“Oh, before your time, I would imagine, from what Siredy says. Twenty years ago, almost.”

“And the points’ authority wasn’t as recognized as it is these days. Astree knows, that’s still little enough when a noble’s involved.” He was frowning, trying to recall the matter, which would have happened in the early days of his apprenticeship, but shook his head, gave it up. “Sad, though. One deserves at least that much consolation,” he murmured, thinking of Holles. “And he’s not at all nonplused by Aconin?”

“Doesn’t seem to be, in fact, though he twitted me about my sudden accession of rank with the new name, Chresta seemed a lot more deferential than I’d ever seen him…” Eslingen trailed off as Rathe’s head lifted sharply.

“You know Aconin?”

“Gods, I didn’t mention it? No, I don’t suppose I did, it’s nothing really to brag about,” Eslingen said uncomfortably, stopping in the act of unwinding his stock, wondering at the sudden harsh note in Rathe’s voice. “My past comes back to haunt me. I knew him many years ago. We grew up on the same street in Esling, and from what I saw and heard tonight, he hasn’t changed much. A quick wit and a nasty one, that was Chresta. Kept him in one piece when we were children, and the two of us motherless children. He found his way out, I found mine.”

“You have my sympathies,” Rathe murmured. There was something, some note in his voice that made Eslingen glance quickly at him, but Rathe was reaching for his tablets, closing them and neatly piling the papers, securing them with a lead weight. Was this just the general dislike many in the city seemed to have for Aconin, or something more? A deep yawn startled him, and he decided it could wait for another day to query Rathe about it.

4

« ^ »

It was another cold morning, and cloudy, and Eslingen lay for a few minutes in the empty bed struggling to think just where he was before he remembered. He was still unused to being here, and he wasn’t sure that either one of them liked this unexpected intimacy. Perverse, really, considering that he, at least, had been thinking in terms of lemanry–but not like this. Not because he’d lost his job and had no other place to stay.

He stretched, glad he’d been able to afford the baths the night before, assessing the protests from muscles he hadn’t used in months. They’d gotten a thorough workout with the rest of the masters the day before, earning him the dour approval of Soumet. He stretched farther, experimentally. Not too bad, considering he hadn’t had any reason to put in more than cursory practice, but he’d still have to warm up carefully before he went about leading any drills or teaching any lessons. And that meant getting an early start, or what passed for an early start among the actors. He suppressed a groan, and levered himself out of bed.

Rathe had left the teapot half full, still swaddled in a knitted cozy, and the end of a loaf of bread on the table beside it. That was welcoming enough, but the bags still standing in the corner of the main room were less so. Eslingen made a face as he carved himself a slice of the bread, but tidied them back into the corner once he’d found the day’s clean linen. At least no one would expect him to wear a good shirt to a rehearsal–or at least he hoped they wouldn’t expect it. Rathe had only a small shaving mirror, and Eslingen had to stoop and bend to fasten his stock by its reflection. He had had himself shaved at the baths, thank Seidos, and as he pulled his hair back into a loose queue he felt almost human. All things considered, though, it would probably be a good idea if he started looking for a place of his own. He and Rathe could sort things out between them once this latest crisis was over. He found the breadbox after a brief search, tidied the last of the loaf into it and poured the dregs of the tea into the slop bucket, and let himself out into the chill courtyard.

There had been frost the night before, and the morning light had done nothing yet to melt it except in the most exposed areas. The cobbles were still slick with it, and Eslingen picked his way carefully along the narrow street, grateful to finally reach the wider road that led toward the theatres. The doubled sunlight, the winter‑sun setting, the day‑sun well up, did little to dissipate the chill, and Eslingen hunched his shoulders under his coat, wishing he’d had the sense to bring his cloak. But the chill wouldn’t last, he told himself, knowing it was fashion speaking rather than common sense, and quickened his pace as much as he dared.

Point of Dreams was just waking, though the nearest clock had already struck half‑past nine, and the only people on the street were a few pairs of still‑sleepy‑looking apprentices, taking down shop shutters in preparation for the day’s business. Not for the first time, Eslingen wondered how Rathe was adjusting to the change from Point of Hopes, where the day started before the first sunrise, but then put the thought aside. He had work to do, and mooning over Rathe wasn’t going to put him in the right frame of mind to handle a full chorus of semitrained and bloody‑minded nobles. At least the morning’s work was just with the other Masters of Defense, trying to make sense of the script’s set pieces. There were–he narrowed his eyes against the day‑sun, counting–three staged battles, plus a victory drill, an armed wedding procession, and two separate sword dances, and, of course, the half‑dozen duels. The last weren’t his responsibility, but he’d be expected to contribute to the drill pieces, and it would be nice to show he was useful early on.

The Tyrseia loomed ahead, the dark slates of its half roof gleaming wetly in the doubled sunlight, and he slowed his pace, trying to remember where Duca had told him to enter the theatre. The main doors were closed and barred–it was not a day for The Drowned Island, or they would never have had the use of the stagehouse– and the few low windows were heavily shuttered, and he hesitated for a second, debating whether to turn left or right around the building’s solid curve.

“Philip!”

Eslingen turned, recognizing the voice with relief, and Verre Siredy lifted a hand in greeting.

“I’m glad I caught you up, I couldn’t remember if Master Duca had told you where to go.”

“Neither could I,” Eslingen answered, with perfect truth, and Siredy grinned, showing good teeth. He was not, Eslingen thought again, a particularly handsome man, but there was something very engaging about him all the same. Eslingen had been aware, at the previous day’s drills, of the other’s interest. Amusing, flattering, certainly, but not a game he wanted to play at the moment.

“We go in by the players’ door,” Siredy said. “Below the middle stairs.”

Eslingen let him lead the way, idly admiring the cut of the other man’s coat, a dark red wool with huge jet buttons. It had to have been expensive, but then, in the queen’s capital, it was possible to find good clothes barely worn once and then discarded. His own best linen had come from there, and he was seized by a sudden panicked thought: what if one of the noble landseurs recognized his discard? But that was foolish, no one who could afford to get rid of clothing barely worn knew their wardrobe that well–and in any case, his coat and vest were new, the fruits of his time with Caiazzo.

There was a watchman at the door, an older man, his mouth drawn down in permanent disapproval, and behind him the languid de Vicheau rolled his eyes in irritation.

“Is this the lot of you?” the watchman demanded, and de Vicheau shook his head, glancing over his shoulder into the shadows of the theatre.

“No–Master Duca and Sergeant Rieux aren’t here.”

“Then you’ll have to wait here,” the watchman said, and stood aside to let them into a narrow tunnel that ran under the lowest tier of galleries. “Hey, you, Mersine! You wait at the head of the ramp, and don’t let any of them past you.”