Point of dreams, p.20
Point of Dreams, page 20
“Thank you, my lord, that’s very kind. But I’ve promised Chresta my company.”
“Ah.” Aubine smiled again. “Be careful, Lieutenant, Master Aconin has a sharp—tongue.”
“I’ll bear that in mind, my lord,” Eslingen said, and Aubine nodded, already moving away. Eslingen watched him into the carriage, the groom holding the step and handing in the trug, then closing the door to climb back to the box.
“Promised me your company,” Aconin said, the mockery back in his voice.
“You said you wanted to talk,” Eslingen answered. “I’ll listen.”
“I’d prefer somewhere less public than this,” Aconin said, and Eslingen shook his head.
“Then we can talk as we go, Chresta. I want to get home.”
“To your pointsman?”
“Home,” Eslingen said, and hoped it was true. “This is not the way to get me to—is it help you want, Chresta?”
Aconin sighed, fell into step with the taller man. “I’m not sure, frankly. At this point, I think I just want to talk to someone.”
“Why me?” Eslingen asked, and the words were almost a plea.
Aconin laughed softly. “Because I trust you.”
“Oh, very likely. You haven’t seen me in fifteen years.”
“I trusted you to remember that, didn’t I?” They turned a corner, and the harsh light caught them full on, deepening the sharp, discontented lines bracketing the playwright’s mouth. “I—think I’m in trouble, Philip.”
“Father it on someone else, it’s not mine.”
“Bastard,” Aconin said, and Eslingen spread his hands.
“And all the world knows it.”
He winced as he said it, remembering too late that he was no longer part of that world, that in fact this new world didn’t know it at all, and Aconin smiled again. “Except here.” He paused, shook his head. “I’ll make a bargain with you, Philip. I won’t say a word about your parentage if you’ll give me a hand.”
Eslingen caught the other man’s shoulder, swung him so that they stood face to face in the empty street. The shops to either side were shuttered; they stood bathed in the red-gold light that swept up the street from the Sier, their shadows falling away behind them. “I don’t make that kind of bargain,” he said. “Not without knowing a good deal more about your troubles.”
Aconin looked away. “It’s complicated—”
“No, then.”
Aconin took a breath. “All right. Wait. It’s—there’s something about this play, the whole damned folly of it—”
Eslingen caught the first flash out of the corner of his eye, shoved Aconin so that the snap of the lock caught the playwright already stumbling backward, arms flailing for balance. He cried out, hand flying to his upper arm, and Eslingen drew his knife, wishing he had a sword—wishing for pistol-proofed back-and-breast, and a lock of his own—spinning to put his body between the attacker and Aconin. The street was empty, and the doorways, even the dead-end alley where he thought he’d seen the flash of the priming powder, and he turned on his heel again, scanning windows. They were all closed, too, and he turned to Aconin.
“Quickly, into cover.”
Aconin nodded, still clutching his arm, and Eslingen pushed him toward the nearest doorway, waiting for a second shot. It never came, and he leaned against the cold stone, trying to catch his breath. “Are you all right?”
Aconin nodded, but his face was pale beneath the paint. Eslingen frowned, and saw the first threads of blood on the playwright’s fingers.
“Let me see,” he said, and pried the other man’s hand gently away.
Aconin hissed with pain, but did not resist, and Eslingen allowed himself a sigh of relief. Aconin’s coat and shirt were ripped and bloody, but the wound was little more than a scratch, a shallow graze barely wider than his finger, painful enough, but hardly serious. “Not bad,” he said, and folded Aconin’s fingers back to stop the bleeding. “Come on, I think we can make it to Point of Dreams—”
“No.” Aconin shook his head hard, almost dislodging his wig. “No, this is not a points matter.”
“And if this isn’t, what is?” Eslingen demanded. “Chresta, someone just took a shot at you.”
“It’s not a matter for the points,” Aconin said again. “I’m serious, Philip.”
“Then you know who did it, and you’re going after him,” Eslingen said. “The points don’t take kindly to private revenge.”
“You mean your Nico doesn’t,” Aconin answered, and shivered suddenly. “No, Philip, I don’t know who did it. I swear to you. I just want to get home….”
In one piece, Eslingen finished silently. “Not to the Court,” he said aloud, and Aconin shook his head.
“No. Guis—Guis Forveijl. I’m still staying with him, on and off.”
“You should go to Point of Dreams,” Eslingen said again. “Come on, Chresta, you must have some idea what this is all about.”
“I don’t.” There was the hint of a tremor in Aconin’s voice. “I swear, I don’t.”
“Is it the play?”
Aconin shook his head again, again too hard, and Eslingen’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve heard that some of the rejected playwrights aren’t too fond of you these days.”
Aconin managed a laugh, and this time there was real humor in it. “None of them would know how to load a lock, much less come this close to hitting me. Knives and clubs would be more their game—or more likely just a nasty piece for the printers.”
That had the ring of truth to it, Eslingen admitted. “So who, then? You used to write a few broadsheets yourself, I hear.”
“Not recently,” Aconin answered. “I swear to you, Philip, on anything you want, I don’t know.”
“On your career?” Eslingen asked.
Aconin seemed to pause, then laughed softly, much more naturally this time. “You are a suspicious man.”
“And you haven’t answered me.” Aconin was, Eslingen thought, a better actor than he’d believed.
“I swear to you, on my career, that I do not know who took a shot at me.” In the shadowed doorway, Aconin’s expression was unreadable. “Tyrseis, Philip, this hurts.”
“You’ve been shot,” Eslingen said. “Be glad the ball’s not still in you.” He leaned carefully around the edge of the doorway, trying to judge distances in the fading light. They should be on their way, and soon, before the twilight settled over the city and gave more cover to the assassin if she decided to return. “Where does Forveijl lodge?
“Not far,” Aconin said, and straightened with a visible wince. “Not too far from the Salle, in fact.”
“Right.” Eslingen sighed, scanning the street a final time. It surprised him that no one had called out, protested the shot or questioned what they were doing skulking in doorways, but then, this was a chancy district when the playhouses were not in session, a place where the locals kept to themselves as much or more than they had ever done in Point of Hopes or Customs Point. And, to be fair, some of the shops were too small to house the shopkeepers, probably were looked after by watchmen or perhaps a dog or two. “Let’s go.”
The sun was on the horizon now, the air thick with shadow. Aconin glanced nervously over his shoulder as he stepped into the street, as though he still expected an attack. Eslingen took a slow breath, wishing again that he had a lock of his own, and body armor to go with it.
“Which way?”
“Toward the river,” Aconin said. He was still holding his arm, though the bleeding was sure to have slowed by now, and Eslingen flinched in sympathy. Flesh wounds were miserably painful, sometimes worse than something more serious; the playwright would be even more sore in the morning once the swelling set in. Something caught his eye then, more by its shadow, freakishly long just at sunset, a small patch of color just beyond the entrance to a narrow alley. He moved to pick it up, ignoring Aconin’s soft cry of warning, and saw it was a posy, a knot of flowers wound with a strip of ribbon. There were perhaps three flowers, jewel-dark in the fading light, tight buds no bigger than his thumb, and he held it out to Aconin.
“Yours?” He didn’t remember seeing it on the other man’s coat, but the playwright shrugged it away.
“Hardly.”
The sun was almost down, just a narrow sliver showing above the rooftops, and Eslingen shook himself, tucking the posy into a pocket. First to get Aconin home, or at least to Forveijl’s lodgings, and then take himself home again before the second sunrise. He sighed to himself, knowing he’d be too late to buy bread or anything more than a pitcher of beer to contribute to his own dinner, and wished for an uncharitable moment that he could leave Aconin to his own devices. But the playwright was in trouble, and he could hardly leave him….
“And that reminds me,” he said as they started toward the river and Forveijl’s lodgings. “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
Aconin paused, looked almost startled. “Do you know, it’s gone completely out of my head.”
Liar, Eslingen thought, but swallowed the word. “You’re not my problem, Chresta,” he said. “Go to the points, let them deal with you.”
“I can’t,” Aconin said, almost too softly for the other man to hear, and shook his head. “Leave it, Philip, will you?”
And that’s what I get for listening to you in the first place, Eslingen thought. If I’d taken Aubine’s offer, you’d’ve been killed—well, at least there’s more of a chance that you would have—but do I get a word of gratitude? Not likely. In spite of himself, he smiled. And so typical of Aconin.
They reached Forveijl’s lodgings without further incident, and Eslingen left the playwright arguing with the landlady’s man. As he’d expected, the shops were shut by the time he reached Rathe’s neighborhood, and he climbed the steps empty-handed. Rathe opened the door almost before he could knock, an almost worried look dissolving into something like impatience.
“You’re later than I expected.”
“Yes. Sorry.” Eslingen came into the sudden warmth and the smell of cooking—not Rathe’s, probably, the smells were too rich, must have come from Wicked’s—and stood for a second blinking in the lamplight before he started to unwind his cloak.
“Are you all right?”
“Sorry,” Eslingen said again. “Yes, I’m fine.”
“What happened?” Rathe turned back to the stove, shifting a pot from the hob to a hotter surface, but Eslingen could see the tension in his back.
“Somebody took a shot at Chresta Aconin,” he said, and hung his cloak carefully on the hook by the door. Rathe’s coat was tossed over the back of one of his chairs, and Eslingen adjusted it so that the shoulders hung straight before he removed his own.
“What?” Rathe turned quickly, and Eslingen spread his hands.
“Someone shot at him.”
“Why didn’t I know that?”
“Because it just happened, oh, less than an hour ago,” Eslingen answered.
“I was at Dreams less than an hour ago,” Rathe said.
“He didn’t report it to the points.” Eslingen took a breath. “And he’s not going to report it.”
Rathe slammed a wooden spoon down hard on the stove’s iron lid. “Is he mad? Or is it just the stars?” He paused. “And by any chance were you there?”
“Yes,” Eslingen said, and decided it could stand as an answer to all of them.
“Astree—” Rathe shook his head. “All right. What happened?”
I wish I knew. Eslingen sighed, reached for his dressing gown, pulled it close about his shoulders as the heat of his exertions faded. “I—it was not a good day, Nico, we had landames at feud who were assigned as partners, and, well, that’s not important now.”
In spite of everything, Rathe suppressed a smile as he came to sit at the table. “I will want to hear that story.”
Eslingen nodded. “But later.” He took a breath, composing his thoughts, and Rathe slid a glass of the harsh red wine across the table toward him. He sipped it, slightly warm from its place by the stove, said, “Aconin was leaving when I was, said he had something he wanted to talk to me about. And so I said I’d walk a way with him—I was going to pick up a loaf of bread, truly—but when we turned down one of the streets that runs straight to the river, someone took a shot at him. I saw the priming powder fire, pushed him, but I’m not sure it wouldn’t have missed him anyway.” He went through the rest of it, everything he could remember, lingering on Aconin’s refusal to take the matter to the points, and leaned back in the chair when he’d finished, stretching legs that were stiff from the day’s drill.
“You could make the complaint, I suppose,” Rathe said, but without conviction, and Eslingen shook his head.
“What good would that do? All he’d have to do is deny it, and where would you be?”
“There’s the wound,” Rathe said, and shook his own head. “No, you’re right, I’d never be able to prove it happened the way you said. Damn the man, anyway.”
“Why do I suspect that none of this would be happening if someone else had written the masque?” Eslingen slid his hands into the pocket of his coat, found the posy he’d picked up. He tossed it onto the table, and Rathe took it curiously.
“What’s this?”
“I found it in the street,” Eslingen answered. “After the attack.” Rathe turned it over in his fingers, studying the flowers. They were very dark, Eslingen realized, that hadn’t been a trick of the light, a purpled red that was almost black. Probably when the buds opened, they’d be brighter, but for now they looked almost ominous, furled tight against the cold. The only spot of color was the narrow ribbon that bound them together, a spot of brighter red against the dark green of the stems.
“A posy for a knife,” he said, meaning a joke, and Rathe looked up sharply.
“Do you know the flowers?”
Eslingen shook his head. “You know I don’t.”
“Winter-roses, they’re called, though they’re not really roses.” Rathe turned the posy over again, studying the ribbon now. “In Hearts, I’m told, you send them to end a relationship.”
“Do you think they were meant for Aconin?” Eslingen asked, and the other man shrugged.
“It would be a bit of a coincidence if they weren’t. But then, this never happened, right?”
Eslingen nodded, feeling unreasonably depressed.
Rathe shook himself, setting the flowers aside, and stood again, turning his attention to the stove. “Well, if Chresta Aconin doesn’t want our help, I’m not going to foist it on him. With all that’s going on, I’ve got problems enough to deal with without him.”
6.
The next few days were, mercifully, quiet, and Eslingen allowed himself, slowly, to relax a little. Aconin had been least in sight for the first day after the attack, and even after that, he’d kept to himself, consulting primarily with Gasquine and her assistants, and staying well clear of the chorus. So maybe it was a love affair gone wrong, Eslingen thought, making his way toward the Tyrseia once again, or maybe just Aconin’s unruly tongue had finally made an enemy who could do something about his hatred. In any case, it had worked to his advantage: the day after the attack he had seen the playwright lurking in the shadows, watching the rehearsal. How are you? he’d asked, and Aconin had given him a single, angry look.
My silence for yours, Philip. Agreed?
Eslingen smiled to himself. Agreed, definitely, even though it infuriated Rathe: anything that would help him keep his balance in this strange new world was to be embraced, particularly with Aubine watching him, seeking a kindred spirit. The landseur didn’t seem to have much in common with the rest of the chorus, seemed if anything older than his years, sober—still saddened, maybe, by the lost leman, if Siredy’s story was true. And I hope it isn’t, Eslingen added silently. No one deserves that sorrow.
He turned the last corner then, coming out into the plaza in front of the Tyrseia, and swore under his breath. At least half the other masters were there before him, clustered outside the actors’ entrance, and a cart was drawn up behind them, a heavy canvas pulled over its contents. The first batch of flowers, Eslingen guessed, as Aubine came out from behind the cart, and was relieved to see Siredy waiting with the others.
“Now what?” he asked softly, and the other man rolled his eyes. “Oh, a lovely beginning to the day. The thrice-damned doors are locked, and we can’t raise the watchman.”
“The plants won’t stand it,” Aubine said from the head of the wagon, and Duca threw up his hands in despair.
“I understand, maseigneur, but there’s nothing I can do.”
“I’ve wrapped them as best I can,” Aubine went on, as though the other man hadn’t spoken. “But they don’t like the cold.”
“Someone must have a key,” Eslingen said to Siredy, and the other master sighed.
“Gasquine does—the Venturers, too, probably, but Mathiee’s closer. Master Duca sent Peyo Rieux, but it’ll be a good half hour before she gets back. More, if she has to wake Gasquine.”
“Seidos’s Horse.” Eslingen took a step backward, looking up the long staircase that led to the narrow gallery door. It would be locked, of course, but there was a shuttered window on the tier above that might give access to the seats.
“And Master Duca’s not best pleased,” Siredy said, squinting up at the gallery. “You don’t seriously think you could get through there?”
“Maybe,” Eslingen answered. Actually, the hardest part would be getting to the window, clambering up over the staircase railing; after that, it would just be a matter of shouldering the shutters open—unless there was glass in the frame, he thought, and opened his mouth to ask the question.
Duca forestalled him. “Lieutenant vaan Esling. You’re late.”
The clock struck the hour as he spoke, giving him the lie, and Eslingen bit back an annoyed retort. “Sorry,” he said, without pretense of sincerity, and looked back up at the façade. “Would it be too much if one of us climbed up there and opened the door from the inside?”
