Point of dreams, p.17
Point of Dreams, page 17
“You do seem to have a talent for finding yourself at the center of things,” Rathe answered.
“It’s a recent knack, I assure you,” Eslingen answered. “Not one you want to cultivate in the army.”
Rathe grinned, but sobered in an instant. “Philip, I need your help.”
“You have it.” Eslingen leaned forward, his hands wrapped around his wineglass, and Rathe sighed.
“I feel like ten kinds of bastard, especially after the last time. But. You’re at the theatre, every day, with these people every day. I would take it kindly if….”
“I’d keep an eye on them for you?” Eslingen was smiling slightly, and Rathe hesitated, wondering what it meant.
“Yes. I’m just sorry to have to ask you again.”
Eslingen reached out, laid a hand gently over Rathe’s, the fingers still cold. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why not ask me? I’m pleased, I’m honored, and for the gods’ sake, I’m there. I think we work well together.” Eslingen’s smile widened. “Hells, if you hadn’t had the sense to ask, I’d probably have committed the ultimate folly and volunteered.”
We do work well together, Rathe thought. It’s been proved, last summer under fire, and in the dull aftermath. “At least I spared you that,” he said, and Eslingen’s hand tightened, a caress and a question. Rathe shook his head. “Philip, I’m going to be asleep as soon as my head hits the mattress.”
One eyebrow quirked upward. “If I had suspected our living together would have a deleterious effect on the admittedly vulgar pursuit of pleasure….”
Rathe laughed out loud. “All right, Lieutenant. If only to allay your suspicions.”
5.
The performance banners were flying from the tower of the Tyrseia as Rathe made his way into Dreams station, and he hoped that meant that Sohier had found something after all. More likely, though, Trijn had been pressured into releasing the theatre as soon as possible, for fear that the unstable common folk wouldn’t be able to stand being deprived of their favorite play for an extra day. He was being unfair, he knew, as he stopped to consult the notices fluttering from a broadsheet-seller’s display board, and took a careful breath, trying to control his temper. If anything, he was angry because he suspected the chamberlains might be right.
At least only one of the broadsheets mentioned the murder, and it was a crude thing, with a woodcut of two men dueling that Rathe had last seen illustrating an announcement of a fencing match. The paragraph below, smudged from hasty printing, spoke of mysterious death at the Tyrseia, and hinted at breathless possibilities, but, all in all, said less that he’d expected. It wouldn’t last, he knew, but at least they might have a day’s breathing space before the details were spread around the city. And one good thing might come of the mystery, he thought, turning away: the fact of the death might help hide the significance of the chorus.
Voillemin was still on duty, finishing out the night shift, and Rathe had to suppress the desire to ask what was happening with Leussi’s death. That was the other man’s case, he reminded himself, scanning the daybook; he’d do no one any good by interfering. There was a note from Sohier, stating that she and four others had searched the Tyrseia stage and stagehouse, but no note of the results.
Voillemin cleared his throat. “The chief wants to see you. As soon as may be.”
“No surprise there,” Rathe answered, and slid the book back to the other man. “What did Sohier find?”
The younger man shrugged. “Officially, the report’s still being copied. But unofficially—nothing. How in Astree’s name can the man have drowned?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Rathe said.
“Maybe—could the alchemist have made a mistake?” Voillemin asked, and Rathe sighed.
“We may be hoping that. But I’ve never seen Fanier make that kind of a mistake.”
Voillemin shook his head—he looked tired, Rathe thought, and felt an unexpected pang of sympathy. “Go home,” he said, and Voillemin smiled.
“As soon as Leenderts gets here. And the chief does want to see you.”
“I bet she does,” Rathe answered, and took the stairs two at a time.
The door to Trijn’s workroom stood open, sunlight spilling across the room and out into the narrow hallway. The last of the previous night’s ice was melting from the eaves, spangling the bubbled glass, and a kettle hissed on the roaring stove. Rathe tapped on the door frame, feeling the heat radiating from it even there, and Trijn looked up with a nod.
“Come in and shut the door. Fanier sent this for you.”
Rathe did as he was told, accepting the still-sealed packet of papers addressed in Fanier’s thick scrawl. A lot of chief points would have taken it as their right and privilege to read it before him, he thought as he broke the seal and skimmed through the neatly copied pages, but not Trijn.
“Of course you had no idea who it was when you sent the body to Fanier,” Trijn said. She made it a statement, Rathe noted with relief. “This damned district. Everything has to be larger than life. It’s a hothouse. Not enough that we have a murder, no, it has to be—” She lifted her hand, ticking the points off on her fingers. “At the Tyrseia, involve a landseur—a landseur who is the brother of the castellan of Raçan, not an insignificant holding, as well as being related to Her Majesty—and not a straightforward bludgeoning or knifing, either, but something utterly mysterious.” She gestured to the report still in Rathe’s hands. “And how did he die, by the way?”
“He drowned,” Rathe said, and braced himself for the outburst.
It never came. Trijn rested her head in her hands. “Of course he did. What else? Did Fanier hazard a guess as to how he drowned? Nothing ordinary, I wager, like having drowned elsewhere and the body moved to the theatre?”
Rathe shook his head, sliding the three closely written sheets across the table toward her. “He died where he was found. There’s evidence of poison—Fanier said some of the body changes were consistent with poison, but—”
“He drowned,” Trijn finished for him. “Sofia’s tits. Which is why you kept five of my people busy yesterday looking for barrels and tubs that they did not find.”
“I had hoped we’d missed something,” Rathe said, and Trijn shook her head.
“No.”
So, Rathe thought. Drowned on a dry stage, among the machines that represent water. “I’ll need them again today,” he said. “I only had the chance to talk to a few of the cast, and it’ll go faster with more of us.”
“Understood,” Trijn answered. “I’ve already warned Sohier, she has a good head on her. But I want you to deal with the family first.”
“De Raçan’s family?” Rathe hid a grimace. “I had a messenger from the Temple inform them, I thought—”
“We’ll want his horoscope,” Trijn said firmly, and Rathe sighed. Yes, it was a logical first step, particularly in a death as odd as this one—a good horoscope could often reveal people destined for uncanny ends—but he’d hoped he wouldn’t have to be the one to collect it.
“I may need a writ from the surintendant, if the family doesn’t choose to release it,” he said aloud. “Because the university won’t help me without one.”
“I’ll see you get it,” Trijn answered. “But you may not need it. My understanding it, the castellan is a sensible soul.”
“Let’s hope so,” Rathe said, and Trijn smiled.
“Serves the regents right, you bagging a landseur when they couldn’t stomach the idea of you tampering with a mere intendant. Still, it may be political—see what you can find out about the family’s leanings while you’re at it.”
And how, Rathe thought, am I supposed to do that? You’re the one who brags of being intimate with Astreiant. He put the thought aside—he had his contacts, they all did, but his might ask more than he cared to pay—and pushed himself to his feet as the clock chimed ten.
“She lodges in Point of Hearts,” Trijn said, and Rathe’s eyebrows rose. Trijn met his look blandly. “Apparently the de Raçans prefer to enjoy themselves over midwinter.”
He had no trouble finding the house, a narrow-fronted, white-stone building with twisted iron gates that gave a glimpse of severely formal gardens. The stone troughs were mostly empty, the larger plants bound up for winter, but Rathe recognized at least one flowering cherry beyond the formal hedges. It was the sort of place one might rent for a new lover, Rathe thought, but not long-term, and wondered whether the castellan recognized or even cared about the distinction.
The gatekeeper belonged to the house, not the castellan, and made no difficulty admitting a pointsman. In fact, Rathe thought, he seemed more perturbed by the black-bound spray of ghostberry decorating the main door. It wasn’t much of a sign of mourning, but it was more than he had generally seen in Point of Hearts. To his surprise, the stiff-legged footman did not try to send him to the tradesman’s entrance, and Rathe waited in the entry as bidden, glancing quickly around. The footman had worn a mourning band, black ribbon over white, but there were few other signs of anything but formal grief. The incense bowl was cold, its sand drifted with only the faintest shadow of ash, and no one had bothered to cover the elegant long mirror that lengthened the narrow hall. The maid who appeared at last to escort him wore no black, and he wondered if she too, had been hired with the house.
The castellan was waiting in the receiving room, the curtains drawn full back to let in the most of the morning’s sun. The room smelled of flowers, and Rathe looked around, startled, to see a dozen forcing-jars set on a side table where the light could catch them. All of them were in use, and greenery and flowers sprouted from them, the Silklands corms blooming in unseasonal profusion. He recognized a white type his mother called Mama Moon, and another golden trumpet, but the rest were strange, red and pink and green-tinged yellow, vividly striped and ruffled, a landame’s ransom set carelessly to use.
“Adjunct Point Rathe,” the maid said with a curtsy, and seated herself at the far end of the room.
The castellan herself was seated on a chaise that looked as though it might be silk, and the remains of a hearty breakfast lay on the table at her elbow. Served on silver, too, Rathe thought, and made a careful bow. She was a small, plump woman, and looked utterly unlike her dead brother—if anything, she reminded him of a wren, though no wren was ever so brightly colored. At least she wore a mourning ribbon, fashionably stark against the poppy-red silk of her bodice, but there was no reading her emotions in her painted face.
“Adjunct Point,” she said. “You’re welcome to the house.”
“Thank you,” Rathe answered. “Allow me to offer my condolences.”
The castellan smiled, and Rathe wondered how many other callers she’d had already. “I hope you won’t think me tactless, but I have a hundred questions for you. How did Visteijn die?”
Rathe took a breath. “The alchemical reports say that he drowned.”
“The alchemical reports?” she repeated softly.
“Yes, maseigne.”
“You had my brother’s body brought to an alchemist.”
“We needed to determine the cause of death, Castellan.”
She was silent for a moment, the sunlight slanting through the tall windows to glitter from the gold threads banding her skirt. “You didn’t seek permission. Permission that was mine to give.”
“I didn’t know who he was at the time,” Rathe answered, and from the look she gave him, guessed she recognized the lie.
The castellan sighed, and looked away from him, frowning at the flowers on the table. “It has been suggested to me that a death like this—of a relative, however close, who was more a nuisance than a help—should be kept as unobtrusive as possible. I don’t, however, agree. How could he drown, if he was found at the Tyrseia?”
“That we don’t yet know,” Rathe said. “Though we hope to find out. And to that end, Castellan, I would like to ask you a few questions.”
She waved a hand in careless permission. “Ask away.”
Rathe reached for his tablets, aware and mildly amused that she wouldn’t ask him to sit down—her tolerance of pointsmen extended only so far—and ran through the same questions he had asked DuSorre and Siredy the night before. If anything, the castellan knew even less of her brother’s activities—they each kept their own households, her brother’s consisting of a valet and a groom, and had no cause to spend much time in company.
“And now that he was in the masque,’’the castellan went on, “I saw even less of him than before. He put his name into the lottery as a joke, or so I understood; I think he was a little put out at actually having been selected—more work than he was used to, you understand. But I don’t know of any enemies among his fellows.”
“Debts?” Rathe asked, and the castellan smiled.
“He wasn’t a careful man. He had debts, some of which I paid, some—” She glanced again at the flowers, frowning again. “Some of which I left him to handle on his own. That’s a piece of his folly, to spend crowns on those corms, and then let them bloom. They don’t come again that way, or so I’m told, you waste them, growing them in the jars. We quarreled over that, the last time I dined with him. But no one would kill a man for that.”
“No,” Rathe said, though, privately, he was not so sure. He could think of one or two avid cultivators who hated the idea of forcing the corms, who would rather wait half a year to see the flower just to be sure it would bloom again. But at least the landseur had gotten the pleasure of his purchases, instead of letting them rot for speculation. It was the most appealing thing he’d heard yet about the man. “There is one thing more, Castellan.”
“Name it.”
“Your brother’s horoscope. I would appreciate it if I could get a copy of it.”
The castellan’s eyes widened, but then she nodded. “I will have my secretary copy it out for you, and send to Point of Dreams.”
“Thank you,” Rathe said.
“I don’t want to see his murderer escape unpunished,” the castellan said. “I thank you for everything you’ve done so far, and expect you to do everything in your power to see this to its conclusion.” She smiled, a little ruefully. “You have only to name your fee.”
Rathe returned the smile, but shook his head. “That’s not necessary, Castellan. I will find out who killed your brother, or do my best at it, anyway, but—I don’t take fees. From anyone.”
“Are you a leveller, Adjunct Point?”
Rathe hesitated. “Philosophically, I suppose so, Castellan.”
“I thought you might be.” The castellan studied him for a long moment. Not so wrenlike now, Rathe thought, and tried to meet her stare without challenge. “So you do this out of conviction, or stubbornness?”
“I do enjoy my work, Castellan,” Rathe answered.
“Then I trust you will take a certain satisfaction in finding out who killed my poor fool of a brother. If there is anything further you need, you must not hesitate to let me know, or any member of my household. It shall not be denied you, I promise you that.”
It was dismissal, Rathe knew, and something more, a speculation in her glance that made him wonder if he’d been in Point of Hearts too long. Or perhaps she had: she might have to dance attendance at the court until midwinter was past, but from the look of the house, she was determined to enjoy herself. But still, he had what he needed from her, and with more grace than he’d had any right to expect. “Thank you, maseigne,” he said aloud, and the maid rose at her gesture. “I’ll send word as soon as I have any news for you.”
He paused at the corner of the road to look back at the narrow house, so neat on its sculpted grounds, wondering if there were other questions he should have asked the castellan, questions about her own intentions in Astreiant. But if he wanted to know that…. He sighed. If he truly wanted the answer to that question, there was only one source for it, and he looked up as the clock chimed the quarter hour. Almost eleven: Annechon would be receiving by now, he thought, and wished the mere thought didn’t make him blush.
Her house was a fraction smaller than the castellan’s, and older, but the walls and the gatehouse were bright with new paint, and from the look of it the narrow garden had been redug over the summer season. And Annechon herself held the freehold of it, Rathe knew, not for the first time shaking his head at her acumen. No gift, either, there was no one great lover to pay her way, but a dozen or more dear friends, and a sharp sense of business had kept her more than solvent. That and the charm of manner that made women and men grateful to see their gifts sold to pay a chandler’s bills, he added silently, smiling in spite of himself. He had seen that charm at work more than once, and it frankly terrified him.
Her people knew him, and the Silklands maid brought him at once to her bedroom, shooing away a pair of half-bred pocket terriers and a slim young man with equally bouncing manners. The curtains were drawn well back here, too, letting the light stream in, and the air smelled of rosemary. No common scents for Annechon, he thought, and she rose to greet him, both hands outstretched. She was easily as tall as he, perhaps a little taller; the strong light made no secret of the lines that were beginning to show on her hard-boned face, but her hair was still darkly lustrous, without the slightest touch of silver. And she would be beautiful greying, Rathe thought helplessly, she had been beautiful when she was the baker’s fourth and skinny daughter, hired to keep an eye on a gardener’s son in Point of Knives. He’d adored her then, at the age of seven, and she’d never let him forget that he’d once—misunderstanding matters—proposed lemanry. She wasn’t skinny now, but ripely beautiful, her dressing gown, scarlet as an advocat’s robe, flowing loose over corset and petticoats. He returned her embrace, feeling like a child again, and she waved him to a seat on the tambour reserved for her favorites.
“What a pleasure!” she said, and her voice still held a hint of the southriver accent. “But it must be business, you’d never come here without that protection.”
