Point of Dreams

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

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 gri

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 gri

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 ba