“All right.” The voice was very young, and came from just below Eslingen’s elbow. He repressed a start, and a skinny girl in a patched skirt and bodice pushed past him, to take up her place at the head of the ramp. He blinked, not quite able to repress a smile at the thought of that urchin holding in check the Masters of Defense, and de Vicheau rolled his eyes again.

“Master Watchman,” he began, and the watchman held up both hands.

“Not my policy, master, there’s nothing I can do. It’s because of the machinery, nobody’s supposed to be allowed onstage until there’s a sceneryman to make sure all’s well. And besides, Mistress Gasquine pays me well to make sure no strangers wander loose in her theatre.”

“It’s not her theatre,” de Vicheau muttered, not quite under his breath.

“We’re working with Mistress Gasquine on the masque,” another man said with ponderous dignity. Eslingen jumped again–he hadn’t seen the big man there in the shadows, or the round‑faced girl beside him–and the master went on as though he hadn’t noticed. “If that’s her policy, I trust she’s hired a sceneryman, then? Because we have the chorus here at half past noon, expecting to rehearse.”

The watchman seemed to realize for the first time that he might be outside his authority, and his voice quavered. “It’s the Tyrseia’s policy, masters, but if you have to, I know someone you can send to–”

“That won’t be necessary,” Gerrat Duca said from the doorway, and at his side, Sergeant Rieux held out a slip of paper. “This is Gasquine’s warrant, and the merchant‑venturers’, for us to use the stage.”

“You understand, master,” the watchman said, “I have to do as I’m told, it’s not my right to say who can do what where, I just do what they tell me–”

He pushed past them all as he spoke, moving up the long passage, and the masters closed rank behind him. The girl Mersine bounced once, anticipating something, and then the mage‑lights fired, filling the space with blue‑toned light. Eslingen caught his breath, startled by the sheer size of the theatre. He had never been on the floor of the pit before, hadn’t realized how the galleries loomed over it, three tiers high, each tier painted and gilded as brightly as the outside of the theatre, the colors gleaming in the mage‑light that streamed from hundreds of fixed‑fire globes. Compared to that, the stage itself seemed bare, pale wood only a few shades darker than the canvas that provided a temporary roof. The day‑sun hadn’t quite reached it, and the canvas hung slack and dark over the benches that filled the pit. More mage‑lights glowed above the stage itself, casting unexpected shadows on the towering scenery–the riverside set for The Drowned Island–and Eslingen remembered that they had not been lit during the performance. There was something on the stage, though, a shape like a bundle of rags, and at his side de Vicheau gave a long sigh.

Eslingen echoed him, thinking of delay, looking for the weapons that weren’t there, but then the true nature of the shape registered on him, long and low and dark, with one pale shape trailing away from it: not rags at all, but a man sprawled across the polished boards, one hand outstretched as though he was reaching for something.

“Sweet Tyrseis, has it started already?” That was Siredy, already striding forward, but Duca caught his shoulder.

“Wait.” He looked at the watchman. “This isn’t our sceneryman, I trust?”

The watchman shook his head, seemingly struck speechless, and it was Duca’s turn to sigh.

“All right, let’s get him sobered up and out of here, and then we can get to work. Siredy, you and Eslingen see to that, the rest of you, see if you can find where the damned carters left our gear.”

“It was onstage when I left last night,” Rieux protested, but let herself be drawn away with the others.

Eslingen looked at Siredy. “Does this happen often?”

Siredy made a face. “Only for the masque, really. A lot of the players don’t take it all that seriously. And Tyrseis knows, they’ve cause not to. Ah, hells, let’s get it over with.”

Eslingen nodded, reluctantly, fearing what they’d find on the stage. But the new boy always got the nasty jobs, and at least he didn’t smell anything yet. He followed Siredy down the long side aisle, and waited while the other dragged a set of steps from beneath the stage and set it into place, fitting hooks into brass fittings on the edge of the stage itself. It wasn’t that tall, only about to a man’s waist, but it would make it easier to move the drunk once they were in place.

“And that’s something else that should have been done already,” Siredy said. “I wonder if this is our sceneryman.”

“If it is, I hope the theatre docks his pay.” Eslingen followed the other man onto the stage, suddenly aware of the empty seats looming behind him. He had seen dozens of plays so far, but he’d never really imagined being onstage, at the center of that concentrated attention, and it took an effort of will to turn and look up into the galleries, across the empty pit. He tried to imagine those seats filled, a thousand faces and more staring down at him, at them, Siredy and the drunken sceneryman and himself, and felt a thrill that was at once fear and excitement. Someone had told him once that he was never happier than when he was at the center of attention. Well, this was that center with a vengeance, and he made himself turn away again, focusing on the sceneryman still sprawled unmoving in the center of the stage.

“Come along,” Siredy said, moving toward him, and Eslingen froze. That was no sceneryman, there was lace at his cuff, shrouding the limp hand, and the hair that fell so heavily, hiding his face, was an expensive wig.

“Wait.”

Siredy glanced over his shoulder, eyebrows raised, then drawn down into a frown as he read the other man’s expression. “What is it?”

“I’m–not sure.” Eslingen reached Siredy’s side in two strides. A third brought him to the fallen man, and he knelt cautiously, aware of a nasty smell that wasn’t vomit. “I think–” He reached for the man’s shoulder as he spoke, felt the flesh hard as wood under his hand. He rolled it toward him, and the body moved all of a piece, stiff and ugly, unmistakably some hours’ dead.

“Sweet Tyrseis,” Siredy said, his thin face gone suddenly sallow, and Eslingen had to swallow hard himself. The man’s face was vaguely familiar, someone he’d seen around the theatre, but the clothes were too good, too new, for this to be some player or fencer or sceneryman. “He’s dead.”

Eslingen nodded. “And stiff.” There were no marks on the front of his body, linen unstained except where bladder and bowels had let go, and the strong high‑boned face was curiously expressionless. Definitely someone he’d seen at the theatre, Eslingen thought again. “Siredy–”

“It’s the landseur de Raзan,” Siredy said, almost in the same moment, and Eslingen let his breath out sharply. One of the noble chorus, one of the names the chamberlain had called out during the interminable introductions.

“How?” Siredy dropped to his knees beside the body, and Eslingen let it fall back again. The wig fell away, revealing close‑cut fair hair, and Siredy automatically reached for it, started to put it back, but Eslingen caught his hand.

“Wait.” There were no marks on de Raзan’s back, either, the well‑cut coat undamaged, and stifling his revulsion, Eslingen ran his hand lightly over the dead man’s skull. The bone seemed solid enough, no suspiciously soft spots, and he rocked back on his heels again. “I don’t know, there’s no mark on him–”

Siredy laid the wig carefully beside the dead man’s head. “An apoplexy, maybe? He’s young for that–”

“Or died of drink or sickness?” Eslingen shook his head. “He’s a landseur, he could afford to die in his bed.”

“Tyrseis,” Siredy said again, and this time it sounded like a prayer.