Point of Dreams

“Magistical, not medicinal,” Rathe said.

“Obviously. But I haven’t known any magists to use it, either.”

“Sorry,” Rathe said again, and took a breath. “I’m–we’re not able to do the things we should do, to stop the man, and I’m trying to find other ways.”

“Does this have anything to do with Grener’s death?” Caro asked, and Rathe nodded.

“I think so. Well, I’m certain, but I don’t have the evidence to call a point. Yet.”

“Poor Grener,” Caro said, and rose from her stool, walking along the long beams where the dried plants hung in bundles. “Here’s what I have,” she said at last. “Is it enough?”

The bundle she lifted from the hook looked meager enough, barely a dozen stalks bound with a loop of string. The stems were brittle, their rich green faded almost to the pallor of straw, and only a few of the flowers remained. They, too, had faded, were no longer the startling blue that caught the eye at the end of summer. But at least they are there, Rathe thought. Assuming, that is, that it’s the flowers that are important.

“Which is the active part?” he asked, and Caro smiled, this time with approval.

“It’s all active, actually, at least for what I do. You boil the stems and leaves to make a decoction, or you can use the leaves in a tea. The flowers can go in the tea as well–they have a sharper taste–or you can use them alone. Dame Ramary tops her small‑cakes with them, the savory ones, serves them for her eyes.”

“That’s something,” Rathe said, and hoped the same would hold true for its magistical power. He glanced around, looking for some easy way to carry the bundle, and his mother stepped forward, plucked a single stalk from among the tangle. She tucked it into the front of his coat, a poor man’s posy, and stepped back.

“If it’s good against this murderer’s work, I want you wearing it.”

“Thank you,” Rathe said, knowing the words were inadequate, and Caro looked away, stooped to rummage blindly in the bins below the shelves that held her tools.

“Here,” she said at last, and held out a linen bag. “And be careful.”

Rathe took it, tucking the bundle of plants carefully inside, and slipped the ties over his belt. “I will,” he said, and hoped he could keep the promise.

Eslingen took a careful breath, watching the last of the chorus–his trainees–make their way off the stage. They still weren’t perfect, and he’d be ashamed to lead them in a proper drill, but at least they wouldn’t disgrace themselves on the day. Even as he thought that, one of the landseurs tripped, dropping his half‑pike with a clatter and nearly bringing down the man following him, and Eslingen couldn’t restrain a groan.

“Don’t worry,” Siredy said softly. “It’ll be all right tomorrow.”

Eslingen gave him a glance, and the other man managed a smile.

“Better to get that over with today, right?”

“If you say so.” Eslingen winced as another landseur stumbled over his own toes.

“Trust me,” Siredy said. “Let them get the worst over with now, and they’ll be fine tomorrow.”

“I hope so,” Eslingen answered. That was the last scene for which the masters had responsibility, and he allowed himself a sigh of relief as the actors playing Ramani’s henchmen made their entrance. Just the aftermath of the battle to get through, and the final scene, the restoration of the palatine, and then the massed chorus performing the final valediction. At least he didn’t have anything to do with that, he thought, and looked away as Aubine moved past them, a trug filled with flowers and greenery tucked over his arm. Eslingen had been doing his best to stay away from the landseur, and he was careful not to meet his eye this time, trying not to shiver at the thought of what the flowers in the trug might be capable of doing. So far, everything had been excruciatingly normal, Aubine busy in the corners, adding and subtracting stalks, culling blooms that had passed their prime, and more than once Eslingen had wondered if Rathe had gotten it right after all. Surely no one plotting something this outrageous could be so calm–and yet it was the only answer that fit.

Siredy touched his arm, and he jumped, met Siredy’s amused smile with a grimace.

“Let’s go out front,” the other master said. “You haven’t had a chance to see how it’ll play.”

Eslingen followed the other man back behind the backpiece and out the actors’ entrance into the hall, where the theatre’s doorman sat in solitary silence, a jug of ale at his side. Siredy rolled his eyes at that, and Eslingen nodded, making a face at the sour smell of beer rolling off the man. Drinking off his tips, most likely, he thought, all the bribes he’d earned for carrying messages and gifts–and telling tales to the broadsheets, probably–and he suppressed the unworthy urge to kick over the jug as he passed. Only one more night, anyway, one more night to watch and keep the stagehouse safe, and after that, the man could do as he pleased.

Siredy brought them out not into the pit, but into the two‑seilling seats in the first gallery, not the best seats–those were in the royal box, directly above–but certainly better than anything Eslingen had ever been able to afford. He had not seen the stage fully dressed, and caught his breath at the sight, impressed in spite of himself. To either side, the versatiles displayed the walls of de Galhac’s palace, with the mountains sloping away to a narrow valley in the distance. The actors stood well downstage, clothes gleaming in the light of the practicals, all their attention focused on the two ragged messengers who had brought the news of the palatine’s victory. De Galhac was overthrown, despite her armies and her magic, and the palatine stood in her palace, the rightful monarch restored. Eslingen shook his head in wonder, not really hearing the words–he’d heard them too many times already to be more than vaguely conscious of their rhythms– wondering instead how the play would look without the masque’s trappings overlaid on it. After all, de Galhac might have lost, but she was definitely the center of the play, the best part, or bes’Hallen would never have consented to play it; the second best part was Ramani, and the palatine was a poor third, not a villain, but not nearly as compelling as the other two. But it was the formal shape of the play that mattered, at least for the purposes of the masque: the rightful ruler was restored, and that was enough.

The practicals’ light glittered on the palatine’s crown, and she bent to accept a sheaf of snow‑white flowers from the highest ranking of the chorus. That was another magistical gesture, Eslingen knew, symbolic submission to the royal will and authority, and he leaned forward against the railing as the palatine finished her final speech. The chorus glided onstage behind her, the professional musicians hidden offstage already begi