Текст книги "Point of Dreams"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Lisa Barnett
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Rathe grinned. “So we can maybe look for suspects among the regents?”

Trijn held up a hand. “No, Voillemin can look for suspects among the regents, and by Sofia, I am inclined to set that particular dog to hunt.”

“This Voillemin,” Holles said. “Is he any good at all?”

“He wouldn’t be one of my adjuncts if he weren’t,” Trijn snapped, “I don’t care who he’s related to.”

Holles’s eyes sought Rathe, who shrugged infinitesimally. It was the kind of case that could make a pointsman’s career, or destroy it, and from what he’d seen of Voillemin, he wasn’t suited to that kind of pressure. If anything, he felt sorry for the man–and sorrier still for Holles, whose leman’s murder was being used to punish the points.

“I just don’t want it made–convenient,” Holles said, almost helplessly, and Rathe wished he could reassure him. But anything he could think of, any words of comfort, sounded sour, almost hypocritical in the face of the regents’ evident reluctance, and he could see the same thought in both Trijn’s and b’Estorr’s faces.

“No,” Rathe said quietly, when no one else spoke. “I’ll do what I can to keep an eye on Voillemin, Advocat, that’s my proper duty, and I can at least promise that to you.” It wasn’t much, but it would have to be enough– at least for now, at least until he makes a mistake–and from the look on the advocat’s face, relieved and grateful, it might be. Rathe sighed. So long as he was able to make good on the promise.

The Masters of Defense had their own hall, a long, low building that might once have been a rope walk or a sailmakers’ loft, hard by the river at the western end of Point of Dreams. The ground floor was broken up into a warren of rooms–classrooms on the river side, where the light was best, but also what looked like a students’ commons and even a small library, where a lace‑capped woman frowned over a stack of foolscap. She glared at them as they passed, and rose, skirts rustling, to close the door against intrusion. Caiazzo ignored her, as he ignored the crowd of students chattering outside one of the practice rooms, and Eslingen copied the merchant’s carriage, bowing gracefully to a young man who seemed to want to take offense. That was one complaint the broadsheets made against the Masters, that their students, once half trained, spent too much time looking for an excuse to test their skills, and it was, Eslingen thought, probably true enough. The same thing happened in every regiment he’d ever served with–he’d probably done it himself, if he wanted to think about it; the only difference was that your fellow soldiers were quicker to beat those pretensions out of you, if only to save their own necks.

At the end of the long hall a stairway rose to a second floor, framed in a window that must have cost a young fortune. Caiazzo slowed his pace, and a scrawny, grey‑haired woman–no, Eslingen realized, with some shock, a man in skirts and a woman’s square‑necked bodice, carrying a bated sword–appeared in the doorway of the nearer classroom.

“Master Caiazzo.” He bowed, magnificently unconscious of his strange dress. “Master Duca says you should go on up.”

“Thank you,” Caiazzo answered. Eslingen blinked, schooling himself to show no reaction, but the merchant‑venturer’s gaze flicked toward him anyway, and the dark man smiled.

“Don’t worry, Philip, I’m sure they won’t waste you in dame’s parts.”

So presumably the man was rehearsing for, being trained for, one of the midwinter farces, short, silly plays for the short, cold days, Rathe had called them, where the players played against type and women dressed as men–and vice versa, apparently. Eslingen had been looking forward to seeing one, but it had never crossed his mind that he might be expected to participate.

The stairway opened onto a massive open space, a room that ran the full length of the building under the ceiling’s arched beams. Light streamed in through another wall that was almost entirely windows, not good glass, green and bubbled, but glass all the same, and Eslingen was reminded instantly of a billet he’d once had south of Ivre. The town–it was a newly freed mercantile center–had offered them the use of the former landame’s hall, and they’d discovered too late that the townspeople had already removed everything that was portable, including the wooden partition walls. The company had spent most of the summer sleeping in the single long room without even shutters to close the emptied window frames. It had been surprisingly comfortable–the weather had been ideal, the ventilation superb even in Ivre’s heat–but the lack of privacy had become tiresome in the end.

This hall wasn’t as big, but it was almost as empty, except for the rank of weapons that filled the far wall. There was a wild mix of blades, heavy cavalry swords and daggers long and short and lighter dueling weapons, as well as spontoons and a set of halberds and a handful of oddities like old‑fashioned bucklers and mailed gloves, all seemingly in perfect condition, and Eslingen wondered just how much it had cost the Masters in fees to keep them all here, and not locked away at the Aretoneia. Outside the window, sunlight glittered on the river, the water cold and grey as steel, and the roofs of Point of Hearts on the far bank glowed red and blue in its light, but from the look of the sky, already filling with clouds, the light wouldn’t last much longer. The air smelled of a cold stove and the river, tar and damp, and Eslingen flexed his shoulders under his coat. It was almost too cool now, but not once the fights began.

The admitting masters were already there, talking quietly at the far end of the hall, and there was a drummer, too, tuning her paniers in the farthest corner. The soft, dull notes filled the damp air like a live creature calling. Duca saw them coming, and moved to meet them, the other masters hanging back a little. There were three men and a woman, each one dressed as though for a different play, and Eslingen wondered again what he was letting himself in for. There was still time to refuse, to apologize politely and say that a mistake had been made, that he wasn’t the man they were looking for. He could stand the embarrassment–except that Caiazzo would lose face, and that, Eslingen thought, was a responsibility he could not afford.

“Lieutenant,” Duca said, and Eslingen sketched a bow, knowing he was committed. Caiazzo fell back a step, leaving him to his fate, and Eslingen glanced back to see him smiling faintly, as though the situation amused him.

“Master Duca.”

“Welcome to our hall.” Duca gestured widely, bringing the other masters forward. “My colleagues, proving master Sergeant Peyo Rieux, challenging masters Janne de Vicheau, Verre Siredy, and Urvan Soumet. My masters, the candidate Lieutenant Philip vaan Esling, formerly of Coindarel’s Dragons.”

The woman–Rieux–blinked once at that, but there was no other response. She and Duca would be the arbiters of the match, and Eslingen eyed the three men, wishing he knew more about the guild’s rules and regulations. Soumet was short, but built like a young ox, with an ox’s flat, expressionless face and liquid eyes, hair tied back under a sailor’s kerchief that went oddly with his good linen. Of all of them, he was dressed for a match, coatless and barefoot; the other two were slim and elegant in well‑cut coats and careful paint, but there the resemblance ended. One–de Vicheau?–was two fingers’ breadth the taller, lean and severe, pale hair pulled back with a black ribbon that matched his breeches and the trim on his dark grey coat. He looked like a young landseur, and Eslingen wondered fleetingly if he was one of the Vidame of Vicheau’s numerous progeny. She had at least half a dozen sons by as many fathers, all dropped as lightly as a dog whelps; she took ferocious care of her only daughter, and reportedly had settled a farm on the man who had sired her. But that was probably what he wanted people to think, Eslingen added silently. More likely he came from the town of Vicheau, and added the article to match his looks– or Duca added it for him, the way he did for me. The third man was dressed like a fop, his long hands painted with tiny golden suns to match the embroidered ones scattered across the wide skirts of his coat, but there were corded muscles beneath the paint, and Eslingen was not deceived. None of them were going to be easy opponents; about the best he could hope for was that they would choose styles that he could handle.

“Any objections?” Duca’s tone made it clear the question was mere formality. “Then let’s begin. Lieutenant, you understand the rules?”

Eslingen schooled his face to neutrality. “I’ve had them explained to me.”

Duca smiled slightly, and Eslingen blinked. The trick of gesture really was very like Caiazzo himself. “Then you’ll excuse me if I explain again.” He gestured to the woman at his side. “Sergeant Rieux and I will be the judges of the match. It’s our business to call the points, but we’re also assessing style and performance. You’ll fight each of the challengers–they’re all full masters of the guild, in good standing–with their choice of weapon. If they choose a weapon you don’t know, you may refuse, and another will be chosen, but two refusals will disqualify you. Do you understand?”

Eslingen nodded, newly aware of the stillness in the hall. Even the drummer had brought her pans to absolute silence, both palms flat against the drumheads. Duca might have agreed to Caiazzo’s plan, but not all the masters were happy with it.

“Normally this is more of an event,” Rieux said. “A public event. But, under the circumstances…”

“There are precedents,” Siredy said easily, and the ox‑faced man scowled.

“Performance is the test.”

“Which is something that we, us here today, are more than capable of judging,” Rieux said. It sounded like an old argument, and Soumet dipped his head.

“I’m not denying that, Sergeant. What I’m saying is we’re not testing how the man will fight with a crowd looking on–no offense to anyone, Sergeant, to the lieutenant or to Master Duca, but we all know how different it is onstage.”

De Vicheau sighed. “May we remember the reason for this test? He may never go onstage.”

“But he’d be one of us,” Soumet said.

“The point is that Gaifier’s dead,” Rieux said.

“He was hardly well last year,” Siredy murmured. “And look how that went.”

“But he’d won his place fairly in public battle,” Soumet said. “Not like this.”

“I can’t do it alone,” Rieux said. “And you, Urvan, are hardly the man to help me.”

“I know my skills,” Soumet said. “No one’s ever complained of me.”

He looked more than ever like an ox, and Duca lifted his hand.

“Enough.”

Instantly, Soumet fell silent, but Duca gave him a long look before he finally spoke. “The match continues. Have you decided your order?”

“Siredy won the toss,” de Vicheau said.

“Very well. What weapon?”

“Dueling sword and dagger.”

That was a relief, Eslingen thought–those were weapons he knew, even if he was hardly a duelist–and he risked a glance at Caiazzo. The merchant‑venturer stood with his arms folded, visibly withdrawn from the occasion. I brought you this far, the stance seemed to say. Now make the most of it.

“Is that acceptable to you, Lieutenant?”

“Yes.” Eslingen nodded.

“Then choose your weapons.” Duca waved a hand at the racks against the wall, and Siredy moved smoothly toward them, already scanning the available blades. Eslingen took a quick breath, wondering when–or if–he could discard his coat, and moved to join him. The master gave him a soft smile from behind the mask of his paint, barely politeness, and gestured for him to choose first.

The very ordinariness of the movement did much to dispel the haze of ritual. This was something he knew, weapons and their use, and Eslingen scanned the racked blades with growing confidence. “May I try them?”

“Go ahead.” It was Duca who answered, no surprise there, and Eslingen drew the first sword that looked suitable. It was good in the hand, heavy but well balanced and a little longer than he liked, and he slid it back in the rack to see if he could find a better. Its neighbor, a slightly lighter blade with the traces of silver inlay in the guard, was almost as good, but after a moment’s hesitation, Eslingen went back to the heavier blade. Siredy looked like a finesse fighter; the weight could be an advantage. He chose a dagger as well, and then Siredy stepped up to the rack, pulling sword and dagger from among the ranked blades. De Vicheau came forward to take both sets of weapons, and Siredy quickly stripped off his coat, hanging it carefully over the shoulders of a target dummy. He removed his long bronze wig as well, placing it on the dummy’s head, and in spite of everything Eslingen had to suppress a smile. For all his paint and vanity, Siredy’s own hair was hopeless, far too red to hope that lemon‑water would bleach it gold.

“Plastrons,” Rieux said, and Eslingen stripped off his own coat to accept the padded jacket, let the woman fasten the straps at waist and shoulder. Duca did the same for Siredy, then motioned the two men into the center of the floor. Eslingen obeyed, swinging his arms to get the feel of the plastron and the weight of the weapons. The sun had vanished, but enough light streamed through the enormous windows that they would have no fear of shadows. Across the hall, Siredy stretched easily, and met his eye with a quick, almost conspiratorial smile.

“The bout is to three,” Duca said, “unless the sergeant or I see a killing blow.”

Behind him, Soumet made a face, but said nothing.

“Are you ready?”

“Ready,” Siredy said, and Eslingen echoed him.

“Commence.”

Siredy lifted his sword in a salute that swept instantly into a running attack. Eslingen had seen the move before, and swayed easily out of the slighter man’s way. He parried the return stroke, and let himself wait to find the rhythm of the match. As he’d expected, Siredy fought with finesse, all quick strokes and clever bladework, but he lacked the raw strength that would allow him to bull his way through Eslingen’s defenses. Eslingen let that guide him, let his own style shift to match the other’s, meeting delicacy with strength, abandoning all his own favored moves for sheer brute force. Siredy won the first touch, and the second, but Eslingen took the next one with the return stroke, and took the next two in quick succession.

“Halt!”

Eslingen instantly grounded his blade, but Siredy flourished a salute. He wasn’t really breathing hard, Eslingen realized, and felt the sweat running under his own plastron. So much for the cool air.

“Creditable,” Rieux said, and Duca lifted a hand.

“Who’s next?”

“I am.” That was the ox, and Eslingen suppressed a groan, already guessing the other man’s choice of weapon.

“What weapon?”

“Sword and roundshield.” Soumet folded his arms across his chest.

“Lieutenant?”

Eslingen hesitated, then spread his hands. “I’m allowed a refusal?”

“One refusal,” Duca said. He paused. “Do you refuse?”

I haven’t fought with those weapons in– oh, it must be ten years, not since I was a common pikeman. One of us would get hurt, and that is certainly not the point today. Eslingen tried a polite smile, searching for the right words, and Soumet snorted.

“Even soldiers know sword and roundshield. Or don’t you think you can win?”

I could take you. Eslingen swallowed the words, recognizing folly when he heard it, looked at Duca instead. “I haven’t used sword and roundshield since I left the pike line. If this is a test and not a blood match, I must refuse. I can’t promise your man’s safety.”

Rieux nodded, almost approvingly, but Duca’s expression didn’t change. “That is your one refusal, Lieutenant. Be certain.”

Eslingen bowed, guessing the formality wouldn’t hurt him. “I’m sure.”

“Very well,” Duca said. “Master Soumet, the candidate has refused your weapon. Choose another.”

“Halberds,” Soumet said, and behind him de Vicheau rolled his eyes. Duca frowned ponderously, and Soumet met his glare squarely. “It’s a fair weapon–a listed weapon, and one we’re actually going to use in this foolish play. I stand by my choice.”

Duca’s look did not bode well for the younger man’s future career, but he turned to face Eslingen. “Lieutenant?”

“Halberds, then.” Eslingen did his best to suppress a smirk. He’d been a sergeant far longer than he’d been a lieutenant, and the halberd was a line sergeant’s weapon: this was a fight he knew he could handle. Apparently Soumet had been misled by the gentleman’s name.

“Padding,” Rieux said, and Siredy and de Vicheau brought out thickly quilted coats, the stuffing so thick from neck to groin that they looked liked oversized, swaddled infants. Eslingen let Siredy help him into the coat–the man had retrieved his wig, if not his coat, Eslingen saw with amusement–and secure the straps that would keep it in place. There were padded gauntlets as well, ungainly things like stiff mittens, and a padded hood, but all in all, Eslingen thought, one good blow from a regulation halberd could still break bones, even through the layers of felt and wadding. Then Siredy handed him the tasseled weapon, and Eslingen understood. It was only a stage copy of a halberd; the shaft was lighter, and the tiny ax‑head at the peak–he tapped it to be sure–was only painted wood.

“Don’t break it,” Siredy said softly, and stepped away.

And that, Eslingen thought, might be harder than it looked. He was used to the real thing, a heavy oak shaft as thick as his wrist, with an iron sheathing running from the ax almost down to the grip. He swung it once, then again, trying to get the balance, and Duca said, “Ready?”

“Ready,” Soumet answered promptly, and Eslingen nodded.

“Ready.”

Soumet came at him in a rush, using the halberd like a quarter‑staff, feinting low and then high before landing a solid blow in Eslingen’s ribs. Even through the padding, and even with the lighter weapon, it hurt, and Eslingen danced back, struggling to block the other man’s blows while he caught his breath. He was looking bad, he knew, and failed to block a second painful strike. One more, he thought, one more and I’ve lost, but he couldn’t seem to get the feel of the too‑light weapon. He struck once, missed, landed a glancing blow off the block, and saw Rieux lift a hand, giving him the point. Soumet turned away, swearing under his breath, and Eslingen backed away, hardly able to blame the man. He needed a flashy way out, either by winning–not likely, not with Soumet outfighting him at every step–or by losing well. The halberd was light in his hands, too light, and he danced away from another rush, stumbling on the even floor. And then, suddenly, he knew, and shifted his grip on the shaft, sliding his hands apart as he lifted it to block another attack. Soumet’s stick crashed between them, and the wood splintered under the blow. Eslingen dodged back, throwing away the pieces, and Soumet checked his follow‑through barely in time.

“Halt!”

“A killing blow,” Soumet cried, turning to Duca, but the big man shook his head.

“No. To the body only, if it had landed–”

“Which it didn’t,” Siredy said, to no one in particular, and Duca glared at him.

“The third hit, and the end of the bout. That’s all.”

“Sergeant–Master Rieux,” Soumet said. “You can’t stand by this.”

“I can and I do,” Rieux answered. Soumet looked as though he would have said more, but the woman drew herself up to her full height. “Enough! The match is ended. Be content with your victory. Though I for one will have words with you about weapons later.”

Soumet subsided, scowling, and Eslingen submitted to having the padding pulled away from his body. He would be bruised, all right, he could feel half a dozen spots that would be agony in the morning– but with luck, he told himself, he wouldn’t stiffen until after this final bout. Siredy bundled the heavy coat away again, and Eslingen ran his fingers through his hair, loosening strands that clung to his forehead. Caiazzo was still in his corner, but sitting now, all at ease, and Eslingen wondered briefly who’d thought to fetch the stool.

“Water?” That was Siredy again, holding out a cup, and Eslingen took it gratefully. It had been on the stovetop–the masters clearly subscribed to the notion that cold water was dangerous to a fighting man–but he drank it down, glad of the relief.

“Master de Vicheau,” Duca said. “You have the last bout.”

De Vicheau bowed gracefully in answer. “I do, Master Duca.”

“And your weapon?”

“Master Duca.” De Vicheau bowed again. They all know what’s going to happen, Eslingen thought suddenly. They’ve got something planned, and I don’t know what it is.

“I cede choice of weapon, and replace it with a different challenge.” De Vicheau waved a hand, and Rieux pulled open a cabinet that stood against the wall beside the drummer. There was something in it, a table on wheels, but a table covered with tiny, brightly painted figures that chimed softly as Rieux rolled it out into the light. Toy soldiers, Eslingen realized, a tiny–regiment? no, a company–all strung on wires in perfect rank and file, complete with flags and fife and drum, and in spite of himself, he glanced toward Caiazzo, to see the merchant‑venturer frowning in what seemed to be honest confusion.

“Lieutenant Eslingen is called to our company to teach drill.” De Vicheau smiled thinly. “I challenge him to put our little company through its paces.”

Duca bowed in return, and looked at Eslingen. “Lieutenant?”

“I have a question first.” Eslingen took a breath. He’d boasted once, years ago, that he could drill pigs if he had to; he’d been drunk, but it seemed that the words were coming back to haunt him. “I’ve never seen such a thing. How is it done?”

Soumet sneered at him, but Duca said, “No great trick to it, Lieutenant. The figures are set on wires and moved by gears and levers. Sergeant Rieux will work the mechanism, and move them as you call.”

And she could destroy him if she wanted, Eslingen realized, but doubted somehow that she would cheat him. As if she guessed the thought, she smiled crookedly, and settled herself behind the table.

Eslingen looked back at Duca. “I accept, then. Will your drummer there give the cadence?”

“She will.”

“Then set the figure.” Eslingen looked at de Vicheau, whose fair head lifted in answer.

“To a hollow square, and then back to ranks.”

Not the easiest figure, but not the hardest–and mercifully not one of the drillbook figures, stars and moons and octagons, that amateurs made up in winter quarters. Eslingen took a deep breath, marshaling old skills, and looked at the drummer. “Sound the march.”

Instantly, the familiar beat filled the room, the heavy music almost palpable, and Eslingen said, “Forward march.”

Instantly, the metal figures began to move, the mechanism clinking in time to the drum, and Eslingen realized there wouldn’t be enough room if they kept going straight ahead. “About‑face.”

The figures turned, not quite as one–the machine was as real there as most regiments he’d served in–and he gave the next command. “Files to the right hand double.”

There was a louder clank, and the lines lengthened and thinned. It was almost easier, seeing them from above like this, and he gave the next commands automatically, bringing the lines out still farther, hollowing out the column until he could turn them all outward, then brought them back again into column, finishing with a flourish as he turned them to face de Vicheau again.

“Silence, the drums.”

The music stopped instantly, without the usual ruffle, and de Rieux straightened from the table. “Neatly done, Lieutenant.”

“Indeed.” Duca stepped forward, holding out his hand. “Master Lieutenant vaan Esling, allow me to be the first to welcome you as a Master of Defense.”

So it was real, Eslingen thought, automatically accepting the other man’s hand. It had really happened, and he was really one of them. In spite of everything, there was a part of him that felt like laughing, and he hoped this wasn’t the folly he’d been warned against. Rieux nodded briskly, offering a calloused palm, and then de Vicheau and Siredy and, finally, Soumet. At least the ox had the grace to swallow his temper, Eslingen thought, and braced his fingers against the other’s grasp. Caiazzo had risen to his feet, and came forward now, his smile matching Duca’s.

“Congratulations, Philip. I can count you well bestowed, then.”

“And I’m grateful, Master Caiazzo,” Eslingen answered automatically, and then wondered how much time he’d have to get his belongings out of Caiazzo’s house–and where he’d be living, for that matter.

“This is much more suitable for someone of your station,” Caiazzo answered, and there was laughter in his black eyes. “So I’ll leave you to it.”

“Master Caiazzo–” Eslingen stopped, not quite knowing how to ask, and the merchant‑venturer’s smile became an open grin.

“Oh, you can send for your goods as soon as you’re settled, Philip. There’s no hurry, I’m sure.”

“No, none,” Eslingen repeated. Particularly since he didn’t actually know where he would be sleeping. Oh, Rathe would give him house room until he found something else, but he didn’t like to assume that he was that completely welcome. He shoved the thought aside, knowing Caiazzo had seen and was amused by the hesitation, and the merchant‑venturer nodded to Duca.

“And I leave him to you. Good day, masters.”

“And a good day to you,” Duca answered, but Caiazzo was already starting down the stairs. The senior master sighed, and looked back at his people. “Under the circumstances, my masters, I trust none of you will object to starting at once to work.”

Eslingen shook his head, recognizing an order when he heard it, and the others murmured their agreement. The panier rumbled as the drummer slacked the heads and covered them, and Duca put his hands on his hips.

“Right, then. The sides are ready, so we’d better take a look at them.”

“I’ll take the lieutenant,” Rieux said, “and Siredy, if I may.”

Duca nodded. “Janne, you’ll work with me, and you, Urvan, can see what Mistress Gasquine wants for her people. And bring back something in writing, this time, if you have to draw it up yourself.”

The flat‑faced man scowled, but made no protest. Eslingen wondered briefly just how his manners were going to be received in the playhouse, and then Siredy tapped him on the shoulder.

“This way. And again, congratulations.”

Eslingen followed the slighter man back down the stairs and into the library. The lace‑capped woman was still there, still frowning over her stacks of papers, but as the others entered, she set aside her pen and tapped them into order.

“The sides are done, Master Duca, and one full copy.”

She wore a Scriveners badge on her bodice, Eslingen saw, with some surprise–he would never have expected the Masters of Defense to employ a copyist–and Duca nodded absently. “Thank you, Auriol. We’ll try not to disturb you too much.”

“Not at all, master,” the woman answered, demurely, and scooped up one of the stacks of paper. She retreated with it to a smaller table in the corner, and a moment later light flared as she lit a lamp and resumed her work, pen scratching over the paper.

“Now, my masters,” Duca said. The papers were odd cuts, Eslingen saw, long and thin like the broadsheets that listed upcoming plays. Duca flipped through one, and then methodically handed a stack to each of the others. Eslingen took his curiously, skimming the half dozen pages. Each one held a few lines of dialogue, and then a description of an action–a battle and a dance, on the first page, and more of the same on each of the others. He looked up, confused, and Duca cleared his throat.

“Understand, my masters, I say this only because we have a newcomer among us, one who isn’t familiar with our ways–and you, Lieutenant, understand I mean no disrespect, and don’t touch on your honor at all. But the play is not yet published, will not be published until after the masque, and it is our bond to keep as much of the plot secret as we may. I hope we all understand that.”

Eslingen murmured his agreement with the rest, wondering how much good it would do. The Masters might keep their mouths shut, but there were still the actors to consider, and the scenerymen, and, worst of all, the noble chorus. The playwright was going to be lucky if there was only one pirate copy circulating by midwinter.

“So.” Duca paused, and Siredy lifted his head, shaking the strands of his wig back over his shoulders.

“So how bad is it, master?”

“Bad enough.” Duca glanced down at his papers, though Eslingen doubted the man needed to refer to them. “There are five battle‑pieces, and six drills, plus a sword‑dance that may or may not become our responsibility, and, of course, the individual duels.”

“How many of those are part of larger battles?” de Vicheau asked.

“About half.” Duca rustled his papers again. “Including a climax that will have to stay in the piece, so it’ll have to work with and without chorus.”

Eslingen looked at the top sheet again. The familiar sloping letters ran across the narrow page, two lines of dialogue, then a call for trumpets, and then a battle in which one side had to seem to win, but be defeated at the last possible moment. Below that, the scrivener had drawn a neat line, and begun again with dialogue, an unnamed queen calling for entertainment. The script called for a company of Hasiri, the wild nomads who lived on the roof of the world, to show their skill with weapons. Eslingen blinked at that–from what he knew of the Hasiri, showing their skill meant hiding behind rocks to pick off stragglers from the caravans, not exactly the kind of drill that the script seemed to want–and he looked up to see Siredy grinning at him.

“Better you than me, Lieutenant.”

“Right, then,” Duca said. “Siredy, Janne, you break down the duels. Sergeant, you and the lieutenant and I will take a look at the drills. Just to see what we’ve got in hand.”

Siredy nodded, rising easily to take a seat next to de Vicheau, and Rieux edged her chair closer.