Текст книги "Point of Dreams"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Lisa Barnett
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Trijn waved for him to take a seat, and he obeyed automatically. Trijn’s copy of the list lay facedown on her table, and she turned it over again before she spoke. “Half? I make it more like three‑quarters, myself. Shit.”

“What do you think it means?” Rathe asked cautiously. He was still wary of Trijn’s temper. “It’s not making a lot of sense to me. If the lottery was rigged, why? And by whom?”

“By whom is probably the easy part,” Trijn said with a snarl. “There’s only one person in Astreiant–hells, in Chenedolle–who could manage it, and that’s Astreiant herself.”

“The metropolitan?” Rathe shook his head. “Why?”

Trijn gave a humorless smile. “I know you like her, Rathe, but she’s a consummate politician. At least, I would have thought so. This–” She lifted her copy of the list, and let it fall heavily to the tabletop. “I would suspect this was done at Her Majesty’s behest. As to why… Rumor’s a wonderful thing, Rathe. It runs on so many levels. There are rumors you hear that I probably never get wind of, even in this station, to say nothing of the rumors that run in your part of southriver, as opposed to my part of northriver. The rumors in Point of Knives will always be different from those running in Temple Point, or anywhere else in the city. And University Point rumors are like no other in Chenedolle. Neither are City Point rumors. And the most recent City Point rumors are extremely interesting.”

“I’m not going to like this,” Rathe said.

“The most recent City Point rumor is that the queen finally means to name her successor at midwinter. The time is finally propitious, they say.”

“Fourie said that she might,” Rathe said. “But I didn’t believe it.”

“They’re betting on it in City Point,” Trijn said, and Rathe nodded.

“Which means they’re all hostages.”

“For their families’ good behavior.” Trijn nodded in her turn.

Did Fourie actually know? Rathe wondered. And if he knew, why couldn’t he say–did anyone know officially, or had the news simply been whispered in the right corners, the word trickling out through the familiar channels of gossip? And how wise was that? The worst of it was, if this was completely unofficial information… “What the hell are we supposed to do about it?” he said aloud.

Trijn gave a weary shrug, and Rathe wondered just when she had gotten in that morning. Dreams was new for both of them, they both had come from districts where the problems were more commonplace. “There’s not a lot we can do,” she said. “I’m thinking of calling Fourie on it, see if we can’t get some kind of warrant for action, permission to keep an official eye on the Tyrseia, but until then, Rathe, I confess I’m relying on your connections in the theatre.”

For a second, Rathe thought she meant Eslingen, but then realized she meant his friendship with Gavi Jhirassi. He had had connections within the theatre world long before he met Philip Eslingen. His eyes dropped to the cast list again, to the professionals, this time, and with a sick jolt he saw the name he had somehow avoided before. Guis Forveijl: yes, that was a connection he could well have lived without.

“Rathe?”

He shook himself. “Sorry.”

Trijn nodded. “As you’ve nothing more pressing at the moment than these damned Alphabets, I’d take it kindly if you could manage to keep the Tyrseia under your eye. Unofficially, to be sure. Unless you can find an official reason–preferably one that’s not too dire.”

Rathe smiled faintly. “I might be able to concoct something. If nothing else, Chresta Aconin’s responsible for this new craze for the Alphabets. I wonder if we mightn’t score a point for inciting civic disquiet.”

“Enjoy your dreams, Rathe,” Trijn said. “Now, I want you to go over this chorus list again. If I’m right, they’re all connected to claimants somehow or other, and I want to know exactly how–to what degree, and how many quarterings. You personally, not an apprentice.”

“Yes, Chief,” Rathe said with a sigh. He understood the need for secrecy, but he was duty point this afternoon; the assignment would mean several hours at the Sofian temple, or possibly the university, all in his supposedly free time. At this time of year, the libraries were particularly cold and dank, and he wished he could send an apprentice. The Sofians in particular never bothered to light fires until the first snow, a precaution against fire, they said, but, Rathe believed, more as an outward sign of their general perversity. He had spent more than enough time in both places, taking on assignments designed to prove that an apprentice could, in fact, read and write; it was hardly a job that suited his age and rank.

Trijn lifted an eyebrow, as though she’d guessed the thought. “Unless you’d like the task I’ve set myself, which is persuading Astreiant to at least make this information official to the points.”

Rathe blinked, wondering how the chief point could be so free with the metropolitan’s time, but shook his head. “I’m more than happy to leave that to you.”

He made his way back to his workroom, stopping only to collect another pot of tea, and settled himself behind his table to frown at the list of chorus members again. He knew at least some of the connections, and he reached for a charcoal, began noting them down to save some time at the temples. Eslingen would know more, he thought, and wondered if he dared ask the other man. Trijn had made clear that she wanted it kept secret– and wisely, too–but Eslingen was hardly an apprentice pointsman. He grinned to himself at that: Trijn would agree, but hardly come to the same conclusion. And perhaps it would be less than wise to take the list out of the station.

A knock at the door interrupted his train of thought, and he flipped the list over automatically. “Come in.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Adjunct Point.” It was Kurin Holles, his formal robes discarded for a drab suit that did nothing to flatter his ivory coloring.

“Advocat, I’m sorry. Please, have a seat.”

Holles hesitated for a moment, then shook himself and sat uneasily on the chair nearest the stove. He was carrying a paper‑wrapped parcel, Rathe saw, and set it awkwardly on his knee, seemingly at a loss for words.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” Rathe prompted, and the other man managed a flinching smile.

“Not really. Reassurance, I suppose. It’s been–days–and this pointsman, this Voillemin?”

Rathe nodded.

“Hasn’t yet been to the house, or sought me at the courts. Will he really do his best to find Bourtrou’s killer?”

Not spoken to the leman yet. Rathe suppressed his own anger– Voillemin might have been trying to spare Holles’s feelings, pursue other leads before troubling a man bereaved, but somehow he doubted it–and fumbled for the right words. “Advocat, I–”

“I know,” Holles said. “I’m sorry, the question wasn’t fair. But, gods, Rathe! I expected better than this.”

Rathe bit down anger again. “You heard the decree yourself. I can’t intervene, or the regents will revoke their warrant.” He lifted his hand to forestall Holles’s answer. “And even if that weren’t the case, I would have no right to interfere in another’s case unless and until there were some concrete reason, some obvious failure, that had to be corrected.”

“And not talking to me isn’t an obvious failure?” Holles asked.

He had found the body, Rathe remembered, but tried for a conciliatory tone. “He may have been trying to spare your feelings, Advocat.”

Holles took a deep breath and gave a jerky nod. “It isn’t necessary. All I want–”

He broke off, and Rathe finished the sentence for him. “Is to know what happened, and why. And even that may not be enough, Advocat. You know that.”

“I know.” Holles’s voice was almost a whisper. “Sofia’s tits, I don’t know where to set him looking, don’t even know where I’d start if I were him, but I want justice. There’s nothing else left for me.” He shook his head, straightening. “I’m sorry. But I don’t know who else I can come to with my concerns.”

“It’s a matter for the chief point,” Rathe said, and Holles smiled again.

“Trijn has her own agenda in this, I think. I feel confident in you.”

That matched Rathe’s impression all too well, and in spite of himself Rathe nodded once. “He’s not a bad pointsman, not corrupt, I give you my word on that. And I will pass him the word that he need not worry about your sensibilities. And if anything else happens to concern you, you can come to me, and I will speak to Voillemin about it. I’m the senior adjunct here, my job is not to undermine the points under me. Do you understand that?”

Holles nodded, a rueful smile on his face. “That’s one of the many reasons I wish you were handling this investigation, Adjunct Point. I’ve said my piece, I won’t trouble you further.” He looked down at the parcel, and the smile twisted out of true. “Except one thing. A kind of jest, and probably in poor taste, but I thought you might appreciate it; Or an irony, at least. I found this at Bourtrou’s office in the Tour, and thought you might want to add it to your collection.”

Rathe took the package, frowning slightly, and unwrapped the paper to reveal a plainly bound octavo volume, the corners bent from hard use. There was no title stamped on spine or cover, and he opened it warily, only to laugh as he saw the title page. Well, why not? he thought, gazing down at it. It seemed a part of the way things were going these days.

It was a copy of the Alphabet of Desire.

Holles rose, bowing. “Thank you for your time, Adjunct Point. And for your help.”

“Thank you for this,” Rathe answered, but the other man was already gone. Rathe sighed, staring at the book he had been given. He should look at it, study it the same way he would study all the others that they’d collected, but his mind was on Holles’s complaint. The man knew how the points worked, that was the trouble, saw it day to day in Hearts, and could be forgiven if he was suspicious of anyone he hadn’t come to know personally. And in this case… Rathe sighed, and shoved himself away from his table, heading back to the main room to consult the daybook.

“Anything of interest?” he asked, flipping back through the day’s notations, and the duty point shrugged.

“A couple more editions brought in.”

And one more that I should log, Rathe thought, then stopped, frowning. He had reached the previous day, and one of the entries did not make sense. “Is Voillemin about?”

“He’s got the bridge shift,” the duty point answered, and Rathe’s eyes went to the clock. Yes, the man should be here, was due to go off watch shortly.

“Has he done anything about this?” he asked, and pointed to the book. The duty point craned her neck to see, and shook her head.

“Not that I know. What me to check?”

“No.” Rathe turned the book back toward her, moving carefully to hide his anger. “No. I’ll ask him.”

“Up to you. How were things at the Tour?”

“Fraught,” Rathe answered, and the woman smirked.

“I can imagine. It’s not a dull life, give us that.”

Rathe murmured something in answer, turned away to stare at the station clock. The story was that it had been a gift from one of Dreams’s greatest actresses, Herren Dornevil, in gratitude for the points’ quelling the student riots and thus keeping the theatres open. Another story said that a former chief point had liberated it from one of the few pleasure houses operating in Dreams instead of Hearts– that Dornevil had, in fact, given it to the proprietor of that house, for services rendered. Whatever its origins, the movements were near perfect, and Rathe let himself watch for a few minutes, let the steady swing of the pendulum clear his head so that he could think. He hadn’t thought that Voillemin was a fool, a coward, or lazy, but there was evidence of one of those in the daybook. One of the stallholders in Little Chain Market had sent a runner, claiming to have information about Leussi’s death–and, yes, Little Chain was in Hearts, but it was merely a matter of making a courtesy call on the chief there, and Voillemin would be free to proceed. But he hadn’t made any notation that he had, or planned to do so. In fact, there had been a line through the entry, indicating it had been considered and written off. And maybe there was cause, he told himself, damping down his anger, maybe there was something in the message that made it patently untrue, but if there was, he should have noted it. He took a breath, and started back up the stairs.

Voillemin shared a workroom with Leenderts, but the other half of the long table was empty, its surface swept clean of everything except a basket of slates weighting down a stack of papers. Rathe allowed himself a sigh of relief–he wanted no witnesses, if he had to interfere in this matter–and tapped on the door frame. Voillemin looked up with a fleeting expression of annoyance at the delay.

“Can I come in?” Rathe asked.

Voillemin nodded. “Yes, of course, Adjunct Point.”

Rathe closed the door carefully behind him, reached for Leenderts’s chair, and swung it to face the other man. “Tell me about the runner from Little Chain.”

Voillemin shrugged. “Not much to tell, really. One of the market brats came and said her mistress wanted to speak with me about the intendant’s death. She wouldn’t say who the mistress was, just that she was a stall holder, and she wanted to know when the intendant died.”

“And you did… ?”

Voillemin looked honestly startled. “I made a note of it, but frankly, I thought it was, well, just a prank. To get the death‑time, cast a horoscope, something like that.”

Possible, Rathe thought, striving for fairness, but not likely. “For what purpose?”

“You don’t know this district very well yet, Adjunct Point.” Voillemin’s voice held a note of grievance. “There are printers in Little Chain, same as everywhere. I suspected this one wanted to get information his competitors didn’t have, to bring out a scandal‑sheet claiming Sofia knows what about the intendant’s death. And we have a policy here–I think it’s city‑wide–of not feeding the broadsheets.”

“I understand that you haven’t yet spoken to Advocat Holles,” Rathe said.

Voillemin blinked, caught off balance by the change of subject. “Well, no, I thought–” He stopped, tried again. “I didn’t want to add to his burdens at such a time.”

“He found the body,” Rathe said gently, and a faint blush rose on Voillemin’s cheeks.

“There was plenty of information in the alchemist’s report…”

His voice trailed off, and Rathe sighed. “You haven’t questioned the first person to find the body. You didn’t follow up on a potential source of information about Leussi’s murder. You don’t even use the word ‘murder, ’ I notice. Very well, that’s your prerogative, though prejudging a case is always dangerous, as you should well know. But you’ve been given this job, and it’s your responsibility as a pointsman, your responsibility to this station, never mind to the advocat, to do it right. Valuable information has come from the unlikeliest sources, as you should know–as an apprentice learns in her first year.” He took a breath, swallowing the rest of the lecture–Voillemin was an adjunct point, after all–and said carefully, “Advocat Holles sent word that he appreciates your scruples, but they’re unnecessary. As for the other, you will look into it. Today.”

“I’m about to go…” Voillemin realized his mistake as soon as he started to speak, and closed his mouth tightly against the words. Rathe nodded.

“To Little Chain. Good.”

The stage of the Tyrseia was set for a banquet, long tables placed in a square so that everyone could see and be seen, each one draped in spotless linen and set with dishes that gleamed in the doubled light from the mage‑lights and the enormous candelabra that hung center stage. The newly chosen noble chorus glittered in their second‑best– none of them would have put on best for this meeting, and none would wear less than that, to show themselves among their peers– and the black robes of the marshaling chamberlains, bustling back and forth among the various groups, set them off to perfection. It was like a scene in a play, Eslingen thought, except that the food and the wine was real, the smells savory enough to make his stomach growl. Presumably they would be free to eat at some point; for now, he would wait with the other Masters of Defense, and hope that no one took too much notice of the stranger among them.

He recognized a few of the actors, women and men he’d seen a dozen times onstage, the best of Astreiant’s theatres, recognized, too, Rathe’s upstairs neighbor, the object of a hundred glances, and looked away to spare him at least that stare. He felt distinctly out of place in this bright company, and knew he couldn’t match the other masters’ ease, fell back on the stance he’d practiced as a new‑made lieutenant–after all, he told himself, they’d hired him as a soldier, and a soldier he’d be. Siredy quirked a smile at him, very fair today under a black wig, and Eslingen returned the smile unspeaking. Siredy seemed to take that as encouragement enough, and edged closer, tipping his head toward the cluster of the chorus.

“They look very fine, our noble amateurs. I wonder if any of them can act.”

“What’s the usual way of it?” Eslingen asked, genuinely curious, and the other man shrugged.

“Oh, maybe one in ten has some talent, or at least experience, most of that from the university. But the hard part is persuading them to do what they’re told.”

That was no surprise, Eslingen thought, watching the landames greet each other with kisses and cries shrill as a seabird’s. Their skirts caught the light, the occasional silk overskirt hissing against fine linen and better wool, and their brothers and husbands, left behind, greeted each other more discreetly.

“At least you have the looks for it,” Siredy said, without jealousy, and Eslingen glanced at him.

“Does that really make so much difference?”

“You’d be surprised,” Siredy answered. “Though to be fair, it’s less the looks than the manners.” He smiled, this time with malice. “Soumet, now–he’s never been able to persuade a single one of them to do what he wants, for all that he actually does know what he’s doing.”

No, Soumet wouldn’t be to their taste,. Eslingen thought, and shook himself. This was no different, or not much different, from serving with Coindarel. He’d drilled enough young nobles to know exactly how to handle them, how to flatter, when to drive, and how to make them proud to serve, even if it was a play this time, and not a regiment. He drew himself up, aware of a landame’s smile, hidden instantly behind a flourished fan, and Siredy said softly, “See, now? You’ve already won them.”

“Let’s hope so,” Eslingen answered, and Gasquine stepped out from among the actors. The movement was planned, drawing all eyes, and instantly the senior chamberlain moved to meet her, bowing with punctilious courtesy. She curtsied in answer, not deeply, and the chamberlain slammed his staff against the stage floor, calling in the same instant for silence. To Eslingen’s surprise, he received it, and Gasquine turned slowly, one hand outstretched, welcoming them all. She had dressed for the occasion, not in finery–she must have known she couldn’t compete with the chorus, Eslingen thought–but in a good, well‑cut skirt and bodice, the sort of fine dark red wool that the city’s best merchants wore. It was high‑necked, the collar closed beneath her chin, and she wore a simple gold chain, ornamented with a single flower. With a real flower, Eslingen amended, one of the winter corms forced to early bloom, its long stem woven into the links so that its pale, pink‑tipped bell lay along the curve of one breast. A perfect touch, Eslingen thought, and repressed the urge to applaud.

“My friends and colleagues,” Gasquine said, “and the landames whom I hope will soon become our colleagues, welcome to the Tyrseia, and to our play. We are fortunate this year in our play, and in our noble sponsor, who has so generously pledged not only his name but his gift of flowers to make this piece the success it deserves to be. I ask you to begin by greeting him as he deserves: I present to you all the landseur Aubine, our patron and sponsor.”

Eslingen clapped politely. The actors were more enthusiastic, the noble chorus distracted, still whispering among themselves, and he had to look twice before he could pick out the landseur. He was an older man–well, perhaps not as old as he looked, Eslingen amended, but certainly dressed like an old man, all in grey wool and white linen, without even a line of braid to trim his coat. Even his buttons were plain jet, expensive but undemonstrative–there were actors who were better dressed than he, and the chorus outshone him without effort. His brown hair was equally undistinguished, and it had to be his own, hanging loose without curl across his shoulders as he made his bow.

“The flowers are really nothing,” he said. He had a good voice, Eslingen thought, surprised, low and resonant, and he knew how to project to be heard in the Tyrseia’s cavernous space. “A small thing, from my succession houses. But I hope you will all take them as a tangible sign of my hope for our success.”

“He has the most notable glass houses in the city,” Siredy said softly.

So of course he’d sponsor The Alphabet of Desire, Eslingen thought. Why not? Though it did make a certain amount of sense, given how obsessed the city seemed to be with flowers. He said aloud, “He doesn’t look like the sort to get involved in the theatre.”

Siredy gave a knowing smile. “Oh, that’s another story.”

Gasquine stepped forward again, introducing the senior chancellor, who in turn would introduce the noble chorus, and Eslingen couldn’t suppress a sigh. It was little to no surprise to him that Caiazzo was not present. He did not get involved with these things for the sake of either his name or reputation, he got involved with them because they were reasonable–and legal–investments. For a brief moment, he envied the merchant’s absence, though his acerbic comments would have been amusing. Siredy touched his arm, took a careful step backward. Eslingen copied him, and realized that they had stepped into the shadow of one of the massive set pieces, out of sight of the majority of the chorus, and the few actors waiting on that side of the stage. It was a giant triangular column, painted on each side with a different part of The Drowned Island’selaborate scenery–there were at least five of them on each side of the stage, and glancing up he thought he recognized part of the buildings lining the Sier. The columns must turn, he decided, presenting a new side to the audience with each new scene–and the gods forbid that the scenerymen get their signals crossed or, more likely, the mechanisms were somehow linked, to make sure the proper images came into view.

“Leussi would never have done this,” Siredy said. “Introduced each of them, I mean. Sweet Tyrseis, we’ll be here an hour.”

“Leussi?” Eslingen repeated. The name was somehow familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

“He used to be the senior chancellor,” Siredy answered, “but he died, oh, not three weeks ago, poor man. He wasn’t old, either– younger than this one, at any rate.”

Rathe had mentioned the name, Eslingen remembered. That was the connection. And had seemed sorry at the loss himself, which was probably why it had stuck in his mind. He said, “Tell me about Aubine.”

Siredy smiled, visibly gratified. “Ah, well–and I’m not sure I should tell you this, since I understand you’re a friend of the points.”

“Of at least one pointsman,” Eslingen corrected. Siredy seemed to know entirely too much about everything–but then, it hardly mattered anymore. He wasn’t likely to lose this place for sleeping with a pointsman.

“So one hears.” Siredy glanced over his shoulder, lowered his voice until the other could just make out the words. “The landseur is the grandson of the Soueraine of Ledey, who was a lady of great pride in her lineage.”

“Sixteen quarterings and not a demming in her pocket?” Eslingen asked.

“Thirty‑two, actually, and the money to back them,” Siredy answered. “And all the pride of the Ile’nord behind that. So the story is that, her daughter being sickly and unsuitable, she sent her grandchildren to court–the landseur and his sister, the present soueraine–to uphold the family name, and while they were there, young Aubine took a fancy for a life of learning. It being winter, and the roads into Ledey being blocked, the sister gave permission for him to enroll at the university–I understand he really is rather clever– and then to take lodgings in University Point. And of course while lodging with the common herd, he met another young man, a brewer’s boy, I think, or at least so I’ve heard, and they fell to a liking and then to love. They swore lemanry by midwinter, the sister turning a blind eye to the matter, but with the spring thaw, the word went out to the Ile’nord, and the next thing anyone knew, the soueraine herself descended on Astreiant and snatched both grandchildren out of the city. And the brewer’s boy was found beaten to death in an alley.”

“At the grandmother’s behest,” Eslingen said.

Siredy shrugged. “The points–and here is where I don’t wish to offend–the points said he died in the aftermath of a tavern quarrel. But, yes, that’s the story.”

“A sad one,” Eslingen said, and craned his neck to find Aubine. He was standing well back, not quite part of either the noble chorus or the little knot of officials, a quiet, sober man to be the center of such gossip. And not really handsome enough, either, or even striking, utterly without the kind of physical presence that would go with such a story. “Like The Drowned Island, only–sideways.”

Siredy suppressed a laugh, and earned a frown from Duca, standing to their left. “I suppose it is, at that. I wonder if Mistress Anonymous had the story in mind.”

“Anonymous?” Eslingen asked. There had been no playwright’s name on any of the copies he had seen, but all of them were pirated editions, would hardly be expected to credit the author when the printer could flaunt her cleverness at obtaining a copy.

“Oh, that’s a scandal for another day,” Siredy answered. “No, no one knows exactly who wrote it–though everybody has their suspicions–but it hardly matters. Tell me, what does your pointsman think of it?”

“Of The Drowned Island?” Eslingen stifled a laugh of his own. “We didn’t see it together.”

“What a pity.” Siredy looked more amused than sympathetic, however, and Eslingen let his eyes wander back to the tangle of nobles, bowing one by one as the senior chamberlain called their names. He’d seen this many nobles gathered on one spot before, but only once, during the winter he served with Coindarel, and then they had been mostly younger sons, penniless landseurs and armigers and bannerets, striving to make their way, not daughters of good families. This–this was something different, impressive in spite of his willing it to be nothing more than another post. Rathe would laugh, he knew, but he remembered seeing Chenedolle’s queen–only a few months before, but seemingly a lifetime–a bright shape stiff as a doll under a parasol, there to see them properly paid off. And now he would have a chance to see her again, closer than before, maybe even genuinely amused by the performance, which was more than he could say for her appreciation of the previous summer’s muster. One of the boxes would be hers, if he understood the matter correctly–the masque was given in her honor, ostensibly for her entertainment and the health of her and her realm, even if the real purpose these days seemed to be to keep the city happy. Surely he would have a chance to see her more closely. He glanced at Siredy, wondering if the other master would think he was a fool if he asked which was the royal box, and a movement among the watching actors drew his eye.

He recognized the man instantly, to his own surprise, and took another soundless step back into the shadows, not yet ready to face this particular part of his past. Chresta Aconin had hardly changed in the intervening years, still boyishly slim, and still vain enough to increase his moderate height by a pair of red‑heeled shoes. He leaned now on a tall walking stick, a cluster of embroidered ribbons frothing over hands that were probably painted to match, and there was a dark blue flower, another of the corms, tucked into the buttonhole of his rust‑colored coat. The warm color flattered his sallow complexion, as did the bay‑brown wig, rich as polished wood. He had always known how to dress, Eslingen thought, remotely, remembering a time when he had copied his then‑friend’s graces, and was suddenly aware of Siredy’s eyes upon him.

“I see you’ve spotted our playwright.”

“He’s made a name for himself,” Eslingen said. And that name was an ambivalent one at best: Aconin was counted one of the best male playwrights in the city, but he was also known as Aconite for his merciless pen. He had enemies to spare, and a dozen reluctant supporters among the theatre managers. Could he have written The Drowned Island? Eslingen wondered suddenly, and in spite of himself bit back a grin. If Aconin had written it, there would have been more irony–or perhaps there had been, and that was why the playwright wouldn’t claim it.

“He hasn’t made friends this autumn,” Siredy said, “coming out of nowhere with this play. Even Mathiee had to think twice, but it was too good to turn down.”

“Is it so unusual for a professional to write the winning masque?” Eslingen asked.

“Unusual for one to bother,” Siredy said, frankly. “The masque– unless you’re very good, which I have to say Aconite is, it plays once and is forgotten. Not that the money’s that bad, for the playwright, at least, no one else gets anything out of it, but it’s very hard to write something that can stand having all the set pieces added in, and still be worth performing later, and the fact that Aconin actually did it– well, it hasn’t exactly endeared him to his peers. I heard Juliot Sedaien said that she’d cheerfully have knifed him, if she’d known he was at work on a play. She’d have won the masque, too, if it hadn’t been for the Alphabet, and her with a new baby to keep.”