“I’m not going to like this,” Rathe said.

“The most recent City Point rumor is that the queen finally means to name her successor at midwinter. The time is finally propitious, they say.”

“Fourie said that she might,” Rathe said. “But I didn’t believe it.”

“They’re betting on it in City Point,” Trijn said, and Rathe nodded.

“Which means they’re all hostages.”

“For their families’ good behavior.” Trijn nodded in her turn.

Did Fourie actually know? Rathe wondered. And if he knew, why couldn’t he say–did anyone know officially, or had the news simply been whispered in the right corners, the word trickling out through the familiar channels of gossip? And how wise was that? The worst of it was, if this was completely unofficial information… “What the hell are we supposed to do about it?” he said aloud.

Trijn gave a weary shrug, and Rathe wondered just when she had gotten in that morning. Dreams was new for both of them, they both had come from districts where the problems were more commonplace. “There’s not a lot we can do,” she said. “I’m thinking of calling Fourie on it, see if we can’t get some kind of warrant for action, permission to keep an official eye on the Tyrseia, but until then, Rathe, I confess I’m relying on your connections in the theatre.”

For a second, Rathe thought she meant Eslingen, but then realized she meant his friendship with Gavi Jhirassi. He had had connections within the theatre world long before he met Philip Eslingen. His eyes dropped to the cast list again, to the professionals, this time, and with a sick jolt he saw the name he had somehow avoided before. Guis Forveijl: yes, that was a connection he could well have lived without.

“Rathe?”

He shook himself. “Sorry.”

Trijn nodded. “As you’ve nothing more pressing at the moment than these damned Alphabets, I’d take it kindly if you could manage to keep the Tyrseia under your eye. Unofficially, to be sure. Unless you can find an official reason–preferably one that’s not too dire.”

Rathe smiled faintly. “I might be able to concoct something. If nothing else, Chresta Aconin’s responsible for this new craze for the Alphabets. I wonder if we mightn’t score a point for inciting civic disquiet.”

“Enjoy your dreams, Rathe,” Trijn said. “Now, I want you to go over this chorus list again. If I’m right, they’re all connected to claimants somehow or other, and I want to know exactly how–to what degree, and how many quarterings. You personally, not an apprentice.”

“Yes, Chief,” Rathe said with a sigh. He understood the need for secrecy, but he was duty point this afternoon; the assignment would mean several hours at the Sofian temple, or possibly the university, all in his supposedly free time. At this time of year, the libraries were particularly cold and dank, and he wished he could send an apprentice. The Sofians in particular never bothered to light fires until the first snow, a precaution against fire, they said, but, Rathe believed, more as an outward sign of their general perversity. He had spent more than enough time in both places, taking on assignments designed to prove that an apprentice could, in fact, read and write; it was hardly a job that suited his age and rank.

Trijn lifted an eyebrow, as though she’d guessed the thought. “Unless you’d like the task I’ve set myself, which is persuading Astreiant to at least make this information official to the points.”

Rathe blinked, wondering how the chief point could be so free with the metropolitan’s time, but shook his head. “I’m more than happy to leave that to you.”

He made his way back to his workroom, stopping only to collect another pot of tea, and settled himself behind his table to frown at the list of chorus members again. He knew at least some of the connections, and he reached for a charcoal, began noting them down to save some time at the temples. Eslingen would know more, he thought, and wondered if he dared ask the other man. Trijn had made clear that she wanted it kept secret– and wisely, too–but Eslingen was hardly an apprentice pointsman. He grinned to himself at that: Trijn would agree, but hardly come to the same conclusion. And perhaps it would be less than wise to take the list out of the station.

A knock at the door interrupted his train of thought, and he flipped the list over automatically. “Come in.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Adjunct Point.” It was Kurin Holles, his formal robes discarded for a drab suit that did nothing to flatter his ivory coloring.

“Advocat, I’m sorry. Please, have a seat.”

Holles hesitated for a moment, then shook himself and sat uneasily on the chair nearest the stove. He was carrying a paper‑wrapped parcel, Rathe saw, and set it awkwardly on his knee, seemingly at a loss for words.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” Rathe prompted, and the other man managed a flinching smile.

“Not really. Reassurance, I suppose. It’s been–days–and this pointsman, this Voillemin?”

Rathe nodded.

“Hasn’t yet been to the house, or sought me at the courts. Will he really do his best to find Bourtrou’s killer?”

Not spoken to the leman yet. Rathe suppressed his own anger– Voillemin might have been trying to spare Holles’s feelings, pursue other leads before troubling a man bereaved, but somehow he doubted it–and fumbled for the right words. “Advocat, I–”

“I know,” Holles said. “I’m sorry, the question wasn’t fair. But, gods, Rathe! I expected better than this.”

Rathe bit down anger again. “You heard the decree yourself. I can’t intervene, or the regents will revoke their warrant.” He lifted his hand to forestall Holles’s answer. “And even if that weren’t the case, I would have no right to interfere in another’s case unless and until there were some concrete reason, some obvious failure, that had to be corrected.”

“And not talking to me isn’t an obvious failure?” Holles asked.

He had found the body, Rathe remembered, but tried for a conciliatory tone. “He may have been trying to spare your feelings, Advocat.”

Holles took a deep breath and gave a jerky nod. “It isn’t necessary. All I want–”

He broke off, and Rathe finished the sentence for him. “Is to know what happened, and why. And even that may not be enough, Advocat. You know that.”

“I know.” Holles’s voice was almost a whisper. “Sofia’s tits, I don’t know where to set him looking, don’t even know where I’d start if I were him, but I want justice. There’s nothing else left for me.” He shook his head, straightening. “I’m sorry. But I don’t know who else I can come to with my concerns.”

“It’s a matter for the chief point,” Rathe said, and Holles smiled again.

“Trijn has her own agenda in this, I think. I feel confident in you.”

That matched Rathe’s impression all too well, and in spite of himself Rathe nodded once. “He’s not a bad pointsman, not corrupt, I give you my word on that. And I will pass him the word that he need not worry about your sensibilities. And if anything else happens to concern you, you can come to me, and I will speak to Voillemin about it. I’m the senior adjunct here, my job is not to undermine the points under me. Do you understand that?”

Holles nodded, a rueful smile on his face. “That’s one of the many reasons I wish you were handling this investigation, Adjunct Point. I’ve said my piece, I won’t trouble you further.” He looked down at the parcel, and the smile twisted out of true. “Except one thing. A kind of jest, and probably in poor taste, but I thought you might appreciate it; Or an irony, at least. I found this at Bourtrou’s office in the Tour, and thought you might want to add it to your collection.”

Rathe took the package, frowning slightly, and unwrapped the paper to reveal a plainly bound octavo volume, the corners bent from hard use. There was no title stamped on spine or cover, and he opened it warily, only to laugh as he saw the title page. Well, why not? he thought, gazing down at it. It seemed a part of the way things were going these days.