Point of Dreams

“All right,” he said, sliding his knife back into its sheath. “Let’s do it.”

“Do what, exactly?” Eslingen asked, and followed the other man back to the bench where Aconin lay.

Rathe paused, studying the plants in their containers. The branches were turned so that they faced Aconin, as though that directed their power toward him and him alone. There were gaps in the foliage, too, places where another flower could easily be forced into the water, and he pointed toward the nearest. His fingers tingled as he came within a hand’s breadth of the arrangement, a nasty reminder of the other flowers in Forveijl’s dressing room, and he was careful to move his hand away before he spoke.

“What we need to do is place at least one stem of the hedgebroom into each of these arrangements–there’s a gap there, see it? But we’ll do it at the same time, and with stalks that are as similar as possible.”

Eslingen nodded, and rummaged in the little bundle of greenery, pulling out a stalk tipped with half a dozen flowers. “Will this do?”

Rathe glanced at his own sheaf of plants, found one that matched. “Yeah.” He moved toward the vase at Aconin’s head, and without being told, Eslingen mirrored the movement.

“There?” he asked, pointing to the gap, and Rathe nodded.

“Yeah. On the count of three.” He took a breath. “One. Two. Three.”

Their hands moved together, angling the stems of hedgebroom toward the gap in the arrangement, and Rathe flinched as he felt the arrangement’s power tingling in his fingers. It wasn’t as sharp as it had been in Forveijl’s dressing room, but it was definitely present, an u

“We’ve done it,” Eslingen said, and Rathe leaned back again, reaching for the bundle of hedgebroom.

“If one is enough.”

“It’s enough,” Eslingen said, sounding suddenly assured, and before Rathe could protest, Aconin’s head rolled to one side, eyelids flickering.

“Easy,” Eslingen said, and leaned close over the table. “Easy, Chresta.”

The playwright shifted again, like a man waking from a nightmare, and his eyes fluttered fully open. “I couldn’t possibly write this,” he said, and Eslingen lifted an eyebrow.

“Are you all right?”

Aconin closed his eyes again, hard, as though they pained him, raised hands to massage his temples. “Where in Tyrseis’s name–”

He broke off, visibly recognizing his surroundings, and Eslingen snorted. “He’ll live.”

“You’re in the landseur Aubine’s autumn glasshouse,” Rathe said. “Bespelled by his flowers.”

“Now I know this is real,” Aconin said faintly, and got his elbows under him, pushing himself upright. He moved as though his entire body ached, and Rathe stifled a twinge of sympathy. Eslingen grunted and caught the playwright’s wrist, tugging him into a sitting position. Aconin winced again and turned, letting his legs dangle over the edge of the bench. “You wouldn’t feature in my dreams, Adjunct Point.”

“For which I’m grateful.” Rathe took a breath. “You’ve lied to me enough, Aconin. You can tell me now what Aubine’s pla

“Sweet Tyrseis.” Aconin shook his head, and then looked as though he wished he hadn’t. “Oh, gods, I hurt.”

“Answers,” Rathe said, and somehow Aconin dredged up a shaky laugh.

“Well, you must know some of it, or you wouldn’t be here.”

“We know Aubine is pla

“We know you knew about at least some of it,” Rathe said, and stopped abruptly, remembering something Eslingen had said. “You had a working copy of the Alphabet, you must have, or Guis couldn’t have used it against me. Stolen from Aubine?”

Aconin managed another nod. “He promised it to me–it was for the play, he suggested it to me, when I said I was working on a play about de Galhac. He was right, too, it was brilliant…” His voice trailed off, and Rathe restrained the urge to shake the story out of him. If Aconin had spoken earlier, at least three people might still be alive.

“He promised me the copy,” Aconin said again. “But then when the play was written and accepted, he told me I’d have to wait until the run was over, that he didn’t trust me not to take it to the broadsheets. So I took it.”

“But he still had enough information to make all this,” Eslingen objected, waving his hand toward the arrangements, and Aconin’s eyes fell.

“He had two copies.”

“And he’s had plenty of time to practice,” Rathe said. “So why hasn’t he killed you, Aconin? He’s killed everyone else who got in his way.”

“I think I’m left to take the blame for the last murder,” Aconin said. “Or maybe all of them.” He shook his head. “I crossed him, betrayed him, by his own lights, and he doesn’t take kindly to that.”

“How long have you known about this?” Rathe asked through clenched teeth, and Aconin looked away, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Not long enough to stop it, I swear to you. Not so that you could do anything about it.”

Liar. Rathe said, “I should call a point on you, for abetting these murders.”

Aconin looked up. “And if I had said anything, I’d be dead myself a week since.”

Rathe stared at him for a long moment, mastering his anger with an effort. There was some truth to what the playwright said–but not enough, not when so many people had died. “We’ll leave that for later,” he said at last. “For now–tell me this, and tell me the truth, for once. Does Aubine mean to kill the queen?”

Aconin nodded slowly. “Yes.” As though a dam had broken, the words tumbled out. “It’s the arrangements, of course, you figured that much out, but it’s also the play, little alterations his friends will make in the lines, nothing that wouldn’t pass for a stumble, a simple mistake, but, oh, gods, deadly, deadly in the right stars and with these plants to focus the power. You must believe me, I didn’t know, I had no idea what he would do–”

“His friends?” Rathe interrupted, and Aconin drew a shuddering breath, got himself under control with an effort that wracked his slender frame.

“Yes. It’s not just him, though the arrangements, the idea, it’s all his. He’s found others who’ve lost their loves, maybe not the same way he has, but for the same reasons, the differences of station driving them apart, and he’s promised them their chance at revenge, if only they’ll help him take his. A conspiracy of lovers, all of them hurt, hurt badly–that’s why de Raзan died, you know, for treating Siredy so badly.”

“Siredy’s not part of this, surely,” Eslingen said.

Aconin shook his head. “Call it a–generous impulse.”

“More likely he wanted to be sure the flowers would work,” Rathe said. “Can you name the conspirators, Aconin?”

“Some of them.” Aconin took a breath, and slid off the table, wobbling for a moment before Eslingen caught his arm. “There’s an intendant, Hesloi d’Ibre, I know for sure, her mother made her abandon her son by a common man, so she could have a granddaughter better born, and the Regent Bautry, she loved a woman too far above herself. And Gisle Dilandy, she’s the one who’ll speak the lines.”

Eslingen swore again, but Rathe nodded. He recognized those names, had always thought d’Ibre and Bautry to be honest women, had admired Dilandy’s acting. “Who else?” he demanded, and Aconin shook his head again.

“Those are the only ones I know for sure. But there’s a list, in the house. Aubine made it, made them sign it, to keep them loyal.”