Текст книги "Point of Dreams"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Lisa Barnett
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

A trio of apprentices were at work in the lobby, on their knees with pails and scrubbing brushes, but at his entrance one rose, rubbing her hands on her skirts, and came to greet him.

“You’re the pointsman with the body?”

There was no use in standing on rank at the deadhouse. Rathe nodded.

“Fanier said I should bring you straight back.”

She was no more than thirteen, Rathe thought, bemused, as he followed her down the long corridor that led to the workrooms, and wondered what her stars were like that she’d been brought into this profession. She paused at a cross‑corridor, consulting a slate tacked to the wall, then brought him to a closed door. She knocked, and it swung open to her touch.

“Adjunct Point Rathe, master.”

“Oh. Good.” Fanier turned, blinking a little, and Rathe tried not to look at the body that lay on the stone table behind him, an older apprentice busy stripping away the last of the clothing. “Go on, then, this isn’t for you yet.”

Rathe blinked, but he’d been talking to the girl. She made a face, but turned away, closing the door a little too sharply behind her.

“Nice to get them eager,” Fanier said, rubbing his hands together as though to warm them for the work ahead, “but it’s early days to call her in. So this one’s yours, eh? When did you transfer to Dreams?”

He looked more than ever like a bear, Rathe thought, his already bulky body thickened by a heavy fisherman’s jersey and a leather apron, his thick grey hair springing loose and untidy around his broad face. Brass‑framed glasses, like the first apprentice’s, were perched awkwardly among the curls, as though he’d forgotten they were there. Beneath them, his expression was bearlike, too, and Rathe shook himself back to the question at hand. “I was advanced to senior adjunct there about a month ago.”

“Liking it?” Fanier was still watching the apprentice straighten the body, and Rathe suppressed a shudder.

“It’s interesting,” he said. That was easily the safest answer. “Things like this don’t happen much in Hopes.”

“No. Straightforward place, Hopes,” Fanier said, without a trace of a smile. “So. Dead on the Tyrseia stage, eh? And a man of quality, by his linen.”

Rathe nodded. “Which is likely to make trouble, once the family finds out, so the sooner you can determine for me what killed him, the better I’ll like it.”

“Oh, yes,” Fanier said, almost vaguely, and nodded to the apprentice. “All right, lad, I’ll take him now.”

Rathe looked away as the alchemist moved toward the body, focusing his attention instead on the empty courtyard he could see beyond the low windows. It had always seemed perverse to him to have windows in these workrooms or, rather, to have them set so low, where anyone walking past could see the alchemists at work. And where any local children could dare each other to steal glances, he thought, but then remembered Fanier saying that was how they found about a third of their apprentices. He could hear the others moving behind him, Fanier mumbling something that was answered with a clang of metal against stone, and Rathe winced, concentrating on the stones patterning the court. At least today there weren’t any lurking children–no one in sight at all, not even the alchemists’ own apprentices, and the stones looked dark with rain. Sleet soon, probably, Rathe thought, squinting at the slate‑dark sky, and suppressed a shiver.

“Well, the cause of death’s easy enough,” Fanier announced, and Rathe glanced warily over his shoulder. The apprentice was just covering the body with a clean sheet, a last few flickers of mage‑light dying from around it as he did so, and Rathe tried to hide his relief. “He drowned. Might have been unconscious before he went into the water, that’s usually the way of it if it’s murder. Hard to drown somebody otherwise, especially a man in as decent shape as this one.” He tipped his head to one side, considering. “Thing is, that usually means a whacking great blow, usually on the head, and there’s not a mark on him. Not in the water very long, either, just enough to die there. Does that help you?”

“Not much,” Rathe said, and Fanier nodded.

“Didn’t think so.”

“Because so far, we haven’t found anything that could hold enough water to drown a man,” Rathe went on, and suppressed the memory of the looming waves, and the smaller ones lurking beneath the stage floor. “Could he have been moved? Drowned elsewhere, and his body left at the Tyrseia?”

“Ursine said she didn’t think so,” the apprentice said, and colored deeply as both men looked at him.

“Mmm.” Fanier ran his hand through his hair, dislodging his glasses, but caught them before they could fall. He polished them absently, turning back to stare at the body, and Rathe saw another flicker of movement, almost as though a breeze had touched the concealing sheet. The air was utterly still. “No. Ursine’s got a good eye for that, I must say. Died and left and found, all in the same place.”

Rathe heard the distant note in his voice, as though he was listening to that same invisible wind, and Fanier shook himself. “Which is to say, the changes in the body have been steady and consistent since the moment of death. If he’d been moved, well, we’d feel it– you’d see it on him, most likely, how the blood pools.”

“I take your word for it,” Rathe said, a little faintly–there were times when he hated dealing with the deadhouse–and Fanier went on as though he hadn’t spoken.

“Which would seem to indicate murder, if you can’t find a bath to drown him in, but you’re still missing that whacking great blow. It could be poison, I suppose, to keep him quiet. But that’s going to take me a little longer to find out.”

“We don’t have a lot of time, Fan,” Rathe answered. “The unofficial–highly unofficial–”

“And I daresay accurate,” Fanier murmured.

“–identification is that this is the landseur de Raзan. And once his family is informed, the odds are we lose any chance of discovering anything more from that body.”

Fanier made a sympathetic noise. “I’ll do what I can, of course. And I sent for Istre, but I suspect he has a class.”

“I gave it up as a bad bet.”

Rathe turned, to see b’Estorr standing in the open door, the same apprentice who had escorted him from the door scowling at the magist.

“Magist b’Estorr,” she said, with icy reproof, and Fanier nodded.

“I can see that, and we still don’t need you. Run along.”

The girl’s scowl deepened, but she closed the door gently enough behind her. b’Estorr wiped one hand over his mouth, and Rathe guessed he was hiding a smile.

“Students finally got to you, then?” Fanier asked. “Only took you, what, three years to cancel a class during ghost‑tide?”

“It wasn’t the students,” b’Estorr answered, and this time the smile was rueful. “It was the other masters. What have you found, Nico?”

“A body in the Tyrseia,” Rathe answered, and was meanly pleased to see the other man’s eyes widen. “Drowned, and no obvious place to do it in, and Fanier says the body’s not been moved. Can you tell if there’s a ghost?”

With a sigh, b’Estorr crossed to the shrouded body, gently lifted the drapery away. He stared at the dead man for a long moment, then lightly placed a hand over the man’s heart. His expression was calm, remote, eyes fixed on something the others couldn’t see, and then Rathe sensed a shift in the vague–presence–that he recognized as b’Estorr’s constant ghosts. Then b’Estorr’s hand closed and lifted, and the magist turned away from the body, one eyebrow rising.

“Oh, yes. There’s a ghost. Thought something of himself, did he?”

There was a strange note in b’Estorr’s voice, the whisper of the upcountry Chadroni vowels that years at the university and the Chadroni court had beaten out of him, and Rathe blinked. “Why do you say that?”

b’Estorr shook himself. “I can’t blame him for not taking kindly to being murdered, but I do dislike that kind of arrogance.” He smiled wryly. “And that’s arrogance of my own, I know. So he drowned, Fanier? Drugged?”

“If your lordship wouldn’t mind waiting,” Fanier said, and b’Estorr’s grin became more genuine.

“Sorry.”

Fanier nodded to the waiting apprentice, who had a tablet ready. “All right. There’s no evidence of gross violence done to the body, either before or after death. That leaves poisons and other subtle violence, which it’s now my duty to examine for.”

The apprentice scribbled rapidly, charcoal moving across the sheet of rough paper, and Fanier glared at the body. “You know how much I hate trying to prove murder during the ghost‑tide,” he said. “And that’s what you’re after, Nico, isn’t it?”

“I’d really rather it wasn’t,” Rathe answered. “But drowning on a bone‑dry stage isn’t likely to be accidental, is it?”

“No, no, I’ll grant you that,” Fanier said. “But it’s going to take time.”

“Fan–” Rathe stopped himself, tried again. “I’ll wait. I want to know for certain before I send to the family.”

b’Estorr’s head lifted. “Do you mean we’re sitting on a body whose family hasn’t been notified yet?”

“Istre,” Rathe began, and b’Estorr lifted both hands.

“I think I’ll wait, too.”

Fanier snorted, reaching beneath the table to clatter his tools together. “I thought you might.”

“Do you know how many ordinances of the university are being broken by your acting without notifying the family?” b’Estorr demanded. Fanier ignored him, evidently taking the question as rhetorical, and the necromancer shook his head. “As a master of the university, it’s my duty to remain and make sure you don’t break any more–than you have to.”

Fanier grinned at that, hands busy with something that was like but not quite an astrologer’s flat orrery, and Rathe sighed. “Thanks,” he said, and b’Estorr waved the word away, his face suddenly sober.

“If you’re right, you’ll have enough to worry about.”

And that was all too true, Rathe thought. He made a face, Watching out of the corner of his eye as Fanier stooped over the body, laying tiny brass figures over heart and lungs and viscera. The polished shapes seemed to catch the available light, concentrating it, and for a second, Rathe thought he saw the wet dark red shape of the man’s liver, floating ghostlike above his unbroken skin. He looked away then, swallowing hard, saw the landseur’s clothing discarded on a side table.

“Think there’ll be a problem if I look through that?” he asked softly, and b’Estorr glanced at him, an expression almost of indulgence hovering on his face.

“It shouldn’t bother them,” he said aloud, and Rathe moved to the table, grateful for the distraction.

There wasn’t much to find, and he hadn’t expected much, but he went methodically through pockets and purse, laid out his meager findings beside the man’s stacked shoes. They were newly soled, Rathe saw, and a part of him winced, thinking of now‑unnecessary expense. But the man could afford it, he told himself, at least by the look of the rest of his goods. There was a posy in a gilt‑filigree holder, a simple spray of tiny bell‑shaped blossoms poised against a single dark green leaf, a lace‑edged handkerchief and a Silklands amber snuffbox, and a pair of bone dice. Rathe’s attention sharpened at that–gamblers created their own personal hazards, more often than not–but a second look made him put that notion aside. The dice were carved with the signs of the solar zodiac, a child’s toy, for idle fortune‑telling, not the tool of a serious gambler. There were no small coins in the flat purse, just a couple of square pillars, and, folded very small, a recent letter of credit for an amount that raised Rathe’s eyebrows. The man had not been kept on a short leash, that much was certain, but there was no way to tell if any or all of the draft had been used. There were no letters, threatening or demanding or even a scrawled invitation card, and the fashionable red‑bound tablets were empty, the wax stiff from disuse. Little enough evidence of a life, he thought, saddened in spite of himself, and turned away again. Nothing to help him, certainly.

It was more than an hour before Fanier straightened at last, motioning for the apprentice to put away his tablets and recover the body, and b’Estorr met him with a faint smile. Fanier scowled.

“All right. What is it?”

b’Estorr looked down at his hands, but the movement didn’t quite hide the smugness of his smile. “I don’t think you’ll find it’s a traditional form of poison.”

“You are not,” Fanier said, “going to tell me it’s some rare Chadroni poison, are you?”

b’Estorr shook his head. “I’m not even going to tell you it’s a rare Silklands poison, which is what I was thinking–since the body does seem to be remarkably untouched.” He paused. “Are you still cataloging Chadroni poisons?”

“Man has to have a hobby.” Fanier pushed his glasses back to the top of his head. “Damn it all, there are changes consistent with poison, and for my best guess a vegetable poison, but I couldn’t tell you which one, or how it was given him–not in food or drink, I suspect, but I can’t swear. But the poison isn’t what killed him, what killed him is the Dis‑damned water in his lungs.”

“So you’ll swear it’s murder, and not accident?” Rathe asked, and reached for his own folded tablets.

“I’m not happy,” Fanier said. “Drowned he is, and probably poisoned, and on a dry stage, Nico.”

“Fanier,” Rathe said, and the alchemist cleared his throat.

“I’ll swear to it. I just wish I had more to swear to.”

Rathe nodded in sympathy, and looked to the clock that stood on the shelf that ran along the far wall. It was a pretty thing, painted with a wreath of flowers that went badly with the brass instruments surrounding it. Almost three o’clock, he saw, and made a note of it with a sigh. “All right, Fan.”

“I have made a preliminary determination that the body brought to me a short time ago died by drowning at the hands of person or persons unknown, with other violence possibly perpetrated before death. This I do swear.” Fanier lifted a hand to his forehead, an ancient gesture, and Rathe shivered again.

“And I state that the body is that of the landseur de Raзan,” he said aloud, “identification being made by the examination of his belongings after the cause of death had been determined. So do I swear.”

“And I bear witness to you both,” b’Estorr said, “in the name of the university.” He paused. “Now what are you going to do, Nico?”

Rathe lifted a shoulder wearily. “Now we send for the priests of the Good Counsellor and let them notify the family–their business, thank all the gods, not mine. And then–” He glanced at the clock again, trying to guess the actors’ schedules. “Then I’m for Point of Dreams, and the Bells, and an evening talking to actors, if I’m lucky.”

b’Estorr grimaced in sympathy, and Fanier said, “I’ll have my report done up formally, Nico, and a copy for you by morning.”

“Thank you,” Rathe said with real gratitude, and let the apprentice lead him back out of the deadhouse.

His nose for weather was still good, he saw: the drizzle was changing to sleet as he made his way back across the river to Point of Dreams. The Bells was well lit, as he’d expected, and there were candy‑sellers and a dozen other hangers‑on clustered at the one unbarred entrance. At least some of the chorus was there, and a few of the actors, the latter gathered around a woman selling warm spiced beer. Happy to take a break from the day’s work, Rathe guessed, but his eyes narrowed as he recognized one of the men on the fringes of the chattering crowd. Lyhin was a known gossipmonger, served at least a dozen printers, and Rathe took himself firmly in hand. There had been no hope of keeping this story out of the broadsheets; all he could do was try to minimize it. Even so, he was aware of the looks that followed him as he showed his truncheon to the doorman, and heard his name repeated behind him, rippling out through the crowd.

It was warmer in the theatre, and someone had spread sawdust to absorb the worst of the mud. It made Rathe think of the Tyrseia, the dry barrels of sand and wood chips, and he shook his head, hoping Sohier had found something more. He paused for a moment at the edge of the stagehouse, looking for Gasquine, and found her finally on the stage itself, talking urgently to a tall, well‑built woman that Rathe recognized as Anjesine bes’Hallen. All the rivalries were suspended for the masque, he knew, but this was surprising: bes’Hallen was Savatier’s leading player, had the right to refuse a play she didn’t care for, so to see her here boded well for the quality of Aconin’s play. The air smelled of sweat and too much perfume, and he glanced into the pit to see what seemed to be half the chorus gathered idle. It didn’t take much imagination to guess what they were talking about, Rathe thought, and suppressed a sigh. One of them must have known de Raзan–no one could have so lackluster a life as the man’s belongings suggested–but for the rest… Well, he was a nine‑days’ wonder, if that, and nothing more. He started toward the stage just as a burst of laughter came from the group sitting closest, center front, and Gasquine rounded on them.

“And if you’ve nothing to do, I suggest you take yourselves to the loft, and let the masters put you through your paces.”

There was an appalled silence–their ladyships weren’t used to being spoken to in that fashion, Rathe thought, amused–but then one of them rose, and the rest followed, sweeping past Rathe up the center aisle. Gasquine remained standing, hands on hips, glowered down at him as he approached.

“And what in the names of all the hells do you want now?”

Rathe took a breath, trying to remember that the woman’s day had probably been as hard as his own. “A quarter hour of your time, for a start.” He held up his hand, forestalling protest. “I’m sorry, Mathiee, but you’d better get it over now.”

Gasquine took a breath in turn, visibly conquering her fury, and nodded abruptly. “At least I won’t be paying a fortune in fees–or not to you.” She pointed to the stairs that led up to the stage. “Come up, come up, and we’ll talk. The rest of you–” She looked over her shoulder, her face grim. “Silla, put them through the scene again. At least they can take the time to learn their lines.”

Rathe followed her into the relative quiet of the wings, was relieved when she waved him to a stool set in a sort of alcove, and seated herself in turn opposite him. “So what’s the word?” she asked, without hope, and Rathe grimaced in sympathy.

“De Raзan was murdered,” he answered. “That’s the alchemist’s and necromancer’s finding, which means it falls to Point of Dreams to find out who killed him. And that, Mathiee, is the official word, so you can take it up with the chamberlains as need be.”

“Tyrseis.” She sighed. “I’ll tell my people, too.”

“And there’s more.” Rathe braced himself, seeing the woman’s painted brows draw down into a deep frown. “I need to talk to your people, the ones who knew him today, the rest as soon as may be. I’ll do my best not to interrupt you, but time is of the essence.”

To his surprise, she nodded. “I understand. And if you take them one by one–well, maybe that won’t be so bad.” She glanced toward the stage. “And you might as well start with me, they’ll do without me for a while.”

“I’d fully intended to,” Rathe answered, and managed a smile to take the sting out of the words. Gasquine smiled back, the expression wry, and Rathe reached for his tablets again. The wax was getting crowded; he planed over a few old notes, and settled himself to begin. “First, who among the chorus or cast knew him well?”

Gasquine paused, blinking. “Ah. A hard question. He was most in company with the vidame DuSorre, but I’m not sure she knew him well.”

“Oh?”

“I saw her haul off and hit him once, hard, right across the face.” Gasquine smiled. “It wasn’t the action of an intimate.”

“When was this?”

“A day or so ago,” Gasquine answered.

“She hit him in public?” Rathe repeated, and Gasquine shrugged.

“Not quite public, Nico, but not in private, either. There must have been a dozen of us who saw. It’s a funny thing, though, it seemed to–even things up between them. She looked pleased, and he looked, I suppose, resigned. I doubt she’d have need to resort to murder.”

“And which one is DuSorre?” Rathe asked.

Gasquine looked around again. “Not here. Not a brayer, like the ones you saw before, a woman who works hard at whatever comes to hand. I was surprised she’d put in for the lottery, she doesn’t seem theatre‑mad like the ones we usually get, but then, it’s nice to have some cooler heads around.” Her eyes widened. “Nico, you can’t think…”

“I’m going to have to talk to her,” Rathe said. “Who else would you say knew the man?”

Gasquine swallowed whatever else she had been going to say. “Ah. That’s harder. I saw him playing at star‑dice with the landseur de Beleme, but I doubt that was more than passing time. And of course…” She hesitated, then shook her head. “But I don’t know anything about that.”

You know everything about everything within these walls, Rathe thought. And that note means it’s someone in the theatre. He frowned then, remembering the master of defense who had found the body, the hesitation in his voice as he named it, and said, “Master Siredy?”

“You know, then,” Gasquine said.

Rathe shook his head. “Not details. But he identified the body, and I thought he knew him.”

Gasquine sighed. “I’m old for tricks like that. Very well, the gossip is, they were intimates, at least for a while. But it was over and done long ago, to my understanding.”

She met his eyes guilelessly, and Rathe frowned. “You’re sure about that?”

“As sure as one can be.”

“No hints, no mentions, no one wanting to start it up again?”

Gasquine hesitated for a fraction of a second, then shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Rathe said, and jotted that name down as well. He wasn’t fully sure he believed her, but there was no reason yet to push her to an outright lie. “Anyone else?”

“I don’t know–he was a quiet one himself, I didn’t have to notice him.”

“Tell me about him,” Rathe said, and she gave him a look of surprise.

“Not much to tell, as I said.”

“Come on, Mathiee, people are your lifework. How would you play him?”

Gasquine grinned at that. “A good question. He was young, but not as young as he liked to think he looked. He was quiet enough, but not shy, and not especially considerate, I would say. A–watching sort of man. I’d say he was enjoying himself, in some way or another, but he’s another one I was surprised put in for the lottery.” Her grin widened, took on a tinge of malice. “If I were to cast him, Nico, I’d probably use Guis Forveijl.”

Rathe made a face–he’d have to meet his former lover sometime, though he was hoping, cowardly, to put it off as long as possible–but the description was enough to give him some idea of the dead man’s personality. Forveijl had had a careful streak in him, a holding‑back, and a habit of storing incautious words for later reproach. Which might be a cause for murder, he thought, but Guis’s death, not de Raзan’s, unless Mathiee’s speaking clearer than she knows. He filed that thought for later, and looked down at his tablets.

“And your quarter hour’s run,” Gasquine said, echoing his own thought, and Rathe sighed.

“Two favors, then, before I let you go?”

Gasquine nodded, already on her feet.

“The use of a runner, I need to send word to Dreams, and then– would you ask the vidame to step down to me?”

Gasquine stared. “You’re not–do you want me to–fetch her– for you?”

“If you would,” Rathe answered, and kept his expression as bland as possible. Gasquine swore under her breath, and turned away.

She was better than her word, sending two runners, a tall skinny boy in a jacket already too short in the sleeves and a plump girl who looked to be close to formal apprenticeship. She had a flower pinned to her bodice–someone’s castoff, Rathe guessed, seeing it wilted, but clearly she couldn’t resist the flourish of style. She had brought paper and charcoal, and he scrawled a note to Trijn, warning her that they would need more people at the Bells tomorrow, to question the rest of the chorus and company. And that’ll make her happy, he thought, dismissing the girl with a smile, looked up to see Gasquine approaching, a tall, well‑dressed woman in tow. Rathe nodded to the boy.

“Take your stool over there, warn off any eavesdroppers.”

The boy nodded, eyes wide, and scurried away. Rathe rose, hoping DuSorre wouldn’t be one of the ones who was appalled at the idea of the queen’s law being administered by commoners, and applied to the better folk like herself. “Vidame.”

“Adjunct Point.” She was Silklands dark, her ochre wool skirt and bodice chosen to set off her coloring, and she’d taken the time to wipe away the sweat and set herself to rights. “Mistress Gasquine said you wanted to speak with me.”

Rathe nodded, hoping her getting his title right was a good sign. “Yes. Thank you.” He gestured to the stool, and she sat gracefully, her skirts pooling around her. The sleeves of her bodice and chemise were pinned back, showing bare skin, and a fine bracelet of filigree beads banded one wrist.

“About de Raзan?”

Rathe nodded again. “You knew him.”

“Yes.” DuSorre’s voice was perfectly calm.

“And he gave you cause to strike him.”

She gave a rueful smile, and her whole face lightened. “Yes to that, too. Bad as any actor, wasn’t I, to do that?”

“Were you?” Rathe matched the smile, and she ducked her head–hiding laughter, he suspected, rather than embarrassment.

“He made a suggestion that annoyed me, and when he wouldn’t stop making it, I decided to give him a taste of what he was letting himself in for if he didn’t stop.” She paused, considering, and this time he was sure he saw amusement in her eyes. “It just occurred to me, I should have waited for a time when we were drilling. Then I could have taught him a lesson he really wouldn’t have forgotten.” She did laugh, then, an easy, unforced music.

“And did you?” Rathe asked quietly, cutting across the laughter, and she stopped, frowning.

“Did I–do what?”

“Teach him a lesson.”

DuSorre blinked. “You’re asking me whether I killed him.”

Rathe braced himself, expecting anger, defiance, accusations of disrespect, but instead, DuSorre slowly shook her head, the laughter dying from her face.

“And he is dead, isn’t he, and I’m behaving very badly. I’m sorry, I just can’t imagine…” She shook her head again. “No, Adjunct Point, I did not kill him. He wasn’t worth it to me, I’m afraid, though obviously he was to somebody. I think we got on rather better once I put him in his place.”

Which was obviously several ranks below DuSorre, Rathe thought, and couldn’t help admiring her candor. And besides, I think she would have done the same thing if she’d been left a motherless child in Point of Knives. “You said you couldn’t imagine–what?”

“Why anyone would bother killing him,” DuSorre said. She spread her hands. “I’m sorry, Adjunct Point, he simply wasn’t–a person of substance.”

It was a bitter epitaph. “And yet you kept company with him,” he said aloud, and she shrugged.

“He had an idle tongue, could be amusing. And our mothers are friends. I don’t know many of the others, you understand. We only come to Astreiant for the winter‑tide.”

All good reasons, all equally unhelpful. He took her through more questions, all with the same answer–de Raзan was a nonentity, of no importance at all to her–and by the end was fairly sure she was telling the truth. There was simply not enough passion in her response to make her seem a likely murderer. He closed his tablets, sighing.

“Did you see The Drowned Island?” he asked, not knowing precisely why, and to his surprise she blushed.

“Yes. Yes, several times, since we took up residence in the city.”

“And you enjoyed it?”

This time, the blush was more pronounced, though she met his gaze squarely. “Foolish, I know, but there was something about it– not just sad, though it was that. Perhaps it was that it believed in itself?” She smiled again. “Setting it next to Master Aconin’s play, it is rather embarrassing to think how many times I went to see it. Why do you ask?”

Rathe smiled, not quite able to articulate it himself. “The landseur’s body was discovered on the Tyrseia stage,” he answered. “Between two of the scenic machines–the waves.”

DuSorre grimaced. “He wasn’t killed by the machinery, surely?”

“No. It doesn’t appear so.” Rathe paused. “He may have been poisoned.”

“Commonly thought to be a woman’s weapon,” DuSorre said, and he wondered from her voice if she’d finally taken offense. “What more do you need from me?”

“Your whereabouts between second sunrise and first dawn,” Rathe answered.

“At home,” DuSorre answered. “And it’s not so big and busy a household that there won’t be people who can vouch that I was there. My mother hosted a reception last night for the other members of the cast–the chorus,” she corrected, and Rathe nodded at the distinction. “It was well past second sunrise when I went to bed. And my maid can swear that I didn’t leave my bed until long past the second sunset.” She smiled then. “The one similarity between us and the real actors, I imagine, is the hours we keep.”

“Thank you,” Rathe said, and had to suppress a yawn of his own at the reminder.

“Is there anything more?”

“No,” Rathe said. “And I appreciate both your candor and your willingness to cooperate.”

DuSorre’s eyes met his. “Not at all. My mother has always told me to embrace new experiences.” She swept him a mocking curtsy, and turned away.

And I could think she was flirting with me, if I didn’t know better. Rathe shook himself, and looked around for a clock. There were none in sight, but from the sounds on the stage, the rehearsal was winding to an untidy end. He made a face, hoping he had time, and beckoned to the waiting runner.

“Fetch Verre Siredy–of the Masters of Defense,” he said.

The boy nodded, as excited as the other runner had been, returned in record time with Siredy trailing behind him, his coat draped over one shoulder.

“Master Siredy, sir,” the runner announced, and retired without being told to his stool.