Point of Dreams

The house of the two hares lay two doors down, a comfortable, prosperous house perhaps a little smaller than its neighbors. The twin hares lay face‑to‑face in the niche above the doorway, the light of the rising winter‑sun adding texture to the carved fur, and when Rathe stepped forward to knock at the main door, the heavy iron striker was forged in a variation of the pattern, one hare sitting, the other standing beside it. The door opened quickly at his knock, a footman out of livery frowning at him for a moment until he saw the truncheon at Rathe’s waist.

“Pointsman–?” he began, and Rathe took a quick step forward.

“Adjunct Point Rathe. I need to see the chief, urgently.”

“Of course.” The footman didn’t blink, but threw the door open, beckoning them into the chill hall. He didn’t leave them there, either, but brought them into a receiving room, where a fire burned low in a painted fireplace, bowed again, and disappeared. Rathe moved automatically toward its warmth, Eslingen at his shoulder, stood holding his hands out to the radiating embers.

“Most impressive,” Eslingen said under his breath, and Rathe let himself glance around the room. It was small, but nicely kept, expensively furnished, and he wasn’t surprised to see a double corm the size of a man’s fist waiting in a jar by the window. He didn’t recognize the species, but the care with which it was placed, set in the center of a delicate inlaid table, made him think it had to be one of the expensive ones.

“Rathe. What is it?”

He turned to see Trijn in the doorway, a lamp in one hand, her unbelted house gown half open, showing the rich wool of her heavy skirt. If he’d seen her like this, Rathe thought, instead of in the practical common wear she chose for the station, he would have known at once that she came of better than average family. One did not usually find daughters of the merchants resident entering points’ service.

“I think I know who’s behind the theatre murders,” he said, and Trijn nodded as though she were not surprised, came into the room, setting the lamp on the mantel.

“Stir up the fire, then, and sit down. And tell me about it.”

Rathe did as he was told, finding the logs ready to hand, and seated himself opposite the chief point. Eslingen came to stand at his shoulder, watchful and silent, and Trijn smothered a laugh.

“Sorry. I’d never understood the black dog comments before.”

Rathe kept his face expressionless, knowing that Eslingen’s eyebrows would be up, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It’s Aubine, Chief,” he said, and Trijn sobered instantly. “It has to be.”

Quickly, he outlined what Eslingen had seen, and Aubine’s co

“It’s thin. Rathe. Very thin. Aubine sponsored the masque, for Sofia’s sake.”

“To use it,” Rathe answered. “To get revenge for the leman his grandmother had murdered.”

In this house, he didn’t like to say common, but Trijn nodded slowly. “I remember the matter,” she said. “It was never referred to the points, but there were always rumors, whispers that it was more than they claimed. But the soueraine took the boy away with her, and there was nothing we could do.” She shook her head, shaking memory away. “All right, assuming you’re right–and I think I believe you, Rathe–what’s the point of it all? What are these–arrangements–supposed to do?”

“I don’t know,” Rathe answered. “The grandmother’s dead, long dead, and if he was blaming the sister, surely there were easier ways to attack her. Ones that required less elaborate pla

“They’re on good terms.” Trijn shook her head. “Or so it’s seemed, anyway.”

“The only thing I can think of–” Rathe stopped abruptly, not wanting to voice his sudden fear, as though saying it would somehow make it more likely to be true. “The only thing I can think of is revenge on the law, the law that let his leman die and offered no justice. The law in the person of the queen.”

“Sofia’s tits,” Trijn said. She drew a shaken breath. “I hope you’re wrong, Rathe.”

“Can you take the chance he’s not?” Eslingen asked, and the points looked at him as though they’d forgotten he was there.

Trijn scowled. “No. But what in hell’s name do you expect me to do about it? I’ll say it again, there’s not nearly enough to call a point on the man, not for a single one of these deaths, and we’d be laughed out of court if we tried.”

“Postpone the masque,” Rathe said.

Trijn laughed aloud, an angry, frustrated sound. “And how likely do you think that is? If I can’t call a point, what chance do I have of persuading the necessary authorities–and that’s the regents and the chamberlains, Rathe, who aren’t particularly fond of you–that this is necessary?” She shook her head. “The masque has to be done in conjunction with the solstice, for the queen’s health and the health of the realm. The stars have to be right for the magistry to work.”

“And if Aubine wants to kill the queen,” Rathe said, “what better occasion than the one time and place he knows she must be? There must be precedent. It must be possible.”

“But not without cause,” Trijn said again. “To postpone–to change anything about the masque–we’d need the approval of the regents, and the chamberlains, to see if it can be done without destroying it. And I ca

She was right, that was the problem, and Rathe shook his head. “Is there anyone else who has authority?”

“The queen herself, of course,” Trijn said, “but that doesn’t get us anywhere. Astreiant–” She stopped, anger turning to something more speculative, and Rathe leaned forward again.

“Would she listen?”

Trijn nodded, slowly. “She might. It’s worth a try, at any rate.”

“Will she listen to you?” Eslingen asked, and Trijn gave him a glittering smile.

“I–the metropolitan knows me. She’ll give me an audience, she owes me that much.”

And I don’t think I want to know why, Rathe thought. He said, “And if she doesn’t agree–or if she can’t?”

Trijn took a breath. “I was hoping you’d have some suggestions, Rathe.”

“Bar Aubine from the Tyrseia,” Rathe said. “Remove all the flowers–”

“If you can move them without triggering their effects,” Eslingen said. “Remember the last time you tried that.”

Rathe winced at the memory, but nodded in agreement. “All right, maybe moving the flowers wouldn’t be a good idea. But we can make sure he doesn’t–for example–offer Her Majesty any posies as a token of his esteem.”

“I think I can persuade Astreiant of that much, at least,” Trijn agreed. “But keeping Aubine away from his own play–Sofia, if you’re wrong, Rathe, or even if you’re right and we can’t prove it, we’ll lose everything. I’ll lose my station, and you, Rathe, will never call another point. Is it worth that much to you?”

Rathe paused. Trijn was right again, if he couldn’t prove his case, provide at least as much evidence as he would need to call a point and to win a conviction in the courts, Aubine would see him banished from the one profession he had ever wanted to follow. And suppose I’m wrong? Suppose I’ve misjudged everything, cast my figure and come up with a reading as false as a broadsheet astrologer’s? But there had been four deaths already, five if Leussi’s was indeed part of the sequence, five deaths unresolved, justice ignored, and a sixth– or possibly more–in the offing. More important even than the already dead was the chance to prevent another murder, and that was worth even this risk. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I’ll take the chance.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eslingen nod, silent support, and Trijn took a deep breath. “Then I’m with you, Rathe.” She rose to her feet, the heavy silk of her robe falling into place with a soft slur of sound. “Wear your good coat, if you have one. We’ll attend the metropolitan tomorrow morning.”