Текст книги "Point of Dreams"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Lisa Barnett
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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Rathe nodded, and turned into his workroom. The stove had gone out, this time, and he shouted for a runner, settled himself at his table while the girl brought kindling and made up the fire. He scribbled the note to b’Estorr as she worked, hardly knowing what to ask, except his help–but the magist understood as well as anyone what was happening, he told himself. He would find someone to help, if he couldn’t do it himself. The girl took the folded paper cheerfully, returned a few minutes later with the word that she’d sent one of the others to carry it to the university. She brought a pot of tea as well, sweet and smoky, thick with the candied rind of summer fruits, and Rathe sipped at it gratefully as he paged through the Alphabet. The trouble was, he thought, there was too much there, too many possibilities. It seemed as though every other story dealt with lost love, and the arrangements that matched them were all equally dangerous, in the right measure. And the one thing that was missing was the way to undo an arrangement without disrupting it–his own experience had been painful enough; he hated to think of what would happen if they tried to destroy Aubine’s arrangements without first rendering them harmless. There had to have been a dozen of them, onstage and in the theatre itself, when he was last at the Tyrseia.

There had to be a way to undo the arrangements, some way safely to neutralize their power, even without knowing the key flower. The Alphabet, of course, didn’t indicate which one that might be in any arrangement, and simply disrupting an arrangement was far too dangerous, as he had learned to his pain. No one would create this dangerous magistry without providing a better safeguard, at least for herself–proving once again, Rathe thought grimly, that Aconin had to know more than he had been telling. Surely someone at the university would know, he thought, and hoped b’Estorr would hurry with his answer. But that was going to take time, time to find the scholar, time to explain what was needed, time to find a phytomancer willing to analyze the Alphabet, time even to return to Point of Dreams… There was a knock at the door, and he looked up sharply.

“Come in.”

“Pardon, Adjunct Point.” It was one of the younger runners, bundled in a cut‑down carter’s coat wrapped tight over coat and knitted jerkin. “This is from the magist, the one you sent to.”

Rathe took the folded paper, its edges a little damp from the snow, frowning as he recognized b’Estorr’s elegant hand. It was only a few lines, and he swore under his breath as he took in the sense of them. b’Estorr was still searching for a phytomancer who was willing to take the Alphabet seriously enough to help them; if I haven’t found one by second sunrise, he finished, I’ll come myself and do what little I can.

Rathe took a deep breath and forced calm as the runner give him a wary glance. He dismissed the boy with a smile and a demming, and made himself look again at the open book. That was not the answer he had wanted, nothing like it–this was magists’ business, not something for the points–and then he shoved the thought away. There was nothing else he could do, except what he’d promised Trijn. He shook his head, turning another page, and caught his breath. It had been there all along, tucked in the plant dictionary, a simple plant, even familiar, something he’d seen now and then in the ditches at the edge of the city. The Alphabet labeled it “the Universal Panacaea,” but he knew it as hedgebroom, and salvarie. And I know where to get it, too, he thought, and shoved himself back from his table.

“Chief!”

Trijn looked up from her own work, wariness and hope warring in her expression. “Well? Has b’Estorr come?”

“No, not yet, he’s still trying to find someone who’s willing to help. He’ll be here at second sunrise, if he doesn’t find one. In any case, I may have an answer,” Rathe said. “But I have to find it, have to pick up something–there’s a plant, Chief, you may know it, hedgebroom–”

Trijn nodded, but he rushed on anyway, turning the book to show the illustration, wanting to be sure.

“Tall, rangy, pale blue autumn‑blooming flowers.”

“I know it,” Trijn said. “Go on.”

“The Alphabet calls it the Panacea, it should neutralize any magistical arrangement–”

“But who in Metenere’s name saves hedgebroom?” Trijn demanded. “It’s a weed. Gods, Rathe, the last of it bloomed two months ago.”

“Aubine will have it,” Rathe said with sudden certainty. “Anyone who knows the Alphabet this intimately will grow it, just in case of accident.”

“That hardly helps us,” Trijn said.

Rathe nodded. “I wasn’t proposing to ask him for it–or the university, either, I doubt they’d grow it. I know someone else who may have it.”

Trijn paused, staring, then nodded. “Go. I’ll deal with b’Estorr, if–when he comes.”

It wasn’t a long walk to the Corants Basin, but the snow was in his face the whole way, a fine, stinging mist that caught in his hair and scarf in spite of the cap pulled low on his ears. The top of the Chain Tower was dark against the snowy sky, the banner at its peak pulled straight out by the wind. His mother’s house was closed tight, but lamplight showed in the gaps between the shutters, and when he knocked, he heard the faint sound of music. It stopped instantly, and a moment later a young woman opened the door. Not an apprentice, he thought automatically, and wondered if it was her he had heard singing.

“I need to see Caro Rathe,” he said, and the girl’s eyes widened with recognition.

“You must be her son. Come in.”

“Thank you.” Rathe followed her down the long hall toward the stillroom that stood opposite the kitchen, surprised as always that his mother’s friends saw any resemblance between them. It wasn’t physical, couldn’t be–they were very different, bar a few tricks of voice and gesture–but somehow his mother’s friends seemed to know he was her child.

The stillroom was warm, a hearty fire roaring in the stove, and the scent of lavender warred with the homelier smells of a slow‑cooking dinner on the kitchen fire. His mother looked up from her place at the long workbench, surprise and pleasure turning to wariness as she studied his face.

“What is it, Nico?”

Rathe shook his head. “Nothing amiss, or at least not with us, anyone we know. But I need your help.”

Caro nodded, wiping her hands on her apron, and set aside the heavy brass mortar. “Name it.”

“Did you dry and keep hedgebroom this year?” Rathe held his breath for the answer;. saw Caro blink in surprise, and relaxed only when she nodded.

“Some, yes. Why?”

“May I take it?” Rathe was scanning the bunches that hung from the ceiling as he spoke, and Caro frowned.

“Yes, I suppose–but why? I keep it for Dame Ramary, you know.”

“Sorry.” Rathe shook his head, getting his own impatience under control with an effort. “It’s the theatre murders, I think I know who’s doing it, and why.” He reached into his pocket, brought out the red‑bound Alphabet, and opened it to the right page. “I am right, this is hedgebroom, isn’t it?”

Caro accepted the book, nodding slowly as she read through the text. “Yes, that’s hedgebroom, all right, salvarie they call it out west and by the coast. I’ve never heard of it as a panacea, though.”

“Magistical, not medicinal,” Rathe said.

“Obviously. But I haven’t known any magists to use it, either.”

“Sorry,” Rathe said again, and took a breath. “I’m–we’re not able to do the things we should do, to stop the man, and I’m trying to find other ways.”

“Does this have anything to do with Grener’s death?” Caro asked, and Rathe nodded.

“I think so. Well, I’m certain, but I don’t have the evidence to call a point. Yet.”

“Poor Grener,” Caro said, and rose from her stool, walking along the long beams where the dried plants hung in bundles. “Here’s what I have,” she said at last. “Is it enough?”

The bundle she lifted from the hook looked meager enough, barely a dozen stalks bound with a loop of string. The stems were brittle, their rich green faded almost to the pallor of straw, and only a few of the flowers remained. They, too, had faded, were no longer the startling blue that caught the eye at the end of summer. But at least they are there, Rathe thought. Assuming, that is, that it’s the flowers that are important.

“Which is the active part?” he asked, and Caro smiled, this time with approval.

“It’s all active, actually, at least for what I do. You boil the stems and leaves to make a decoction, or you can use the leaves in a tea. The flowers can go in the tea as well–they have a sharper taste–or you can use them alone. Dame Ramary tops her small‑cakes with them, the savory ones, serves them for her eyes.”

“That’s something,” Rathe said, and hoped the same would hold true for its magistical power. He glanced around, looking for some easy way to carry the bundle, and his mother stepped forward, plucked a single stalk from among the tangle. She tucked it into the front of his coat, a poor man’s posy, and stepped back.

“If it’s good against this murderer’s work, I want you wearing it.”

“Thank you,” Rathe said, knowing the words were inadequate, and Caro looked away, stooped to rummage blindly in the bins below the shelves that held her tools.

“Here,” she said at last, and held out a linen bag. “And be careful.”

Rathe took it, tucking the bundle of plants carefully inside, and slipped the ties over his belt. “I will,” he said, and hoped he could keep the promise.

Eslingen took a careful breath, watching the last of the chorus–his trainees–make their way off the stage. They still weren’t perfect, and he’d be ashamed to lead them in a proper drill, but at least they wouldn’t disgrace themselves on the day. Even as he thought that, one of the landseurs tripped, dropping his half‑pike with a clatter and nearly bringing down the man following him, and Eslingen couldn’t restrain a groan.

“Don’t worry,” Siredy said softly. “It’ll be all right tomorrow.”

Eslingen gave him a glance, and the other man managed a smile.

“Better to get that over with today, right?”

“If you say so.” Eslingen winced as another landseur stumbled over his own toes.

“Trust me,” Siredy said. “Let them get the worst over with now, and they’ll be fine tomorrow.”

“I hope so,” Eslingen answered. That was the last scene for which the masters had responsibility, and he allowed himself a sigh of relief as the actors playing Ramani’s henchmen made their entrance. Just the aftermath of the battle to get through, and the final scene, the restoration of the palatine, and then the massed chorus performing the final valediction. At least he didn’t have anything to do with that, he thought, and looked away as Aubine moved past them, a trug filled with flowers and greenery tucked over his arm. Eslingen had been doing his best to stay away from the landseur, and he was careful not to meet his eye this time, trying not to shiver at the thought of what the flowers in the trug might be capable of doing. So far, everything had been excruciatingly normal, Aubine busy in the corners, adding and subtracting stalks, culling blooms that had passed their prime, and more than once Eslingen had wondered if Rathe had gotten it right after all. Surely no one plotting something this outrageous could be so calm–and yet it was the only answer that fit.

Siredy touched his arm, and he jumped, met Siredy’s amused smile with a grimace.

“Let’s go out front,” the other master said. “You haven’t had a chance to see how it’ll play.”

Eslingen followed the other man back behind the backpiece and out the actors’ entrance into the hall, where the theatre’s doorman sat in solitary silence, a jug of ale at his side. Siredy rolled his eyes at that, and Eslingen nodded, making a face at the sour smell of beer rolling off the man. Drinking off his tips, most likely, he thought, all the bribes he’d earned for carrying messages and gifts–and telling tales to the broadsheets, probably–and he suppressed the unworthy urge to kick over the jug as he passed. Only one more night, anyway, one more night to watch and keep the stagehouse safe, and after that, the man could do as he pleased.

Siredy brought them out not into the pit, but into the two‑seilling seats in the first gallery, not the best seats–those were in the royal box, directly above–but certainly better than anything Eslingen had ever been able to afford. He had not seen the stage fully dressed, and caught his breath at the sight, impressed in spite of himself. To either side, the versatiles displayed the walls of de Galhac’s palace, with the mountains sloping away to a narrow valley in the distance. The actors stood well downstage, clothes gleaming in the light of the practicals, all their attention focused on the two ragged messengers who had brought the news of the palatine’s victory. De Galhac was overthrown, despite her armies and her magic, and the palatine stood in her palace, the rightful monarch restored. Eslingen shook his head in wonder, not really hearing the words–he’d heard them too many times already to be more than vaguely conscious of their rhythms– wondering instead how the play would look without the masque’s trappings overlaid on it. After all, de Galhac might have lost, but she was definitely the center of the play, the best part, or bes’Hallen would never have consented to play it; the second best part was Ramani, and the palatine was a poor third, not a villain, but not nearly as compelling as the other two. But it was the formal shape of the play that mattered, at least for the purposes of the masque: the rightful ruler was restored, and that was enough.

The practicals’ light glittered on the palatine’s crown, and she bent to accept a sheaf of snow‑white flowers from the highest ranking of the chorus. That was another magistical gesture, Eslingen knew, symbolic submission to the royal will and authority, and he leaned forward against the railing as the palatine finished her final speech. The chorus glided onstage behind her, the professional musicians hidden offstage already beginning the anthem, and he shook his head, amazed in spite of himself at the spectacle unfolding in front of him. This was the moment for which the chorus had been waiting, for which they had spent hundreds of crowns of their own money, and the rich fabrics caught the light, real gold and silver and gems outshining the paste jewels that decorated the actors’ costumes. By comparison, the two huge flower arrangements, one at each side of the forestage, looked almost drab, their colors drained by the glitter. The other arrangements looked normal, though, Eslingen thought, craning his head to see them all–great bunches of them hanging from the side boxes, another pair of massive arrangements set on the floor in front of the stage itself–and he wondered for an instant if he was seeing some manifestation of Aubine’s magistry. Then the light changed, subtly, and the moment was past. The chorus began its part of the song, voices swelling in an ancient litany. It was older than the masque itself, had been sung for the monarch at midwinter since time immemorial, and Siredy leaned back, sighing.

“It’ll play,” he said, and Eslingen wondered if the other master was trying to convince himself.

“What happens once the masque is done? To the play, I mean.”

Siredy reached across to tap one of the carved acorns that decorated the side of the box. “Tyrseis willing, we all take a week’s holiday, and then Mathiee announces a new version of The Alphabet of Desire–opening around the twenty‑fifth of Serpens, probably, that’ll give us about three weeks to pull all the extraneous stuff out of it and make any changes. Assuming that Aconin deigns to put in an appearance, that is.” He paused, gave the other man a curious look. “You don’t think Aconin killed all these people, do you?”

Eslingen shook his head. “I don’t.”

“Then where is he?”

Hiding, if he knows what’s good for him. Eslingen said, “I wish I knew. He could answer a few questions, I think, if he were here.”

Siredy gave him another sideways glance. “I hear the points are looking for him.”

I wouldn’t know. Eslingen killed the lie, knowing it wouldn’t be believed, said instead, “Even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you. You know that, Verre.”

Siredy grinned. “True enough. I can’t help asking, though.” Onstage, the chorus was coming to an end, and he straightened, sighing. “Come on. Mathiee’s bound to have some last notes for us, and then I’m for home.”

They came back to the stage through the all but empty pit, passing a trio of chamberlains huddled in final conference, and threaded their way through the sudden crowd backstage, found themselves at last beside the left‑hand wave. Duca was there, too, scowling to hide his own nervousness, and he beckoned them close.

“I saw you in the boxes. How’d it look?”

“Good,” Eslingen said, and Siredy nodded in agreement.

“It’ll play, Master Duca.”

“It had better,” Duca answered.

Gasquine had detached herself at last from the chamberlains, and made her way onto the stage, the bookholder calling for attention. The hum of conversation quieted, even the chorus falling silent almost at once, and Gasquine took her place center stage, lifting her hands.

“My ladies, my lords, all my fellows.” She paused, and then smiled suddenly, like the true sun rising. “What is there to say? We’re ready–go home, get a good night’s sleep, and be back here tomorrow at the stroke of nine.”

Eslingen blinked, startled, and Siredy grinned. “Well, that’s a good sign. Come on, Philip, I’m for the baths. Why don’t you join me?”

It was tempting, and Eslingen wished that the masque was all he had to worry about. “Sorry,” he said, “I’m promised elsewhere.”

Siredy nodded without offense. “Your pointsman, I’m sure. Another time, then.”

“Another time,” Eslingen echoed, and let himself be drawn into the stream of people leaving the theatre.

To his surprise, the square in front of the Tyrseia was less crowded than usual–or rather, he amended, the crowds were restricted to the far side of the area, by the tavern, and a bonfire burned in the center of the square, the snowflakes hissing as they landed in the flames. There were figures around the fire, familiar shapes, men with pikes and muskets and the queen’s white sash bright in the firelight, and he stopped abruptly, shaking his head. It looked like Coindarel’s badge, his regiment, or what was left of it, but the last he’d heard, they’d been quartered in the Western Reach, near the queen’s palace. What were they doing here, set out as what looked like a perimeter guard around the theatre?

“Philip!”

Eslingen turned at the sound of the familiar voice, his mood lightening in spite of everything, and Rathe hurried to join him, picking his way carefully over the snow‑slicked cobbles. “What’s Coindarel doing here?” he asked, and Rathe took his arm, drawing him deeper into the shadows.

“A favor to Astreiant. Trijn asked if we could have them, if they would guard the theatre.”

“Not a bad idea. Though she might have asked for a magist or three.”

Rathe made a face. “We tried that. We haven’t got one yet.”

“Damn.” The wind was cold, driving the snow under the edges of his cloak, and Eslingen shivered. “So what now?”

“Yeah.” Rathe made a face. He was wrapped in a heavy cloak as well, more, Eslingen suspected, to hide the truncheon than to cut the wind. “Well, now we wait, make sure everyone’s left, and then– then we try spiking Aubine’s guns.” He grinned suddenly. “I think that’s the proper phrase.”

“Depends on what you have in mind.”

“I’ll tell you inside,” Rathe answered, his eyes shifting, and Eslingen turned to confront a familiar figure.

“Lieutenant Eslingen.”

The words were cool, and Eslingen braced himself for insult or worse: Connat Bathias was the real thing, a true twelve‑quarter noble, and not likely to suffer his usurpation of a title.

“Pardon me, vaan Esling. I understand your family has claimed you now.”

Eslingen frowned, suspicious, but the tone and the expression on the other man’s face was pleasant enough, and he decided to take them at face value. “I’m dealing with nobles, Captain. Better they think I’m one of them, when I don’t have the regiment to back me.”

Bathias nodded, soberly still, but without hostility, and looked back at Rathe. “The doorkeeper says they’ve all gone, Adjunct Point.”

Rathe nodded. “And the landseur Aubine?”

“Gone with them, I would assume,” Bathias answered, and Eslingen turned, hearing the sound of a carriage pulling away from the theatre.

“There’s his coach.”

“Right.” Rathe took a deep breath. “Let’s go, then.”

The actors’ door was closed, a soldier leaning at his ease against the painted wood. He straightened to something like attention at their approach, and Eslingen’s eyes narrowed. Six months ago, he would have had the right to give the man the lecture he deserved; as it was, he frowned, said nothing, and had the satisfaction of seeing the man pull himself to rights.

“You’re sure everyone’s gone?” Rathe asked, and the soldier nodded.

“The doorkeeper said so, and then the sergeant and I took a quick look around. No one there.”

“Good enough,” Rathe said, and pulled open the door. Eslingen hesitated–the theatre was a warren of passages, had too many odd corners for a “quick look” to be sufficient–then shrugged away his doubts, and followed Rathe into the broad tunnel. It was dark, but the simple mage‑lights were still lit over the stage, casting enough light to let them pick their way into the main body of the theatre. It was very quiet, the air utterly still, and cold now as the building emptied, and Eslingen could just hear the faint hiss of the snow on the canvas roof far overhead.

“So what are we going to do?” he asked after a moment, and realized he had spoken in a near‑whisper.

Rathe untangled himself from his cloak, and held out a crumpled linen bag. “I found something in the Alphabet, a panacea–it’s a plant, hedgebroom, I’ve also heard it called–that can neutralize any and all of these arrangements.” He smiled then, wryly. “At least, it’s supposed to. I thought we could begin by slipping a few stalks into each of these big arrangements.”

“Spiking the guns,” Eslingen said with new understanding. “Nico, a spiked gun explodes if you try to use it–”

“Let’s hope the analogy isn’t that accurate, then,” Rathe answered. He looked around, eyes widening as he took in the changed scenery. “Where do we start?”

“I suppose the big ones at the front of the stage,” Eslingen said after a moment. “I’m sure they were the ones that operated against the landames.”

“Right, then,” Rathe said, looking around for the short steps that had stood in the pit, and Eslingen shook his head.

“Not there, not with the performance so close. We’ll have to go through the stagehouse.”

Rathe nodded, and Eslingen led the way through the actors’ door, its carvings so closely matched to the wall around it that it was almost impossible to see. It was dark backstage as well, just the trio of mage‑lights glowing on the stage itself, and Eslingen paused for a moment, letting his eyes adjust.

“This way,” he said after a moment, and stepped into the light.

The blow caught him by surprise, a soundless explosion, as though he’d walked headlong into an invisible wall. He swore, startled, and his breath caught in his throat, as though the air itself had gone suddenly thick. Too thick to breathe, he thought, fingers going to his stock, and he stumbled to his knees, fighting for air. He choked, his mouth suddenly full of water, the bitter water of the Sier itself, and he looked up, searching for Rathe, but saw only the carved shape of The Drowned Island’swave, looming overhead. He spat, but his mouth filled again in an instant, sight failing now, as though the water was rising inside his body, an impossible tide covering his eyes. This had to be how de Raзan had died, he realized, realized, too, that there had to be flowers somewhere, and reached for them, willing to chance the lightning if only he could breathe again. His fingers scrabbled across bare boards, found nothing, and he wrenched his stock loose, lungs frozen, aching. If he breathed, he knew they would fill with water, and he would hold his breath as long as he could, fight somehow toward the surface of this impossible river, but he could feel the property ice below the stage, changing its nature and rising to cover him, trapping him in The Drowned Island’sfrozen Sier. In the distance, he could hear Rathe calling his name, but he had no breath to answer, no strength left for anything at all.

And then, miraculously, the pressure eased, and he spat out the last mouthful of river water, drew a whooping breath, coughed, and breathed again, his head hanging between his shoulders.

“Gods, Philip.” Rathe was beside him, kneeling on the bare, dry stage, and as Eslingen moved, Rathe wrapped an arm around his shoulders, one hand tightening on his arm. “Are you all right? Can you breathe?”

“Yes.” Eslingen coughed again, the taste of the Sier still filling his mouth, and Rathe thumped him on the back. “Seidos’s Horse. Was it–?”

He broke off, not quite knowing what his question was– was it the Alphabet, was it your plant that stopped it–and Rathe nodded. He was very pale, Eslingen saw, and he shifted to grip the other man’s hand.

“I’m all right,” he said, and Rathe nodded again.

“I think we know how de Raзan died,” he said, and his voice was less steady than his words.

Eslingen shivered, the memory too raw, and in spite of himself looked up again at the looming wave. “I saw that,” he said, “but I was–drowning–first. The wave just made it easier to believe. Like the ice.”

“Ice?” Rathe asked, and Eslingen nodded to the boards that covered the wave troughs.

“Under the stage. For the final scene. I was trying–to swim to the surface, I suppose, but the ice came over me, and held me down.”

“Sofia,” Rathe breathed, the word a prayer.

“But it didn’t touch you?” Eslingen pushed himself up, sat back on his heels, working his shoulders. His ribs would be sore in the morning, he thought, inconsequentially, but it was better than the alternative.

“No.” Rathe released his hands, visibly shook himself back to business. “I’m not completely sure why–I could feel it, like a current, like the river, but it wasn’t dragging me under. Maybe it was this.” He touched the breast of his coat, where a single ragged flower hung limply from a buttonhole.

“The panacea,” Eslingen said, and Rathe nodded.

“Plus you were first onto the stage. You crossed between the arrangements, they may have been meant to catch the first one through.”

Eslingen looked where the other man was pointing, saw two small vases tucked at the bases of the nearest versatiles. They were almost pretty, pink cormflowers and pale yellow sweethearts wound about with a strand of the heavy vine that grew wild along the riverbank, and he shook his head, unable to believe that such a small thing could have nearly drowned him. But they had, he knew, seeing the stalks of hedgebroom tucked haphazardly among the flowers. Only the panacea had stopped them.

“I’ve been told more than once my stars are bad for water,” he said thoughtfully.

“And I grew up swimming in the Sier,” Rathe said. “If my stars would drown me, I’d’ve been dead long ago. It could make a difference.”

Eslingen nodded. “Those weren’t here when I left,” he said.

“I don’t doubt it,” Rathe answered, and pushed himself to his feet, a haunted look on his face. He held out his hand, and Eslingen let himself be drawn upright, wincing again at the ache in his ribs. He felt bloated, as though he’d swallowed gallons of river water, hoped the feeling would pass soon.

“Philip, we have a problem.” Rathe held up the linen bag, turned it upside down so that a few strands of fiber fell to the stage floor, a leaf and part of a stem and a few petals from a flower. Automatically, Eslingen stooped to collect them, tucked them into his pocket. “It took everything I had, everything my mother had saved, just to stop this one trap. I don’t have anything left to spike the other arrangements.”

Eslingen blinked, trying to focus. “What if we take these two apart, now that they’re neutralized, save the panacea and use it in the big arrangements?”

Rathe shook his head. “There’s not enough. I don’t know if it’s because it’s dried, not fresh like the flowers, but it took half a dozen stalks in each arrangement to make it safe. It’ll take more to neutralize those big arrangements, and Dis only knows what else he’ll have waiting for us.”

Eslingen looked down at the twin vases, the pale delicate flowers wound with vines and spiked with the furry stems of the panacea. “So what do we do?” he asked, and Rathe met his eyes squarely.

“Hedgebroom’s long past, it dies over the winter, and we won’t find any in the ditches, or anywhere else, for that matter. But Aubine will have it. If he’s playing with these powers, he will grow it, and in quantity.”

“You can’t think he’ll just give it to you,” Eslingen said, appalled.

“Not likely.” Rathe managed a faint, unhappy grin. “But he’s got four succession houses. He can’t be in all of them at once.”

Eslingen blinked again, wondering if the near drowning had affected his hearing. Surely Rathe couldn’t be suggesting that they rob the landseur’s house–succession houses, he corrected himself. Not with Aubine presumably at home, along with all his household… “It’s not going to work,” he said, and Rathe scowled.

“I’m open to better ideas, believe me.”

“I wish I had one.” Eslingen looked down at the flowers again, and shivered as though the icy waters had soaked him to the skin. In a way they had, he thought; he could still feel their touch beneath his skin, in his lungs and guts, and he shuddered again, thinking of de Raзan. “Poor bastard. A nasty way to die.”

“Are you with me?” Rathe demanded, and Eslingen nodded.

“Oh, yes, I’m with you. But let’s see if we can’t find a more practical way to steal a landseur’s plants.”

“Maybe if one of us provides a diversion,” Rathe said without much hope.