Point of Dreams

“This way,” he said after a moment, and stepped into the light.

The blow caught him by surprise, a soundless explosion, as though he’d walked headlong into an invisible wall. He swore, startled, and his breath caught in his throat, as though the air itself had gone suddenly thick. Too thick to breathe, he thought, fingers going to his stock, and he stumbled to his knees, fighting for air. He choked, his mouth suddenly full of water, the bitter water of the Sier itself, and he looked up, searching for Rathe, but saw only the carved shape of The Drowned Island’swave, looming overhead. He spat, but his mouth filled again in an instant, sight failing now, as though the water was rising inside his body, an impossible tide covering his eyes. This had to be how de Raзan had died, he realized, realized, too, that there had to be flowers somewhere, and reached for them, willing to chance the lightning if only he could breathe again. His fingers scrabbled across bare boards, found nothing, and he wrenched his stock loose, lungs frozen, aching. If he breathed, he knew they would fill with water, and he would hold his breath as long as he could, fight somehow toward the surface of this impossible river, but he could feel the property ice below the stage, changing its nature and rising to cover him, trapping him in The Drowned Island’sfrozen Sier. In the distance, he could hear Rathe calling his name, but he had no breath to answer, no strength left for anything at all.

And then, miraculously, the pressure eased, and he spat out the last mouthful of river water, drew a whooping breath, coughed, and breathed again, his head hanging between his shoulders.

“Gods, Philip.” Rathe was beside him, kneeling on the bare, dry stage, and as Eslingen moved, Rathe wrapped an arm around his shoulders, one hand tightening on his arm. “Are you all right? Can you breathe?”

“Yes.” Eslingen coughed again, the taste of the Sier still filling his mouth, and Rathe thumped him on the back. “Seidos’s Horse. Was it–?”

He broke off, not quite knowing what his question was– was it the Alphabet, was it your plant that stopped it–and Rathe nodded. He was very pale, Eslingen saw, and he shifted to grip the other man’s hand.

“I’m all right,” he said, and Rathe nodded again.

“I think we know how de Raзan died,” he said, and his voice was less steady than his words.

Eslingen shivered, the memory too raw, and in spite of himself looked up again at the looming wave. “I saw that,” he said, “but I was–drowning–first. The wave just made it easier to believe. Like the ice.”

“Ice?” Rathe asked, and Eslingen nodded to the boards that covered the wave troughs.

“Under the stage. For the final scene. I was trying–to swim to the surface, I suppose, but the ice came over me, and held me down.”

“Sofia,” Rathe breathed, the word a prayer.

“But it didn’t touch you?” Eslingen pushed himself up, sat back on his heels, working his shoulders. His ribs would be sore in the morning, he thought, inconsequentially, but it was better than the alternative.

“No.” Rathe released his hands, visibly shook himself back to business. “I’m not completely sure why–I could feel it, like a current, like the river, but it wasn’t dragging me under. Maybe it was this.” He touched the breast of his coat, where a single ragged flower hung limply from a buttonhole.

“The panacea,” Eslingen said, and Rathe nodded.

“Plus you were first onto the stage. You crossed between the arrangements, they may have been meant to catch the first one through.”

Eslingen looked where the other man was pointing, saw two small vases tucked at the bases of the nearest versatiles. They were almost pretty, pink cormflowers and pale yellow sweethearts wound about with a strand of the heavy vine that grew wild along the riverbank, and he shook his head, unable to believe that such a small thing could have nearly drowned him. But they had, he knew, seeing the stalks of hedgebroom tucked haphazardly among the flowers. Only the panacea had stopped them.

“I’ve been told more than once my stars are bad for water,” he said thoughtfully.

“And I grew up swimming in the Sier,” Rathe said. “If my stars would drown me, I’d’ve been dead long ago. It could make a difference.”

Eslingen nodded. “Those weren’t here when I left,” he said.

“I don’t doubt it,” Rathe answered, and pushed himself to his feet, a haunted look on his face. He held out his hand, and Eslingen let himself be drawn upright, wincing again at the ache in his ribs. He felt bloated, as though he’d swallowed gallons of river water, hoped the feeling would pass soon.

“Philip, we have a problem.” Rathe held up the linen bag, turned it upside down so that a few strands of fiber fell to the stage floor, a leaf and part of a stem and a few petals from a flower. Automatically, Eslingen stooped to collect them, tucked them into his pocket. “It took everything I had, everything my mother had saved, just to stop this one trap. I don’t have anything left to spike the other arrangements.”

Eslingen blinked, trying to focus. “What if we take these two apart, now that they’re neutralized, save the panacea and use it in the big arrangements?”

Rathe shook his head. “There’s not enough. I don’t know if it’s because it’s dried, not fresh like the flowers, but it took half a dozen stalks in each arrangement to make it safe. It’ll take more to neutralize those big arrangements, and Dis only knows what else he’ll have waiting for us.”

Eslingen looked down at the twin vases, the pale delicate flowers wound with vines and spiked with the furry stems of the panacea. “So what do we do?” he asked, and Rathe met his eyes squarely.

“Hedgebroom’s long past, it dies over the winter, and we won’t find any in the ditches, or anywhere else, for that matter. But Aubine will have it. If he’s playing with these powers, he will grow it, and in quantity.”

“You can’t think he’ll just give it to you,” Eslingen said, appalled.

“Not likely.” Rathe managed a faint, unhappy grin. “But he’s got four succession houses. He can’t be in all of them at once.”

Eslingen blinked again, wondering if the near drowning had affected his hearing. Surely Rathe couldn’t be suggesting that they rob the landseur’s house–succession houses, he corrected himself. Not with Aubine presumably at home, along with all his household… “It’s not going to work,” he said, and Rathe scowled.

“I’m open to better ideas, believe me.”

“I wish I had one.” Eslingen looked down at the flowers again, and shivered as though the icy waters had soaked him to the skin. In a way they had, he thought; he could still feel their touch beneath his skin, in his lungs and guts, and he shuddered again, thinking of de Raзan. “Poor bastard. A nasty way to die.”

“Are you with me?” Rathe demanded, and Eslingen nodded.

“Oh, yes, I’m with you. But let’s see if we can’t find a more practical way to steal a landseur’s plants.”

“Maybe if one of us provides a diversion,” Rathe said without much hope.

Eslingen shrugged. “We’ll see when we get there.”

12

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aubine’s house stood still and silent, only a few servants’ lights showing between the shutters, and Rathe drew a careful breath, hoping that was a good sign. Most of the other houses on the avenue were shuttered as well, against the snow and against the long night. The winter‑sun had not yet risen, and the street was very dark, just a few lamps burning at doorkeepers’ boxes, casting more shadows than light. He touched Eslingen’s shoulder, drawing him farther into the shadow of the house opposite, out of sight of the nearest box. With any luck, he thought, the watchman would be tucked up in the warmest corner, his feet firmly planted on his box of coals. Midwinter Eve was no time for thievery, bad luck in the professionals’ eyes, and even Astreiant’s most desperate poor could find shelter at the temples and hospitals. As they passed close to a shuttered window, feet slurring in the snow that was begi