Point of Dreams

“Sir, there’s no copy of the Alphabet here.”

“No.” Rathe sighed, his eyes straying back to the dead man. “He didn’t deserve this,” he said softly, then shook himself. “Sohier, I want Aconin, as soon as possible.”

“Aconin?” Sohier frowned. “Why him? I mean, this is hardly a lovers’ quarrel–”

Rathe was shaking his head, and she broke off instantly. “Sweet Sofia, I haven’t had a chance to report it, but the landseur Aubine told me this morning that someone had taken a shot at his coach as he left for the theatre.”

“At Aubine?” Eslingen felt himself flush, realizing he’d spoken aloud, and Rathe looked at him.

“Broke a window on his carriage, and threatened to freeze all the plants he was carrying. Aubine was riding on the box, mind you, or it might have been him. Why do you sound surprised?”

Eslingen spread his hands, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut. “I don’t know–I suppose I was wondering why anyone would want to kill him?”

“And he thinks Aconin did it?” Sohier asked.

Rathe shrugged. “He says that the man who did it was built like Aconin. But Aconin’s not at the theatre, when he’s been at every rehearsal since the begi

“You can’t think he did this,” Eslingen said, and was mildly surprised by his own vehemence. “It’s not like him–and besides, he’s been attacked twice himself.”

“Could you have done him more of an injury that evening, if you’d been the man with the pistol?” Rathe demanded.

Eslingen hesitated. “Probably–but I don’t know where the man was standing, or what his line of sight was like. The light was against him, that’s for certain.”

“And the second time he wasn’t attacked,” Rathe went on. “His rooms were destroyed. You said it yourself, that’s a warning, ‘no quarter. ’ It could be he’s fighting back.”

“I just don’t think it’s like him,” Eslingen said again. “Not Chresta. Oh, he’ll maim you with words, all six days of the week, but use a knife… It’s not his way.”

Rathe stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “How long has it been since you’ve known him?” he said at last, and Eslingen swore under his breath.

“Long enough.”

“People change,” Rathe said, almost gently. “Besides, if you’re right, he’s in worse danger than poor Guis ever was.”

That was true enough to close Eslingen’s mouth over any accusation he might have made. Whatever else it was, this wasn’t Rathe striking out blindly at the man who had stolen his former lover; that wasn’t Rathe’s style, any more than it was Aconin’s to lash out with a knife instead of a deadly pen. And that meant he was right: for whatever reason, Aconin had to be found.

10

« ^ »

the lights were different today, the common lanterns doused, the mage‑lights changed, set now into the elaborate practical housings, whose lenses and colored glass doors could turn their light to any time of day or night, and any weather. Even as Eslingen watched, a sceneryman made her final adjustment to one of the smaller globes, setting the last piece of ambered glass into its collar, and then placed a mage‑fire lamp carefully in the center of the iron sphere. Instantly, she was bathed in strong sunlight, sunset light, and she stepped back, motioning to another sceneryman. He hauled on one of the ropes ru

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Siredy said cheerfully. “At least this is a simple setting. Now, when I was in Aufilia’s Revenge, we had two night scenes, and a thunderstorm. I felt as though I was spending all my time making sure I was out of range of the thunderflashes.”

“You were in that?” That was Jhirassi, coming up beside them, his hair scraped back to go under a new wig. He wasn’t yet in full costume, just the underpieces, breeches and stiff vest, and his eyes were made enormous with makeup.

Siredy gave him an appreciative glance, and Eslingen bit back a smile. “I was the villain’s henchman–the one who never gets a line except, yes, mistress.”

“But the fights were marvelous,” Jhirassi said. “And I enjoyed the play.”

“So did I,” Siredy answered.

“Thunderflashes and all?” Eslingen asked, and both men looked at him as though they’d forgotten his presence. He smiled at them, and to his amusement, Siredy blushed.

“They made things interesting. Technically, it was a complicated piece.”

“And a great deal of fun,” Jhirassi added. “I’m sorry you didn’t see it, Philip.”

“So am I,” Eslingen said. He looked at Siredy. “Thunderflashes?”

“They’re sort of like the practicals,” the other master answered. “Except larger, and with a mirrored back that reflects the light.”

“The climactic duel takes place at the height of a raging storm,” Jhirassi added. “Lit by lightning at carefully pla

“Most impressive,” Eslingen said.

Siredy made a face. “When the timing is right, yes. Anyway, there’s a small flash charge in each pot–something chemical, I think, it stank to the central heavens–and a piece of slowmatch to set it off. Once those are lit and set, there’s nothing you can do to stop them, so half the time, Bernarin and I were trying to time the fight to the flashes, instead of the other way round.”

Jhirassi looked even more impressed, and Eslingen had to swallow a laugh. But still, it was impressive–he’d dealt with slowmatch before, in the field, and knew how hard it was to gauge how long it would take a length to burn. “You needed a sapper,” he said aloud, and Siredy nodded.

“This was at the old Merveille,” Jhirassi said. “Now the Bells. It just hasn’t been the same since Madame Ombreda

“For which some of us are grateful,” Siredy said. “And yes, Gavi, it was impressive, but you have to admit, most of the shows were just new ways to show off her toys.”

“Oh, I know,” Jhirassi answered. “But they were such good toys.”

Siredy lifted an eyebrow at that, but before he could say anything, the bookholder called Jhirassi’s name. The actor lifted a hand in instant obedience, and took his place in the forming scene. It was the last council meeting, leading up to the climactic duel, and Siredy looked over his shoulder, automatically counting heads, before he turned back to Eslingen.

“All there,” he said. “Gavi’s right, it was exciting to watch. But I doubt he was ever onstage with any of the devices.”

“Worse than The Drowned Island?” Eslingen asked idly, letting his eyes slide past the other. Yes, the duelists were all in readiness, and even in their proper costumes, antique longcoats crusted with cheap cut‑glass stones and broad sashes with huge rosettes. De Besselin looked almost as pale as his shirt, and Eslingen hoped the boy could remember his lines this time.

“Much worse,” Siredy said. “Madame Ombreda

Eslingen choked back a snort, remembering the lecture he’d gotten about fire backstage, and Siredy nodded.

“Exactly so. There were two small fires at the Merveille just in the year I played there. Madame used to hire half a dozen rivermen just to stand by with buckets. I’m surprised any of us lived to tell the tale.”