Текст книги "Point of Dreams"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Lisa Barnett
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“All right, Lieutenant, what do you think of when you think of Hasiri weapons?”

“Bow, slingshot, the occasional lock,” Eslingen answered warily, and Duca chimed in heavily.

“And a taste for ambush. But we can work with bows, I think.”

“If you can train the chorus not to use them,” Rieux said.

“No bowstrings, maybe,” Duca said. “But bows are a good start. And the first battle.”

“Sashes for the chorus, to tell the sides?” Rieux asked, and Duca shrugged.

“Probably. Depends on how much they want to spend on it.”

“And how big is the chorus this year?” Rieux frowned at the paper in front of her, then reached into her own wide sash for a set of wax tablets.

“Three dozen,” Duca answered.

“Thank Seidos we have the Tyrseia, then,” de Vicheau said, and earned a glare from the senior master.

“Fifteen to a side, then,” Rieux said. “That leaves half a dozen for other work, and shouldn’t crowd things too badly.”

Eslingen rested his elbows on the table, wondering again what he’d gotten himself into. There was nothing he could contribute to this discussion, at least not so far, and at the moment he was inclined to think that Soumet was right, maybe he didn’t belong in this company. He was a soldier, not a player, he had no idea what would look good onstage, only of what would be effective in an actual battle… As if she’d read his thought, Rieux grinned at him.

“Oh, don’t worry, Lieutenant, you’ll earn your keep later. At the drills.”

By the end of the day, Eslingen was exhausted, more from trying to absorb too many new ways of thinking than from the earlier fights, though the bruises he had earned earlier were making their presence felt. He paused outside the guildhall’s main door to ease them, and stood for a moment, abruptly at a loss. It was strange, strange and a little unnerving, to be suddenly without a place again, perhaps even more at sea than he’d been when he’d first come to Astreiant. A shadow moved to his left, and he turned, not sure if it was a passerby, or a ghost, or even a late‑working pickpocket. For an instant, he thought he saw something, recognized if not a face then the set of the shoulders, but then the door opened again behind him, spilling light into the street, and the foppish master, Siredy, paused, holding the door open for Rieux. He smiled, seeing the other man.

“Join us, why don’t you, Philip? We’re going to Anric’s to drink and curse Chresta Aconin’s name.”

Eslingen laughed out loud. “That sounds very tempting, but I need to–regularize my living arrangements.”

Both the other masters nodded in sympathy, and Siredy tipped his head to one side, the wig falling in precise curls across his chest. “If you need a place,” he offered, but Eslingen shook his head. He was not precisely out of doors, if he would just admit it to himself.

“Thank you, but I think I’m settled. I just need to make arrangements to have my things brought there.”

“Ah. Well, a good evening to you then, Philip,” Rieux said, kindly enough. “I hope you get yourself sorted out.” And then they were gone, arm in arm, Siredy bending gracefully to listen to the older master, heading up the street that led away from the river, into the closer environs of Point of Dreams. Eslingen watched them for a moment, not sure if he envied them, until the chill breeze from the river stirred his hair. The sun was down, and it would be cold. And he needed to let Rathe know that he had company.

Point of Dreams came alive at sunset, actors released from their day’s labor or heading to small‑shows joining early lovers on their way to Point of Hearts and pleasure‑seekers from all over the city. Eslingen dodged the crowds, trying not to laugh at the way that fate seemed to be making the move neither he nor Rathe had been able to, at least to this point. Despite Meening’s warning, he felt sure this was not folly. But neither was it the way he would have seen them living together, not as this chance throw, without warning, or even an offer made, and certainly no time to let Rathe know until he appeared on the man’s doorstep. At that thought, he paused, scanning the stalls of the night market, mindful of his finances, but also remembering what Duca had said about their potential earnings from the masque. A share should be substantial, if he understood it correctly. And if he was going to move in with Rathe, and he fervently hoped that was the case, he was determined not to give folly a foothold, but come bearing gifts, or at least provisions. The stalls here were mostly broadsheets–and of The Drowned Island, at that, not the sort of gift he needed at all–and he looked in vain for a cookshop. Maybe wine would be better anyway, he thought, and wished for the first time that b’Estorr were around to advise him. The necromancer knew wine, give him that, was as much the gentleman as Duca had been looking for… He smiled then. b’Estorr bought his wine from Wicked, and Wicked would know what Rathe liked. He would throw himself on her mercy, and she would see him safe.

The tavernkeeper was as good as he’d hoped, finding the right wine and throwing in a decent loaf for good measure, and he made his way back to the Dreams point station as the city clocks struck six, the chimes filling the air with discordant music. The station showed its military past more than most of the points stations, almost like an ancient castle, something out of the Leaguer hills, heavy‑walled and short of windows, blocking the end of the street like a slumbering beast. It had been a garrison and an armory, he remembered Rathe mentioning, just as the other stations had been, and it was probably just the darkness that gave it an eldritch look.

There were half a dozen runners in the yard in spite of the cold, bundled in oversized coats and jerkins that looked as though they’d been handed down from mothers or older siblings, dodging from base to base in an intricate game of chase by the light of a half‑dozen lanterns, and he half expected them to ask his business. The runners at Point of Hopes would have done so, he thought, or maybe that was just because they’d known him; one of the boys glanced at him, but a girl shouted, and he turned back to the game. Eslingen suppressed a wry smile. Dismissed, for the second time today.

The station’s main room was much bigger than the room at Point of Hopes, and the air was warm and dry, smelling of herbs and smoke and tobacco instead of the points’ reheated dinners. There was the familiar row of jerkins hanging on the far wall, ready to hand, and the low bench opposite where malefactors or those in trouble could sit and wait the points’ pleasure, but the tall case‑clock that stood beside the stairs was something unexpected, a beautiful piece that showed solar and lunar phases as well as the time. Tiny gilded huntresses and their dogs chased each other around the box where the block itself stood, and a forest of vines climbed the edges of the case, creatures peering out from among the leaves. Eslingen blinked, wondering where that had come from–surely the points couldn’t afford that fine clock on their own–and someone cleared her throat behind him.

“Can I help you, master?”

It was a young man, Eslingen saw, turning, a young man shaved to perfection, whose spotless linen and sober coat were badly at odds with his rough jerkin and pointsman’s truncheon.

“Yes. I was wondering if Adjunct Point Rathe is available,” he said, and saw the other man’s eyes travel quickly over his own clothes, visibly assessing quality and cost. Whatever he saw made him come forward, waving for a less fashionable pointswoman to take his place behind the station’s daybook.

“Yes, he is, master. Allow me to show him to you.”

“I wouldn’t want to interrupt,” Eslingen offered, but the other shook his head.

“No interruption at all, sir.”

“I meant to Rathe,” Eslingen murmured, but softly enough that the young man could pretend he hadn’t heard. Out of the corner of his eye, Eslingen thought he saw the woman hide a grin behind the tip of her quill, and schooled himself to follow the pointsman with due decorum. The man led him up the stairs and around the bulge of the massive central chimney, paused there to knock on a closed door. There was an indistinct mumble in response, which the pointsman seemed to take for permission, and pushed open the door. “Someone to see you, Adjunct Point.”

Rathe was sitting at a worktable set to catch the best light from the now‑shuttered window, and looked up with a frown that faded as he saw who was with the pointsman. “All right, Voillemin, thanks. I’ll see Lieutenant Eslingen.”

Voillemin stepped back with a movement that was almost a bow, and Eslingen edged past him into the little room. It was warmer than he’d expected, given the expanse of window, and he realized that there was another little stove in the far corner. He held his hands out to it as the door closed behind him, wondering if Rathe would offer him some of the tea that stood steeping on the hob, and realized that his own smile was distinctly nervous.

Rathe leaned back in his chair. “And to what do I owe the pleasure, Lieutenant? Have a seat, you look tired.”

“Thank you,” Eslingen said sourly, but his muscles were stiffening again, and he was glad of the chair. Not for the first time that day, he wished he’d practiced harder while he was in Caiazzo’s service. “Well, in one of those whirlwind changes of fate that seem to be my lot in life, I am officially no longer Caiazzo’s knife.”

“Not precisely unexpected,” Rathe said. In the lamplit shadows, it was hard to read his expression, but his voice was dry.

“No, but sudden. Caiazzo finds his opportunities and takes them, let me tell you. Though you’re probably the last person I need to tell that,” Eslingen added, shaking his head. “Nor has he precisely cast me out into the streets..

“You’ve got to stop going to the theatre,” Rathe murmured. “Where’d he find you a place, then?”

Eslingen took a breath. “You are now looking at the newest member of the Masters of the Guild of Defense.”

Rathe whistled soundlessly, the chair returning to the floor with a definite thump. “Gods, that’s–well, it would be unbelievable, if it weren’t Caiazzo.”

“Because he seems able to get whatever he wants?” Eslingen asked. Rathe cocked his head, was looking amused.

“Because Gerrat Duca is his cousin, actually, as well as the other. Did you have to try for a place?”

Eslingen nodded. “Three bouts, at the guildhall today. Apparently I performed creditably enough.”

“Which means,” Rathe said slowly, “you’ll be involved with the masque–Aconin’s damned Alphabet.”

“You know about that,” Eslingen said, and didn’t know why he was surprised.

“They told us two days ago, actually,” Rathe said. “As soon as the chamberlains made their decision.” He tipped his head to one side, slid a sheet of paper a little larger than a broadsheet across the tabletop. “What do you actually know about the masque, Philip?”

Eslingen reached for the announcement–it proclaimed Aconin’s play the winner in two short lines, then went on to give a series of orders for the points stations, and Point of Dreams in particular– and set the sheet back on the table. “Mostly what I’ve heard from Caiazzo, which isn’t much, and most of that was scathing. And what little I heard about the guild’s work today. Hasiri, demonstrating their abilities with weapons, proving once again, I suppose, that Chresta Aconin has an outstanding imagination if he thinks rock throwing is a particularly difficult skill to master.”

“Not his chosen weapon,” Rathe muttered. Eslingen glanced curiously at him, wondering what had provoked the unmistakable bitterness of his tone, but the pointsman was already hurrying on, his voice consciously lighter. “It’s supposed to be better for the masses than the usual run of play–”

“Like The Drowned Island?” Eslingen asked, and was pleased to see Rathe grin.

“It also reinforces the health of the country and the health of the queen. It’s not so much the subject matter, but you’ll see certain patterns appear in every single masque, esoteric ones–that’s why there has to be a noble chorus, or so I’m told. That’s in addition to the displays and drills you’ll be working on, and that’s why it takes all day, to get things done in more or less the right signs.”

Eslingen sighed, trying to imagine fitting magistical workings into a show that already felt unwieldy. “Sounds like a very uneasy mating of Tyrseis and Seidos.”

Rathe nodded. “Yeah, to my thought, but…” He shrugged. “It’s a holiday at the darkest day of the year, and it reinforces the queen’s rule. And every single point station in the city is expected to offer support to Point of Dreams.”

“So it’s no holiday for you, either,” Eslingen said.

“Afraid not.”

They sat silent for a moment, Eslingen wondering uneasily how he was going to raise the subject of his presence. Something scraped against the windowpane, and he jumped, knowing it had to be a tree branch. Rathe frowned, opened his mouth, and Eslingen spoke first, not wanting the other to have to ask what he’d come for.

“The thing of it is, Nico…” The last thing he wanted was to beg space from the other, when what he wanted was something more. He didn’t want to phrase it like that, either; this was a bad time for declarations, when it would sound like mere expedience. “Nico, I’m out of doors, and this is not the way I would have wanted to handle it, but would you be willing to have me–living with you?”

Rathe sat very still for a moment, his expression suddenly sober. “I think I could tolerate that, Lieutenant,” he said at last.

Eslingen hesitated, wary of the other man’s tone, and did his best to keep his own voice matter‑of‑fact. “It needn’t be for long. Just until I can find a place of my own.”

Rathe looked up sharply, glass‑green eyes widening in the lamplight. “That wasn’t–” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Philip, it’s been a trying day. We went before the regents first thing, and it hasn’t improved much since, with all the preparations for the masque.”

“What did the regents want?” Eslingen asked, and Rathe grimaced.

“No, they didn’t summon us, it was Holles who went before them.” He shook his head. “I’m not making sense, am I?”

Eslingen shook his head in answer. “Not really.”

That raised the ghost of a smile. “Holles was the leman of an intendant who died recently–Bourtrou Leussi, I don’t know if I’ve mentioned him, but I tell you, I missed him today. He was the senior chamberlain, and no fool, not like the man they put in his place. Tyrseis help the actors, with him in charge instead of Leussi!” Rathe stopped, sighing. “But that’s not to the point. The point is, Leussi’s dead, it’s ghost‑tide, and his leman hasn’t felt his ghost.”

Eslingen frowned. “I don’t–had they quarreled?”

“Holles believes he was murdered,” Rathe said flatly. “And the ghost bound. Istre concurs, and the two of them–with me and Trijn for support–spent this morning trying to persuade the regents that the matter should be reopened.”

“It sounds as though there’s cause,” Eslingen said cautiously. He didn’t like to think about the implications, about the pain of death redoubled by the absent ghost, and was relieved when Rathe nodded.

“Oh, yes, I’d say so. Which is what I was there to say to the regents, for all the good it did me or Holles.” He grimaced. “You didn’t hear me say that.”

“Hear what?” Eslingen paused. “You weren’t–no, the matter was given to someone else, wasn’t it?”

“Just so.” Rathe smiled again, without humor. “The man who brought you up here, in actual fact.”

Eslingen made a face in turn. “Not that I know anything against him, but–”

“You’d be guessing right just from the cut of his coat.” Rathe sighed. “And there I’m being unfair. He’s not a bad man, just not– proved, I suppose.”

“Like a back‑and‑breast.” Eslingen nodded, and Rathe reached for the scattered papers, tapping them into an untidy stack. He set a slate on top of them, letters imperfectly erased from its surface, and pushed himself to his feet, stretching.

“So, you can imagine, your arrival–your staying with me, since it’s come to that–is the best thing that’s happened all day.”

Eslingen grinned, relieved in spite of himself, and Rathe nodded to the basket at the other man’s feet.

“And if that’s a bottle of wine, I’m at your service forever.”

“And if it’s a bottle of good wine?” Eslingen asked. Rathe, damping down the fire in the stove, grinned.

“Then we’ll have to see, won’t we?”

3

« ^ »

rathe edged into the crowded room, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible until he tested the wind of the surintendant’s temper. Oh, he was supposed to be there, along with the forty‑some‑odd senior points from all the districts, plus a few fellows of the university, but he was supposed to be there in company with his own chief point, and Trijn had flatly refused the summons. You go, she had said, handing him the much‑sealed paper. If I have to deal with Fourie this morning, I’ll be kicking dogs by noontime.

And I would hate very much to be the one who relays that message to our good Surintendant of Points, he thought, and found a place in a shadowed corner. Of course, that would probably be the first place Fourie would look for him, but maybe he could catch a brief nap, if the stars favored him.

He sighed softly, letting his eyes roam over the crowd. Not just senior points and the fellows mentioned in the summons, he saw, but a cluster of advocats resplendent in full scarlet robes and tall black caps, and he wondered what they were doing here. Probably to discuss prosecution of any points called, he decided, and wished he could afford a nap. The new play, based as it was on the so‑called verifiable edition of spring‑time rumor, was bidding fair to become a major headache for points and university alike–already, according to the summons, at least four printers had registered their intent to reprint just that edition of the Alphabet, and that meant that at least a dozen more were working on similar volumes without bothering to ask for license. Not to mention the flower merchants, who were happy to raise the price on every bulb or corm mentioned in play or book, and to force blooms out of season at equally exorbitant prices… Someone, probably a lot of someones, was bound to cry fraud, and the surintendant wanted to discuss their options in detail. Personally, Rathe was inclined to let the buyers settle it among themselves, but he knew that was mostly exhaustion speaking. He had not quite adjusted to having Eslingen in his rooms on what seemed to be a semipermanent basis–and, frankly, this wasn’t the way he would have chosen to acquire a new lover, not out of necessity and the sense that he owed the other man a place, since Eslingen had lost two positions because of him. But I do want him living with me, it’s just–He shook his head, not quite able to articulate his disappointment. I want him on my terms, not these. And that is damned foolish, and I’d do very well to get over that, stop mooning over romance like something out of a bad play.

“So, Nico, how are you enjoying life at Dreams?”

Rathe looked up in honest pleasure, recognizing the voice of his former chief at Point of Hopes. “It’s interesting, I’ll say that for it. How are things in Hopes?”

Tersennes Monteia shrugged, her long horse‑face wry. “That ass Ranaczy managed to fall down a ladder at the Maiden. Probably collecting his fee.”

Rathe choked at the image–Ranaczy had never been a favorite of his–and struggled for a suitable comment. “Not dead, I hope.”

Monteia snorted. “Not that one. But he’ll be out of my hair for a while, at least. And everyone else’s. It’s just a pity he didn’t land on something more vulnerable than his head. I’ve moved Salineis up, and with luck I can make it permanent.”

A familiar voice called her name–Guillen Claes, the chief at Fair’s Points–and she touched Rathe’s shoulder in apology, moving to answer. Left to himself, Rathe looked around for further distraction, and to his mild surprise spotted Istre b’Estorr ducking through the heavy doors. The magist wasn’t wearing university robes, and Rathe suspected the ghost‑tide was beginning to wear on him already. Accustomed to ghosts the necromancer might be, but the sheer numbers during the tide could overwhelm even the best of them, and the strain was showing in b’Estorr’s face. The dark grey robes would only accentuate his pallor, and the Chadroni was just vain enough to dislike the notion. Instead, he wore a dark red coat trimmed with embroidered wheat sheaves that matched his pale hair, and Rathe hid a smile, thinking that Eslingen would have snarled with envy. He lifted a hand, beckoning, and the other man moved to join him, his grim expression easing.

“The sur’s in an ugly frame of mind,” Rathe said, “if he’s calling you lot in already.”

b’Estorr glanced around. “And overreacting, surely.”

“Fourie never does anything by halves,” Rathe answered. He glanced sideways at the Chadroni, realizing he hadn’t seen the man in weeks– not since I started seeing Philip–and winced inwardly at the dark circles under his eyes. “You all right?”

b’Estorr nodded, his eyes closing briefly, and Rathe realized that, in this room and at this time, there had to be a clamorous presence of ghosts. Bad enough outside the ghost‑tide, the room was full of pointswomen and advocats, all of whom could be expected to have their own dead, but with the tide on the rise, there would be the timely dead to face, as well. He had felt his own Mud scurrying at his feet on the way into Dreams that morning. He was only vaguely aware of the presence of b’Estorr’s own ghosts, usually an almost tangible presence, today damped down almost to nothing by the pressure of so many others.

“My students are, as usual, clamoring for me to cancel classes,” b’Estorr said. “As are a few of the other masters. As if closing the shutters and going to bed with your head under a pillow for a week will help. It doesn’t.”

Rathe did his best to repress a grin–the thought of the elegant Chadroni cowering in his rooms was almost too good to bear. “It’ll be over soon,” he said. That was true enough; the lunar conjunctions were never long‑lived, and the ghost‑tide had only a few more days to run. Less than the current climate of foolishness, he thought, and b’Estorr nodded as though the other man had spoken aloud.

“This madness won’t, though.” The necromancer’s voice was unwontedly grim.

Rathe nodded in commiseration, just as the door at the far end of the room opened abruptly, admitting two of the Tour’s ushers, elegant in forest‑green livery. One held the doors open while his senior slammed his heavy staff on the floor, drawing all eyes. He struck again, unnecessarily, and Rathe’s eyes were drawn in spite of himself to the royal emblem that topped it. It was identical to the one that capped his own truncheon, his badge of office, and he ran his thumb over the worn metal. He was part of the royal household, in a sense, just as the ushers were.

“Masters all,” the usher announced. “Rainart Fourie, Surintendant of Points.”

Fourie swept in before the words were quite out of his mouth, lifting a hand in acknowledgment of courtesies already begun. He was dressed in his usual narrow black, unrelieved except for the flawless linen at neck and cuffs, and as usual he had forgone the wig that would look so foolish on his long and melancholy face. A clerk scuttled at his heels, tablets ready, and a young woman in a judicial gown followed him, eyes downcast, her hands folded in her sleeves. Behind her, another liveried usher held a brass orrery at the ready.

“Masters all,” Fourie began, and the silence seemed to deepen as each one of them came to attention. “We’re faced with an unusual situation. A midwinter masque that promises to become a popular hit.”

That broke the silence, a ripple of laughter running around the room, but Fourie continued as though he hadn’t heard. “Based on a work that seems to catch the popular imagination on a fairly regular basis. Combine the play with last year’s rumor of an authentic Alphabet, and we have the possibility for massive fraud and more in the marketplaces. That is why I want the university to consult with us on this, and possibly in particular the college of necromancy. There are, by what is admittedly a rough count of a fluid situation, thirty‑five licensed printers in the city. Licensed. There is an unofficial count of another forty or fifty unlicensed printers working at any one time. And all of them, my masters, will be printing copies of the Alphabet of Desire.”

Rathe rolled his eyes to the painted ceiling, wondering why Fourie was telling them something they all already knew. A painted gargoyle peered back at him through a painted hole in the roof, its expression as disapproving as Fourie’s, and he dragged his attention back to the lecture.

“They will be printing copies of the Alphabet because the people of this city will want, already want, to buy it, and this play will only feed that hunger.” Fourie’s long mouth drew down in a frown that rivaled the gargoyle’s. “Many will want it as a curiosity, because it’s the must‑have of this particular season, and their copies will gather dust and be sent for kindling in a twelve‑month. Some, however, will buy it because of what they believe it can do, the knowledge it can impart.”

Rathe pulled himself up a little straighter at that. Of course, that was why Fourie wanted the university there, and the necromancers in particular. The Alphabet of Desire was just that, a book of formulae arranged in the order of the letters, formulae for flower arrangements designed to give the maker the desire of her heart, from true love to lust, to money, to power, to death. There was no way to tell, to certify, that the arrangements in any given edition would work at all, or work the way they were supposed to, without trying each one, and it would take a university‑trained magist to make the assay without causing more harm, unless the necromancers could read the possibility of power the way they read the possibility of ghosts. But it was interesting to see that there were no university phytomancers present. He glanced sideways at b’Estorr, made a note to ask him about that.

“The timing,” Fourie continued, “is unfortunate. May I remind you all that Her Majesty has promised to name her true successor after the turn of the year?”

As if we hadn’t been hearing that for the last three years, Rathe thought, looking up at the gargoyle again. Although this time, it seemed to be true: with the Starchange approaching, the Starsmith moving from one sign to the next in its ponderously slow transit of its zodiac, the queen was finally running out of time to delay. The change of sign always signaled upheaval, or so the old text claimed; for the health of the kingdom, the queen would have to name her successor before that transit began.

“I am not one to doubt the wisdom of the regents,” Fourie went on, and there was another ripple of suppressed laughter. The surintendant had a deserved reputation for quarreling with the regents, usually in defense of his own people. “But Her Majesty’s decision has brought many of the potential candidates to Astreiant at a time when the madness for the Alphabet has sprung back to life, and we cannot ignore the conjunction.” He paused, his eyes skimming over the audience. “On top of that, I’m concerned about keeping the peace in the marketplaces, especially those districts with large markets. There were some squabbles last spring over the corms–”

“Squabbles,” a pointswoman standing in front of Rathe said, under her breath. She leaned close to a colleague, shoving up her faded sleeve to display a long white scar. “That’s what one of those ‘squabbles’ got me, a knife in the arm.”

“–but I’m afraid those will be as nothing compared to what we’re likely to see now. We’re in an unfortunate sign right now.” Fourie paused, beckoned to the usher and the young woman in the judicial gown. “As you well know. The ghost‑tide keeps us busy enough, but we also have to contend with a figure that seems to enhance the inherent foolishness of people.”

“He’s a loving soul,” b’Estorr murmured, and Rathe stifled a laugh.

“Believes the best of people, Fourie does.”

“And there’s your explanation for The Drowned Island,” the necromancer went on, closing his eyes as the younger astrologer made final, minute adjustments to the orrery.

“A question, Surintendant.” The voice came from the front of the group, where the chief of Temple Point and the chancellor of the university sat side by side in matching chairs. That was a little daring of Fourie, Rathe thought. Under no other circumstances would even the most senior of the chiefs rank equal to the university’s head. It was Temple Point who had spoken, her voice even and cultured, and for an instant Rathe wished Trijn had been forced to attend. Only the chiefs were expected to speak at these gatherings. “Do we have any chance of calling a point on the factors, if there’s trouble, or are we left to deal with the petty dealers?”

Fourie’s severe face relaxed into something like a smile. “The advocacy has been consulted on that, Chief Point. They hold that the factors are within their rights to take whatever the market will bear, and so the smaller dealers may–and will–do likewise.”

“If they make claims outside the ordinary,” Temple Point went on, “may we call it fraud?”

“If you think you and yours can make the point,” Fourie said, “by all means.”

Rathe laughed at that, knowing the sound was rueful, heard the same note echoing in the room. It was unlikely any of them could get such a point upheld, given the nature of the corms and the nature of the book, but at least the surintendant had given a qualified sort of approval.

“That does raise an interesting question, Surintendant.” This was the chancellor, her voice deep and smoky, vivid contrast to the grey robes and pale lace. “An arrangement that turned out to be harmless–would the points call that a fraud, if it did no harm when it was designed in fact to kill?”