Текст книги "Point of Dreams"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Lisa Barnett
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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Fourie bowed slightly. “That, Madame Chancellor, would be a matter for the advocacy to decide. But the point could be called, I believe.”

“Wonderful,” Rathe said, and didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until b’Estorr jogged his elbow. But the surintendant’s decision put all the burden on the points, on the individual pointswomen and ‑men, not on their chiefs–though to be fair, Rathe thought, he was probably right about the advocacy having the final say. And from the look of them, the row of women resplendent in scarlet and black, professionally inscrutable beneath their tall caps, they weren’t prepared to give an opinion until they had an actual case before them.

There were more questions then, one from each of the chief points–restating Temple’s questions, mostly, Rathe thought, with another glance at the ceiling–and then from several of the university officers, before Fourie finally nodded to the usher.

“I think that’s all that needs to be said on the matter. For my people: be aware. Make sure all the printers in your districts are aware, as quickly as possible. And I want peace kept in the markets, I don’t want trouble marring this masque.”

“All rise,” the usher called, and Temple Point and the chancellor rose gracefully to their feet. The second usher swung the doors open with a flourish, and Fourie swept out, the two women following him in a rush of satin. Rathe stretched surreptitiously, watching the other chiefs and adjuncts clustering around the orrery, a few of the advocats peering over their shoulders. It was early yet, and they were glad of the excuse to linger, like schoolchildren on holiday. Unfortunately, he needed to be back at Dreams, to give Trijn her report as soon as possible, and he turned toward the door, suddenly aware that b’Estorr was at his heels. The Chadroni smiled.

“Mind if I walk with you?”

“Of course not,” Rathe answered, and felt lighter for the company.

They left the Tour by the side door that opened onto Clockmakers’ Square, crossed the faded stones that had once sketched the face of a clock across the open marketplace. A lot of them were missing, or their colors had faded beyond recognition, but in the far corner a trio of laborers was working under the supervision of a clockmaker’s journeyman, pulling up stones to replace them with another. A cold day for it, Rathe thought, and drew his own coat more closely around his shoulders. The wind was strong, from the north, not the river, and the sky was the pale flat grey that meant snow was coming soon. An early winter meant a long one; it seemed the almanacs were in accord this year.

“How’s Philip?” b’Estorr asked, and Rathe started.

“He’s well–ah. I haven’t had a chance to tell you. He’s no longer with Caiazzo.” He could feel his face heating, hoped b’Estorr would take it for the wind, but the Chadroni was minding his steps on the uneven cobbles, and at least pretended not to notice.

“That must be a relief for both of you,” he said. “Where has he fetched up this time?”

“I think Hanse has done better by him than I did,” Rathe answered. He remembered all too well b’Estorr’s appalled reaction when he’d first found Eslingen the position with Caiazzo. “He’s got a place with the Masters of the Guild of Defense.”

“Really?” b’Estorr looked impressed. “I may see him there some time, then; I exercise there. When I can.” He smiled. “So he’ll be involved with the masque as well.”

“Yes,” Rathe said slowly, and b’Estorr shook his head.

“Never mind. I should be surprised by this, but I’m not.” He grinned suddenly, the movement transforming his rather sober face. “In the midst of all this–folly–this feels like something else. Congratulations.”

And in the midst of everything that was going on, he felt reassured, trusting b’Estorr’s knowledge the way Eslingen trusted the better class of broadsheet astrologers. He matched the taller man’s stride with automatic ease, at once like and completely unlike the ease he felt with Eslingen. There were no demands here, no complex expectations on either side, just an unlikely friendship that had sprung full‑blown from the first moment he’d asked for a necromancer’s help to make a difficult point. And, speaking of that…

“Do you think we’re likely to see an increase in ‘accidental’ deaths because of the Alphabet?” he asked.

“Alphabets,” b’Estorr corrected, accepting the change of subject without surprise. “It’s hard to say. My own understanding is that the Alphabet is at once extremely precise and rather vague. You would have to read it carefully, and fully, to make anything in it work. I don’t know if it can–go off–like a badly charged gun. I do know that I doubt the ability of the general populace to read anything that carefully.”

“Snob,” Rathe said, without heat. “People might want to prove their version’s the real one, make tests and so on.”

“Which opens up a whole new line of business for actors not good enough to work in the theatres: faking tests for printers.” b’Estorr grinned. “Like false necromancers, conjuring up ghosts that can be fully seen, and can speak, and accuse their murderers.”

Rathe matched the grin, remembering the play that had dealt with ghosts in just that way. b’Estorr had liked it about as much as he himself had liked The Drowned Island.

“We’re lucky in one thing, though,” b’Estorr went on. “It’s not going to be that easy to put arrangements together this time of year. Oh, the people who bought corms in the spring will be able to do some of it, but what you have right now is trouble in potential, I think. And not that many people are going to have the patience to buy a copy of the Alphabet now, and the corms, and then to wait the six to eight months for the corms to come into bloom. And they won’t all want the same stars, or bloom at the same season.”

“I think you underestimate some people’s determination,” Rathe said.

“I think it’ll weed out the–casual villains,” b’Estorr answered, and the pointsman nodded.

“What about flowers available from succession houses?”

b’Estorr shrugged. “Then it’ll be people who can afford to buy the flowers themselves. Even odds whether they’ll be more expensive than the corms, or less. I would wager on more.”

“Yeah, but you remember last spring. Hell, you saw what people were buying around The Drowned Island, spending money they can’t really afford to have a broadsheet copy of the ballads, or a working model of the stage machines. It won’t just be the people with money, Istre. If they want it badly enough, they’ll find a way–they’ll find the money.” b’Estorr paused. They had reached the Hopes‑point Bridge, Rathe realized, but the necromancer kept pace with him instead of turning back toward the university. As though he’d read the thought, b’Estorr shrugged. “I don’t have a class for a while yet. And I think you’re going to have your work cut out for you.”

“Especially in Dreams,” Rathe agreed, and in spite of himself quickened his pace. Plenty of work, that was certain, the morning’s news to pass to Trijn, and then a few hours’ thought as to how they could apply it, fairly and without favor, and then on to the rest of the day’s labor, and whatever else the ghost‑tide had brought them. He paused again at the edge of the market, put an impulsive hand on b’Estorr’s arm. “I’ve been a rotten friend of late, haven’t I?” b’Estorr lifted an eyebrow, but his smile was gentle. “You’ve been busy.”

“Like a love‑struck apprentice,” Rathe agreed.

“Well, it can’t have been easy,” b’Estorr said, reasonably.

“No…” Rathe would have argued more, but a movement in the crowd caught his eye. A new‑looking painted banner snapped from a pole over one of the larger stalls, Bonfortune’s stylized face offering fresh goods, and the market‑goers were already six deep and still coming. A nearby food stall was owned by a big, raw‑boned woman with a Leaguer voice and a soldier’s past, a rumor that had served Graeten well in the past. She was scowling now behind her counter, more than the usual first‑of‑the‑day ill temper on her face, and Rathe started toward her, b’Estorr trailing easily behind him.

“What’s up, Graeten?”

“Just Bonfortune smiling on the corm‑sellers again,” the woman answered. “A ship came in yesterday evening, and Wymar–that’s his–managed to get his hands on some of the damned corms.”

“Sweet Sofia, it’s started already,” Rathe said, and out of the corner of his eye saw b’Estorr’s wry smile of agreement. “Silklands, I assume?”

Graeten nodded. “Just the ones. He’s one of the worst, always has whatever the latest madness is. And I wouldn’t mind, Nico, except he’s stupid.” She squinted against the sunlight, judging the crowd, and pulled the pot that held her morning’s brew to a more stable central position on the counter. “He’s going to have a riot on his hands one of these days, and sooner rather than later, the way he’s selling them, and not bothered to hire a knife or anyone to keep order.”

Rathe looked at b’Estorr, an unwilling smile on his face. “Fourie always calls it, doesn’t he?”

“He seems to,” the Chadroni answered. “What would this be, insufficient… ?”

“Inadequate attention to the queen’s peace and public safety,” Rathe quoted, and Graeten grinned openly. “Who’s his factor, Graeten?”

The woman shook her head, still smiling. “No idea. There’s a dozen venturers and the same number of residents he could be buying from.”

Maybe half that number, Rathe amended silently. If Wymar was as much of a fool as Graeten said, there would be those who wouldn’t want to deal with him–a stallholder who failed to keep order was dangerous for business. Still, it was a moot point. There was nothing in law, as Fourie had pointed out, to prevent the merchants from selling what was a common commodity at this time of year, and certainly no law would keep them from taking what the market would bear. And it was Wymar who was the immediate problem. He swore under his breath, seeing a woman’s head and shoulders rise above the crowd–stepped up onto a box, most likely–face flushed under her neat linen coif.

“Come along, my ladies, there’s plenty to buy, but don’t damage the goods, we’ve corms here worth a week’s housekeeping, all for your pleasure.”

“No knife, and he hires a shill,” Graeten said, with disgust, and Rathe nodded, already taking a step toward the stall. Wymar’s clientele didn’t look like the sort who could afford to spend a week’s house money on corms, not by the look of their clothes, but that was a folly he couldn’t mend. And then he saw it, the movement he’d been dreading, bodies swirling aside from two potential combatants, and this time he swore aloud.

“Excuse me, Istre,” he said, and the magist leaned back against Graeten’s counter as the woman reached to sweep her better goods out of sight and reach.

“You’re not on watch,” b’Estorr said.

“See any other pointsmen around?” Rathe called over his shoulder, but b’Estorr’s words followed him.

“Never do, when you need one.”

Rathe grimaced, drawing his truncheon, and flourished it to clear a path through the crowd, the less‑involved bystanders falling back as they recognized a point’s presence. Wymar himself was sprawled across his front counter in an effort to protect his goods, and his head from the two women, householders both, by the look of them, grappling and sparring over a corm, their market baskets spilled and the contents already half‑trampled against the worn cobbles. The shill, of course, was nowhere in sight, her stand empty, and Rathe caught the eye of a thin woman who was starting to reach across the undefended space. She ducked back out of sight, but another, bolder, grabbed anyway, and he brought his truncheon down just short of her fingers, the blow loud against the wood. She shrieked as though he’d hit her, and Wymar turned, still flat on the counter, trying to drag the rest of his goods under his body. Rathe grabbed the nearer of the two combatants by the collar of her short coat and hauled her bodily back, wailing as her fingers finally left the corm. She was smaller than the other, but seemed to have a keener sense of how to succeed in a close‑quarters fight: the other woman already had a split lip. Bloody mouth or not, she crowed in triumph, holding up the corm, and Rathe lifted his truncheon at her.

“Leave off, mistress.” He released the other woman, careful to stay between them. “Brawling in the market, and without the excuse of drink?” He saw other, avid faces behind them, the thought that Wymar’s goods were all but unguarded vivid in their eyes, and raised his truncheon again. “The rest of you, stand back unless you want me to call points on all of you for a mob.”

“She cheated me,” the taller woman said.

“No!” The other stiffened indignantly in his grip. “I had my hand on it first, had drawn out my money to pay Master Wymar–”

“Sweet Sofia, dames, it’s one corm,” Rathe said, and knew it was pointless even as he spoke.

“It is rather spectacular, pointsman,” Wymar offered, almost apologetically, and Rathe saw to his relief that the merchant had managed to tidy most of his goods away out of reach. “It’s in the rose style, but doubled, and yellow with the faintest of pink tracings–”

“That’s the flower,” Rathe said. “The corm–” He broke off, knowing it was pointless from the look in the women’s eyes. The corm was only the flower in potential; each one had to be treated properly, allowed to winter over in its own time, or kept cold and then warm to force an early bloom, if the variety allowed it. His own mother was an herbalist, had taught him to keep his own small garden even though his stars had taken him a long way from her profession; she grew some of the corms as well, and he knew how tricky the showier varieties could be to coax to full majesty. But these–none of them were buying with that in mind, wanting only to have and to hold the source of the possible beauty. The thought was suddenly painful, a vision of wasted corms, misplanted, blooming blind, or left drying and neglected once the folly was past, sharpening his tongue.

“I can’t tell you not to buy it, that’s your own folly, and so be it. But brawling in the market, that is a points matter, and I’m inclined to call the point next time. Master Wymar.” He took a breath. “I leave the judgment to you, master, as to which of these women is the rightful purchaser, and, frankly, I don’t envy you. But give judgment now.”

Wymar blinked, his face going even paler than before, flung out his arm to indicate the shorter woman. Her face split in a ferocious grin, and the other woman flung back her head.

“No! Gods above, he lies–”

“Shall I call the point?” Rathe demanded, and the woman faltered.

“You can’t–it would be a disgrace. Unless you call it against this fool, this blind calf’s‑head, who only gives it to her because her son’s in his guild–”

“Mistress,” Rathe said, sharply, and the woman fell silent, controlling herself with an effort. “I didn’t intend to call the point, I think you’re both well paid for it, but if you insist, I will.”

The smaller woman, he was pleased to see, had had the sense to get her money out smartly, and was already fading into the crowd, the corm clutched close beneath her skirt. The taller woman took another breath, shaking her head, but by her expression, she was far from appeased.

“If there’s any more trouble,” Rathe said, raising his voice to be sure he was heard, “if I or any other from the points sees another disturbance, I will call a point, and close this stall down. Is that understood?”

There was a murmur, ambiguous at best, but Wymar bobbed his head in rapid agreement. “Yes, pointsman–forgive me, Adjunct Point, anything you say.”

I hope so. “And my warning to you is to keep order at your business,” Rathe said. “That’s one of the conditions of your bond, as you very well know, one of the terms of the license you hold for this spot. I’m sure I don’t have to remind you of that, or check your license, do I?”

Wymar shook his head, paler than ever, and Rathe’s eyes narrowed. Something wasn’t right there, and he made a note to send Sohier around to check on the stallholder’s papers. He thought he could guess what she would find.

“Then, Master Wymar, I wish you a–peaceful–day.”

“Pointsman!” There was still no color in Wymar’s face, but he made an attempt to smile, licking dry lips, and reached under the counter, came up with a small, heart‑shaped corm half wrapped in a sheet of printed paper. “Might I not offer… In gratitude for your discretion… ?”

Rathe turned back, aware of the envious stares from the crowd around him. He had thought he recognized the corm, was sure of it when he saw the name on the smallsheet that wrapped it, and gave in to an unworthy impulse. “Thank you, no. I don’t take fees, no matter how they’re called. Those are pretty, though. My mother grows them in her garden.”

And she’d probably smack him for taking such a mean pleasure in the fact, he thought, shouldering his way back through the crowd. b’Estorr had moved on from Graeten’s stall, he saw, had found his way to a printer’s, stood idly flipping through a folio. Rathe recognized the whispering gargoyle that adorned the banner as belonging to Bertran Girodaia, and allowed himself a sigh of relief. Not only did Girodaia hire some of the better astrologers to provide her forecasts, she had the wit and the coin to keep all her licenses fully up‑to‑date. Girodaia herself was working the booth today, keeping an eye on two apprentices and a journeyman while chatting politely with a customer, a round‑faced matron with the badge of the embroiderers’ guild on one voluminous sleeve. She managed a nod and a half smile as Rathe approached, and Rathe’s smile in return was honestly friendly. Girodaia might look all to sea, cuffs frayed, hem sagging, brilliant blue eyes wide set beneath grey hair cut short and ragged as a fever victim’s, but she knew her business better than most, and kept a firm control of its every aspect. From the look of her eyes, Seidos was strong in her stars; maybe that, Rathe thought, had taught her the wisdom of keeping matters under close rule. He edged close to the counter, b’Estorr sliding sideways to give him room, and couldn’t help glancing at the embroiderer’s purchase. An edition of the Alphabet, he saw, without great surprise, according to the superscript newly revised and amended based on recent discoveries, and he wondered how many hours ago that had been completed. And b’Estorr was looking at one as well, and Rathe groaned aloud. Damn Chresta Aconin.

“I suppose,” b’Estorr said, without looking up, “the university could demand to see each printer’s master copy, and stamp it once we deemed it–harmless. But then, would we be liable for fraud if the formulae didn’t work at all?”

Rathe looked at him. “Have you ever considered going into the advocacy?”

“Not ever,” b’Estorr answered, and Rathe snorted.

“How does this one look?”

The necromancer shrugged. “I’m no expert, in printing or phytomancy.”

He slid the volume across the counter, and Rathe took it, turning the pages carefully. If he remembered correctly, it looked much like the versions that had been circulating in the spring, when the verifiable Alphabet was first a rumor, a slim volume with crude plates accompanied by text that gave the desired effect and the formula for creating them. This one gave the stars under which the flowers should be gathered, something he didn’t remember from the last editions, and on second glance the plates were less crude than old‑fashioned. Probably taken from a much older edition that had been cannibalized for the plates in it, he guessed, and couldn’t suppress a smile. First the printers had torn the old books apart, and now they were frantically trying to put them back together. He turned to say as much to b’Estorr, who was reading a broadsheet prophecy, and his eye was caught by a notice fluttering from one of the stall’s supporting poles. The Guild of the Masters of Defense announces a new master, prize played for and won… There was more, but it was the name that struck him silent, printed in enormous letters so that the words ran almost the width of the sheet: Philip vaan Esling, lieutenant, late of Coindarel’s Dragons. He blinked, puzzled and then, slowly, annoyed– what, you liked the play so much you had to cast yourself as the noble lover?–and b’Estorr looked over his shoulder. He heard the necromancer’s soft intake of breath, and then the sigh as it was released.

“He’s working on the midwinter masque, Nico, with scores of nobles who have to be told what to do. I imagine it’s rather easier for the guild to get them to cooperate if they can believe he might be something closer to their own class. It probably wasn’t his decision. It looks more to me like the hand of Gerrat Duca. He’s a master at keeping the nobles happy–he has to be.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” Rathe shook his head, the annoyance fading to something like amusement–Eslingen was going to have his hands full keeping up the pretense in that company–and turned back to the stall.

“Hello, Nico, what can I do for you?” Girodaia had finished with her customer, waved away an apprentice to smile at Rathe herself.

“I see you’re flogging a version of the Alphabet,” he said.

“Not the play,” Girodaia said hastily. By law and custom, the play could not be printed until after the masque had been performed, but in other years a few, favored printers had found themselves with copies some weeks earlier.

“No, I can see that,” Rathe said. “And I know you’re not on that good terms with Aconin.”

Girodaia made a sour face, her big hands miming resignation. She had been on good terms with the playwright, Rathe knew, until she had refused to print something she considered too scurrilous about one of the playwright’s former lovers. Aconin had taken his undoubted talent elsewhere, but it hadn’t been too great a loss for Girodaia, as Aconin’s first stage successes had followed closely. As he made a name for himself as a playwright, he’d eschewed the broadsheets altogether–or had he? Rathe wondered suddenly. Could Aconin, of all people, resist the temptation to let his wit run rampant under another name, while keeping his own pristine for the theatres? He shook the thought away–a speculation that might be useful at another time–and turned his attention to the matter at hand.

“I just wondered if you’d thought about the liabilities that might attach to you for selling it.”

“Liabilities?” Girodaia frowned, her eyes going from Rathe to the man behind him, lingering on the Starsmith’s badge at the knot of his stock.

“It’s a practicum,” Rathe said, “or at least anything that purports to be the Alphabet of Desire purports to be a practicum. You’re putting recipes in unpracticed hands–like giving the procedures to making aurichalcum to people who don’t have the wisdom to handle it.”

“And we all know you’d know about that,” Girodaia said, with a quick grin.

Rathe sighed. The affair of the children had turned out to involve the making of aurichalcum; he’d hoped to make her think he was serious, not angling for praise. “It’s no joke, Bertran. Truly.”

“It’s a work of fiction, Nico.” Her eyes slid again to the necromancer, visibly assessing the university’s role in the matter. “Isn’t it?”

“Probably,” Rathe answered. “But suppose somewhere there was a copy that wasn’t. And even ruling that out, because I admit it’s unlikely, there could be something in here that would work. And without the imprimatur–the university’s imprimatur–you could be liable.”

It was thin, and they both knew it, an awkward point to call and even more difficult to prove, and Rathe silently damned Fourie. Without more solid authority, there was nothing he could do but go one by one to the printers and make these veiled threats that the brighter of them would know instantly were pointless.

Girodaia looked down at the book, ran a finger down the spine. “But you’re not forbidding me to sell it?”

Rathe sighed. “You know I can’t. Just consider it a friendly warning.”

Girodaia frowned, shook her head. “I’ll take my chances, I think, Nico. You understand.”

“I understand,” Rathe answered, and touched b’Estorr’s arm. “Istre?”

The magist started slightly, turned to follow the other man with a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”

“What is it?” Rathe asked.

“Verifiable is an interesting word,” b’Estorr said. “Verifiable by whom, is what I’ve been wondering. Not by the university, we haven’t seen anything of it.”

“No copies in the great library?”

b’Estorr snorted. “Even if someone donated a copy at some point, I wouldn’t know where to find it. The cataloging in the older sections leaves much to be desired. But my point is, it’s not the word we would use.”

“How about certifiable?” Rathe asked, and b’Estorr laughed.

“You’re likely to become so, with all these flooding the market. But, no, the word the university would use is provenanced.”

“So?”

“So,” b’Estorr said slowly, “if it exists, it’s unlikely to have ever been proved by the university. Which means that even this ‘verifiable’ edition may in fact be more dangerous than we thought.”

“Everybody knows how to make gunpowder,” Rathe said.

“Do you?” b’Estorr answered. “Do you really?”

Rathe blinked. “Charcoal, nitre, and saltpeter…”

“In what proportions? And how do you mix it?”

“Very carefully,” Rathe answered. “All right, point taken.”

“And to use gunpowder once you’ve made it, generally speaking you also use a gun and ball or shot of some sort, and you stand there and take your chances, seen or unseen.” b’Estorr shook his head. “This would be something very different.”

Rathe blinked again, looked up at the taller man, seeing the breeze ruffle his straw‑pale hair. “Istre, do you believe in the Alphabet of Desire?”

“I’m very much afraid that I’m afraid not to.”

There was nothing to be said to that. Rathe looked away, kicked a stone from his path with more force than was needed, wishing the other hadn’t put into words what he himself had already begun to fear. Fourie was right, as he so often was; the Alphabet was potentially very dangerous–if, he reminded himself, it actually existed. But b’Estorr was right, they couldn’t afford to believe it didn’t.

The market clock struck then, a fraction before the larger clock at the guildhall, and b’Estorr swore, more violently than Rathe could ever remember hearing him. The Chadroni shook his head, looking utterly disgusted. “Sorry, Nico, I lost complete track of the time. And I have a class in less than an hour.”

Rathe couldn’t repress the grin. “Let me guess in what subject.”

“Don’t bother. Look, if you learn anything more about this, let me know, all right?”

“If you do the same,” Rathe answered. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?” b’Estorr paused, looked honestly curious.

“The look that says you’re going to track down a puzzle and strangle it.”

“Must be why it’s like looking in a mirror,” b’Estorr answered, and turned away.

Rathe made his way back to Point of Dreams, pausing twice more to check printers’ shops for the Alphabet of Desire. There were at least two further editions, and a promise of a third, more elaborate volume keyed to the play itself, and all of them, Rathe thought, with disgust, equally likely to be harmless. But not guaranteed, and that was why Trijn, and every other chief point in the city, would be spending hard‑earned favors or even the stations’ close kept funds to make sure they had copies of everything.

Dreams was dark and chill in spite of the fires in three of the stoves, and he freed himself only reluctantly from the bulk of his jerkin, hanging it with the others beside the fireplace. The duty point cleared her throat uneasily, and Rathe controlled his annoyance with an effort. Yres Falasca had been passed over, at least in her view; she was doing her best to live with her disappointment.

“Yeah?”

Falasca pushed a package wrapped in brown paper across the desk toward him. “This came for you, this morning.”

Rathe suppressed a sigh, recognized Gasquine’s seal: the script, then, of The Alphabet of Desire. Just what he needed to finish a perfect morning, he thought, and tucked it under his arm. His own workroom was mercifully warmer–the duty runner had remembered to light his stove, and there was a fresh pot of tea on the hob–and he settled himself at his table with cautious relief. The package, unfortunately, was still there; he sighed, and broke the seal, peeling back the wrapping. The script was there, loosely bound with what looked like kitchen string, a copyist’s tidy hand filling the pages, but he put it aside for the second item. This proved to be a list of the lottery winners, the nobles who would take part as members of the chorus. After the morning, he could hardly read the script with any equanimity; the nobles were far preferable. He read the list through once, then again, more slowly, and a third time, more closely still. He refolded the paper, and tipped his chair back so that his head could rest against the rough plaster wall. He could not, he told himself, couldn’t possibly be seeing what he thought he was seeing. On the other hand, sheer luck could not possibly account for it, either. He took a deep breath, unfolded the paper again, and stared at the names, making the connections explicit in his own mind: yes, at least half of the dames and seurs were somehow related to a claimant to the throne.

“Sweet Sofia,” he said, and started for Trijn’s office at a pace just short of a run.

Trijn met him on the landing, anger turning to understanding as she saw what he held. “My workroom,” she said. “You, Hina! Go to Laneten’s, get two plates of whatever’s going for lunch, and a jug of beer. A large one.”

The runner bobbed a curtsy, eyes wide, and Trijn waved her away. “My workroom,” she said again, and Rathe obeyed.

The chief point said nothing more until the door was closed firmly behind them, then shook her head. “All right,” she said, “you first.”

Thanks. Rathe took a breath. “Dumb chance couldn’t possibly account for this,” he said, and held out the paper. “More than half of the members of the masque chorus are directly related to one of the claimants to the throne.”