Point of Dreams

They skirted the last box successfully, and drew together in the shadow of the stable wall to study their approach. Their breath left clouds in the cold air, and Eslingen rubbed his gloved hands together, hunching his shoulders under his cloak. Still chilled from the drowning spell, Rathe thought, and hoped the effect would pass off soon.

“Over the wall, do you think?” Eslingen asked softly, his voice muffled further by the thin snowfall, and Rathe tipped his head back to study the structure. Ordinarily, it wouldn’t be impossible to climb; the stones had been well fitted, but there were cracks and projections that would take feet and hands, and the spikes at the top would merely require extra care. Tonight, however, with the snow, it would be much more difficult, take more time and risk discovery, and he shook his head slowly.

“I don’t know that we can. Tell me, how would you storm the place?”

“With a company at my back, for one thing,” Eslingen answered, and Rathe saw his teeth gleam as he smiled. “Seidos, I’m not sure. Distract the guard, for one thing, and get you over the wall to open the gate.”

Rathe glanced back at the wall. If he didn’t have to worry about the watchman, he could probably do it, and he nodded. “All right. What did you have in mind for a distraction?”

“What about a drunken noble who can’t find his way to his lodging?” Eslingen answered. “I’ll let him set me on the right road, and then slip back and join you.”

“Thin,” Rathe said, and realized he was quoting Astreiant. He made a face, looking again at the relative positions of the gate and the watchman’s box. It might be possible–just possible–for Eslingen to pass along the wall itself without attracting attention, and if he had the door open by then… “But I guess it’ll have to do,” he said aloud, and Eslingen nodded, stooping to collect a handful of snow.

“No time like the present,” he said, and flung the snowball at the box. It hit with a soft thump, not enough to wake the neighbors, but certainly enough to jar the doorkeeper, and Eslingen stepped out into the middle of the street. There was no response from the box, and Rathe frowned. Sleeping off too much drink? That was more likely tomorrow night, when the household presents were traditionally given. He saw Eslingen bend again, brushing snow aside to come up with a pebble. The soldier shied it accurately at the box, and it hit with a clatter that made Rathe look reflexively over his shoulder at the nearest house, but still nothing moved in the box.

Eslingen looked back at him, gave an exaggerated shrug, and stepped up to the doorway, leaning inside for a moment before he backed away.

“Nico!”

Eslingen’s voice was low, wouldn’t carry more than a yard beyond where Rathe stood, but the pointsman winced anyway. Eslingen beckoned urgently, and Rathe moved to join him, scowling.

“What–?”

“Look.” Eslingen took a step backward, and Rathe peered through the open doorway. The watchman was curled into the warmest corner, all right, wrapped in a heavy blanket that smelled faintly and pleasantly of horses, his feet propped up on the warming box that was making its presence felt in the confined space, but he was sound asleep, head down on his chest. Eslingen tapped sharply on the door frame, enough to wake the soundest sleeper, and Rathe ducked back out of sight, cursing under his breath. The watchman didn’t move.

“So what’s wrong with him?” Eslingen asked.

Rathe shook his head. Sleep like this wasn’t natural, not in a watchman, chosen as they were for nocturnal stars to be the sort of folk who lay wakeful all night, and he stepped into the box before he could change his mind, letting his coat fall back so that his truncheon showed at his belt.

“Here, now,” he said, and grabbed the watchman’s shoulder, shaking him lightly. The watchman’s head rolled back, releasing a sort of snore, but his eyes stayed firmly shut. The blanket slipped down from his shoulder, and Rathe caught his breath, seeing the posy pi

The light dimmed as Eslingen leaned closer, and he heard the other man whisper a curse. “Aubine’s work.”

Rathe nodded, and eased the watchman back into his corner, careful to draw the blanket up around him again. The hot coals and the man’s own body heat would keep the box warm enough that he shouldn’t freeze, sheltered as he was from the wind and the snow.

“I suppose he wanted to be free to work, without the danger of witnesses,” he said aloud, and turned to go. Eslingen stepped out of his way, fell in at his shoulder as Rathe turned to the main gate.

“You’re not just going to pick the lock, right here on the open street.”

“Why not?” Rathe managed a grin, reaching into his purse for the set of picks he carried with him. “Look, if anyone’s watching, which I doubt, they saw us go to the box, speak to the doorkeeper, and come out with the key.” He slipped the first pick into the ancient lock, nodded with satisfaction as the wards slid home under his probing. “And here we are.”

Eslingen shook his head, gri

Rathe returned the smile briefly, closing the gate again behind them. When he had been to the succession houses before, he had been taken through the main house–not really a practical option just now, he thought, but the glasshouses stood separate from the main building, in a courtyard of their own. With any luck, the alley between the stables and the house would lead there, but that road passed one of the few lit and unshuttered windows. No hope for it, he thought, and pointed to the passage.

“This way.”

He saw Eslingen’s eyebrows rise, but the other man followed him obediently enough, scuffing his feet to blur their tracks. The snow of the courtyard looked almost untouched, Rathe saw, and wondered what the household was doing. As they came closer to the window, Eslingen caught his shoulder, pulling him back until he could whisper in Rathe’s ear.

“Duck down low, and hope for the best?”

Rathe shook his head, frowning. There was no sound from the stable, none of the usual murmur of voices that went with the flickering lamplight, click of dice or the slap of cards–not even the stamp and shifting of the horses, he realized, and took a quick step forward, peering in the window. The glass was bubbled, and the stove’s warmth had fogged the pane, but he wiped a corner clear, ignoring Eslingen’s hiss of protest.

It was the tackroom, he realized at once, the walls festooned with harness and brasses, all in various stages of repair. Four grooms sat slumped around the rough‑hewn table, lamp burning brightly in its center, cards and a handful of demmings scattered around it. A fifth groom was frankly asleep in the far corner, rolled into a horse’s traveling rug, and Rathe straightened, clearing a wider patch of glass. A small vase of flowers, pink bells and sallewort, stood on a shelf between the cans of oil and harness grease.

“They’re all asleep, too,” he murmured, and Eslingen leaned over his shoulder, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Why? What’s the point?”

“So no one can bear witness, I suppose,” Rathe said grimly.

“Or so they can’t be blamed,” Eslingen said, and Rathe looked at him.

“You think well of him.”

It wasn’t a question, and Eslingen made an embarrassed face. “I don’t condone the murders, believe me. But–yes, I liked him, Nico. And he’s always been good to his people.” He paused, seemed to read Rathe’s next question in his face. “And it won’t stop me from helping you call the point on him, don’t worry about that.”

“I wasn’t,” Rathe answered, but he was relieved all the same. He turned, glancing at the higher, unshuttered windows of the main house. “I suppose he’s done the same to the rest of the household.”

“I’d bet on it,” Eslingen answered, and reached up to chin himself on the windowsill, scattering snow in fluffy clumps. He shook his head as he landed. “I couldn’t quite see.”