Point of Dreams

“A test?” Eslingen suggested, leaning back to see the other man’s face. “To make sure–something else–is going to work?”

“Oh, that’s an ugly thought,” Rathe said. “But it makes sense.” He shook his head. “I said if I knew how, this time, I’d know who. And if it’s the flowers, it has to be Aubine. He knows more about them than anyone. And nobody else has a co

“Is he co

“In that, he’s as i

“Because he can?”

Rathe looked down at him, frowning. “Sorry?”

Eslingen made a face. “It was something he said once. True enough, in the original context–he was talking about providing flowers for the masque, and for all the rehearsals, too, all because he could–but it struck me odd then.”

“If that’s the case,” Rathe said, “then he’s well and truly mad. And mad he may well be, but it didn’t strike me as that kind of lunacy.”

“I agree,” Eslingen said, and Rathe reached for the Alphabet again, his scowl deepening as he nipped through the pages. “What is it?”

“Maybe I’m the madman. I’ve gone through all the flowers I know I’ve seen at the theatre, and while a few of them are in here, they’re not–not in the right combinations, or the right seasons, or anything, to give me any idea what he might be pla

Eslingen shook his head, slowly. “They’re not the flowers that will be there for the masque. He’s changed them almost every day– brought in all new ones today.”

His voice trailed off as he realized what he’d said, and Rathe swore under his breath. “Were they different?”

“Some were,” Eslingen answered. “Maybe most were. The arrangements were certainly different.”

“Of course they would be,” Rathe said. “Damn the man.” He shook his head. “And if it’s Aubine, then he’s killed everyone who’s gotten in his way. Starting with Leussi.”

“Leussi?” Eslingen frowned. “I know that was murder, but how does it fit in to the theatre deaths?”

“Leussi was a chamberlain,” Rathe said. “He would have ruled on the masque. He had a copy of the Alphabet–an old copy, a practical copy, maybe even the same edition Aubine has. He of all people would have seen just how dangerous this might be, he was testing it out before he died. And his ghost was bound because even if he couldn’t name his murderer, he might have been able to warn his fellows, or at least Holles, against the play. As it is, Aubine was careful enough–Holles has no idea where the plant came from, he hardly noticed it, couldn’t even say when it arrived.”

“But why?” Eslingen asked. He took the book gently from Rathe’s hands, flipped back‑to the arrangements he’d seen earlier that day. Yes, that was them, no mistaking it, and he shook his head in confusion. “What’s he going to do with this play that’s so important that he’ll kill to preserve it? If it has nothing to do with the succession… ”

Rathe ignored him, his eyes fixed on something invisible, beyond the shadows. “De Raзan… I don’t know, I’ve never been able to fit him in, but there’s something so–well pla

“Aconin wrote the play,” Eslingen said. “So he had to have something to go on. And he’s been one of Aubine’s intimates. Plus, of course, he and Guis were still close. You might have thought to look to Aconin as soon as Guis was killed.” He paused, remembering. “And, Nico, I never thought anything of it, but at least twice when I thought Aconin wanted to talk to me, it was Aubine who interrupted us. I just thought Chresta didn’t want to be overheard.”

“Sofia,” Rathe breathed. “It fits, Philip, it fits all too neatly.”

Eslingen nodded. “But why?” He glanced down at the book again, his eyes straying from the list of plants and their properties to the stories that accompanied them. Both Confusion and Anger were accompanied by stories about love–love denied, love scorned–and he flipped through a few more pages, looking for the most harmful arrangements, the ones designed to kill and maim. All were matched with stories of love, lost love, love rejected and turned to hate, and he looked back up at Rathe, eyes going wide. “Look at the stories. They’re all about revenge–the stories aren’t, actually, but that’s the suggestion. The arrangements are revenge for love gone wrong.”

“Revenge for his leman,” Rathe said.

Eslingen closed his eyes, wishing he could reject his own idea. “His common‑born leman,” he corrected. “Murdered by his grandmother. And, Seidos, that could explain de Raзan, couldn’t it? Everybody knew about him and Siredy, how de Raзan wanted him back just for the convenience–do you think that’s why Aubine killed him, that it hit too close to home?”

Rathe hesitated, then nodded slowly. “It could be. And it might have been a nice chance to test out a new arrangement.”

Eslingen shivered at the thought. “But you said the grandmother’s been dead for what, seven years?”

“At least that.” Rathe frowned down at the book. “Sweet Sofia, we don’t have nearly enough to call a point–we’ve only just got enough to start asking questions–and the masque plays the day after tomorrow.” He shook his head. “There isn’t enough time. Not to prove this–any of this.”

“Can it be postponed?” Eslingen asked, and Rathe shook his head.

“I don’t know. It’s never happened, not in my lifetime–but then, there’s never been cause before.” Rathe pushed himself upright, frowning at the vegetables still soaking in the basin, and pulled them out one by one to lay them gently on a folded cloth. “We’ll have to go to Trijn.”

“Do you want me to go with you?” Eslingen asked, and Rathe smiled.

“I think you’d better.”

Trijn lived in Point of Dreams, but in the narrow band of guildmistresses’ houses, well away from the theatres. Expensive houses, Rathe thought automatically, and found himself checking the garden walls for loose bricks. He had begun his career as a pointsman in just such a neighborhood, had learned all the ways a clever thief could slip into an unwary household, make off with food, linens, spare clothes, even the family silver. The householders here seemed to know the same techniques, left nothing to chance, no loose bricks for a foothold, no, windows unshuttered, lamps lit and personal watchmen drowsing in corner boxes, ready to raise the alarm. A few of them lifted their heads, watching two strangers pass along their street, and one even lifted his lantern in question and warning before he saw the truncheon at Rathe’s belt.

“A nice neighborhood your chief point lives in,” Eslingen whispered. “She does well in fees?”

“She comes from good family,” Rathe answered, his own voice low. He didn’t know much about Trijn’s attitude toward fees, now that he thought of it–he hadn’t been at Dreams long enough for it to become an issue–but he doubted she needed them, not if her sister was the grande bourgeoise.

“She must,” Eslingen said, looking at the houses, and Rathe paused to study the carving over the nearest door. Trijn lived in the house of the two hares, according to the directions he had memorized right after coming to Point of Dreams; this house was decorated with a cheerful frieze of rats feasting on a sea of overflowing grain bags, and he moved on, shaking his head slightly. The original owner must have been born in the Rat Moon, or have Tyrseis strong in her natal horoscope, to have chosen that design.