bode well for the other magist. “I don’t want to be late.”

“Good luck, then,” Rathe said, and shook his head as the door closed behind the necromancer. “I think you’re right, Philip, the folly stars have reached the university.” Without waiting for an answer, he crouched in front of the stove, began digging through the low flat box that stood beside it.

Eslingen blinked. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to find some vegetables for dinner.”

“At this time of year?”

“They keep,” Rathe said mildly. “You can help, or you can comment.”

“I’ll comment,” Eslingen said, and unwrapped himself from his cloak. He’d given up on fashion over a week ago, and tonight he’d been particularly glad of the extra layers.

“You would,” Rathe answered. “So, did anything happen at the theatre today that I should know about?” He found a final long finger of parsnip, and held it up triumphantly before dropping it into a basin of water to wash away the last of the clinging sand.

“Yes,” Eslingen answered, and the other man straightened, dinner forgotten.

“Tell me.”

“The landames, the ones whose families are at feud?”

Rathe nodded. “The ones who’ve been–”

“Just so.” Eslingen took a breath, let himself drop into a chair close to the stove. “Today, at rehearsal, with a chamberlain watching, no less, all of a sudden the feud is alive again. They insult each other, and Txi finally snaps the bate of her weapon and they go at it in earnest.”

“Not dead–hurt?” Rathe asked, his hands very still.

Eslingen shook his head. “Not even much hurt, just a bad scratch. And they were friends again, left together to go home and consult a physician.”

“So what caused it?” Rathe came to his feet, settled automatically into the chair opposite.

“Siredy says it’s nerves, stage fright making tempers short,” Eslingen answered.

“I’ve never heard of actors doing anything like that,” Rathe said.

“Ah, but they aren’t actors,” Eslingen answered. “At least that’s the explanation that’s being accepted–I think mostly because no one wants to let anything else go wrong. But–” He leaned back in his chair, fumbling with his coat, and finally produced the pair of flowers. “But afterward, I found these backstage. They were just lying there, on the floor, a yard or so, maybe, from the nearest arrangement. Each one with its–neck, I don’t know–broken.”

Rathe took them, frowning, turning them over in his fingers. “They weren’t there before?”

Eslingen shook his head. “Too dangerous, with all the dancing and the fights. The scenerymen keep the floor clear and dry, spotless. No, these weren’t there before the fight, and they were afterward.”

“You think there was a posy, something from the Alphabet.”

“There’s more,” Eslingen said, and heard Rathe sigh.

“There always is.”

“When the duel scene started, I saw Aubine working with the flowers, the big bunches right downstage. And I am certain he dropped this one–I saw him with it in his hand, I’m all but certain of it, right before he offered the landames the use of his carriage to take them home.”

Rathe was very still. “Getting them away before they could think how odd it was, do you suppose?”

“It’s possible.” Eslingen took a breath. “Nico, if it’s Aubine–”

“First things first,” Rathe said, and pushed himself away from the table. “I brought this home, wanted to study it, see if there was anything special about it–and it hasn’t been reprinted, by the way, not this edition.” He came back with the red‑bound copy of the Alphabet that he had received from Holles, slid it across the table. Eslingen caught it with a groan, knowing what came next, and Rathe nodded. “I want you to see if you recognize any of the arrangements.”

“I’m not a gardener,” Eslingen said.

“You can read,” Rathe answered. “And you have eyes–I know you’re observant. Just see if you can recognize them.”

Eslingen bowed his head obediently, turning the soft pages. It was very like all the other editions of the Alphabet he’d looked at in Rathe’s workroom, woodcuts on one page, text on the page opposite, and he skimmed through them quickly, trying to remember the pattern he had seen. “This one,” he said at last, pointing to an arrangement labeled “Confusion.”

“And Anger.”

Rathe nodded, leaning over his shoulder now to study the pictures. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? Confusion to blur the new friendship–and all of you, your thoughts, to make it seem reasonable that landames should behave like this–and Anger to trigger the feud again. But why now?”

“A test?” Eslingen suggested, leaning back to see the other man’s face. “To make sure–something else–is going to work?”

“Oh, that’s an ugly thought,” Rathe said. “But it makes sense.” He shook his head. “I said if I knew how, this time, I’d know who. And if it’s the flowers, it has to be Aubine. He knows more about them than anyone. And nobody else has a connection to all the dead–including Ogier, he’s the only one who is connected to both Ogier and the masque. But I’ve no idea why.”

“Is he connected to any of the potential claimants?” Eslingen asked, and Rathe shook his head.

“In that, he’s as innocent as the snow.”

“Because he can?”

Rathe looked down at him, frowning. “Sorry?”

Eslingen made a face. “It was something he said once. True enough, in the original context–he was talking about providing flowers for the masque, and for all the rehearsals, too, all because he could–but it struck me odd then.”

“If that’s the case,” Rathe said, “then he’s well and truly mad. And mad he may well be, but it didn’t strike me as that kind of lunacy.”

“I agree,” Eslingen said, and Rathe reached for the Alphabet again, his scowl deepening as he nipped through the pages. “What is it?”

“Maybe I’m the madman. I’ve gone through all the flowers I know I’ve seen at the theatre, and while a few of them are in here, they’re not–not in the right combinations, or the right seasons, or anything, to give me any idea what he might be planning.”

Eslingen shook his head, slowly. “They’re not the flowers that will be there for the masque. He’s changed them almost every day– brought in all new ones today.”

His voice trailed off as he realized what he’d said, and Rathe swore under his breath. “Were they different?”

“Some were,” Eslingen answered. “Maybe most were. The arrangements were certainly different.”

“Of course they would be,” Rathe said. “Damn the man.” He shook his head. “And if it’s Aubine, then he’s killed everyone who’s gotten in his way. Starting with Leussi.”