“Understand, my masters, I say this only because we have a newcomer among us, one who isn’t familiar with our ways–and you, Lieutenant, understand I mean no disrespect, and don’t touch on your honor at all. But the play is not yet published, will not be published until after the masque, and it is our bond to keep as much of the plot secret as we may. I hope we all understand that.”

Eslingen murmured his agreement with the rest, wondering how much good it would do. The Masters might keep their mouths shut, but there were still the actors to consider, and the scenerymen, and, worst of all, the noble chorus. The playwright was going to be lucky if there was only one pirate copy circulating by midwinter.

“So.” Duca paused, and Siredy lifted his head, shaking the strands of his wig back over his shoulders.

“So how bad is it, master?”

“Bad enough.” Duca glanced down at his papers, though Eslingen doubted the man needed to refer to them. “There are five battle‑pieces, and six drills, plus a sword‑dance that may or may not become our responsibility, and, of course, the individual duels.”

“How many of those are part of larger battles?” de Vicheau asked.

“About half.” Duca rustled his papers again. “Including a climax that will have to stay in the piece, so it’ll have to work with and without chorus.”

Eslingen looked at the top sheet again. The familiar sloping letters ran across the narrow page, two lines of dialogue, then a call for trumpets, and then a battle in which one side had to seem to win, but be defeated at the last possible moment. Below that, the scrivener had drawn a neat line, and begun again with dialogue, an unnamed queen calling for entertainment. The script called for a company of Hasiri, the wild nomads who lived on the roof of the world, to show their skill with weapons. Eslingen blinked at that–from what he knew of the Hasiri, showing their skill meant hiding behind rocks to pick off stragglers from the caravans, not exactly the kind of drill that the script seemed to want–and he looked up to see Siredy grinning at him.

“Better you than me, Lieutenant.”

“Right, then,” Duca said. “Siredy, Janne, you break down the duels. Sergeant, you and the lieutenant and I will take a look at the drills. Just to see what we’ve got in hand.”

Siredy nodded, rising easily to take a seat next to de Vicheau, and Rieux edged her chair closer.

“All right, Lieutenant, what do you think of when you think of Hasiri weapons?”

“Bow, slingshot, the occasional lock,” Eslingen answered warily, and Duca chimed in heavily.

“And a taste for ambush. But we can work with bows, I think.”

“If you can train the chorus not to use them,” Rieux said.

“No bowstrings, maybe,” Duca said. “But bows are a good start. And the first battle.”

“Sashes for the chorus, to tell the sides?” Rieux asked, and Duca shrugged.

“Probably. Depends on how much they want to spend on it.”

“And how big is the chorus this year?” Rieux frowned at the paper in front of her, then reached into her own wide sash for a set of wax tablets.

“Three dozen,” Duca answered.

“Thank Seidos we have the Tyrseia, then,” de Vicheau said, and earned a glare from the senior master.

“Fifteen to a side, then,” Rieux said. “That leaves half a dozen for other work, and shouldn’t crowd things too badly.”

Eslingen rested his elbows on the table, wondering again what he’d gotten himself into. There was nothing he could contribute to this discussion, at least not so far, and at the moment he was inclined to think that Soumet was right, maybe he didn’t belong in this company. He was a soldier, not a player, he had no idea what would look good onstage, only of what would be effective in an actual battle… As if she’d read his thought, Rieux grinned at him.

“Oh, don’t worry, Lieutenant, you’ll earn your keep later. At the drills.”

By the end of the day, Eslingen was exhausted, more from trying to absorb too many new ways of thinking than from the earlier fights, though the bruises he had earned earlier were making their presence felt. He paused outside the guildhall’s main door to ease them, and stood for a moment, abruptly at a loss. It was strange, strange and a little unnerving, to be suddenly without a place again, perhaps even more at sea than he’d been when he’d first come to Astreiant. A shadow moved to his left, and he turned, not sure if it was a passerby, or a ghost, or even a late‑working pickpocket. For an instant, he thought he saw something, recognized if not a face then the set of the shoulders, but then the door opened again behind him, spilling light into the street, and the foppish master, Siredy, paused, holding the door open for Rieux. He smiled, seeing the other man.

“Join us, why don’t you, Philip? We’re going to Anric’s to drink and curse Chresta Aconin’s name.”

Eslingen laughed out loud. “That sounds very tempting, but I need to–regularize my living arrangements.”

Both the other masters nodded in sympathy, and Siredy tipped his head to one side, the wig falling in precise curls across his chest. “If you need a place,” he offered, but Eslingen shook his head. He was not precisely out of doors, if he would just admit it to himself.

“Thank you, but I think I’m settled. I just need to make arrangements to have my things brought there.”

“Ah. Well, a good evening to you then, Philip,” Rieux said, kindly enough. “I hope you get yourself sorted out.” And then they were gone, arm in arm, Siredy bending gracefully to listen to the older master, heading up the street that led away from the river, into the closer environs of Point of Dreams. Eslingen watched them for a moment, not sure if he envied them, until the chill breeze from the river stirred his hair. The sun was down, and it would be cold. And he needed to let Rathe know that he had company.

Point of Dreams came alive at sunset, actors released from their day’s labor or heading to small‑shows joining early lovers on their way to Point of Hearts and pleasure‑seekers from all over the city. Eslingen dodged the crowds, trying not to laugh at the way that fate seemed to be making the move neither he nor Rathe had been able to, at least to this point. Despite Meening’s warning, he felt sure this was not folly. But neither was it the way he would have seen them living together, not as this chance throw, without warning, or even an offer made, and certainly no time to let Rathe know until he appeared on the man’s doorstep. At that thought, he paused, scanning the stalls of the night market, mindful of his finances, but also remembering what Duca had said about their potential earnings from the masque. A share should be substantial, if he understood it correctly. And if he was going to move in with Rathe, and he fervently hoped that was the case, he was determined not to give folly a foothold, but come bearing gifts, or at least provisions. The stalls here were mostly broadsheets–and of The Drowned Island, at that, not the sort of gift he needed at all–and he looked in vain for a cookshop. Maybe wine would be better anyway, he thought, and wished for the first time that b’Estorr were around to advise him. The necromancer knew wine, give him that, was as much the gentleman as Duca had been looking for… He smiled then. b’Estorr bought his wine from Wicked, and Wicked would know what Rathe liked. He would throw himself on her mercy, and she would see him safe.

The tavernkeeper was as good as he’d hoped, finding the right wine and throwing in a decent loaf for good measure, and he made his way back to the Dreams point station as the city clocks struck six, the chimes filling the air with discordant music. The station showed its military past more than most of the points stations, almost like an ancient castle, something out of the Leaguer hills, heavy‑walled and short of windows, blocking the end of the street like a slumbering beast. It had been a garrison and an armory, he remembered Rathe mentioning, just as the other stations had been, and it was probably just the darkness that gave it an eldritch look.