Point of Dreams

“He’s ready for us,” the soldier said, and Rathe shook his head, refusing to give in to the ridiculous sense of foreboding.

“Or he’s just ready for the play. Come on, it’s going to take us at least an hour to spike all of the vases.”

Eslingen nodded, forcing his voice to keep its normal tone. “Where do we start?”

Rathe looked around. There were too many flowers, he thought, too many little arrangements, as well as the big ones that dominated the forestage; he’d underestimated things, it would take most of the night to be sure they had them all. Maybe he should have waited for the magists after all. “Let’s start with the big ones,” he said, shoving away the thought, and hefted the heavy basket. I just hope there’s enough hedgebroom to go around.

He could feel the power in the arrangement as he came closer, and stopped just out of arm’s reach, skin tingling. It was like Forveijl’s arrangement, like the arrangements that had held Aconin captive, but heavier, stronger, the power leashed in it, heavy as an impending storm. It would take more than one stalk of hedgebroom to neutralize this, he knew instinctively, and bent to open his basket, looking for the largest, best‑grown stalks.

“No!”

Rathe turned, cursing, to see Aubine emerging from between the last two versatiles, a pistol leveled in his hand.

“Step away from it, Adjunct Point,” Aubine said, almost sadly. “I won’t permit any interference now.”

“Or ever,” Rathe answered. He kept himself from looking at the other arrangement, saw Eslingen easing back out of Aubine’s line of sight, to vanish behind the first versatile. “How many men have you killed for this?”

Aubine flinched. “Too many. But I’ve suffered enough, and too long, with no redress. Stand away from the flowers.”

Rathe did as he was told, lifting his hands to show them empty. He thought he saw something move in the shadows between the versatiles, hoped it was Eslingen and not some trick of the mage‑light. “Maseigneur. What good does this do your leman?”

Aubine winced again, but shook his head. “It’s too late to stop this. I’ve gone so far, I ca

“Vengeance isn’t justice,” Rathe protested, and Aubine managed something like a bitter smile.

“Justice was denied me twenty years ago and more. I’ll settle for this.”

“No–”

As Rathe spoke, Eslingen lunged from the wings, reaching for the landseur’s pistol. Aubine staggered sideways, the pistol discharging. Rathe ducked, and Eslingen flung himself forward, falling against Aubine in a clumsy attempt to bring him down. Not shot, Rathe thought, Dis Aidones, not shot, and then he saw Eslingen shake his head hard, black flecks scattering his cheek and the white linen of his stock. The pistol had discharged practically in his ear, Rathe realized, left him half stu

“He’s your leman, isn’t he?” Aubine asked.

Rathe took a careful breath. “That’s not–”

Aubine lifted the knife. “Isn’t he? And it’s very much to the matter, Adjunct Point.”

“You know he is,” Rathe answered, and Aubine’s hand relaxed a fraction.

“You’ve made the same mistake I did,” Aubine said sadly. “A terrible, glorious mistake, and it ca

Rathe blinked. Aubine believed in Lieutenant vaan Esling, believed that he was from an old and noble Leaguer family– oh, Dis, Philip, Duca’s plan’s worked too well this time. “So you’ll kill me first?” he asked.

“Your death is inevitable,” Aubine answered, still with the note of sorrow in his voice. “It was inevitable from the moment you swore lemanry with someone above your station.”

“Maseigneur.” Eslingen’s voice was strained, high and loud like a deaf man’s. “Maseigneur, you’re making a mistake. I’m no noble. I’m a motherless bastard from Esling, Gerrat Duca renamed me for the masque and the benefit of the Masters.”

Aubine shook his head. “Very noble, Lieutenant. I’m afraid I don’t believe you.” Even at a distance, Rathe could see his arm tighten on Eslingen’s throat, saw the ex‑soldier wince, bracing himself against the new strain. “But tell me, Lieutenant–would you die for him? A common pointsman?”

“I’d rather live for him,” Eslingen said.

“I’ll fight you for him,” Rathe said, in the same instant, and Aubine shook his head again.

“No. Come here, Adjunct Point, away from the flowers.”

“No.” Rathe took a quick step sideways, putting himself in front of the arrangement of flowers. “Let him go, Aubine.”

“Come here,” Aubine said, his teeth clenched, “or I will kill him where he stands. And his blood will be on your hands, pointsman.”

“Touch him, and I’ll destroy this arrangement,” Rathe said. “I can have it over, broken, before you can stop me.”

“No!” Aubine’s eyes widened, but he steadied himself instantly. “No, I don’t think so. That would mean your death, pointsman, as well you know. You’ve seen what happens when the plants are disturbed before their time.”

Rathe swallowed. Oh, he knew, all right, could still feel the residual soreness in his ribs and arms–and this arrangement was easily twice as large as the one Forveijl had made. It was easy to believe that Aubine was telling the truth, that this could kill.

“If you kill him,” he said steadily, “I’ll have no reason to live.” He took another step backward, hand outstretched to the plants. He could feel their presence, could almost hear the angry humming, like bees disturbed in their hive. “I will do it if I must, Aubine. Let him go.”

“I will kill him,” Aubine said again, and from somewhere Rathe dredged up a laugh.

“And then we’ll all die.” He reached for the nearest flower, his fingers pierced by a thousand needles, and in the same instant Aubine shoved Eslingen away, drawing his sword. Eslingen stumbled to his knees, still half dazed by the pistol shot, and Rathe reached for his own knife. It was too short, too light; he caught the first blow on the hilt, but Aubine slid away as he tried to come to grips. He couldn’t match the landseur at swordplay–hadn’t the weapon for it, if nothing else, had to bring him to close quarters, where a street fighter’s skill could help him–and he danced away from the landseur’s thrusts, trying to force the man to close. Aubine was good, he realized, very good indeed, was forcing him upstage, away from the flowers. Aubine lunged again, drawing a thread of blood from the peak of his shoulder, and Rathe swore, backpedaling furiously. It wasn’t much of a wound, just a scratch, but it hurt, could slow him down–

“Nico! Back!”

It was Eslingen’s voice, from the wings, high and urgent, and Rathe flung himself backward without thought, almost falling. There was a rush of air, a shadow blurring the air, and then a crash rocked the stage beneath his feet as the wave panel crashed down behind him, crushing Aubine beneath its massive weight. He made no sound–hadn’t even seen it, Rathe guessed, and shuddered violently, seeing the body crushed beneath the carved panel. There was blood already, but not so much of it as one might expect; he stooped, wincing, and saw that Aubine’s chest was caved in, his eyes already glazed in death. Just like the sceneryman, he thought, and wasn’t sure if he would laugh or vomit.

“Nico?” Eslingen came out from between the versatiles, his face very pale. “Dis, Nico, are you–”

“I’m fine.” Rathe swallowed hard, and stepped carefully around the end of the carved wave. “Did you do that?”

Eslingen nodded. “There wasn’t anything else, all the swords are locked up–and they’re bated, anyway. Oh, gods, Nico, are you all right?”