Текст книги "Point of Dreams"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Lisa Barnett
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Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

“Leussi?” Eslingen frowned. “I know that was murder, but how does it fit in to the theatre deaths?”

“Leussi was a chamberlain,” Rathe said. “He would have ruled on the masque. He had a copy of the Alphabet–an old copy, a practical copy, maybe even the same edition Aubine has. He of all people would have seen just how dangerous this might be, he was testing it out before he died. And his ghost was bound because even if he couldn’t name his murderer, he might have been able to warn his fellows, or at least Holles, against the play. As it is, Aubine was careful enough–Holles has no idea where the plant came from, he hardly noticed it, couldn’t even say when it arrived.”

“But why?” Eslingen asked. He took the book gently from Rathe’s hands, flipped back‑to the arrangements he’d seen earlier that day. Yes, that was them, no mistaking it, and he shook his head in confusion. “What’s he going to do with this play that’s so important that he’ll kill to preserve it? If it has nothing to do with the succession… ”

Rathe ignored him, his eyes fixed on something invisible, beyond the shadows. “De Raзan… I don’t know, I’ve never been able to fit him in, but there’s something so–well planned, well thought out– about his death that I almost wonder if it was a punishment, some private thing between them. But Ogier, Ogier’s easy, he worked in the succession houses, he knew what plants were being grown, knew enough of phytomancy that he could have suspected, if not the Alphabet, then some magistry. And he was running from a magist when he died, I’m sure of that from the way he burned his clothes. Guis– Guis used an arrangement, and he could have said where he got it, which meant he had to be killed. Aconin–”

“Aconin wrote the play,” Eslingen said. “So he had to have something to go on. And he’s been one of Aubine’s intimates. Plus, of course, he and Guis were still close. You might have thought to look to Aconin as soon as Guis was killed.” He paused, remembering. “And, Nico, I never thought anything of it, but at least twice when I thought Aconin wanted to talk to me, it was Aubine who interrupted us. I just thought Chresta didn’t want to be overheard.”

“Sofia,” Rathe breathed. “It fits, Philip, it fits all too neatly.”

Eslingen nodded. “But why?” He glanced down at the book again, his eyes straying from the list of plants and their properties to the stories that accompanied them. Both Confusion and Anger were accompanied by stories about love–love denied, love scorned–and he flipped through a few more pages, looking for the most harmful arrangements, the ones designed to kill and maim. All were matched with stories of love, lost love, love rejected and turned to hate, and he looked back up at Rathe, eyes going wide. “Look at the stories. They’re all about revenge–the stories aren’t, actually, but that’s the suggestion. The arrangements are revenge for love gone wrong.”

“Revenge for his leman,” Rathe said.

Eslingen closed his eyes, wishing he could reject his own idea. “His common‑born leman,” he corrected. “Murdered by his grandmother. And, Seidos, that could explain de Raзan, couldn’t it? Everybody knew about him and Siredy, how de Raзan wanted him back just for the convenience–do you think that’s why Aubine killed him, that it hit too close to home?”

Rathe hesitated, then nodded slowly. “It could be. And it might have been a nice chance to test out a new arrangement.”

Eslingen shivered at the thought. “But you said the grandmother’s been dead for what, seven years?”

“At least that.” Rathe frowned down at the book. “Sweet Sofia, we don’t have nearly enough to call a point–we’ve only just got enough to start asking questions–and the masque plays the day after tomorrow.” He shook his head. “There isn’t enough time. Not to prove this–any of this.”

“Can it be postponed?” Eslingen asked, and Rathe shook his head.

“I don’t know. It’s never happened, not in my lifetime–but then, there’s never been cause before.” Rathe pushed himself upright, frowning at the vegetables still soaking in the basin, and pulled them out one by one to lay them gently on a folded cloth. “We’ll have to go to Trijn.”

“Do you want me to go with you?” Eslingen asked, and Rathe smiled.

“I think you’d better.”

Trijn lived in Point of Dreams, but in the narrow band of guildmistresses’ houses, well away from the theatres. Expensive houses, Rathe thought automatically, and found himself checking the garden walls for loose bricks. He had begun his career as a pointsman in just such a neighborhood, had learned all the ways a clever thief could slip into an unwary household, make off with food, linens, spare clothes, even the family silver. The householders here seemed to know the same techniques, left nothing to chance, no loose bricks for a foothold, no, windows unshuttered, lamps lit and personal watchmen drowsing in corner boxes, ready to raise the alarm. A few of them lifted their heads, watching two strangers pass along their street, and one even lifted his lantern in question and warning before he saw the truncheon at Rathe’s belt.

“A nice neighborhood your chief point lives in,” Eslingen whispered. “She does well in fees?”

“She comes from good family,” Rathe answered, his own voice low. He didn’t know much about Trijn’s attitude toward fees, now that he thought of it–he hadn’t been at Dreams long enough for it to become an issue–but he doubted she needed them, not if her sister was the grande bourgeoise.

“She must,” Eslingen said, looking at the houses, and Rathe paused to study the carving over the nearest door. Trijn lived in the house of the two hares, according to the directions he had memorized right after coming to Point of Dreams; this house was decorated with a cheerful frieze of rats feasting on a sea of overflowing grain bags, and he moved on, shaking his head slightly. The original owner must have been born in the Rat Moon, or have Tyrseis strong in her natal horoscope, to have chosen that design.

The house of the two hares lay two doors down, a comfortable, prosperous house perhaps a little smaller than its neighbors. The twin hares lay face‑to‑face in the niche above the doorway, the light of the rising winter‑sun adding texture to the carved fur, and when Rathe stepped forward to knock at the main door, the heavy iron striker was forged in a variation of the pattern, one hare sitting, the other standing beside it. The door opened quickly at his knock, a footman out of livery frowning at him for a moment until he saw the truncheon at Rathe’s waist.

“Pointsman–?” he began, and Rathe took a quick step forward.

“Adjunct Point Rathe. I need to see the chief, urgently.”

“Of course.” The footman didn’t blink, but threw the door open, beckoning them into the chill hall. He didn’t leave them there, either, but brought them into a receiving room, where a fire burned low in a painted fireplace, bowed again, and disappeared. Rathe moved automatically toward its warmth, Eslingen at his shoulder, stood holding his hands out to the radiating embers.

“Most impressive,” Eslingen said under his breath, and Rathe let himself glance around the room. It was small, but nicely kept, expensively furnished, and he wasn’t surprised to see a double corm the size of a man’s fist waiting in a jar by the window. He didn’t recognize the species, but the care with which it was placed, set in the center of a delicate inlaid table, made him think it had to be one of the expensive ones.

“Rathe. What is it?”

He turned to see Trijn in the doorway, a lamp in one hand, her unbelted house gown half open, showing the rich wool of her heavy skirt. If he’d seen her like this, Rathe thought, instead of in the practical common wear she chose for the station, he would have known at once that she came of better than average family. One did not usually find daughters of the merchants resident entering points’ service.

“I think I know who’s behind the theatre murders,” he said, and Trijn nodded as though she were not surprised, came into the room, setting the lamp on the mantel.

“Stir up the fire, then, and sit down. And tell me about it.”

Rathe did as he was told, finding the logs ready to hand, and seated himself opposite the chief point. Eslingen came to stand at his shoulder, watchful and silent, and Trijn smothered a laugh.

“Sorry. I’d never understood the black dog comments before.”

Rathe kept his face expressionless, knowing that Eslingen’s eyebrows would be up, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It’s Aubine, Chief,” he said, and Trijn sobered instantly. “It has to be.”

Quickly, he outlined what Eslingen had seen, and Aubine’s connections to the dead men, but even before he had finished, Trijn was shaking her head.

“It’s thin. Rathe. Very thin. Aubine sponsored the masque, for Sofia’s sake.”

“To use it,” Rathe answered. “To get revenge for the leman his grandmother had murdered.”

In this house, he didn’t like to say common, but Trijn nodded slowly. “I remember the matter,” she said. “It was never referred to the points, but there were always rumors, whispers that it was more than they claimed. But the soueraine took the boy away with her, and there was nothing we could do.” She shook her head, shaking memory away. “All right, assuming you’re right–and I think I believe you, Rathe–what’s the point of it all? What are these–arrangements–supposed to do?”

“I don’t know,” Rathe answered. “The grandmother’s dead, long dead, and if he was blaming the sister, surely there were easier ways to attack her. Ones that required less elaborate planning, anyway.”

“They’re on good terms.” Trijn shook her head. “Or so it’s seemed, anyway.”

“The only thing I can think of–” Rathe stopped abruptly, not wanting to voice his sudden fear, as though saying it would somehow make it more likely to be true. “The only thing I can think of is revenge on the law, the law that let his leman die and offered no justice. The law in the person of the queen.”

“Sofia’s tits,” Trijn said. She drew a shaken breath. “I hope you’re wrong, Rathe.”

“Can you take the chance he’s not?” Eslingen asked, and the points looked at him as though they’d forgotten he was there.

Trijn scowled. “No. But what in hell’s name do you expect me to do about it? I’ll say it again, there’s not nearly enough to call a point on the man, not for a single one of these deaths, and we’d be laughed out of court if we tried.”

“Postpone the masque,” Rathe said.

Trijn laughed aloud, an angry, frustrated sound. “And how likely do you think that is? If I can’t call a point, what chance do I have of persuading the necessary authorities–and that’s the regents and the chamberlains, Rathe, who aren’t particularly fond of you–that this is necessary?” She shook her head. “The masque has to be done in conjunction with the solstice, for the queen’s health and the health of the realm. The stars have to be right for the magistry to work.”

“And if Aubine wants to kill the queen,” Rathe said, “what better occasion than the one time and place he knows she must be? There must be precedent. It must be possible.”

“But not without cause,” Trijn said again. “To postpone–to change anything about the masque–we’d need the approval of the regents, and the chamberlains, to see if it can be done without destroying it. And I cannot see how we can convince them without more proof.”

She was right, that was the problem, and Rathe shook his head. “Is there anyone else who has authority?”

“The queen herself, of course,” Trijn said, “but that doesn’t get us anywhere. Astreiant–” She stopped, anger turning to something more speculative, and Rathe leaned forward again.

“Would she listen?”

Trijn nodded, slowly. “She might. It’s worth a try, at any rate.”

“Will she listen to you?” Eslingen asked, and Trijn gave him a glittering smile.

“I–the metropolitan knows me. She’ll give me an audience, she owes me that much.”

And I don’t think I want to know why, Rathe thought. He said, “And if she doesn’t agree–or if she can’t?”

Trijn took a breath. “I was hoping you’d have some suggestions, Rathe.”

“Bar Aubine from the Tyrseia,” Rathe said. “Remove all the flowers–”

“If you can move them without triggering their effects,” Eslingen said. “Remember the last time you tried that.”

Rathe winced at the memory, but nodded in agreement. “All right, maybe moving the flowers wouldn’t be a good idea. But we can make sure he doesn’t–for example–offer Her Majesty any posies as a token of his esteem.”

“I think I can persuade Astreiant of that much, at least,” Trijn agreed. “But keeping Aubine away from his own play–Sofia, if you’re wrong, Rathe, or even if you’re right and we can’t prove it, we’ll lose everything. I’ll lose my station, and you, Rathe, will never call another point. Is it worth that much to you?”

Rathe paused. Trijn was right again, if he couldn’t prove his case, provide at least as much evidence as he would need to call a point and to win a conviction in the courts, Aubine would see him banished from the one profession he had ever wanted to follow. And suppose I’m wrong? Suppose I’ve misjudged everything, cast my figure and come up with a reading as false as a broadsheet astrologer’s? But there had been four deaths already, five if Leussi’s was indeed part of the sequence, five deaths unresolved, justice ignored, and a sixth– or possibly more–in the offing. More important even than the already dead was the chance to prevent another murder, and that was worth even this risk. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I’ll take the chance.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eslingen nod, silent support, and Trijn took a deep breath. “Then I’m with you, Rathe.” She rose to her feet, the heavy silk of her robe falling into place with a soft slur of sound. “Wear your good coat, if you have one. We’ll attend the metropolitan tomorrow morning.”

11

« ^ »

trijn was as good as her word, arriving at Point of Dreams with a low‑flyer in hand. Rathe followed her across the station’s courtyard, newly aware that his best coat was several degrees below what anyone else would consider suitable for visiting the Metropolitan of Astreiant. Trijn looked as fine as ever, a dark, hooded cloak drawn close over a bottle‑green suit, her hair tucked under a stylish cap that still managed to cover her ears, and he wondered if perhaps he should have borrowed something from Eslingen. Not that it would have been that much of an improvement, he thought, settling himself on the cushions opposite the chief point. Eslingen was a good two inches taller, and thicker in the chest; his coats would hang on Rathe like an empty sack. But at least it would have been obvious that he’d made the effort.

“Don’t worry,” Trijn said, as if she’d read the thought, and lowered the window just long enough to signal the driver. “Astreiant knows you don’t take fees. It wouldn’t do for you to look too presentable.”

Rathe managed a smile and leaned back against the cushion as the low‑flyer jolted out of the station yard. In the cold light of morning, his conclusions seemed even less likely than before, and he wondered if he was making the worst mistake of his life. But nothing else explained all the deaths, he thought. Aubine’s presence, Aubine’s involvement in the dead men’s lives, was the single common thread– that and the Alphabet, he amended silently. Everywhere he looked, the Alphabet of Desire seemed to lurk, the lavish illustrations hiding deadly possibilities.

“How much do you think Aconin knows about this?” Trijn demanded suddenly, and Rathe blinked.

“I don’t know.”

“Enough to run away, in any event,” Trijn said. “Assuming he isn’t dead, too.”

“There’s a happy thought.” Rathe rubbed his chin, glad he’d taken the time to be shaved this morning. He had done the barber a favor two summers past, in the matter of a stolen clock that had ended up in Point of Hopes; the man had been glad to open early for him, and had given him breakfast as well. “Philip said he was afraid of something–of Aubine, I’d guess–so I’m hoping he’s just gone to ground. If we could find him, Chief, he might be able to confirm what’s happening.”

“If he was likely to do that,” Trijn said, “he’d’ve come to us with his problems.”

“Not Aconin,” Rathe said. “But if he thinks the point will be called on him, he’ll talk quickly enough.”

Trijn lifted an eyebrow at that, but Rathe looked mulishly away. It wouldn’t be that simple, of course, it never was, but once Aconin was found, he was confident a bargain could be made. If Aconin was still alive. He shoved that thought away, too–so far, Aubine hadn’t troubled to hide his bodies–and glanced out the low‑flyer’s narrow window. To his surprise, they were already in City Point–Trijn always seemed to find the drivers with Seidos strong in their stars– but they turned past the metropolitan’s official residence and turned onto the broad road that led into the Western Reach. So the metropolitan had agreed to see them at her town house, he thought, and felt his own eyebrows rise. Trijn was indeed well connected, if she could persuade the metropolitan to see them there.

The metropolitan’s residence was a large and pleasant house, flanked by lower outbuildings and enclosed by a stone wall with a wrought‑iron gate. As the low‑flyer drew up to the narrow gatehouse, Trijn leaned forward, lowering the window again, and the first flakes of the winter’s snow swirled in on the cold air. They were expected, however, and the liveried gatekeeper bowed, waving them through as her assistants hauled back the heavy gate. Another woman in livery, red coat bound with ochre piping, a silver badge showing Astree and her scales on a scarlet ribbon at her neck, was waiting for them at the main door, and showed them into a long, narrow library, its shutters barely cracked even in the pale winter light. Astreiant herself was waiting there, but as they entered, she rose from behind her worktable, blowing out her lamp, and gestured for their escort to throw open two sets of shutters. The cool light streamed in–snow‑light, Rathe thought, watching the flakes scattering down out of the milky sky, the first threads of it blowing like dust across the narrow paved terrace that lay outside the windows–and he was grateful for the fires that blazed in the twin stoves.

“Chief Point,” Astreiant said, and waved dismissal to the servant. “And Adjunct Point Rathe. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Is it my imagination, Rathe thought, or did she lay the faintest of stresses on the word “you”? He managed a wary bow, and Astreiant gestured toward a pair of stools drawn close to the nearer stove.

“Please, sit down, and let’s talk.” She seated herself in a tall chair as she spoke, stretching her feet toward the stove in unconscious habit. She was a tall woman, well built, with grey‑blue eyes that slanted down ever so slightly at the outer corners. There were lines on her face as well, and Rathe guessed she and he were probably much of an age, but the lines were good lines, echoing a ready smile.

“You read my report, then,” Trijn said.

Astreiant inclined her head, copper curls dancing. Her hair was almost red, Rathe realized with some amusement, but no one would dare tell the metropolitan she was out of fashion. “To be sure,” she said. “And tell me, Dema, what you expect me to do about it?”

“Postpone the masque,” Trijn said promptly.

“It can’t be done.” Astreiant lifted a hand to forestall any further protest. “I mean that literally. It cannot be done. The stars are most propitious at midwinter, and this year more so than usual, to postpone–to change the date at all–would be as bad as not performing it. And you know what the masque means to the realm, and to Her Majesty.”

“Even though it’s proved detrimental to the health of at least four other people?” Trijn asked, and Astreiant frowned.

“You haven’t proved that yet.”

“The deaths are real enough,” Rathe said, in spite of himself.

Astreiant ducked her head in apology. “I misspoke. The deaths are real, and I do not discount them, Adjunct Point, I promise you that. But I don’t see the connection to the masque.”

“De Raзan and the theatre’s watchman died in the theatre,” Rathe said. “Guis Forveijl was actually in the masque–one of the actors, your grace. Leussi was a chamberlain who would have ruled on the masque, had he lived. And Grener Ogier worked for the man who is providing the flowers for the masque, knew what was being grown, and what it might be used for.”

“That’s five,” Astreiant said.

“I’m less certain about Leussi,” Trijn said. “But growing more so all the time.”

Astreiant shook her head. “Heira forgive me, I took comfort in the watchman’s death. I thought sure that meant this couldn’t have anything to do with the succession.” She took a breath. “Take me through this again, Adjunct Point, in your own words. Why are you so sure this is all a connected plot?”

Rathe took a breath in turn, trying to order his thoughts. “The first death was the intendant’s, Leussi’s. I am all but sure he was killed by a plant grown specially for the purpose, and listed in the Alphabet of Desire. I believe he was killed because he also owned a copy of this edition of the Alphabet, the working Alphabet, and could have seen what Aubine’s play could do. The second death was the landseur de Raзan.” He hesitated, knowing this was the weakest link in his chain, but made himself go on. “I believe the reason for his death is less important than the manner of it. He was found drowned, Your Grace, in the middle of a dry stage, with nothing around that could have held the water that drowned him. And the alchemists say he died where we found him. The body was not moved.”

“But you have some idea of the reason?” Astreiant asked.

Rathe took another breath. “I believe that he was killed because he was a useless man, and because he had behaved badly to a common lover of his, and possibly because Aubine”–Astreiant stirred, and Rathe said hastily, “The murderer, then, no name–wanted to test his arrangements.”

“Aubine’s leman,” Astreiant murmured, and shook her head. “Thin, Rathe. Very thin. Go on.”

“The watchman knew everything that happened in the theatre, knew that things, particularly posies, the actors’ gifts, had been rearranged,” Rathe went on. “Possibly he even saw Aubine at the theatre after hours, could testify to what he was doing there. The gardener worked for Aubine–”

“I knew him,” Astreiant said. Her eyes strayed to the long window, the dormant garden beyond the terrace. “My head gardener thought the world of him. How did he die?”

“Stabbed to death,” Trijn said.

“I believe he knew something,” Rathe said. “He didn’t want to be found, Your Grace, he’d burned his own clothes and begged for Temple castoffs.”

Astreiant nodded. “So he couldn’t be traced. Like the children this past summer.”

“And like anyone who doesn’t want to be found using magistical means,” Rathe agreed.

“And the actor?”

“Also stabbed.” Rathe suppressed a pang, sorrow and vague guilt combined. With any luck, he would resolve this, and Forveijl would not become one of his ghosts. “He had put together an arrangement from the Alphabet of Desire, and while it had accomplished part of what he intended, it had also betrayed that there was a working copy of the Alphabet in existence, possibly in the theatre. I believe he was stabbed to keep us from finding out where he’d gotten it.”

“What does Aconin say about all this?” Astreiant demanded. “It’s his play, he must know something.”

“Aconin,” Trijn said, “has disappeared.”

Astreiant grimaced.

“He was friends with Aubine,” Rathe said. “Maybe more than friends. And he’s been afraid of something for most of the rehearsal period. Someone took a shot at him, and someone trashed his rooms, destroyed his household altar.”

Astreiant’s eyes narrowed, and Rathe remembered that she had spent a season on the northern borders as a young woman. “Aconin is a Leaguer, is he not?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Trijn said.

“No quarter.” Astreiant shook her head. “Sofia, I wish you could find the man.”

“So do I,” Rathe said, and Astreiant grinned in spite of herself.

“I daresay.” She sobered quickly, looking at Trijn. “So I say again, Dema, what do you want me to do?”

“Postpone the masque,” Trijn said again, and Astreiant waved the words away. “Failing that–must Her Majesty attend?”

“What reason do you have to think that anything is aimed at the queen?” Astreiant demanded, and Trijn leaned forward on her stool.

“There is the old story about Aubine’s leman, murdered and the killer–Aubine’s grandmother, at least indirectly–never brought to justice. Who is the symbol of justice in this realm?”

Astreiant shook her head. “Thin,” she said again.

Trijn spread her hands. “Then assume there is some other target, unknown–the sister, perhaps, or someone else. But can you risk allowing Her Majesty to walk unknowing into the middle of what we believe is intended to be a killing ground?”

Astreiant took a deep breath, covered her mouth with one hand. Behind her, the snow was strengthening, clinging to the grass and low bushes of the garden. “I cannot postpone the masque,” she said, finally. “I said it before, and I meant it. Nor can I ask Her Majesty not to attend–that would violate the mystery, destroy the potency. And yet… I do believe this is a real threat, Dema.”

“Will you grant me the authority to confine the landseur Aubine, then?” Trijn asked, and Rathe gave her a startled glance. That was more support than he’d really expected, and he was grateful for it.

Astreiant hesitated, her eyes distant, and then, regretfully, she shook her head. “I can’t. First, I don’t have the authority–he may be resident here, but he’s a native of Ledey. My writ runs only to the city.”

“But–” Trijn stopped as the other woman held up her hand.

“Hear me out, will you? Second, times are chancy, with Her Majesty being prepared finally to name a successor. To imprison a noble now, without cause, would make me and, through me, Her Majesty look capricious and power‑hungry, now when we can least afford it.”

And that, Rathe thought, is the first true confirmation that Astreiant will be queen in her turn. Trijn shook her head. “And what do you expect me to do, Your Grace, when you tie my hands?”

“I don’t know,” Astreiant said. “Bring me evidence, solid evidence that would stand in the courts–that you, Adjunct Point, would consider enough to call a point on–and I’ll do whatever you need. But without that, it’s my hands that are tied.”

Rathe let his head drop, knowing Astreiant was right, and the metropolitan went on, spreading her hands.

“And if there is anything else you want, anything else you need, in Astree’s name, ask.”

Trijn laughed. “The prince‑marshal and his men to guard the theatre these next two days?”

Astreiant blinked, and nodded. “If it will help you, he’s yours.”

“It couldn’t hurt,” Trijn said.

Rathe nodded, more slowly. He was known to Coindarel, and more importantly, Coindarel knew and liked Eslingen. It might be possible to use him to keep Aubine from bringing in any more of his deadly arrangements–if he didn’t have everything in place already, of course, Rathe added, with an inward grimace. That might be the best first step, to search the Tyrseia, and see if he could identify any of the arrangements from his copy of the Alphabet.

“I daresay it would amuse him, too.” Astreiant rose slowly to her feet, ending the interview, and the others copied her. “Very well, Chief Point, I shall draft the order this morning. Coindarel and his men will be at your–or Mistress Gasquine’s–disposal by three o’clock this afternoon.”

Rathe bowed, grateful for this much support, and Trijn made a courtier’s curtsy. Astreiant lifted her hand.

“But remember, if you find anything, anything at all, that would allow me to act–send to me, at whatever hour. I will be ready.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Trijn said. “I pray Sofia we find something.”

They rode in silence back to Point of Dreams, listening to the shouts of the street sweepers. This time, the driver took his time, let his horse pick its own pace across the icy bridge, and by the time they dismounted at the station’s main gate, the fine snow was already drifting in the corners of the buildings. Rathe waited, his back to the wind, as Trijn paid off the driver, and together they made their way across the courtyard and into the warmth of the main room. It was crowded with the aftermath of what looked like a quarrel between carters, and Trijn rolled her eyes.

“Everything under control?” she asked, in a voice that presumed an affirmative answer, and started up the stairs without waiting for agreement. “Rathe, I need you.”

“Yes, Chief.” Rathe followed, not sorry to avoid the arguments below. Leenderts seemed to have it well in hand, anyway, and the carters seemed more concerned with cash values than with pride or status, which would make it easier to resolve.

Trijn paused at the top of the stairs, looked back at the busy room. “Will Coindarel be a help or a hindrance?”

“You asked for him,” Rathe answered, surprised, and Trijn gave a crooked smile.

“I didn’t expect to get him.”

“A help,” Rathe said.

Trijn nodded. “I’ll expect you to deal with him as need be.”

“I can do that,” Rathe said. Or rather, Eslingen could.

“What about your magist friend,” Trijn asked. “Can we press him into service, too?”

Rathe grimaced. “He’s a necromancer, Chief. And the phytomancers have been singularly reluctant to involve themselves with the Alphabet.”

“Any chance of him prodding them a bit? Or finding someone else who can help? A magist’s eye couldn’t hurt.”

“I’ll send to him,” Rathe said. “It can’t hurt to ask.” He shook himself. “If you’ll excuse me, Chief, there’s some work I need to do.”

Trijn lifted an eyebrow. “There’s something we can do?”

“I thought I’d look through my copy of the Alphabet, see if I can identify any of the arrangements at the theatre,” Rathe answered.

“Not until they’ve left for the day,” Trijn said sharply. “We don’t want him to know he’s suspect–that’s about the only advantage we do have.”