Melissa Scott and Lisa A. Barnett

" Point Of Dreams: the second pointsman book ."

Points of Dreams

1

Philip Eslingen settled himself more comfortably on the padded stool, watching as the woman seated opposite made the final adjustments to her orrery. It was a standing orrery, tiny bronze planets moving on bronze orbits against a silver‑washed zodiac, and in spite of himself he shivered at the memory of another similar machine. But that one had been gold, the peculiarly vivid gold of aurichalcum, not solid, reputable bronze, and in any case, it was long gone, consumed by the power it had contained. This was just another astrologer’s tool, though no one would be foolish enough to call Sibilla Meening just another astrologer. She had a name in Point of Dreams, was revered by those actors rich enough to consult her, and feared by the ones who were poor enough to believe that she advised sharers on casting. Caiazzo’s household knew of her, too, and spoke well of her, even Denizard, which was what had finally induced him to part with five seillings–half a week’s wages–when he was about to lose his place and should be saving every demming. At second glance, he was less sure he’d been wise–the consulting room was a little too lavish, too much like a stage set of an astrologer’s room, lined with books and leather cylinders that could only hold scrolls, preferably rotting and mysterious, and Meening herself was portentous in the most formal of university robes, the enormous sleeves held back with gold pins in the shape of a scallop shell, a pearl poised carefully in each fan. Not the symbol Eslingen would have expected–the Starsmith was the usual patron of astrologers, not Oriane–but probably reassuring for the players and musicians and occasional slumming nobles who were her patrons.

“So, Lieutenant Eslingen,” Meening said, and Eslingen jerked himself back to the present.

“Magist.” He had no idea if she was actually a magist as well as an astrologer, but from the look of the room, it would do him no harm to assume the higher rank.

Meening smiled, and shook her head. “I’m only an astrologer, Lieutenant.”

“ ‘Only’?” Eslingen repeated. “I’ve never heard that word applied to you, madame.”

Meening blinked once, and then, unexpectedly, grinned. “Gavi warned me about you.”

Eslingen blinked in his turn, and allowed himself a rueful smile. “Of course you know Gavi.”

“And, forgive me,” Meening said, “but there’s not an astrologer in the city who doesn’t remember the names of the men who rescued the children not six months past. There’s no need to flatter me like some stumbling bit player who wants a lower fee.”

“My apologies.”

Meening nodded. “Now, are you familiar with astrological terms?”

“I read the broadsheets,” Eslingen said. Beneath the paint and the elaborate gown, he saw, too late, that she was sharply amused. “I’ve even read some of yours.”

Deliberately, he added nothing more, and Meening dipped her head, acknowledging the hit. “Then you’re aware of the current circumstances.”

“It’s ghost‑tide,” Eslingen said, and suppressed a shudder that he was sure she recognized. No soldier liked to think of his ghosts coming back to haunt him, no matter how benign.

“That certainly. The sun is in the Mother, and the moon is in opposition. That is the ghost‑tide.” She paused. “Anything more?”

Eslingen spread his hands. “Madame, I’ve come to you for guidance.”

“And you say you read my broadsheets.” The mockery was back in her voice, but only briefly. “Very well. In general, then, and then particulars.” She reached out, tapped the orrery gently, making the planets shiver in their courses. “In general, Lieutenant, there are only two planets in a day house, the moon and Seidos, both in the Maiden–the planet of the private person and the planet of tradition both in the house of finance, liberty, and the individual household. That’s good so far as it goes, but all the other planets are in the night houses, the interior world, impulse and intuition, largely unbridled, and their aspects drown this good influence. The sun is largely unaspected, and the aspects that do exist, a triple conjunction and a powerful opposition, tend to cancel each other out. The individual is without direction, particularly in regard to public, everyday affairs. And there is a four‑way conjunction”–she reached across the narrow table to turn the orrery on its carved stone base, so that the tangle of planets was obvious–“here, with the Winter‑Sun, Tyrseis, Sofia, and Oriane, that overbalances everything. That places the Winter‑Sun, planet of transitions and changes, together with the heedless fortune and fertility of Oriane, Tyrseis the trickster, and a retrograde Sofia–justice unblinded, seeing all too clearly–in the Sea‑bull, one of its exaltations, the sign of fertile chaos: this is an overwhelming desire to take chances, to gamble, to find a cause to back, a passion to pursue to the point of obsession. It’s also in sextile with Heira– the planet of contracts in the house of secrets and hidden treasures– which just encourages this folly. More, it’s in quincunx with Metenere, which suggests that these gambles and passions will be fruitless, but that’s the only negative aspect to the Winter‑Sun. It’s not usually this unaspected.”

She paused, considering, then turned the orrery again. “This also. The Homestar is in the Dolphin, the house of divine discontent, and it squares Oriane, which is in its exaltation. Again, the individual is without direction. Areton squares the moon: action will be difficult. In general, Lieutenant, Astreiant is primed for folly.”

“What sort of folly?” Eslingen asked.

“Ah.” Meening gave her thin smile again. “I thought you wanted a personal reading.”

“I should think it would have some bearing on my personal follies,” Eslingen answered, and Meening laughed.

“True enough. Have you seen The Drowned Island?”

Eslingen blinked, thinking for a second that it was a change of subject–that play had held the interest of almost everyone in Astreiant, from apprentice to merchants resident to the nobles in the Western Reach for almost two months now, unprecedented time, and he had not been able to understand the cause–then tipped his head to one side, considering. “You’re a critic, madame.”

“I’ve lived in Point of Dreams all my life, Lieutenant. The stars would have to be in a unique configuration before that piece of tripe could catch the imagination of the city. No offense to Gavi, of course.”

“Of course,” Eslingen echoed. Gavi Jhirassi played the lead, and was making a tidy profit from it, by all accounts. I’ll have to tell Nico, he thought. Maybe it would make him feel better about the play.

“And that’s only the beginning,” Meening said. “I’ll tell you that for free. There’s a folly coming that will make The Drowned Islandand its followers look like the wisest of women.”

I’ve read that broadsheet, Eslingen thought, suddenly. He’d bought it only a few days ago, and, yes, it had borne Meening’s name, though he’d been told often enough that mere names meant nothing to the printers, that it was common practice to attach a more popular name to an unknown work. The writer–Meening in truth, it seemed–had predicted foolishness to end all foolishness, and warned the wise to lock up their purses and their hearts until the storm had passed. In retrospect, it didn’t seem to be a good omen.

“And now the personal,” Meening said. She reached for a flat orrery, already set to mimic the stars of Eslingen’s birth. “It’s a pity you don’t know your time more closely.”

“Yes.” Eslingen felt the stab of a familiar pain. His mother had had too many children by the time she’d borne him, and been too poor to pay a real midwife; she’d given birth with the help of a neighbor and her own oldest daughter, and no one had thought to check the nearest clock until the baby had been cleaned and swaddled.