Текст книги "Point of Dreams"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Lisa Barnett
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Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

“These are the people who have conspired with the landseur Aubine to kill Her Majesty,” Rathe said. “They must be kept from entering the theatre tomorrow morning, stopped and held for the points.”

“Do you really think you can call a point on one of the regents?” Coindarel asked, his voice almost amused. “Or on Aubine, for that matter?”

“The proof is there,” Rathe answered, with more confidence than he entirely felt. “And the queen’s life is at stake.”

“Treason is not a matter for the points,” Coindarel said, sounding shocked.

“Then whose is it?” Rathe demanded. “Prince‑marshal, I am serious about this. Someone has to act. These people have to be stopped.”

The prince‑marshal hesitated, the light from the firebasket reflecting up on his thin, hard‑boned face. “And I can hardly see you sending a horde of pointsmen to do it.”

“Don’t I wish I could,” Rathe said fervently, and Coindarel’s grim face relaxed into a smile.

“Leveller to the core.” He looked down at the list. “Very well. No one on this list will enter the theatre, tomorrow or tonight. And I’ll keep your stray playwright safe as well–I’m sure he can answer any questions that might arise. Will that suffice, Adjunct Point?”

Rathe nodded. “And if you could order your men to stay out of the theatre, for their own sake–”

“I wouldn’t order them in there on a bet,” Coindarel answered. “You can have it all to yourself.”

“Thank you,” Rathe said with real gratitude. That left only the arrangements, and he looked at Eslingen. “Shall we?”

In the shifting light, it was hard to tell, but he thought Eslingen swallowed hard. “Let’s get on with it.”

If anything, it was even quieter in the theatre the second time they entered, and colder, the wind finding its way through the tiniest gaps in the canvas roof. There were tiny drifts of snow on the edge of the gallery, where a window fit imperfectly, and Eslingen paused, scanning the pit and the galleries above it.

“You don’t suppose it’s too cold for the plants,” he said, and Rathe shook his head.

“I wish it were. But Aubine will have taken precautions.”

“Damn the man,” Eslingen said, and hefted the baskets. “I liked him, Nico.”

“So did I,” Rathe said. “It–happens, Philip.”

“The man had cause.”

“But not for murder,” Rathe answered. “Not for all these murders.”

Eslingen nodded slowly. “No, I know, you’re right.” He touched the flowers at his buttonhole. “Let’s hope these work as well here as they did at the house.”

They made their way back onto the stage, past the arrangements still studded with the dried stalks of hedgebroom. At least the fresh plant seemed to be more potent, Rathe thought, and knew he should be grateful for that small favor. The air on the stage itself was heavy, more like midsummer than midwinter–and warmer, too, he realized, and guessed Aubine was making sure that his flowers would survive the night. But it was more than mere warmth, too; there was a sense of expectation, the heaviness of a summer storm, the lightning dormant in the thickening clouds. He shook the image away, impatient, but saw the same wariness in Eslingen’s eyes.

“He’s ready for us,” the soldier said, and Rathe shook his head, refusing to give in to the ridiculous sense of foreboding.

“Or he’s just ready for the play. Come on, it’s going to take us at least an hour to spike all of the vases.”

Eslingen nodded, forcing his voice to keep its normal tone. “Where do we start?”

Rathe looked around. There were too many flowers, he thought, too many little arrangements, as well as the big ones that dominated the forestage; he’d underestimated things, it would take most of the night to be sure they had them all. Maybe he should have waited for the magists after all. “Let’s start with the big ones,” he said, shoving away the thought, and hefted the heavy basket. I just hope there’s enough hedgebroom to go around.

He could feel the power in the arrangement as he came closer, and stopped just out of arm’s reach, skin tingling. It was like Forveijl’s arrangement, like the arrangements that had held Aconin captive, but heavier, stronger, the power leashed in it, heavy as an impending storm. It would take more than one stalk of hedgebroom to neutralize this, he knew instinctively, and bent to open his basket, looking for the largest, best‑grown stalks.

“No!”

Rathe turned, cursing, to see Aubine emerging from between the last two versatiles, a pistol leveled in his hand.

“Step away from it, Adjunct Point,” Aubine said, almost sadly. “I won’t permit any interference now.”

“Or ever,” Rathe answered. He kept himself from looking at the other arrangement, saw Eslingen easing back out of Aubine’s line of sight, to vanish behind the first versatile. “How many men have you killed for this?”

Aubine flinched. “Too many. But I’ve suffered enough, and too long, with no redress. Stand away from the flowers.”

Rathe did as he was told, lifting his hands to show them empty. He thought he saw something move in the shadows between the versatiles, hoped it was Eslingen and not some trick of the mage‑light. “Maseigneur. What good does this do your leman?”

Aubine winced again, but shook his head. “It’s too late to stop this. I’ve gone so far, I cannot–I will not–end it now. Not without vengeance.”

“Vengeance isn’t justice,” Rathe protested, and Aubine managed something like a bitter smile.

“Justice was denied me twenty years ago and more. I’ll settle for this.”

“No–”

As Rathe spoke, Eslingen lunged from the wings, reaching for the landseur’s pistol. Aubine staggered sideways, the pistol discharging. Rathe ducked, and Eslingen flung himself forward, falling against Aubine in a clumsy attempt to bring him down. Not shot, Rathe thought, Dis Aidones, not shot, and then he saw Eslingen shake his head hard, black flecks scattering his cheek and the white linen of his stock. The pistol had discharged practically in his ear, Rathe realized, left him half stunned, and even as he moved to help, Aubine had thrown the pistol aside and seized Eslingen by the throat, a knife appearing in his other hand as if by magic. Rathe froze, too frightened even to curse, saw Eslingen struggle to get his feet under him, and stop dead as he realized what had happened.

“He’s your leman, isn’t he?” Aubine asked.

Rathe took a careful breath. “That’s not–”

Aubine lifted the knife. “Isn’t he? And it’s very much to the matter, Adjunct Point.”

“You know he is,” Rathe answered, and Aubine’s hand relaxed a fraction.

“You’ve made the same mistake I did,” Aubine said sadly. “A terrible, glorious mistake, and it cannot last. His family will kill you when they find out, and there will be no justice.”

Rathe blinked. Aubine believed in Lieutenant vaan Esling, believed that he was from an old and noble Leaguer family– oh, Dis, Philip, Duca’s plan’s worked too well this time. “So you’ll kill me first?” he asked.

“Your death is inevitable,” Aubine answered, still with the note of sorrow in his voice. “It was inevitable from the moment you swore lemanry with someone above your station.”

“Maseigneur.” Eslingen’s voice was strained, high and loud like a deaf man’s. “Maseigneur, you’re making a mistake. I’m no noble. I’m a motherless bastard from Esling, Gerrat Duca renamed me for the masque and the benefit of the Masters.”

Aubine shook his head. “Very noble, Lieutenant. I’m afraid I don’t believe you.” Even at a distance, Rathe could see his arm tighten on Eslingen’s throat, saw the ex‑soldier wince, bracing himself against the new strain. “But tell me, Lieutenant–would you die for him? A common pointsman?”

“I’d rather live for him,” Eslingen said.

“I’ll fight you for him,” Rathe said, in the same instant, and Aubine shook his head again.

“No. Come here, Adjunct Point, away from the flowers.”

“No.” Rathe took a quick step sideways, putting himself in front of the arrangement of flowers. “Let him go, Aubine.”

“Come here,” Aubine said, his teeth clenched, “or I will kill him where he stands. And his blood will be on your hands, pointsman.”

“Touch him, and I’ll destroy this arrangement,” Rathe said. “I can have it over, broken, before you can stop me.”

“No!” Aubine’s eyes widened, but he steadied himself instantly. “No, I don’t think so. That would mean your death, pointsman, as well you know. You’ve seen what happens when the plants are disturbed before their time.”

Rathe swallowed. Oh, he knew, all right, could still feel the residual soreness in his ribs and arms–and this arrangement was easily twice as large as the one Forveijl had made. It was easy to believe that Aubine was telling the truth, that this could kill.

“If you kill him,” he said steadily, “I’ll have no reason to live.” He took another step backward, hand outstretched to the plants. He could feel their presence, could almost hear the angry humming, like bees disturbed in their hive. “I will do it if I must, Aubine. Let him go.”

“I will kill him,” Aubine said again, and from somewhere Rathe dredged up a laugh.

“And then we’ll all die.” He reached for the nearest flower, his fingers pierced by a thousand needles, and in the same instant Aubine shoved Eslingen away, drawing his sword. Eslingen stumbled to his knees, still half dazed by the pistol shot, and Rathe reached for his own knife. It was too short, too light; he caught the first blow on the hilt, but Aubine slid away as he tried to come to grips. He couldn’t match the landseur at swordplay–hadn’t the weapon for it, if nothing else, had to bring him to close quarters, where a street fighter’s skill could help him–and he danced away from the landseur’s thrusts, trying to force the man to close. Aubine was good, he realized, very good indeed, was forcing him upstage, away from the flowers. Aubine lunged again, drawing a thread of blood from the peak of his shoulder, and Rathe swore, backpedaling furiously. It wasn’t much of a wound, just a scratch, but it hurt, could slow him down–

“Nico! Back!”

It was Eslingen’s voice, from the wings, high and urgent, and Rathe flung himself backward without thought, almost falling. There was a rush of air, a shadow blurring the air, and then a crash rocked the stage beneath his feet as the wave panel crashed down behind him, crushing Aubine beneath its massive weight. He made no sound–hadn’t even seen it, Rathe guessed, and shuddered violently, seeing the body crushed beneath the carved panel. There was blood already, but not so much of it as one might expect; he stooped, wincing, and saw that Aubine’s chest was caved in, his eyes already glazed in death. Just like the sceneryman, he thought, and wasn’t sure if he would laugh or vomit.

“Nico?” Eslingen came out from between the versatiles, his face very pale. “Dis, Nico, are you–”

“I’m fine.” Rathe swallowed hard, and stepped carefully around the end of the carved wave. “Did you do that?”

Eslingen nodded. “There wasn’t anything else, all the swords are locked up–and they’re bated, anyway. Oh, gods, Nico, are you all right?”

“Are you?” Rathe answered, and was seized in a tight embrace.

“Stunned,” Eslingen said in his ear–still too loudly, Rathe thought, and stifled a giggle in the other man’s shoulder. “And half deaf for a day or two, I shouldn’t wonder. But–I’m alive. And so are you.”

Rathe took a deep breath, gently detached himself from the other man’s arms. “So we are. But there’s work still to be done.”

“The Dis‑damned flowers,” Eslingen said, and Rathe nodded.

“And the body. And the rest of the conspirators, and anything else Trijn can think of.”

“Tyrseis,” Eslingen said. “The chamberlains will want to purify the stage, won’t they?”

“Probably.” Rathe fumbled in his pocket, failed to find a handkerchief, and Eslingen held one out, a smile barely touching his dark eyes. Rathe took it, wadded it roughly into a bandage, and pressed it to the cut on his shoulder. It wasn’t much, he could tell that, but enough to be painful. Another laundress’s bill, too, he thought, coat and shirt both, not to mention mending, and he wondered if Point of Dreams would stand the cost. Eslingen rubbed at his neck, scalded red and flecked with black from the too‑close discharge, and Rathe frowned. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Like you, sore. But it’ll heal.” He looked around. “And where the hell are Coindarel’s men? I’d expect them to come running.”

“Obeying orders, I hope,” Rathe answered.

Eslingen nodded, and they made their way back out through the actors’ tunnel into the firelit courtyard. Coindarel’s tent was still brightly lit, and the prince‑marshal looked up from his chessboard with a frown. Aconin, Rathe saw, looked relieved, sitting opposite: from the position of his pieces, the playwright had been losing handily.

“Done already, Adjunct Point? Or is there more trouble?”

“No and no,” Rathe answered. “Or not exactly.” He held up a hand, forestalling Coindarel’s indignant question. “Prince‑marshal, I need you to send for Trijn–I’ll write what’s needed, you can read it if you’d like. But Aubine is dead, and we need help to make the theatre safe again.”

“Dead?” Aconin said, eyes wide, and Coindarel ignored him.

“Dead how?”

Rathe took a breath, trying not to remember too closely. “He attacked us–he was in the theatre, guarding the plants, I suppose, and when we started to spike the arrangements, he tried to stop us. One of the wave effects fell and crushed him.”

“I dropped it on him,” Eslingen corrected. “In self‑defense.”

Coindarel’s eyes flickered as he took in the marks of the fight, Rathe’s torn coat and bloodied shirt and the burn on Eslingen’s neck and chin, and he smiled faintly. “That explains the faint, strange noises reported to me not a quarter hour past. I very nearly sent a troop in to investigate.”

“Thank you, sir,” Eslingen said.

Rathe said, “He’s dead on the stage, Prince‑marshal, which makes it a matter for the chamberlains, or so I’d think. And we still need to neutralize all the arrangements.”

Coindarel waved vaguely at the traveling desk that stood opposite the firebasket, the gesture far more languid than the look in his eyes. “Write all you will, Adjunct Point, I’ll see the notes delivered.”

“Thanks.” Rathe seated himself at the desk, a wave of dizziness washing over him. Reaction, he knew, and shook it angrily away. There would be time for that later, he told himself, and reached for a sheet of the fine paper stacked in a traveler’s box. It seemed a shame to use all of it for such a short message, and he tore it in half, writing small and neat to get everything in. Just a note to Trijn, he thought; she could see to the rest of it.

“Lieutenant,” Coindarel said. “You’ll find the makings for punch on that table. You always had a talent for it.”

“Yes, sir,” Eslingen said again, and Rathe heard the clank of bottles and glass, but didn’t look up until the note was finished. It was longer than he’d intended, filled most of the half sheet, and he only hoped it would be clear enough for Trijn to understand what was needed.

“I’ll take that,” Coindarel said, and twitched the paper away before Rathe could change his mind. “Sergeant!”

“Drink this,” Eslingen said, and slid a steaming cup under the other man’s nose. Rathe took it gratefully, smelling sweet wine and spices. There was brandy in it, too, and he took a deeper swallow, glad of the inner fire.

“I’ll be drunk if I have much more,” he said, and blushed to realize he’d spoken aloud.

“No harm if you are,” Eslingen answered. “Let the rest of Dreams take care of things.”

“We’ll have to show them how to neutralize the arrangements,” Rathe protested, and Eslingen shook his head.

“We can tell them that–I can tell them that, if it comes to it. Drink up. You need it.”

The inward shivers were easing, and Rathe nodded, took another, more careful swallow of the punch, edging his chair closer to Coindarel’s fire. The prince‑marshal was nowhere in sight, he realized, and guessed he was making sure that the theatre was still secure.

Trijn arrived within the half hour, just as the clock struck three, a tousled Sohier at her side. Most of Dreams’s personnel was there, Rathe realized, as he followed one of Coindarel’s soldiers out into the courtyard, the day watch dragged early from their beds as well as the night watch.

“The prince‑marshal tells me we’ll need the chamberlains,” Trijn said abruptly. “And their magists to cleanse the stage. b’Estorr’s finally coming, too, with phytomancers in tow, I understand.”

Rathe suppressed a shudder, thinking of the more mundane cleaning that would be required first, and nodded, “Yes, Chief.”

“Are you all right?” Trijn shook her head. “Never mind. Tell me what happened.”

Rathe took a careful breath, all too aware of the other points huddling close to hear, and did his best to order his thoughts. “After I found the panacea, Chief, I brought what I had to the theatre, but it–wasn’t enough to neutralize all the arrangements. It was dried, you see, and we needed fresh.”

“We being yourself and Lieutenant vaan Esling?” Trijn asked.

Rathe nodded, suddenly aware that Sohier was scribbling his words into her tablets. “Yeah. I knew Aubine would have the panacea, had to be growing it, with everything he was doing with the plants, so we went to his succession houses.”

“Intending to steal it?” Trijn gave a thinlipped smile.

“Intending to get it however I could,” Rathe answered. He had known there would be an official record, an explanation that could be shown to the regents and anyone else who feared the points’ influence, but he’d hoped it could wait until after the masque. He shook himself, frowning, chose his words with care. “I would have asked the landseur’s permission, but when we reached his house, we found all his household asleep, bespelled with flowers.” He went through the rest of the story in equally careful detail, emphasizing Aconin’s testimony and the list they had found in Aubine’s study, glossing over the details of the fight to keep as much blame as possible from Eslingen. “And the landseur is dead,” he finished at last, “and his arrangements still have to be neutralized before Her Majesty arrives at the theatre.”

“You say that neutralizing them just means adding springs of hedgebroom to each one?” Falasca demanded.

Rathe nodded, too tired to wonder when she’d arrived. “But carefully. You–well, when you get close to one, you’ll feel it. There should be a gap, though, among the flowers, where you can add a stem or two.”

Trijn nodded. “We’ll take care of that,” she said.

“The hedgebroom is in baskets,” Rathe said. “We left them on the stage. There should be enough…”

His voice trailed off, and Trijn nodded again. “We’ll take care of it,” she said, her voice unexpectedly gentle. “Us and b’Estorr’s people, and I’ve sent to the chamberlains, told them we need their magists as well as them. The flowers will be neutralized. And I’ll send to the other stations, make sure they call points on Aubine’s co‑conspirators.”

“Thank you.” Rathe shook himself. “The flowers, I can show you how–”

“No,” Trijn said. “Rathe–I’m sorry, Nico, but I’m calling the point on you, for Aubine’s death.”

“You can’t do that,” Eslingen protested. “Seidos’s Horse, if he hadn’t stopped him, I hate to think what would have happened tomorrow.”

“A man lies dead, and by his own admission, through Rathe’s actions,” Trijn said. “I have to call the point.”

“I killed him,” Eslingen said. “I was the one who worked the lever–I dropped the damned wave on him. If you call a point on him, you have to call one on me.”

“Rathe’s actions were the first cause of the landseur’s death,” Trijn said. “You acted on his orders and to defend him.”

“He was defending himself,” Eslingen said, and Rathe touched his arm.

“It’s all right, Philip. This–” His mouth twisted into a wry smile. “This is necessary, right, Chief? To keep the regents off your back.”

Trijn had the grace to blush, but she met his gaze squarely. “That’s right, Rathe. And I’d rather keep my place and have a chance to protect heroes like you than lose it when it might be prevented.”

“But–” Eslingen began, shaking his head, and Rathe’s grip tightened.

“Philip. It won’t mean anything. The law is clear. This is just a formality.”

“A formality that keeps her in office,” Eslingen said, “and puts you in a cell.”

“Let it go,” Rathe said. “Please.”

Eslingen drew a ragged breath. “All right. But, Chief Point, if you’re going to call the point on him, you should take me in, too. It was my hand that struck him down.”

“If you insist, I will,” Trijn answered. “But if you’re free, you can see that he gets all the amenities while he’s in the cells–good meals, wine, clean clothes.”

“Don’t you feed your prisoners, Chief Point?” Eslingen asked.

“Not as well as you’d like,” Trijn answered, and Eslingen sighed, defeated, glanced sideways at Rathe.

“Are you sure about this, Nico?”

There was a lot that could go wrong, Rathe thought, remembering other cases that had seemed equally clear until a clever advocat had her say, but he made himself nod. Trijn would see him right, he trusted her that far, and her influence seemed to be considerable. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

“Will you permit that?” Eslingen demanded, and Trijn gave him an ironic glance.

“I’ll even let you escort him, Lieutenant. You see how I trust you.”

Eslingen swept an equally ironic bow, and turned away. Rathe hesitated.

“You’re sure you can handle the flowers, Chief?”

“There are magists on the way if we can’t,” Trijn answered. “And the sooner you’re gone, the sooner we can begin.”

Rathe nodded, defeated, let Eslingen turn him away. Beyond the theatre, the streets were dark and empty, the snow not yet trampled and rutted by the day’s traffic. It was very quiet, the usual sounds deadened by the snow, and Eslingen shook his head, rubbing at his ear again.

“If she trusts you so much, couldn’t we spend the night in our own bed, turn you in in the morning?”

Rathe hesitated, sorely tempted–the cells at Dreams were penitential–but shook his head. “No, I promised.”

Eslingen nodded, looking suddenly exhausted, and Rathe touched his shoulder in sympathy. They were almost at the station now, turned the corner to see the station’s lights blazing in the unshuttered windows. Trijn hadn’t left many people on duty, Rathe knew, and he pitied the day watch, called to early duty. Then a thought struck him, and in spite of everything he smiled.

“What?” Eslingen asked, and held the gate for them both.

Rathe shook his head, unable to lose the smile. “I just realized, this will be the first midwinter in–oh, it must be fifteen years or more that I’m not working.”

Eslingen’s eyebrows rose. “Don’t make a habit of it,” he said, and they stepped together into the station’s welcome warmth.

13

Epilogue

The day of the masque passed, and the routine of Dreams station returned to normal, except for the fact that its senior adjunct was kicking his heels in the station’s best cell, and the best was still, as Rathe had described it, penitential. But it was clean, the small stove kept it warm enough, and Eslingen had left the evening before only to fetch dinner from Laneten’s, and in the morning brought breakfast from the markets. But he couldn’t stay; Duca expected all his masters present that day to help clean, sort out, and restore the weapons to their proper places at the salle. By the afternoon of this second day, the enforced inactivity was fretting Rathe almost more than anything else, or so he told himself, resolutely putting aside fears that the point for Aubine’s death might be upheld. But he realized, even without Trijn’s pointing it out, that he was better off taking his chances with the judiciary and the intendancy than seeing it fall to the regents. Bad enough he had been involved in the landseur’s death, far worse would be the fact that he had been right–about Leussi’s death, about Aubine’s involvement.

He set aside the broadsheet he had been reading–Eslingen had brought him a sheaf of them along with breakfast that morning, all extolling Astreiant, now officially named the queen’s successor–and looked at his report on the events, ready to hand it over when it was required, and when he was reinstated. There was nothing more to add, and he pushed it aside as well, got restlessly to his feet. He could move about the station itself, under escort, but he was reluctant to pull anyone from their actual duties and besides, he found it galling that he should need to. He prowled the length of the chamber. He couldn’t expect Eslingen back again until evening, and b’Estorr was stuck at the university, reading the riot act to the phytomancers who had viewed the Alphabet as, in b’Estorr’s own words, so many market games.

So he was surprised at the rap on the door, and to see Sohier stick her head in. “Sorry to bother you, Nico, but–it’s the advocat Holles to see you.”

Rathe hid a grin–she was acting as though he were in his usual workroom, blithely disregarding anything so inconsequential as a point for murder–and then she had stepped aside for the advocat.

Holles waited till the door was closed behind him before he said quietly, “I feel terrible about this, Rathe.”

Rathe looked at him. “Advocat?”

Holles gestured around the small room. “After all you did–and not just for me–you shouldn’t be in here.”

It was funny, Rathe thought, that he was the one comforting and reassuring his friends–not Eslingen, he had given that up, and just listened to his leman’s rants about the unfairness–about a couple of days spent in Dreams’s best cell. He gestured for the advocat to take the chair, and sat down himself on the edge of the cot.

“It’s better if we observe all the formalities,” he said with a wry smile. “You wouldn’t throw me to the regents, would you, sir?”

“Sweet Sofia, no!” Holles said, horrified, then slowly smiled in turn as he realized what Rathe had done. “Bourtrou always spoke well of you. I can see why he liked you. You’re a good man, Rathe,” he said quietly.

Rathe shrugged. “And a lucky one, if truth be told.”

Holles nodded. “I still don’t understand, though–why Bourtrou?” It was the question, torn from the heart, that Holles had managed not to ask until this point, but he deserved an answer, although it would cause him more pain. Rathe stared down at the floor for a moment, then took a breath. He had put it all together for Trijn. Holles deserved no less.

“Leussi was one of the chamberlains this year. Which meant he would have passed judgment on the play for the masque. The version of the Alphabet he had–the one you gave me–was authentic. It was the same edition Aubine was working from. But Leussi never suspected any ill of Aubine, probably suspected Aconin instead, summoned Aubine to warn him about the dangers of the play he was sponsoring. Aubine listened, was probably politely appalled–and then brought him as a gift, as thanks, the bluemory. Which was fatal under those stars to someone with Leussi’s stars. Quickly fatal, Istre tells me. That gave him the time he needed to bind the ghost.” It sounded harsh, was harsh, stated so simply, but Rathe didn’t know any way to cushion the words. Holles at least had known his leman had been murdered; now he knew why. A bitter comfort, but then, most knowledge was.

The advocat was staring at a shaft of sunlight that was creeping across the floor from the high, narrow window. “It seems so unreal,” he murmured. “It makes no sense–for Aubine to have deprived me–and others–of loved ones, lemen, because of his own loss.”

“I know.” Unbidden, the memory of Eslingen on the stage of the Tyrseia, Aubine’s knife at his throat, rose in his mind, and he shook it away physically. “He was beyond rational thought. I don’t think he meant, don’t think he thought about the pain it would cause you. He only knew that Leussi was dangerous to his plan. Leussi died because he was an honorable man, a learned man, and too damned good at his job.”

Holles looked up at Rathe, his eyes bleak, but a small smile on his lips. “Not a bad eulogy, Rathe. I would hope to earn as much.”

“Not for a number of years yet, I hope, sir.”

“No.” Holles stood up. “I am in your debt. Aside from this”–he gestured with expansive contempt around the cell–“there is the matter of your having been called before the regents. I put you in an impossible situation with your superior and them, Rathe, and I’m sorry.”

“Rut you were right about Voillemin, sir, and I might have chosen not to believe it if you hadn’t come to me.”

“What happened to that one?” Holles wouldn’t even say the name.

“Voillemin?” Holles nodded, and Rathe’s eyes glinted with humor. “Oh, he’s been demoted from adjunct point–even the regents had to admit he had only gotten so far on his mother’s guild‑standing. He’s a common duty point now, and will be for a while, I would say.”

“Still here?”

Now Rathe grinned openly. “No, sir. It was felt he had been protected and privileged for too long. He’s been sent to Fair’s Point.”

It was not lost on Holles: Fair’s Point was the newest, most junior of the official districts. Voillemin was now the most junior of adjuncts in the entire city. Holles nodded slowly, his face grave, but his eyes betraying a grim satisfaction.

“The surintendent has a remarkable sense of justice.”

Rathe nodded. “He does that. If it had been up to me, I might not have been able to resist sending him someplace grittier, more southriver. Like Knives, say.”

Holles laughed out loud. “The good citizens of Knives surely don’t deserve that visited upon them.”

“No, but seeing him dealing with the descendants of the bannerdames in the Court might have been worth it. But Fourie has, I think, a soft spot in his heart for the district.”

“If he does, it’s the first soft spot I’ve heard of Fourie possessing,” Holles said dryly, and got to his feet. “I am in your debt, Rathe, and I won’t forget it.”

“Then I’d better hope I don’t have any cases that come before you. You’re an honorable man, Advocat. Let’s not talk of debts between us. You helped me when you gave me the intendent’s copy of the Alphabet. We’re quit.”

“Not until you’re out of here, justly,” Holles said, his voice quiet, but implacable, and for the first time since he had acquiesced in Trijn’s actions, Rathe felt confident that justice would, in fact, fall to him.