Point of dreams, p.24
Point of Dreams, page 24
Voillemin’s note had said that the woman was a stallholder in the Little Chain market, but a single glance at the stall, well painted and double-sized, with cressets already lit against the gathering dusk and a banner of a star and bell, was enough to make Rathe swear under his breath. Whatever else Levee Estines was, she was more than a mere stallholder, and Voillemin should have known better than to take her that lightly. The woman herself was not at the stall, but the man who tended it, busy among jars and baskets of dried herbs and flowers, pointed him willingly enough to his mistress’s house. The house itself was neat and well kept, new plaster bright between the beams, and a glasshouse leaned against the southern wall where it could take the sunlight. The glass was fogged now, and in spite of everything Rathe felt a slight pang of envy. Glasshouses were expensive to build, even more expensive to heat through Astreiant’s long winter; his mother had always wanted one, and in the same breath called them a waste of coin and effort. This one was small, just a lean-to, really, so that even a small woman would have to crouch to tend the plants on the lowest shelves, but he could see greenery through the clouded glass, and knew it was doing its job.
The maidservant who answered his knock seemed unsurprised to find a pointsman on their doorstep, and ushered him into what at second glance had to be a buyer’s receiving room. It faced away from the glasshouse, the single window giving onto what in the summer had to be an uncommonly pretty garden, and Rathe took a step toward it anyway, admiring the shapes of the empty beds. Half a dozen corms stood ready in forcing jars, already sending up vigorous green shoots, and he wondered again exactly what Estines’s trade was. Herbs and flowers, from her stall, but did she also trade in medicines, or perfumes, or even food, or just in the raw materials?
“Adjunct Point?” The voice broke off. “Oh. You’re not who I expected.”
Rathe turned to see a round woman frowning at him from the doorway. Her hair was caught up under a lace cap, her only concession to fashion, and as though she’d guessed his thought she shook her skirts down from where they’d been caught up for work.
“My name’s Nicolas Rathe, mistress, from Point of Dreams. I understood you wanted to speak to someone from our station.”
“But I spoke to someone.” Her voice was wary, and Rathe made himself smile. This was one of the reasons that checking up on a fellow pointsman was difficult.
“I know. To Adjunct Point Voillemin, right?”
“Yes.” Estines drew the word out into two syllables.
“I have some reason to believe that this case is connected to one of mine,” Rathe lied. “So I wondered if you could spare me a few moments to talk to me as well.”
“Connected?” Estines’s eyes grew very round. “Oh, surely not. That would be—” She checked herself and repeated, “Surely not.”
Damn Voillemin for not putting in his reports on time. Rathe said, “Oh? Why do you say that?”
Estines looked as though she wished she hadn’t spoken. “I don’t want to tell you your business, I know nothing of points’ affairs—”
Rathe smiled again, tried for his most soothing voice. “You sent to us, said you had information on the intendant Leussi’s death. What was that?”
“But I told the other man,” Estines said.
“I’d like to hear it again, from you.” It was one of the oldest tricks in the book, but Estines nodded slowly.
“Please, Adjunct Point, sit down,” she said, and seated herself in the chair closest to the hearth. A fire had been laid there some hours ago, by the look of the embers, but Rathe seated himself opposite her, grateful for the steady warmth. Estines folded her hands together, setting them on her knees like a schoolgirl. “I sent for you because the intendant had been a customer of mine, for flowers and such—I grow flowers for half the houses in Hearts, Adjunct Point, and herbs for the midwives, too.”
“I saw your stall,” Rathe said, “and your garden.”
Estines allowed herself a shy smile. “Thank you.”
“And the intendant?” Rathe prompted, when she seemed disinclined to continue, and Estines made a face.
“As I said, a customer of mine. And he came to me two weeks before he died—or at least I think it was then he died, the other pointsman wouldn’t tell me when, exactly, as if I’d sell it to the printers. But he came to me to buy flowers out of season—I have a glasshouse, and I make that a specialty of mine, I pride myself that I can have any flower all year long. At any rate, to make the story short, he came to me with a list of flowers that he wanted, and I had them all. But what struck me—you must understand, my dearest friend is a printer in University Point, she’s just done an edition of the Alphabet, a licensed edition—he was reading from a list, just like one of the posies the book calls for. I’m sure he was making a posy, and—” She broke off, ducked her head, her fingers tightening on each other. “I was afraid it might somehow have harmed him.”
“A posy from the Alphabet,” Rathe said. “Not your friend’s book?”
“Oh, no.” Estines shook her head for emphasis. “Not that edition. But there are so many, and I thought…. Of course, I don’t know it was the Alphabet, but it seemed so odd, the choices, and so with the play and everything, I thought that had to be it. The other pointsman seemed to think so.”
Voillemin would, Rathe thought. No wonder he’d said “resolved” and “misadventure.” This was the perfect excuse, some experiment that went wrong and could be safely brushed aside, smoothed over to the content of the regents—and I suppose it could be that. Except I think Holles would have known. He said, “Does that mean you remember what the flowers were, mistress?”
“Oh, yes.” Estines smiled again. “That was what struck me so oddly then, and later, too. They don’t—I don’t know if you know flowers, Adjunct Point?”
“A little.”
Estines nodded. “Moonwort and trisil and trumpet flower and red star-vine, bound with lemon leaves and demnis fern.”
Rathe’s eyebrows rose. The flowers were individually pretty, and the trisil was strongly fragrant, but its sweetness would be buried under the still stronger scent of the lemon leaves, just as the moonwort would be lost under the showier blooms of the trumpet flower. And the demnis fern was just the wrong shade of green to match the others.
Estines nodded again, harder this time. “You see. Not a posy for looks, or for any herbal use I know. So of course I thought of the Alphabet.”
And Leussi had a copy, Rathe remembered suddenly, a copy that’s locked in my own strongbox even now. Is that why Holles gave it to me? He shook the thought away—Holles was not the sort to play games, at least in their short acquaintance—and reached for his tablets again. “You’re sure of that list, mistress?”
“Completely sure,” Estines answered. “It’s my trade.”
That was unanswerable, and Rathe quickly jotted down the names. “Had he ever bought bunches like that before?”
“Never. Usually he liked seasonal flowers, small things, posies for a gift and the like.” Estines sighed. “He said once his leman didn’t like flowers, so he bought them for other people. I thought that was sad, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Rathe said. And it was sad, though not just for Leussi’s sake, meant that Holles would be unlikely to know anything about his leman’s research. But Voillemin still should have questioned him, he thought, and folded his tablets again. “Mistress, I thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
“You’re welcome.” Estines stood stiffly, easing her back. “Adjunct Point, I wonder. I understand you can’t tell me when he died, that would be improper, I was told, but I did wonder—I would hate to think my flowers had anything to do with his death.”
Rathe gave her a sharp look, but saw only honest grief in her round face. “I don’t know, mistress. On the face of it, it seems unlikely.”
“But the Alphabet….” Estines let her voice trail off, and Rathe shook his head.
“I’ve yet to see a copy that can be said to be effective, and we—not just Dreams, but all the stations—have examined forty or fifty copies. So far, it looks like just another midwinter madness.”
“Like The Drowned Island,” Estines said, nodding. “Well, one can hope. I’m sorry to have troubled you, if it’s nothing.”
“No trouble at all,” Rathe answered, and followed her to the door. She let him out into the sharp chill herself, the air smelling strongly of a hundred fires, and he stood for a moment, trying to catch his breath and order his thoughts. If it were any other pointsman, he wouldn’t distrust the findings, would be willing to wait for the report, to see what other evidence could be mustered to support death by misadventure, but Voillemin was too eager to see this put aside. He would have to see Holles, he decided, ask about flowers, but first, he’d need to see if that posy was listed in Leussi’s edition of the Alphabet, and what it was supposed to do.
7.
Rathe made sure he was early to Point of Dreams, stirred up the fire in the workroom stove even as the tower clock struck nine, and reached for his tablets, unfolding them to reveal the list of flowers. Moonwort, trisil, trumpet flower, red star-vine, bound with lemon leaves and demnis fern: not a common posy, he thought again, and fumbled for the key of the lockbox. If it was listed in Leussi’s copy of the Alphabet, he would have to talk to Holles, find out if Leussi had said anything about testing the formulae—though if he had, surely Holles would have mentioned it—and then…. He shook his head unhappily. He still wouldn’t have positive proof that Voillemin was failing in his job, failing the points, might only have proved that Leussi’s death was after all misadventure—except for the bound ghost. That was the work of an enemy—or could it be some bizarre side effect of the flowers? It seemed unlikely, but b’Estorr might know, or would know who could tell him, if the posy was in the Alphabet. And he had been told not to pursue the matter. The best thing might be to take the whole thing to Trijn, and let her sort it out. She was the chief point, after all; Voillemin was her responsibility, and it was her responsibility to sort out what was really happening here. He made a face, wishing it was his case, that he didn’t have to sneak around the edges to try to make sure the job got done, and there was a knock at the door. He looked up as the door opened, and a runner peered through the opening.
“Sorry, sir, but this just came. It looked important.”
Rathe nodded, beckoned her inside. Whatever it was, it dripped with ribbon and seals, and he held out his hand. “Who brought it?”
“It was a runner from All-Guilds,” the girl answered. “Stuck-up little prig.”
All-Guilds. From the regents? Rathe turned the letter over, his frown deepening as he recognized the symbols on the seals. It was from the regents, all right, and he could guess what it was about. “Is she waiting for a reply?”
“No, sir.” The runner shook her head. “Said she had other business. Silly cow.”
“Mind your manners,” Rathe said without heat. “All right, that’ll be all for now.”
“Yes, sir,” the girl answered, and backed away, pulling the door closed again behind her.
Rathe glared at the letter, then abruptly broke the seals. The broad pen strokes filled the page, a sprawling clerk’s hand ordering him to appear before the regents at half past ten, to answer for unwarranted interference in a matter he had already been forbidden to handle. He swore under his breath, wondering how Voillemin had found out—Falasca, of course; she would still have been on duty when he arrived the night before—and swore again, wondering which of the regents was acting as Voillemin’s patronne. The clock struck half past nine then, and he shoved his keys back into his pocket, carefully refolded the letter, and headed for Trijn’s workroom.
She greeted him with a preoccupied smile, but the expression faded as he shoved the regents’ letter under her nose. “What’s this?”
“Read it, please, Chief.”
She made a face, but skimmed the brief paragraph, finally leaning back in her chair to lift an eyebrow. “And what’s brought this on? Have you been meddling?”
Rathe grimaced. “Yes and no, Chief.”
“I’d have preferred a simple no.”
“Nothing’s ever that simple,” Rathe answered. He reached for the chair that stood beside her desk, seated himself at her nod. “First, Kurin Holles came to me to complain that Voillemin hadn’t talked to him at all—and it was Holles who found the body, never mind anything else. I told Holles I couldn’t interfere, but I’d speak to Voillemin, which I did, to tell him that he shouldn’t worry about hurting Holles’s feelings, he was more than willing to speak to the points.”
“And?” Trijn asked.
“At the same time, I saw someone had come from Little Chain saying she had information about the death, but Voillemin had written it off—said it was just a printer trying to get details for a broadsheet.” Rathe took a breath. “So I told him I thought he should speak to the woman.”
“It’s possible,” Trijn murmured, “but he should have gone. All right. Go on.”
“Then yesterday, after I dealt with another body at the Tyrseia—you did get my report on that matter?”
“I did,” Trijn said. “There are too damn many of them, Rathe. I suppose we’re still waiting for the alchemists’ report?”
Rathe nodded.
“Then I can assume you went to Little Chain yourself to talk to this woman.”
Rathe sighed. Put like that, he was at fault—he’d been warned off the case by the regents, for one thing, and for another, he had no right to interfere in another pointsman’s case without gross evidence of neglect. “I did,” he said, and Trijn made a face.
“Damn it, Nico, I thought better of you.”
“Chief.” Rathe took a careful breath. “I had cause—I had reason to think it was important. And I believe I was proved right. The woman who sent to us is a flower-seller, she sold the intendant the makings of a bouquet that she believes came from an edition of the Alphabet, and which she feared might have harmed him.”
“That sounds like misadventure to me,” Trijn said.
Rathe shook his head. “The ghost was bound,” he reminded her, and she swore.
“So it was. Could it have been the Alphabet that bound him?”
“Chief, I don’t know. But I don’t think it can be written off until we find out.”
“Damn the man for a fool.” Trijn glared at the summons, then shoved it back across the tabletop. “And this—this is outside of enough. I’m not best pleased with you, Nico, you should have come to me, not handled it on your own, but Voillemin has overstepped himself. I’ll deal with him later, but in the meantime….” She lifted an eyebrow. “I’m glad you brought this to me. I’d half had you written down as the sort of hero who’d try to face them down by yourself,”
Rathe laughed, and knew Trijn heard the anger in it. “I’m not that much of a fool, Chief.”
“Then let’s be on our way.” Trijn rose gracefully to her feet, reaching for a fur-trimmed cloak. “If they’re in such a hurry, they can deal with us in our working clothes.”
Rathe glanced down at his own coat, well aware that he’d worn it to shapelessness. Trijn, on the other hand, was almost as neat as a regent, though her wine-red skirts were brighter. He looked even more common by contrast, wondered if it was fully wise to provoke the regents even further, but Trijn seemed unaware of any potential problem. “We’ll take a low-flyer,” she said, and swept out of the narrow room.
They were early to All-Guilds, thanks to a wall-eyed coachman who took the bridge at a speed to make the apprentices curse him, but Trijn paid him off with a look almost of satisfaction. She led the way into the hall, moving through the chill passages with an unsettling familiarity, finally paused in the doorway of a clerks’ room to beckon the woman nearest the door. The blue-robed woman, barely out of girlhood, rose with alacrity, smoothing her gown over her skirts, and bobbed a curtsy.
“Can I help you, madame?”
“Tell their mightinesses the regents that Chief Point Trijn—and Adjunct Point Rathe—are here now, and wish to see them.”
The clerk’s eyes widened, and for an instant Rathe thought she would protest, but Trijn raised an eyebrow. The clerk swallowed whatever she would have said, and bobbed another, deeper curtsy. “I’ll tell them, madame,” she said, and hurried off, her skirts billowing.
Trijn nodded with satisfaction, and Rathe’s eyes narrowed. If it had been left to him, he would have looked for a doorman, not a clerk, certainly wouldn’t have invaded the clerks’ working space even though that seemed to be the correct procedure. “You’re known here,” he said aloud, and Trijn gave a weary nod.
“I suppose it would out at some point. Yes, I’m known.” She forced a wry smile. “Most people have relations they would prefer not to claim. My burden is my sister. Madame Gausaron.”
“The grand bourgeoise,” Rathe said, and knew he sounded breathless.
“Herself.”
Rathe started to say something, then closed his mouth over the words. “I’m so sorry.”
Trijn choked back a laugh as the clerk reappeared, but there was no mistaking the amusement in her eyes.
“The regents will see you, madame,” the clerk said with another curtsy. “And sir.”
“Good,” Trijn answered, and the clerk flung open the heavy doors.
“Chief Point Trijn and Adjunct Point Rathe, of Point of Dreams.”
“You’re very peremptory, Chief Point,” Gausaron said from her place at the center of the dais, and Trijn shook her head. Even knowing they were kin, Rathe could see no similarity between them, wondered if they had perhaps had a different father.
