Point of Dreams

“Are you?” Rathe answered, and was seized in a tight embrace.

“Stu

Rathe took a deep breath, gently detached himself from the other man’s arms. “So we are. But there’s work still to be done.”

“The Dis‑damned flowers,” Eslingen said, and Rathe nodded.

“And the body. And the rest of the conspirators, and anything else Trijn can think of.”

“Tyrseis,” Eslingen said. “The chamberlains will want to purify the stage, won’t they?”

“Probably.” Rathe fumbled in his pocket, failed to find a handkerchief, and Eslingen held one out, a smile barely touching his dark eyes. Rathe took it, wadded it roughly into a bandage, and pressed it to the cut on his shoulder. It wasn’t much, he could tell that, but enough to be painful. Another laundress’s bill, too, he thought, coat and shirt both, not to mention mending, and he wondered if Point of Dreams would stand the cost. Eslingen rubbed at his neck, scalded red and flecked with black from the too‑close discharge, and Rathe frowned. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Like you, sore. But it’ll heal.” He looked around. “And where the hell are Coindarel’s men? I’d expect them to come ru

“Obeying orders, I hope,” Rathe answered.

Eslingen nodded, and they made their way back out through the actors’ tu

“Done already, Adjunct Point? Or is there more trouble?”

“No and no,” Rathe answered. “Or not exactly.” He held up a hand, forestalling Coindarel’s indignant question. “Prince‑marshal, I need you to send for Trijn–I’ll write what’s needed, you can read it if you’d like. But Aubine is dead, and we need help to make the theatre safe again.”

“Dead?” Aconin said, eyes wide, and Coindarel ignored him.

“Dead how?”

Rathe took a breath, trying not to remember too closely. “He attacked us–he was in the theatre, guarding the plants, I suppose, and when we started to spike the arrangements, he tried to stop us. One of the wave effects fell and crushed him.”

“I dropped it on him,” Eslingen corrected. “In self‑defense.”

Coindarel’s eyes flickered as he took in the marks of the fight, Rathe’s torn coat and bloodied shirt and the burn on Eslingen’s neck and chin, and he smiled faintly. “That explains the faint, strange noises reported to me not a quarter hour past. I very nearly sent a troop in to investigate.”

“Thank you, sir,” Eslingen said.

Rathe said, “He’s dead on the stage, Prince‑marshal, which makes it a matter for the chamberlains, or so I’d think. And we still need to neutralize all the arrangements.”

Coindarel waved vaguely at the traveling desk that stood opposite the firebasket, the gesture far more languid than the look in his eyes. “Write all you will, Adjunct Point, I’ll see the notes delivered.”

“Thanks.” Rathe seated himself at the desk, a wave of dizziness washing over him. Reaction, he knew, and shook it angrily away. There would be time for that later, he told himself, and reached for a sheet of the fine paper stacked in a traveler’s box. It seemed a shame to use all of it for such a short message, and he tore it in half, writing small and neat to get everything in. Just a note to Trijn, he thought; she could see to the rest of it.

“Lieutenant,” Coindarel said. “You’ll find the makings for punch on that table. You always had a talent for it.”

“Yes, sir,” Eslingen said again, and Rathe heard the clank of bottles and glass, but didn’t look up until the note was finished. It was longer than he’d intended, filled most of the half sheet, and he only hoped it would be clear enough for Trijn to understand what was needed.

“I’ll take that,” Coindarel said, and twitched the paper away before Rathe could change his mind. “Sergeant!”

“Drink this,” Eslingen said, and slid a steaming cup under the other man’s nose. Rathe took it gratefully, smelling sweet wine and spices. There was brandy in it, too, and he took a deeper swallow, glad of the i

“I’ll be drunk if I have much more,” he said, and blushed to realize he’d spoken aloud.

“No harm if you are,” Eslingen answered. “Let the rest of Dreams take care of things.”

“We’ll have to show them how to neutralize the arrangements,” Rathe protested, and Eslingen shook his head.

“We can tell them that–I can tell them that, if it comes to it. Drink up. You need it.”

The inward shivers were easing, and Rathe nodded, took another, more careful swallow of the punch, edging his chair closer to Coindarel’s fire. The prince‑marshal was nowhere in sight, he realized, and guessed he was making sure that the theatre was still secure.

Trijn arrived within the half hour, just as the clock struck three, a tousled Sohier at her side. Most of Dreams’s perso

“The prince‑marshal tells me we’ll need the chamberlains,” Trijn said abruptly. “And their magists to cleanse the stage. b’Estorr’s finally coming, too, with phytomancers in tow, I understand.”

Rathe suppressed a shudder, thinking of the more mundane cleaning that would be required first, and nodded, “Yes, Chief.”

“Are you all right?” Trijn shook her head. “Never mind. Tell me what happened.”

Rathe took a careful breath, all too aware of the other points huddling close to hear, and did his best to order his thoughts. “After I found the panacea, Chief, I brought what I had to the theatre, but it–wasn’t enough to neutralize all the arrangements. It was dried, you see, and we needed fresh.”

“We being yourself and Lieutenant vaan Esling?” Trijn asked.

Rathe nodded, suddenly aware that Sohier was scribbling his words into her tablets. “Yeah. I knew Aubine would have the panacea, had to be growing it, with everything he was doing with the plants, so we went to his succession houses.”

“Intending to steal it?” Trijn gave a thinlipped smile.

“Intending to get it however I could,” Rathe answered. He had known there would be an official record, an explanation that could be shown to the regents and anyone else who feared the points’ influence, but he’d hoped it could wait until after the masque. He shook himself, frowning, chose his words with care. “I would have asked the landseur’s permission, but when we reached his house, we found all his household asleep, bespelled with flowers.” He went through the rest of the story in equally careful detail, emphasizing Aconin’s testimony and the list they had found in Aubine’s study, glossing over the details of the fight to keep as much blame as possible from Eslingen. “And the landseur is dead,” he finished at last, “and his arrangements still have to be neutralized before Her Majesty arrives at the theatre.”

“You say that neutralizing them just means adding springs of hedgebroom to each one?” Falasca demanded.

Rathe nodded, too tired to wonder when she’d arrived. “But carefully. You–well, when you get close to one, you’ll feel it. There should be a gap, though, among the flowers, where you can add a stem or two.”

Trijn nodded. “We’ll take care of that,” she said.

“The hedgebroom is in baskets,” Rathe said. “We left them on the stage. There should be enough…”

His voice trailed off, and Trijn nodded again. “We’ll take care of it,” she said, her voice unexpectedly gentle. “Us and b’Estorr’s people, and I’ve sent to the chamberlains, told them we need their magists as well as them. The flowers will be neutralized. And I’ll send to the other stations, make sure they call points on Aubine’s co‑conspirators.”