Point of Dreams

Rathe sighed, grateful for the small favor. “Right, then,” he said. “First we cut as much hedgebroom as the three of us can carry– yes, you, too, Aconin, you’re coming with us–and then we find that list.”

“And then?” Eslingen asked.

Rathe took a breath. “And then we go back to the theatre. Thank Astree and the metropolitan that Coindarel is guarding the Tyrseia tonight.”

It took them the better part of three hours to harvest the hedgebroom and to fashion small protective posies for each of them, Rathe listening with growing impatience to the distant chime of the clock. They found covered baskets to carry their harvest, and then Rathe turned his attention to the door leading into the house.

“I’m worried about Aubine,” he said, reaching for his picks again. “Where the hell is he, anyway?”

“Probably with the others,” Aconin said, and Rathe straightened, glaring.

“What haven’t you told us?”

Aconin passed his free hand over his eyes. “I’m sorry, Rathe, I– keep forgetting what I’ve said. I think, I’m almost certain, the conspirators were dining together tonight. To be sure no one betrays the others at the last moment.”

Eslingen laughed softly. “Then they’d better spend the night together.”

“I have no idea,” Aconin answered. He was pale even in the light from the winter‑sun, rising now above the roofs of the houses beyond the wall, and Rathe sighed.

“Let’s hope he’s right,” he said, and applied himself to the lock.

It didn’t take long to find the list. The house was dark and silent, the air thick with the smell of the flowers and the power they harnessed, and they moved through it as though through an invisible fog. It felt a bit like the ghost‑tide, Rathe thought as they moved past another sleeping footman, except reversed, as though they were the ghosts moving secretly through the world of the living. Aubine’s study was impressively tidy, and the lockbox stood on a side cabinet, its presence and function equally blatant. It took Rathe two tries to work the lock, but at last it gave way, and he rifled quickly through the papers. As Aconin had said, the bond was there, a pledge signed by half a dozen women and men to support Aubine in his plan, and Rathe folded it carefully, tucking it into his pocket. Aubine had been wise enough not to specify just what the plan was, but coupled with everything else, and with Aconin’s evidence, it should be–barely– enough to call a point. Or at least I hope it is, he thought, and shepherded the others out of the house, locking the doors again behind them. It might not do much good, particularly if Aubine decided to check either his succession houses or the papers, but it might delay him for a few hours more.

There were no low‑flyers to be found, of course, and it took another hour to walk from the Western Reach to the Tyrseia, shoes squeaking in the snow. It was almost over the tops of their shoes already, and Rathe knew the street sweepers would be cursing in their beds, thinking of the work ahead of them the next morning. Coindarel’s encampment, however, looked almost indecently comfortable. The bonfire still blazed in the center of the square, soldiers off watch huddling around it, hands wrapped around tankards that had probably come from the tavern opposite. Or maybe not, Rathe amended, seeing the sergeants on watch for stragglers. Coindarel seemed to be taking this seriously after all.

They were challenged as soon as they entered the square, but a quick word from Eslingen squelched the soldier’s automatic refusal, and they were brought at once to the tent Coindarel had had set up for his own headquarters. It was warm and lamplit, the snow no more than a memory, and Rathe set his basket down gratefully.

Coindarel himself was seated at a folding table beside the firebasket, and waved them closer to the glowing embers. “So, Adjunct Point. And Lieutenant vaan Esling, of course. Have you had success tonight? Your chief sent word, your magists are delayed.”

“Wonderful,” Eslingen said, not quite under his breath.

“Success of a sort,” Rathe answered. He would have preferred a magist’s help, but there was no time to wait for them. “First, this is Chresta Aconin–”

“The broadsheet writer,” Coindarel said, his eyebrows rising. “And this year’s playwright.”

Rathe nodded. “And a person we’ve been looking for these last four days. I would take it very kindly indeed, Prince‑marshal, if you’d keep him in custody–for his own safety,” he added quickly, seeing Aconin ready to protest, “and as a witness.”

“You don’t have a choice, Chresta,” Eslingen said, and the playwright subsided, shaking his head.

“I can keep him safe,” Coindarel answered, and smiled thinly. “He’ll lodge with me tonight, will that satisfy you?”

“Thank you, Prince‑marshal.” Rathe took a deep breath. This was the hard part, the biggest risk he’d ever taken to his career–but there was no other choice, he told himself firmly. They couldn’t take the chance that Aubine or one of his people might take mundane means to finish their revenge. “And there’s another thing I need from you.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the list. Coindarel took it from him, smoothing it out onto the tabletop, his frown deepening as he read.

“These are the people who have conspired with the landseur Aubine to kill Her Majesty,” Rathe said. “They must be kept from entering the theatre tomorrow morning, stopped and held for the points.”

“Do you really think you can call a point on one of the regents?” Coindarel asked, his voice almost amused. “Or on Aubine, for that matter?”

“The proof is there,” Rathe answered, with more confidence than he entirely felt. “And the queen’s life is at stake.”

“Treason is not a matter for the points,” Coindarel said, sounding shocked.

“Then whose is it?” Rathe demanded. “Prince‑marshal, I am serious about this. Someone has to act. These people have to be stopped.”

The prince‑marshal hesitated, the light from the firebasket reflecting up on his thin, hard‑boned face. “And I can hardly see you sending a horde of pointsmen to do it.”

“Don’t I wish I could,” Rathe said fervently, and Coindarel’s grim face relaxed into a smile.

“Leveller to the core.” He looked down at the list. “Very well. No one on this list will enter the theatre, tomorrow or tonight. And I’ll keep your stray playwright safe as well–I’m sure he can answer any questions that might arise. Will that suffice, Adjunct Point?”

Rathe nodded. “And if you could order your men to stay out of the theatre, for their own sake–”

“I wouldn’t order them in there on a bet,” Coindarel answered. “You can have it all to yourself.”

“Thank you,” Rathe said with real gratitude. That left only the arrangements, and he looked at Eslingen. “Shall we?”

In the shifting light, it was hard to tell, but he thought Eslingen swallowed hard. “Let’s get on with it.”

If anything, it was even quieter in the theatre the second time they entered, and colder, the wind finding its way through the tiniest gaps in the canvas roof. There were tiny drifts of snow on the edge of the gallery, where a window fit imperfectly, and Eslingen paused, sca

“You don’t suppose it’s too cold for the plants,” he said, and Rathe shook his head.

“I wish it were. But Aubine will have taken precautions.”

“Damn the man,” Eslingen said, and hefted the baskets. “I liked him, Nico.”

“So did I,” Rathe said. “It–happens, Philip.”

“The man had cause.”

“But not for murder,” Rathe answered. “Not for all these murders.”

Eslingen nodded slowly. “No, I know, you’re right.” He touched the flowers at his buttonhole. “Let’s hope these work as well here as they did at the house.”

They made their way back onto the stage, past the arrangements still studded with the dried stalks of hedgebroom. At least the fresh plant seemed to be more potent, Rathe thought, and knew he should be grateful for that small favor. The air on the stage itself was heavy, more like midsummer than midwinter–and warmer, too, he realized, and guessed Aubine was making sure that his flowers would survive the night. But it was more than mere warmth, too; there was a sense of expectation, the heaviness of a summer storm, the lightning dormant in the thickening clouds. He shook the image away, impatient, but saw the same wariness in Eslingen’s eyes.