“Master Duca.”

A big man, florid faced and as brightly dressed, swung away from his low‑voiced conversation with a stocky woman. “At last. So you’re the pointsman.”

“Adjunct Point,” Siredy murmured, and the big man waved the words away. “And this is Master Duca, senior master of the Guild.”

“Points–Adjunct Point, we have a rehearsal called for noon, and Gasquine’s crew should be here before then, and what are we to do about this?” Duca waved to the stage, his voice scaling up before he had it under control.

Oh, that’s all we need. Rathe swallowed the words, turned to Sohier. “Tell the doorman to keep them out–or, wait, ask Mathiee to step in to me, but keep the rest of them outside. I’ll tell her myself she’ll have to rehearse elsewhere today.”

Sohier nodded and swung away, but Duca burst out, appalled, “You can’t do that–” He broke off, as though he’d realized what he said, and Rathe managed a rueful smile.

“I have some idea of what I’m asking, master, believe me. And if there’s any way I can give the house back to you, I will. But there’s a man dead who needs his rights.”

Duca nodded, jerkily. “You’re right, of course. My apologies, Adjunct Point. It’s just–Seidos’s balls, why did it have to be one of them?”

“ ‘Them’?” Rathe repeated, the word curdling in his belly.

Duca swept off his hat to run his hand through his hair. “The chorus, damn them all.”

And that’s all we need to make this a perfect day. Rathe lifted his hand, forestalling anything else the big man would have said. “We’ll get to that, master,” he said in his most commanding voice, and glanced over his shoulder to see Sohier picking her way between the benches. “Sohier. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

There was a short staircase hooked to the side of the stage, and he climbed gingerly up onto the empty platform, weirdly aware of the empty seats as well as the staring masters. He glanced back once, saw Eslingen among them, then made himself concentrate on the body. It lay on its back, arms outspread, not a young man, but not old, tall, fair‑haired beneath the disordered wig, and well built. The clothes were definitely too good to belong to any of the actors–not that the actors didn’t dress as well as they could afford, but this was the kind of quality that didn’t count the cost. For a moment, he regretted the list he’d left locked away at the station. Somewhere on it, he’d listed this man and his connections, had been studying him just this morning, most likely.

He shook the thought away, and knelt by the body, touched it gently. The skin was cold, and more than that, clammy, almost damp. In the mage‑light, he could see that the skin had an odd tinge, almost a softness to it, and under the man’s head was a small puddle of water. He’d expected to see blood, or worse, and ran his hands over the skull, probing for breaks in the arched bone. He found none, and nothing in the neck, either, or farther down the body, no wound, no sign of a blow, nothing to explain the death. Except for the puddle. Cautiously, he touched a finger to it, brought it to his nose, more carefully to his tongue. Nothing. He rocked back on his heels, looking up at Sohier, and saw the same puzzlement in her face. She saw him looking, and started to speak, but he held up a hand, silencing her.

“First things first,” he said, and saw her confusion deepen, but he ignored it, looked past her into the pit. It was only the masters here, luckily; if the dead man was in fact a member of the chorus, they would only have known him for a day or two, if that, and so were not in a position to make the formal identification required by law. And today may be the day I need that bit of formality, Rathe thought, and hoped he was borrowing trouble.

He pushed himself to his feet. “All right. Do any of you recognize him?”

The masters exchanged glances, and then, reluctantly, Siredy stepped out from among the group.

“It’s the landseur de Raзan, Adjunct Point.”

“And who found the body?”

“We all saw it,” Siredy answered, sounding faintly defensive, “but it was me and Lieutenant vaan Esling who saw he was dead.”

In spite of himself, Rathe glanced at Eslingen, saw the Leaguer look faintly embarrassed at his new name. “And you know the landseur, Master Siredy?”

“Yes.”

There was something in the single syllable, and Rathe’s eyes narrowed, surprising a faint blush in the other man. There was something there, more than just the masque, but he couldn’t afford to pursue it now, not if what he suspected was true. He looked down at the stage, at the tiny puddle, already shrinking. He needed the alchemists, needed their verdict on the death, and if he allowed the man to be named, formally and in law, he’d need the permission of the next of kin, whoever and wherever they might be. And may the Good Counsellor pardon me, he thought, but I don’t have time for that. He looked around for the girl who’d come for them, found her peeping out from behind the broad‑bodied woman’s skirts. “You– what’s your name, child?”

“Mersine.”

She seemed remarkably unaffected by the presence of the dead, but then, Rathe thought, she’d grown up in Astreiant’s theatres. “Are you the only runner here?”

“Not anymore.” She shook her head for emphasis. “Tilly’s here, too, with Master Cann.”

“Good. I need you both to run two errands for me.” He fished in his pocket for his purse, came up with a couple of seillings that he flipped to her. She caught them expertly, grinning now, and Rathe went on. “I need one of you to go to Point of Dreams and bring back the duty watch. I need the other to go to the deadhouse in University Point–take a low‑flyer, they’ll know the way–and tell them we have a body that needs transporting. And I need you both to hurry. Understand?”

Mersine nodded. “I’ll go to the deadhouse,” she said. “Tilly wouldn’t dare.” She darted away, skirts flying, and Duca stepped forward to close his hands on the edge of the stage.

“Adjunct Point.” His voice was barely under control, and instinctively Rathe crouched beside him, hoping to defuse the anger. “Didn’t you hear–don’t you understand? Siredy knows him. That”–he pointed to the body–“is a landseur. You don’t send their bodies off to the deadhouse, you send them to the priests of the Good Counsellor–”

“The law requires a formal identification, someone who knew him for more than your, what, two days, three days?” Rathe said, with as much patience as he could muster.

Duca waved his hand, brushing the words aside. “I’m not a fool, Adjunct Point, I’ve seen the formalities dispensed with before this.”

“There’s something very wrong with this death,” Rathe said softly. “We need to know how he died.”

Duca blinked at that, the words sinking home, and then he shook his head. “Sickness?” he asked, without much hope.

“Possibly,” Rathe said. “Rut there’s not a mark on him, Master Duca, not injury or illness, and before I call this an apoplexy, I want to be sure I know the truth.”

“Tyrseis.” Duca pushed himself away from the stage, his heavy face drained of color. “What will this do to the masque?”

That was a thought that hadn’t occurred to Rathe, but it was a good question. If the masque and the realm’s health were intimately bound, then there was all the more need to know everything possible about this death. “That’s why I can’t wait on his family’s pleasure,” he said aloud, and Duca nodded, jerkily.

“Of course, Adjunct Point. I don’t mean to tell you your business.”

“Thank you,” Rathe said, and rose to his feet again, beckoning to Sohier. “Mathiee’s people will be along any minute now, if I’m any judge, and I’ll have to deal with her. I want you to walk the stage floor, see if you can spot any tubs, barrels, troughs, anything like that. You know what we’re looking for.”

She nodded, but her voice was a whisper of protest. “Nico, he can’t have… drowned.”