Point of Dreams

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 ru

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 a

“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 ru

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 u

“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.