Point of Dreams

“Thank you.” Rathe shook himself. “The flowers, I can show you how–”

“No,” Trijn said. “Rathe–I’m sorry, Nico, but I’m calling the point on you, for Aubine’s death.”

“You can’t do that,” Eslingen protested. “Seidos’s Horse, if he hadn’t stopped him, I hate to think what would have happened tomorrow.”

“A man lies dead, and by his own admission, through Rathe’s actions,” Trijn said. “I have to call the point.”

“I killed him,” Eslingen said. “I was the one who worked the lever–I dropped the damned wave on him. If you call a point on him, you have to call one on me.”

“Rathe’s actions were the first cause of the landseur’s death,” Trijn said. “You acted on his orders and to defend him.”

“He was defending himself,” Eslingen said, and Rathe touched his arm.

“It’s all right, Philip. This–” His mouth twisted into a wry smile. “This is necessary, right, Chief? To keep the regents off your back.”

Trijn had the grace to blush, but she met his gaze squarely. “That’s right, Rathe. And I’d rather keep my place and have a chance to protect heroes like you than lose it when it might be prevented.”

“But–” Eslingen began, shaking his head, and Rathe’s grip tightened.

“Philip. It won’t mean anything. The law is clear. This is just a formality.”

“A formality that keeps her in office,” Eslingen said, “and puts you in a cell.”

“Let it go,” Rathe said. “Please.”

Eslingen drew a ragged breath. “All right. But, Chief Point, if you’re going to call the point on him, you should take me in, too. It was my hand that struck him down.”

“If you insist, I will,” Trijn answered. “But if you’re free, you can see that he gets all the amenities while he’s in the cells–good meals, wine, clean clothes.”

“Don’t you feed your prisoners, Chief Point?” Eslingen asked.

“Not as well as you’d like,” Trijn answered, and Eslingen sighed, defeated, glanced sideways at Rathe.

“Are you sure about this, Nico?”

There was a lot that could go wrong, Rathe thought, remembering other cases that had seemed equally clear until a clever advocat had her say, but he made himself nod. Trijn would see him right, he trusted her that far, and her influence seemed to be considerable. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

“Will you permit that?” Eslingen demanded, and Trijn gave him an ironic glance.

“I’ll even let you escort him, Lieutenant. You see how I trust you.”

Eslingen swept an equally ironic bow, and turned away. Rathe hesitated.

“You’re sure you can handle the flowers, Chief?”

“There are magists on the way if we can’t,” Trijn answered. “And the sooner you’re gone, the sooner we can begin.”

Rathe nodded, defeated, let Eslingen turn him away. Beyond the theatre, the streets were dark and empty, the snow not yet trampled and rutted by the day’s traffic. It was very quiet, the usual sounds deadened by the snow, and Eslingen shook his head, rubbing at his ear again.

“If she trusts you so much, couldn’t we spend the night in our own bed, turn you in in the morning?”

Rathe hesitated, sorely tempted–the cells at Dreams were penitential–but shook his head. “No, I promised.”

Eslingen nodded, looking suddenly exhausted, and Rathe touched his shoulder in sympathy. They were almost at the station now, turned the corner to see the station’s lights blazing in the unshuttered windows. Trijn hadn’t left many people on duty, Rathe knew, and he pitied the day watch, called to early duty. Then a thought struck him, and in spite of everything he smiled.

“What?” Eslingen asked, and held the gate for them both.

Rathe shook his head, unable to lose the smile. “I just realized, this will be the first midwinter in–oh, it must be fifteen years or more that I’m not working.”

Eslingen’s eyebrows rose. “Don’t make a habit of it,” he said, and they stepped together into the station’s welcome warmth.

13

Epilogue

The day of the masque passed, and the routine of Dreams station returned to normal, except for the fact that its senior adjunct was kicking his heels in the station’s best cell, and the best was still, as Rathe had described it, penitential. But it was clean, the small stove kept it warm enough, and Eslingen had left the evening before only to fetch di

He set aside the broadsheet he had been reading–Eslingen had brought him a sheaf of them along with breakfast that morning, all extolling Astreiant, now officially named the queen’s successor–and looked at his report on the events, ready to hand it over when it was required, and when he was reinstated. There was nothing more to add, and he pushed it aside as well, got restlessly to his feet. He could move about the station itself, under escort, but he was reluctant to pull anyone from their actual duties and besides, he found it galling that he should need to. He prowled the length of the chamber. He couldn’t expect Eslingen back again until evening, and b’Estorr was stuck at the university, reading the riot act to the phytomancers who had viewed the Alphabet as, in b’Estorr’s own words, so many market games.

So he was surprised at the rap on the door, and to see Sohier stick her head in. “Sorry to bother you, Nico, but–it’s the advocat Holles to see you.”

Rathe hid a grin–she was acting as though he were in his usual workroom, blithely disregarding anything so inconsequential as a point for murder–and then she had stepped aside for the advocat.

Holles waited till the door was closed behind him before he said quietly, “I feel terrible about this, Rathe.”

Rathe looked at him. “Advocat?”

Holles gestured around the small room. “After all you did–and not just for me–you shouldn’t be in here.”

It was fu

“It’s better if we observe all the formalities,” he said with a wry smile. “You wouldn’t throw me to the regents, would you, sir?”

“Sweet Sofia, no!” Holles said, horrified, then slowly smiled in turn as he realized what Rathe had done. “Bourtrou always spoke well of you. I can see why he liked you. You’re a good man, Rathe,” he said quietly.

Rathe shrugged. “And a lucky one, if truth be told.”

Holles nodded. “I still don’t understand, though–why Bourtrou?” It was the question, torn from the heart, that Holles had managed not to ask until this point, but he deserved an answer, although it would cause him more pain. Rathe stared down at the floor for a moment, then took a breath. He had put it all together for Trijn. Holles deserved no less.

“Leussi was one of the chamberlains this year. Which meant he would have passed judgment on the play for the masque. The version of the Alphabet he had–the one you gave me–was authentic. It was the same edition Aubine was working from. But Leussi never suspected any ill of Aubine, probably suspected Aconin instead, summoned Aubine to warn him about the dangers of the play he was sponsoring. Aubine listened, was probably politely appalled–and then brought him as a gift, as thanks, the bluemory. Which was fatal under those stars to someone with Leussi’s stars. Quickly fatal, Istre tells me. That gave him the time he needed to bind the ghost.” It sounded harsh, was harsh, stated so simply, but Rathe didn’t know any way to cushion the words. Holles at least had known his leman had been murdered; now he knew why. A bitter comfort, but then, most knowledge was.