Point of Dreams

“It’ll play,” he said, and Eslingen wondered if the other master was trying to convince himself.

“What happens once the masque is done? To the play, I mean.”

Siredy reached across to tap one of the carved acorns that decorated the side of the box. “Tyrseis willing, we all take a week’s holiday, and then Mathiee a

Eslingen shook his head. “I don’t.”

“Then where is he?”

Hiding, if he knows what’s good for him. Eslingen said, “I wish I knew. He could answer a few questions, I think, if he were here.”

Siredy gave him another sideways glance. “I hear the points are looking for him.”

I wouldn’t know. Eslingen killed the lie, knowing it wouldn’t be believed, said instead, “Even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you. You know that, Verre.”

Siredy gri

They came back to the stage through the all but empty pit, passing a trio of chamberlains huddled in final conference, and threaded their way through the sudden crowd backstage, found themselves at last beside the left‑hand wave. Duca was there, too, scowling to hide his own nervousness, and he beckoned them close.

“I saw you in the boxes. How’d it look?”

“Good,” Eslingen said, and Siredy nodded in agreement.

“It’ll play, Master Duca.”

“It had better,” Duca answered.

Gasquine had detached herself at last from the chamberlains, and made her way onto the stage, the bookholder calling for attention. The hum of conversation quieted, even the chorus falling silent almost at once, and Gasquine took her place center stage, lifting her hands.

“My ladies, my lords, all my fellows.” She paused, and then smiled suddenly, like the true sun rising. “What is there to say? We’re ready–go home, get a good night’s sleep, and be back here tomorrow at the stroke of nine.”

Eslingen blinked, startled, and Siredy gri

It was tempting, and Eslingen wished that the masque was all he had to worry about. “Sorry,” he said, “I’m promised elsewhere.”

Siredy nodded without offense. “Your pointsman, I’m sure. Another time, then.”

“Another time,” Eslingen echoed, and let himself be drawn into the stream of people leaving the theatre.

To his surprise, the square in front of the Tyrseia was less crowded than usual–or rather, he amended, the crowds were restricted to the far side of the area, by the tavern, and a bonfire burned in the center of the square, the snowflakes hissing as they landed in the flames. There were figures around the fire, familiar shapes, men with pikes and muskets and the queen’s white sash bright in the firelight, and he stopped abruptly, shaking his head. It looked like Coindarel’s badge, his regiment, or what was left of it, but the last he’d heard, they’d been quartered in the Western Reach, near the queen’s palace. What were they doing here, set out as what looked like a perimeter guard around the theatre?

“Philip!”

Eslingen turned at the sound of the familiar voice, his mood lightening in spite of everything, and Rathe hurried to join him, picking his way carefully over the snow‑slicked cobbles. “What’s Coindarel doing here?” he asked, and Rathe took his arm, drawing him deeper into the shadows.

“A favor to Astreiant. Trijn asked if we could have them, if they would guard the theatre.”

“Not a bad idea. Though she might have asked for a magist or three.”

Rathe made a face. “We tried that. We haven’t got one yet.”

“Damn.” The wind was cold, driving the snow under the edges of his cloak, and Eslingen shivered. “So what now?”

“Yeah.” Rathe made a face. He was wrapped in a heavy cloak as well, more, Eslingen suspected, to hide the truncheon than to cut the wind. “Well, now we wait, make sure everyone’s left, and then– then we try spiking Aubine’s guns.” He gri

“Depends on what you have in mind.”

“I’ll tell you inside,” Rathe answered, his eyes shifting, and Eslingen turned to confront a familiar figure.

“Lieutenant Eslingen.”

The words were cool, and Eslingen braced himself for insult or worse: Co

“Pardon me, vaan Esling. I understand your family has claimed you now.”

Eslingen frowned, suspicious, but the tone and the expression on the other man’s face was pleasant enough, and he decided to take them at face value. “I’m dealing with nobles, Captain. Better they think I’m one of them, when I don’t have the regiment to back me.”

Bathias nodded, soberly still, but without hostility, and looked back at Rathe. “The doorkeeper says they’ve all gone, Adjunct Point.”

Rathe nodded. “And the landseur Aubine?”

“Gone with them, I would assume,” Bathias answered, and Eslingen turned, hearing the sound of a carriage pulling away from the theatre.

“There’s his coach.”

“Right.” Rathe took a deep breath. “Let’s go, then.”

The actors’ door was closed, a soldier leaning at his ease against the painted wood. He straightened to something like attention at their approach, and Eslingen’s eyes narrowed. Six months ago, he would have had the right to give the man the lecture he deserved; as it was, he frowned, said nothing, and had the satisfaction of seeing the man pull himself to rights.

“You’re sure everyone’s gone?” Rathe asked, and the soldier nodded.

“The doorkeeper said so, and then the sergeant and I took a quick look around. No one there.”

“Good enough,” Rathe said, and pulled open the door. Eslingen hesitated–the theatre was a warren of passages, had too many odd corners for a “quick look” to be sufficient–then shrugged away his doubts, and followed Rathe into the broad tu

“So what are we going to do?” he asked after a moment, and realized he had spoken in a near‑whisper.

Rathe untangled himself from his cloak, and held out a crumpled linen bag. “I found something in the Alphabet, a panacea–it’s a plant, hedgebroom, I’ve also heard it called–that can neutralize any and all of these arrangements.” He smiled then, wryly. “At least, it’s supposed to. I thought we could begin by slipping a few stalks into each of these big arrangements.”

“Spiking the guns,” Eslingen said with new understanding. “Nico, a spiked gun explodes if you try to use it–”

“Let’s hope the analogy isn’t that accurate, then,” Rathe answered. He looked around, eyes widening as he took in the changed scenery. “Where do we start?”

“I suppose the big ones at the front of the stage,” Eslingen said after a moment. “I’m sure they were the ones that operated against the landames.”

“Right, then,” Rathe said, looking around for the short steps that had stood in the pit, and Eslingen shook his head.

“Not there, not with the performance so close. We’ll have to go through the stagehouse.”

Rathe nodded, and Eslingen led the way through the actors’ door, its carvings so closely matched to the wall around it that it was almost impossible to see. It was dark backstage as well, just the trio of mage‑lights glowing on the stage itself, and Eslingen paused for a moment, letting his eyes adjust.