Point of Dreams

11

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trijn was as good as her word, arriving at Point of Dreams with a low‑flyer in hand. Rathe followed her across the station’s courtyard, newly aware that his best coat was several degrees below what anyone else would consider suitable for visiting the Metropolitan of Astreiant. Trijn looked as fine as ever, a dark, hooded cloak drawn close over a bottle‑green suit, her hair tucked under a stylish cap that still managed to cover her ears, and he wondered if perhaps he should have borrowed something from Eslingen. Not that it would have been that much of an improvement, he thought, settling himself on the cushions opposite the chief point. Eslingen was a good two inches taller, and thicker in the chest; his coats would hang on Rathe like an empty sack. But at least it would have been obvious that he’d made the effort.

“Don’t worry,” Trijn said, as if she’d read the thought, and lowered the window just long enough to signal the driver. “Astreiant knows you don’t take fees. It wouldn’t do for you to look too presentable.”

Rathe managed a smile and leaned back against the cushion as the low‑flyer jolted out of the station yard. In the cold light of morning, his conclusions seemed even less likely than before, and he wondered if he was making the worst mistake of his life. But nothing else explained all the deaths, he thought. Aubine’s presence, Aubine’s involvement in the dead men’s lives, was the single common thread– that and the Alphabet, he amended silently. Everywhere he looked, the Alphabet of Desire seemed to lurk, the lavish illustrations hiding deadly possibilities.

“How much do you think Aconin knows about this?” Trijn demanded suddenly, and Rathe blinked.

“I don’t know.”

“Enough to run away, in any event,” Trijn said. “Assuming he isn’t dead, too.”

“There’s a happy thought.” Rathe rubbed his chin, glad he’d taken the time to be shaved this morning. He had done the barber a favor two summers past, in the matter of a stolen clock that had ended up in Point of Hopes; the man had been glad to open early for him, and had given him breakfast as well. “Philip said he was afraid of something–of Aubine, I’d guess–so I’m hoping he’s just gone to ground. If we could find him, Chief, he might be able to confirm what’s happening.”

“If he was likely to do that,” Trijn said, “he’d’ve come to us with his problems.”

“Not Aconin,” Rathe said. “But if he thinks the point will be called on him, he’ll talk quickly enough.”

Trijn lifted an eyebrow at that, but Rathe looked mulishly away. It wouldn’t be that simple, of course, it never was, but once Aconin was found, he was confident a bargain could be made. If Aconin was still alive. He shoved that thought away, too–so far, Aubine hadn’t troubled to hide his bodies–and glanced out the low‑flyer’s narrow window. To his surprise, they were already in City Point–Trijn always seemed to find the drivers with Seidos strong in their stars– but they turned past the metropolitan’s official residence and turned onto the broad road that led into the Western Reach. So the metropolitan had agreed to see them at her town house, he thought, and felt his own eyebrows rise. Trijn was indeed well co

The metropolitan’s residence was a large and pleasant house, flanked by lower outbuildings and enclosed by a stone wall with a wrought‑iron gate. As the low‑flyer drew up to the narrow gatehouse, Trijn leaned forward, lowering the window again, and the first flakes of the winter’s snow swirled in on the cold air. They were expected, however, and the liveried gatekeeper bowed, waving them through as her assistants hauled back the heavy gate. Another woman in livery, red coat bound with ochre piping, a silver badge showing Astree and her scales on a scarlet ribbon at her neck, was waiting for them at the main door, and showed them into a long, narrow library, its shutters barely cracked even in the pale winter light. Astreiant herself was waiting there, but as they entered, she rose from behind her worktable, blowing out her lamp, and gestured for their escort to throw open two sets of shutters. The cool light streamed in–snow‑light, Rathe thought, watching the flakes scattering down out of the milky sky, the first threads of it blowing like dust across the narrow paved terrace that lay outside the windows–and he was grateful for the fires that blazed in the twin stoves.

“Chief Point,” Astreiant said, and waved dismissal to the servant. “And Adjunct Point Rathe. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Is it my imagination, Rathe thought, or did she lay the faintest of stresses on the word “you”? He managed a wary bow, and Astreiant gestured toward a pair of stools drawn close to the nearer stove.

“Please, sit down, and let’s talk.” She seated herself in a tall chair as she spoke, stretching her feet toward the stove in unconscious habit. She was a tall woman, well built, with grey‑blue eyes that slanted down ever so slightly at the outer corners. There were lines on her face as well, and Rathe guessed she and he were probably much of an age, but the lines were good lines, echoing a ready smile.

“You read my report, then,” Trijn said.

Astreiant inclined her head, copper curls dancing. Her hair was almost red, Rathe realized with some amusement, but no one would dare tell the metropolitan she was out of fashion. “To be sure,” she said. “And tell me, Dema, what you expect me to do about it?”

“Postpone the masque,” Trijn said promptly.

“It can’t be done.” Astreiant lifted a hand to forestall any further protest. “I mean that literally. It ca

“Even though it’s proved detrimental to the health of at least four other people?” Trijn asked, and Astreiant frowned.

“You haven’t proved that yet.”

“The deaths are real enough,” Rathe said, in spite of himself.

Astreiant ducked her head in apology. “I misspoke. The deaths are real, and I do not discount them, Adjunct Point, I promise you that. But I don’t see the co

“De Raзan and the theatre’s watchman died in the theatre,” Rathe said. “Guis Forveijl was actually in the masque–one of the actors, your grace. Leussi was a chamberlain who would have ruled on the masque, had he lived. And Grener Ogier worked for the man who is providing the flowers for the masque, knew what was being grown, and what it might be used for.”

“That’s five,” Astreiant said.

“I’m less certain about Leussi,” Trijn said. “But growing more so all the time.”

Astreiant shook her head. “Heira forgive me, I took comfort in the watchman’s death. I thought sure that meant this couldn’t have anything to do with the succession.” She took a breath. “Take me through this again, Adjunct Point, in your own words. Why are you so sure this is all a co

Rathe took a breath in turn, trying to order his thoughts. “The first death was the intendant’s, Leussi’s. I am all but sure he was killed by a plant grown specially for the purpose, and listed in the Alphabet of Desire. I believe he was killed because he also owned a copy of this edition of the Alphabet, the working Alphabet, and could have seen what Aubine’s play could do. The second death was the landseur de Raзan.” He hesitated, knowing this was the weakest link in his chain, but made himself go on. “I believe the reason for his death is less important than the ma