Point of Dreams

“Any chance of him prodding them a bit? Or finding someone else who can help? A magist’s eye couldn’t hurt.”

“I’ll send to him,” Rathe said. “It can’t hurt to ask.” He shook himself. “If you’ll excuse me, Chief, there’s some work I need to do.”

Trijn lifted an eyebrow. “There’s something we can do?”

“I thought I’d look through my copy of the Alphabet, see if I can identify any of the arrangements at the theatre,” Rathe answered.

“Not until they’ve left for the day,” Trijn said sharply. “We don’t want him to know he’s suspect–that’s about the only advantage we do have.”

Rathe nodded, and turned into his workroom. The stove had gone out, this time, and he shouted for a ru

There had to be a way to undo the arrangements, some way safely to neutralize their power, even without knowing the key flower. The Alphabet, of course, didn’t indicate which one that might be in any arrangement, and simply disrupting an arrangement was far too dangerous, as he had learned to his pain. No one would create this dangerous magistry without providing a better safeguard, at least for herself–proving once again, Rathe thought grimly, that Aconin had to know more than he had been telling. Surely someone at the university would know, he thought, and hoped b’Estorr would hurry with his answer. But that was going to take time, time to find the scholar, time to explain what was needed, time to find a phytomancer willing to analyze the Alphabet, time even to return to Point of Dreams… There was a knock at the door, and he looked up sharply.

“Come in.”

“Pardon, Adjunct Point.” It was one of the younger ru

Rathe took the folded paper, its edges a little damp from the snow, frowning as he recognized b’Estorr’s elegant hand. It was only a few lines, and he swore under his breath as he took in the sense of them. b’Estorr was still searching for a phytomancer who was willing to take the Alphabet seriously enough to help them; if I haven’t found one by second sunrise, he finished, I’ll come myself and do what little I can.

Rathe took a deep breath and forced calm as the ru

“Chief!”

Trijn looked up from her own work, wariness and hope warring in her expression. “Well? Has b’Estorr come?”

“No, not yet, he’s still trying to find someone who’s willing to help. He’ll be here at second sunrise, if he doesn’t find one. In any case, I may have an answer,” Rathe said. “But I have to find it, have to pick up something–there’s a plant, Chief, you may know it, hedgebroom–”

Trijn nodded, but he rushed on anyway, turning the book to show the illustration, wanting to be sure.

“Tall, rangy, pale blue autumn‑blooming flowers.”

“I know it,” Trijn said. “Go on.”

“The Alphabet calls it the Panacea, it should neutralize any magistical arrangement–”

“But who in Metenere’s name saves hedgebroom?” Trijn demanded. “It’s a weed. Gods, Rathe, the last of it bloomed two months ago.”

“Aubine will have it,” Rathe said with sudden certainty. “Anyone who knows the Alphabet this intimately will grow it, just in case of accident.”

“That hardly helps us,” Trijn said.

Rathe nodded. “I wasn’t proposing to ask him for it–or the university, either, I doubt they’d grow it. I know someone else who may have it.”

Trijn paused, staring, then nodded. “Go. I’ll deal with b’Estorr, if–when he comes.”

It wasn’t a long walk to the Corants Basin, but the snow was in his face the whole way, a fine, stinging mist that caught in his hair and scarf in spite of the cap pulled low on his ears. The top of the Chain Tower was dark against the snowy sky, the ba

“I need to see Caro Rathe,” he said, and the girl’s eyes widened with recognition.

“You must be her son. Come in.”

“Thank you.” Rathe followed her down the long hall toward the stillroom that stood opposite the kitchen, surprised as always that his mother’s friends saw any resemblance between them. It wasn’t physical, couldn’t be–they were very different, bar a few tricks of voice and gesture–but somehow his mother’s friends seemed to know he was her child.

The stillroom was warm, a hearty fire roaring in the stove, and the scent of lavender warred with the homelier smells of a slow‑cooking di

“What is it, Nico?”

Rathe shook his head. “Nothing amiss, or at least not with us, anyone we know. But I need your help.”

Caro nodded, wiping her hands on her apron, and set aside the heavy brass mortar. “Name it.”

“Did you dry and keep hedgebroom this year?” Rathe held his breath for the answer;. saw Caro blink in surprise, and relaxed only when she nodded.

“Some, yes. Why?”

“May I take it?” Rathe was sca

“Yes, I suppose–but why? I keep it for Dame Ramary, you know.”

“Sorry.” Rathe shook his head, getting his own impatience under control with an effort. “It’s the theatre murders, I think I know who’s doing it, and why.” He reached into his pocket, brought out the red‑bound Alphabet, and opened it to the right page. “I am right, this is hedgebroom, isn’t it?”

Caro accepted the book, nodding slowly as she read through the text. “Yes, that’s hedgebroom, all right, salvarie they call it out west and by the coast. I’ve never heard of it as a panacea, though.”