There were half a dozen runners in the yard in spite of the cold, bundled in oversized coats and jerkins that looked as though they’d been handed down from mothers or older siblings, dodging from base to base in an intricate game of chase by the light of a half‑dozen lanterns, and he half expected them to ask his business. The runners at Point of Hopes would have done so, he thought, or maybe that was just because they’d known him; one of the boys glanced at him, but a girl shouted, and he turned back to the game. Eslingen suppressed a wry smile. Dismissed, for the second time today.

The station’s main room was much bigger than the room at Point of Hopes, and the air was warm and dry, smelling of herbs and smoke and tobacco instead of the points’ reheated dinners. There was the familiar row of jerkins hanging on the far wall, ready to hand, and the low bench opposite where malefactors or those in trouble could sit and wait the points’ pleasure, but the tall case‑clock that stood beside the stairs was something unexpected, a beautiful piece that showed solar and lunar phases as well as the time. Tiny gilded huntresses and their dogs chased each other around the box where the block itself stood, and a forest of vines climbed the edges of the case, creatures peering out from among the leaves. Eslingen blinked, wondering where that had come from–surely the points couldn’t afford that fine clock on their own–and someone cleared her throat behind him.

“Can I help you, master?”

It was a young man, Eslingen saw, turning, a young man shaved to perfection, whose spotless linen and sober coat were badly at odds with his rough jerkin and pointsman’s truncheon.

“Yes. I was wondering if Adjunct Point Rathe is available,” he said, and saw the other man’s eyes travel quickly over his own clothes, visibly assessing quality and cost. Whatever he saw made him come forward, waving for a less fashionable pointswoman to take his place behind the station’s daybook.

“Yes, he is, master. Allow me to show him to you.”

“I wouldn’t want to interrupt,” Eslingen offered, but the other shook his head.

“No interruption at all, sir.”

“I meant to Rathe,” Eslingen murmured, but softly enough that the young man could pretend he hadn’t heard. Out of the corner of his eye, Eslingen thought he saw the woman hide a grin behind the tip of her quill, and schooled himself to follow the pointsman with due decorum. The man led him up the stairs and around the bulge of the massive central chimney, paused there to knock on a closed door. There was an indistinct mumble in response, which the pointsman seemed to take for permission, and pushed open the door. “Someone to see you, Adjunct Point.”

Rathe was sitting at a worktable set to catch the best light from the now‑shuttered window, and looked up with a frown that faded as he saw who was with the pointsman. “All right, Voillemin, thanks. I’ll see Lieutenant Eslingen.”

Voillemin stepped back with a movement that was almost a bow, and Eslingen edged past him into the little room. It was warmer than he’d expected, given the expanse of window, and he realized that there was another little stove in the far corner. He held his hands out to it as the door closed behind him, wondering if Rathe would offer him some of the tea that stood steeping on the hob, and realized that his own smile was distinctly nervous.

Rathe leaned back in his chair. “And to what do I owe the pleasure, Lieutenant? Have a seat, you look tired.”

“Thank you,” Eslingen said sourly, but his muscles were stiffening again, and he was glad of the chair. Not for the first time that day, he wished he’d practiced harder while he was in Caiazzo’s service. “Well, in one of those whirlwind changes of fate that seem to be my lot in life, I am officially no longer Caiazzo’s knife.”

“Not precisely unexpected,” Rathe said. In the lamplit shadows, it was hard to read his expression, but his voice was dry.

“No, but sudden. Caiazzo finds his opportunities and takes them, let me tell you. Though you’re probably the last person I need to tell that,” Eslingen added, shaking his head. “Nor has he precisely cast me out into the streets..

“You’ve got to stop going to the theatre,” Rathe murmured. “Where’d he find you a place, then?”

Eslingen took a breath. “You are now looking at the newest member of the Masters of the Guild of Defense.”

Rathe whistled soundlessly, the chair returning to the floor with a definite thump. “Gods, that’s–well, it would be unbelievable, if it weren’t Caiazzo.”

“Because he seems able to get whatever he wants?” Eslingen asked. Rathe cocked his head, was looking amused.

“Because Gerrat Duca is his cousin, actually, as well as the other. Did you have to try for a place?”

Eslingen nodded. “Three bouts, at the guildhall today. Apparently I performed creditably enough.”

“Which means,” Rathe said slowly, “you’ll be involved with the masque–Aconin’s damned Alphabet.”

“You know about that,” Eslingen said, and didn’t know why he was surprised.

“They told us two days ago, actually,” Rathe said. “As soon as the chamberlains made their decision.” He tipped his head to one side, slid a sheet of paper a little larger than a broadsheet across the tabletop. “What do you actually know about the masque, Philip?”

Eslingen reached for the announcement–it proclaimed Aconin’s play the winner in two short lines, then went on to give a series of orders for the points stations, and Point of Dreams in particular– and set the sheet back on the table. “Mostly what I’ve heard from Caiazzo, which isn’t much, and most of that was scathing. And what little I heard about the guild’s work today. Hasiri, demonstrating their abilities with weapons, proving once again, I suppose, that Chresta Aconin has an outstanding imagination if he thinks rock throwing is a particularly difficult skill to master.”

“Not his chosen weapon,” Rathe muttered. Eslingen glanced curiously at him, wondering what had provoked the unmistakable bitterness of his tone, but the pointsman was already hurrying on, his voice consciously lighter. “It’s supposed to be better for the masses than the usual run of play–”

“Like The Drowned Island?” Eslingen asked, and was pleased to see Rathe grin.

“It also reinforces the health of the country and the health of the queen. It’s not so much the subject matter, but you’ll see certain patterns appear in every single masque, esoteric ones–that’s why there has to be a noble chorus, or so I’m told. That’s in addition to the displays and drills you’ll be working on, and that’s why it takes all day, to get things done in more or less the right signs.”

Eslingen sighed, trying to imagine fitting magistical workings into a show that already felt unwieldy. “Sounds like a very uneasy mating of Tyrseis and Seidos.”

Rathe nodded. “Yeah, to my thought, but…” He shrugged. “It’s a holiday at the darkest day of the year, and it reinforces the queen’s rule. And every single point station in the city is expected to offer support to Point of Dreams.”

“So it’s no holiday for you, either,” Eslingen said.

“Afraid not.”

They sat silent for a moment, Eslingen wondering uneasily how he was going to raise the subject of his presence. Something scraped against the windowpane, and he jumped, knowing it had to be a tree branch. Rathe frowned, opened his mouth, and Eslingen spoke first, not wanting the other to have to ask what he’d come for.

“The thing of it is, Nico…” The last thing he wanted was to beg space from the other, when what he wanted was something more. He didn’t want to phrase it like that, either; this was a bad time for declarations, when it would sound like mere expedience. “Nico, I’m out of doors, and this is not the way I would have wanted to handle it, but would you be willing to have me–living with you?”