Point of Dreams

The day dragged to an end at last, and Eslingen was quick to leave the theatre, stretching his legs to get through the narrow streets. To his relief, Rathe was home before him, lamps and stove lit and welcoming. To his dismay, he wasn’t alone. b’Estorr was there, sitting at the small table, looking as disheveled as Eslingen had ever seen him, his long hands systematically destroying a small, common flower. Eslingen smoothed away an involuntary frown as Rathe looked round at him, a harried look on his own face easing when he saw Eslingen. Eslingen managed a smile he knew was strained. He needed to talk to Rathe now, needed to show him the flowers and hear what the pointsman had to say about these–quite fantastic–events. And that was hardly something he could do in front of b’Estorr: it was one thing to risk making a fool of himself in private, but he refused to have the magist for an audience.

b’Estorr hardly seemed aware of his presence, though, not pausing in the flow of talk. “–and I’ve spoken to the phytomancers, all of them, including one I didn’t think was a fool, but she says only that there is no such thing as a verifiable copy, a working copy, of the Alphabet, that the Alphabet is pure folly, and that we should put this aside and look for more reasonable explanations.” He broke off then, looking, for the first time in Eslingen’s acquaintance, chagrined. “Oh. Hello, Philip.”

Eslingen nodded, knowing he looked stiff. “Istre. Haven’t seen you in a while. How’re things at the university?”

b’Estorr took a breath and gave a short, bitter laugh. “You can’t imagine. The College of Phytomancy has ruled their business is the properties of individual plants, not plants gathered into bunches, so the Alphabet is not their province even if it did work. Ybares–the one I didn’t think was a fool–says that even if it were their business, the Alphabet can’t work, so she doesn’t want to hear about it.”

“It demonstrably does work,” Eslingen said. “After what happened to Nico–”

“Oh, that didn’t happen,” b’Estorr said savagely. “Or if it happened, it didn’t happen the way we think. Or if it happened the way we think, it wasn’t the plants, and therefore it wasn’t the Alphabet.” He finished shredding the flower and flung the petals onto the table.

“Welcome home, Philip,” Rathe said, and b’Estorr blushed, the color staining his fair skin.

“I’m sorry, Philip, I’m ranting. But it’s driving me mad.”

“I can see that,” Eslingen said, and Rathe frowned.

“So if it’s none of those things, Istre, do they say what it might have been?”

b’Estorr shook his head. “It’s not their province,” he repeated, unhappily brushing the mangled bloom into his hand.

“They can’t mean it,” Eslingen said, and b’Estorr smiled without humor.

“Of course they can. The politics of the university are easily as bad as the politics of Chadron.”

“So what do we do about it?” Rathe asked.

b’Estorr sighed, visibly taking himself in hand. “I honestly don’t know, Nico. I’d have thought this was enough proof for any of them, but if it isn’t…” He took a breath. “I’ll keep talking, see if I can’t– persuade–at least one of them to reconsider.”

“The stars don’t seem to favor that,” Eslingen said, in spite of himself, and b’Estorr shook his head.

“No more do they.” He reached for his cloak, hanging by the door, and Rathe spoke quickly.

“No need to go–”

“I’m having di

“Good luck, then,” Rathe said, and shook his head as the door closed behind the necromancer. “I think you’re right, Philip, the folly stars have reached the university.” Without waiting for an answer, he crouched in front of the stove, began digging through the low flat box that stood beside it.

Eslingen blinked. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to find some vegetables for di

“At this time of year?”

“They keep,” Rathe said mildly. “You can help, or you can comment.”

“I’ll comment,” Eslingen said, and unwrapped himself from his cloak. He’d given up on fashion over a week ago, and tonight he’d been particularly glad of the extra layers.

“You would,” Rathe answered. “So, did anything happen at the theatre today that I should know about?” He found a final long finger of parsnip, and held it up triumphantly before dropping it into a basin of water to wash away the last of the clinging sand.

“Yes,” Eslingen answered, and the other man straightened, di

“Tell me.”

“The landames, the ones whose families are at feud?”

Rathe nodded. “The ones who’ve been–”

“Just so.” Eslingen took a breath, let himself drop into a chair close to the stove. “Today, at rehearsal, with a chamberlain watching, no less, all of a sudden the feud is alive again. They insult each other, and Txi finally snaps the bate of her weapon and they go at it in earnest.”

“Not dead–hurt?” Rathe asked, his hands very still.

Eslingen shook his head. “Not even much hurt, just a bad scratch. And they were friends again, left together to go home and consult a physician.”

“So what caused it?” Rathe came to his feet, settled automatically into the chair opposite.

“Siredy says it’s nerves, stage fright making tempers short,” Eslingen answered.

“I’ve never heard of actors doing anything like that,” Rathe said.

“Ah, but they aren’t actors,” Eslingen answered. “At least that’s the explanation that’s being accepted–I think mostly because no one wants to let anything else go wrong. But–” He leaned back in his chair, fumbling with his coat, and finally produced the pair of flowers. “But afterward, I found these backstage. They were just lying there, on the floor, a yard or so, maybe, from the nearest arrangement. Each one with its–neck, I don’t know–broken.”

Rathe took them, frowning, turning them over in his fingers. “They weren’t there before?”

Eslingen shook his head. “Too dangerous, with all the dancing and the fights. The scenerymen keep the floor clear and dry, spotless. No, these weren’t there before the fight, and they were afterward.”

“You think there was a posy, something from the Alphabet.”

“There’s more,” Eslingen said, and heard Rathe sigh.

“There always is.”

“When the duel scene started, I saw Aubine working with the flowers, the big bunches right downstage. And I am certain he dropped this one–I saw him with it in his hand, I’m all but certain of it, right before he offered the landames the use of his carriage to take them home.”

Rathe was very still. “Getting them away before they could think how odd it was, do you suppose?”

“It’s possible.” Eslingen took a breath. “Nico, if it’s Aubine–”

“First things first,” Rathe said, and pushed himself away from the table. “I brought this home, wanted to study it, see if there was anything special about it–and it hasn’t been reprinted, by the way, not this edition.” He came back with the red‑bound copy of the Alphabet that he had received from Holles, slid it across the table. Eslingen caught it with a groan, knowing what came next, and Rathe nodded. “I want you to see if you recognize any of the arrangements.”

“I’m not a gardener,” Eslingen said.

“You can read,” Rathe answered. “And you have eyes–I know you’re observant. Just see if you can recognize them.”

Eslingen bowed his head obediently, turning the soft pages. It was very like all the other editions of the Alphabet he’d looked at in Rathe’s workroom, woodcuts on one page, text on the page opposite, and he skimmed through them quickly, trying to remember the pattern he had seen. “This one,” he said at last, pointing to an arrangement labeled “Confusion.”

“And Anger.”

Rathe nodded, leaning over his shoulder now to study the pictures. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? Confusion to blur the new friendship–and all of you, your thoughts, to make it seem reasonable that landames should behave like this–and Anger to trigger the feud again. But why now?”