Point of Dreams

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 gri

“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, gri

“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?”

Terse

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 begi

“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.