Point of dreams, p.31
Point of Dreams, page 31
“Oh?” Back to business, Rathe thought, but couldn’t resent it. Here in the warmth of his own room, supper waiting on the stove, Eslingen’s easy presence across the table, it was almost like an ordinary profession, the comfortable chat of guild-mates, not the fraught world of the points. I know it’s serious, deadly serious, but, Sofia, it’s so good to be a little free of it.
“Sorry.” Eslingen smiled regretfully. “But he knows who attacked him, I’m sure of that. You could probably get it out of him, he’s scared enough he might tell you.”
“What did he say?” It wasn’t exactly a surprise, Rathe thought, he’d been sure of it since he saw the playwright in his ransacked room.
Eslingen closed his eyes for a second, as though that would help him remember. “He said he’d made a mistake, taken something that had been promised to him—something he needed, he said. And that was what was behind all this.”
“Nothing more?” Rathe asked.
“No.” Eslingen reached for the pint bucket, ladled himself another tankard of beer. “Some people came up to us—he was afraid of being overheard—and then I was needed onstage. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, that’s more than we had before.” Rathe’s eyes narrowed. “Afraid of being overheard…. Do you think it’s someone at the theatre?”
“Well, it has to be, doesn’t it, considering?” Eslingen answered, and Rathe shook his head.
“That wasn’t what I meant, I meant someone at the theatre today, at that moment, in fact.”
Eslingen shook his head in turn. “I’m afraid that doesn’t narrow it down very much. We had the whole chorus there—though not all the actors, not that I ever suspected them particularly. And the staff, and everyone.”
“Was Aubine there?” Rathe asked slowly.
“Yes, fiddling with his damn flowers. The arrangements just keep getting bigger and brighter, they’re going to be spectacular for the performance.” Eslingen paused. “Actually, he was one of the people who came up—you can’t suspect him, Nico.”
“Why not?”
Eslingen spread his hands. “He’s too—polite. Too calm. I just can’t see it.”
“Polite men have committed murder before this, Philip.”
“All right, why, then?”
Rathe stopped, frustrated. “I don’t know. I just….” He let his voice trail off, shook his head again. “I spoke to him today—Ogier worked for him, did I tell you that? Worked on the flowers for the masque, so his death is probably part of all this. But I spoke to Aubine, and…. There’s something about him, Philip, makes my hackles rise. As you said—he’s too polite.”
“A landseur treats you with respect, so you suspect him of murder?” Eslingen asked, grinning, and in spite of himself, Rathe smiled back.
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. No, I don’t trust the man, and I couldn’t tell you why. Sofia, I’d give a pillar or two to see his stars.”
“Is there someone you can ask?” Eslingen asked, and Rathe shook his head, shaking himself back to reality.
“No, no one. His family aren’t even Astreianter, so there won’t be servants to ask, even if I thought they’d tell me. No, I’ll start with Aconin, that sounds a lot more promising. But—” He hesitated, wishing he could put a finger on the cause of his uncertainty, recalled Aubine’s offer to send word via the Leaguer. “Be careful, Philip.”
Eslingen nodded. “I always am.”
9.
For once, Rathe let Eslingen leave before him, biding his time until the clock struck half past nine and he was sure the playwright would be at the Tyrseia. The square in front of the theatre was quiet, the tavern closed, though he was aware of the owner watching from an upstairs window—probably wondering if there was going to be another body, he thought, and smiled in spite of himself. This was probably more excitement than they’d seen since The Drowned Island closed and the apprentices went home. As he came around the curve of the building, he saw a familiar carriage, every available space filled with bundled plants, and sighed to realize that Aubine was there before him. In the same moment, the landseur turned, motioning for his coachman to remain where he was, and moved to intercept him.
“Adjunct Point. I hadn’t hoped you would be here this morning, I thought I would have to send for you.”
“I had other business here,” Rathe answered, and knew he sounded wary.
“Unfortunately, I have—business—of my own for you,” Aubine said, and gave a small, sad smile. “Please, over here.”
Rathe followed him over to the carriage, frowning as he saw the torn leather curtain in its single window. Aubine reached through the window to open the door, and Rathe caught his breath. The floor of the carriage was covered with shards of glass, glass and water already freezing into ice, and a bouquet of summer flowers lay wilting on the seat. The warming box was cold to the touch, the coals extinguished, Rathe guessed, by the water that had spilled.
“Someone,” Aubine said, “shot at my carriage this morning.”
Rathe took a breath, shaking himself back to his duty. “When, maseigneur?”
Aubine looked at the coachman, who rolled his eyes almost as nervously as his horse. “I was told to bring the carriage at half past eight,” he said, “and then it took half an hour or more to load the flowers. So a little after nine, then, maseigneur.”
“A little after nine,” Aubine said.
Rathe fingered the torn curtain. It would have been stretched taut to keep out as much of the cold as possible; the hole was small, about the size of his little finger, but the ball had clearly hit the vase with enough force to shatter it, and that would easily have been enough to wound, probably to kill. For a second, he wished Eslingen were there—he didn’t have much experience with firearms himself, the average Astreianter bravo preferred knives—but pushed the thought away. Time enough to ask him later; for now, there were other matters to determine. “And where were you, maseigneur?”
“I was riding on the box.” Aubine looked almost embarrassed. “There were so many flowers, you see, and all of them delicate.”
“So there were more flowers in the coach?” Rathe asked, and leaned in to examine the floor and seats more closely. Sure enough, there was a tear in the far wall, where the ball had ripped through the coach itself. And it had to be a ball, he thought, couldn’t have been a birdbolt or any other projectile. Anything else would have been slowed by the curtain and the glass, and he would have found it somewhere among the broken pieces. And Aubine, sitting on the box with the driver, would have been, was muffled up against the cold like anyone, no one would expect him to be riding outside, or recognize him when he was.
“Yes,” Aubine said. “But we brought them inside, I didn’t want them to die in the cold. They were already wilting when we got here. I only hope they’ll recover—” He broke off, shaking his head, and Rathe gave him a curious look. At least Aubine realized how his obsessions must sound to outside ears.
“And where did it happen?” Rathe straightened so that he could see the other man clearly.
“Just at our gate,” the coachman said. “We’d just come up to it, the boy had it open, and I heard the shot.”
“The man was standing on our wall,” Aubine said. “Well, not on it, not quite, but looking over it—perhaps he had a ladder on the other side? I don’t know. I told Hue to drive on, and the man dropped out of sight. And we came on here.”
“And why was that, maseigneur?” Rathe asked. “Surely you’d have been safer if you’d waited in your own house, with your own people.”
“I—” Aubine sighed. “I’m not really sure, Adjunct Point. I suppose it would have been, at that. But I heard the shot, and I didn’t think. All I wanted was to get away. Not very brave, I admit, but there have been too many deaths already.”
And that, Rathe thought, I can certainly believe. Nobody was likely to think clearly while they were being shot at, and it would be easier to keep a carriage moving than to back it through the gates. “Did you get a good look at the man?” he asked, and Aubine shook his head.
“I’m sorry. It was a man, I’m sure of that, but he was wearing a driver’s coat and a big hat, it hid his face.”
“Did you see his hair?”
“No.” Aubine shook his head again. “It must have been short, or pulled back.”
Which could describe three-quarters of the men in Astreiant, Rathe thought, but he hadn’t expected any better. “Was he heavy-built, slim—anything at all you can tell me?”
Aubine pursed his lips. “Slim, I think. I couldn’t really tell his height, because of the wall, but I think—I would say he was built like Chresta, slim and light.”
Like Aconin. That name would come up once too often one of these days. Rathe kept his voice steady with an effort. “Could it have been Aconin, do you think?”
Aubine blinked, startled by the idea. “No, surely not. Why would he do such a thing?”
“But could it have been?” Rathe said, and Aubine shook his head, decisively this time.
“I can’t say it wasn’t, but I surely can’t, won’t, say it was. The man was built a little like him, that’s all.”
There’s something not right about this, Rathe thought, he’s lying somewhere. “You know Master Aconin,” he said aloud, and saw something flicker in the landseur’s eyes.
“We—I counted him a friend.”
“And no longer?” Rathe waited, saw Aubine’s mouth tighten.
“It’s a common enough occurrence, I believe, at least where Chresta is concerned. But he has been very much involved in this masque.”
And if he wants to believe that, who am I to disillusion him? For the first time, Rathe felt a stab of pity for the landseur. He himself knew what it was like to lose a lover; Aconin was notorious for the brutality of his partings. “You’d best get the rest of these inside,” he said, and Aubine nodded.
“Thank you, Adjunct Point. Oh, but—one more thing?”
“Yeah?”
“Is—can this be my official report to the points?” Aubine gave another of his soft smiles. “I’m reluctant to add any more to the stories about the masque.”
“I don’t blame you,” Rathe said. Aubine was, after all, the noble sponsor; all these disasters reflected as badly on him as they did on Gasquine, perhaps worse. And I’d hate to think what Caiazzo was making of all this. I daresay he’s watching very close from Customs Point. “I’ll make your report in private. But if I need to talk to you again, may I?”
“Of course.” Aubine nodded, the gesture almost a bow. “And thank you.”
Gasquine was watching from the wings, resting one hip on a tall stool, her hands folded across her chest. She looked exhausted, Rathe thought, with sympathy, and no wonder. The masque was hard enough in any year, but this time…. She looked up then, seeing him, and her eyes narrowed.
“Not more trouble.”
Rathe laughed in spite of himself, shook his head. “I don’t think so, just the same old ones. I need to talk to Aconin.”
“Good luck to you,” Gasquine said. “He’s not here.”
There was a distinct note of annoyance in her voice. Rathe said, “I thought he was here every day, checking up on things.”
“Oh, yes, every day until today, making sure I do justice to his damned masterpiece.” Gasquine sighed. “No, that’s not fair, it is good, and to be even fairer, he doesn’t do as much harm as your average playwright. But today, when I need him, he’s nowhere to be found.”
“When you need him?” Rathe asked. “I thought the script was set.”
“It is,” Gasquine answered. “Or at least it should be. But there’s a speech one of the chorus—the landseur de Besselin—is having trouble with, and I’d like to cut it. But I don’t know if that will affect the magistry of it, and Aconin isn’t here to tell me. So we have to muddle on.”
“So I can assume you don’t have any idea where he might be,” Rathe said slowly, and the woman shook her head.
“Oriane knows. He’s probably holed up somewhere with a new discovery. Have you come to call a point on him?”
Rathe grinned. “No, or at least not yet. I just had some questions for him. Was he paying particular attention to anyone?”
“I have the managing of this masque, Nico,” Gasquine said. “That’s a cast of nearly three score, including a better-born chorus than I’ve ever been unlucky enough to have to deal with. Plus two mysterious deaths in the theatre, and the broadsheets bleating about a haunted theatre or a cursed play, plus Master Eyes’s malice on top of it—you did me no favor there, Nico. Aconin’s affairs have been, I confess, outside my notice.”
“Sorry,” Rathe said, lifting his hands, and Gasquine sighed.
“Not your fault, I know. But I’m starting to feel that the stars are against me.”
“Mistress Gasquine?” That was one of the scenerymen, touching his hand to his forehead. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but—”
Gasquine sighed. “I’m needed?”
“Yes, mistress. Now.”
Gasquine spread her hands in wordless appeal, but slid off her stool and vanished into the shadows without a backward glance. Left to himself, Rathe glanced around, looking for Eslingen among the crowd in the pit. The soldier was nowhere in sight, and he grimaced, wondering if anyone else might know Aconin’s whereabouts.
“Nico?”
The voice was unwelcome—except, Rathe thought, of all the people here, Guis Forveijl is the person most likely to know where I can find Chresta Aconin. “Guis.”
“I wanted to talk to you,” Forveijl said. “I wouldn’t bother you except it’s important. It’s about Chresta. And—” He gestured to the stage, the movement surprisingly ineffective for an actor, and more compelling for it. “All this.”
Rathe stared at him, wondering if Aconin had finally abandoned the other man—and that, he told himself firmly, was an unworthy thought. Forveijl’s face was unusually sober, troubled, and Rathe made a face, capitulating. “All right, talk to me.”
Forveijl shook his head. “Please. Not here.”
He tilted his head to one side, and Rathe sighed again, seeing the rehearsal momentarily at a standstill. A dozen of the chorus were trooping onto the stage, all carrying property weapons—Eslingen was among them, he saw, met Rathe’s glance with a quick smile that was replaced almost instantly with the intent frown that was becoming as familiar to Rathe as any of Forveijl’s gestures had been—and several of the actors, dismissed from the stage, were watching them with open curiosity. No, he could hardly blame Forveijl for wanting to keep this conversation private. “Where, then?” he asked, and Forveijl looked over his shoulder again.
“The dressing rooms, I suppose. That should be private enough.”
Not from what Jhirassi had always told him, Rathe thought, but then, he had no particular desire to be closeted too closely with Forveijl. He nodded, and let the other man lead him through the wings and up a narrow staircase that ran along the theatre’s rear wall. The dressing rooms were there, nearly a dozen of them, communal rooms for the common actors, tiny private rooms for the leading women, and Rathe wondered idly where Eslingen dressed. Or the chorus, for that matter: they could hardly enjoy being tucked into even the largest of the rooms, forced to share with half a hundred others. To his surprise, Forveijl pushed open the door of one of the smaller rooms—but then, Rathe thought, following the other man inside, Forveijl had earned his peers’ regard. Whatever Rathe thought of him, Forveijl had their respect.
The room was surprisingly warm, the air heavy with the smell of the flowers that filled a vase the size of a man’s head. Silverthom, winterspice, and the purple-splashed bells of yet another corm: someone had gotten an expensive gift, Rathe thought, blinking in the sunlight that streamed through the narrow window to reflect from the tall mirror, and wondered if it was Forveijl’s. A part of him hoped it was, and another, smaller part felt a touch of jealousy. But their affair was long over, Forveijl had chosen Aconin and he himself had been lucky enough to find Eslingen, and he put it aside, frowning. The light from the mirror bounced across the far wall as Forveijl knocked against the frame, and Rathe stepped away, wincing.
“All right,” he said, and closed the door behind him. “What did you have to tell me?”
“I needed to talk to you, Nico,” Forveijl answered, and there was something in his voice that made Rathe shake his head in warning.
“About Aconin, so talk.”
“Yes. And I will, I promise. But, Nicolas, I’ve missed you, and this is the first chance I’ve had to say so. It’s a shock to have you back in my life, probably the most pleasant shock of my life, but still—”
“I’m not back in your life,” Rathe said. “I’m trying to find out who killed two people just in this theatre. I’m sorry if it seems to you as though I’m doing it to torment you.” He broke off, not wanting to say the words that had risen to his lips—I wasn’t even thinking you might be here—and Forveijl took a step closer.
“You’re not tormenting me, Nicolas. But, Oriane, if you wanted to, you could. You always did.”
Rathe stared at him for a moment, caught by the gleam of sunlight in the other man’s hair. Forveijl was gilt, warm honey skin and golden hair, where Eslingen was jet and ivory, and the actor was still very beautiful. A part of him had never forgotten that, Rathe knew, would probably never forget even after he’d lost the memory of all the petty quarrels. He took a breath, newly aware of the plants almost at his side, and shook himself, hard. “You’ve nothing to the purpose to say, have you?”
“Very much so, I promise.” Forveijl smiled.
“About Aconin,” Rathe said.
“That, too.”
Rathe shook his head, stifling desire he hadn’t know he still carried. Forveijl was beautiful, yes, handsome, virile, and utterly untrustworthy. He’d proved that more than once. “I’m going,” he said, and realized Forveijl stood between him and the door.
“Are you sure you want to?”
