“What signs do you see?” Rathe asked, and her eyes fell.

“Yes, but–how can a man drown here?”

“Maybe not here,” Rathe said, though from the sprawl of the body he doubted it had been moved far from where it lay. “That’s the alchemists’ business. But I want to rule out whatever we can. Now go.”

“Right,” Sohier said, pale but determined, and hurried away.

There was still no word from the door, and Rathe followed his own advice, moving along the opposite side of the stagehouse. The boards sounded hollow beneath his feet, and he stooped, to see the shallow troughs that held the carved waves of The Drowned Island’seffects. That looked promising, but when he levered up the nearest trap, he saw that the trough was pierced through with tiny holes. He let the trap fall again, frowning, and scanned the area around him. He was between two of the massive set towers, the versatiles, Eslingen had called them when he’d come home babbling of the machinery, but beyond them was a maze of more familiar gear, ropes and tables and a three‑legged chair propped against the wall for mending. There was a large barrel, too, and he stepped over to it, lifting the lid. It was half full of ash, and he let the lid fall back with a thud that raised a puff of grey dust. There were half barrels, too, three of sawdust and one of sand, and a cracked leather bucket that looked as though it hadn’t held water since the last queen’s reign, but there was nothing, nothing in sight that held enough water to drown a man. Sohier will find something, he told himself, and didn’t believe his own words. He looked back at the stage, hoping to see another answer from this different angle, saw only the sprawl of the body. The dead man’s face rose in his mind. Drowning was a common death in Astreiant, the Sier took its share of the foolish and the unlucky every year; like most folk southriver born, he’d learned the signs of drowning even before he’d joined the points. And this was a drowned man, the slack, soft skin and, most of all, the telltale pool of water, all proclaimed him drowned, and it was up to Fanier, the best of the alchemists, to tell him how it had come about.

He looked up then, tracing the length of a versatile, saw above it the edge of the great carved wave that hung above the stage. In the soft mage‑light, it was hard to tell, but he thought its shadow fell across the huddled body, and he looked away with a gasp, to see the second wave looming between the next pair of versatiles. Oh, there was water on the stage, carved and painted water in plenty, but surely, surely no mere effect could drown a man on dry land. The idea was mad, but he pulled his tablets from his pocket, began listing the scenery he saw around him, sketching it quickly and as best he could. He didn’t look up as Sohier joined him, folding the wooden halves back over each other.

“Anything?”

“Nothing so far,” she said stubbornly. “But there has to be–”

She broke off at the shout from the stage door, and Rathe turned to see Mathiee Gasquine pause for an instant at the top of the tunnel before sweeping down into the pit. The masters scattered before her, and behind her the watchman hovered helplessly, hands raised. Rathe took a breath, bracing himself, and she lifted her skirts to climb easily onto the stage.

“Adjunct Point–” She broke off, seeing the body perhaps for the first time, and Rathe came forward quickly, not to turn her away, she’d never submit to that, but to stand between her and the evidence.

“Mistress Gasquine.” He gave her title for title.

“So it’s true, then,” she said, and Rathe blinked.

“Did you think I’d leave you that word for a joke?”

That surprised a quick grin from her, but she shook her head. “Hoped, maybe. Nico, I understand you need the theatre for a little while, need to search, do whatever you must, but this is the first day we’ve been able to work here, and I, my people, desperately need to work on the real stage, the one we’re going to use. How soon can we have it back?”

Rathe shook his head in genuine apology. “Not today, Mathiee, I’m truly sorry.”

“Not today?” Gasquine’s voice rose, ringing effortlessly through the theatre, and behind her in the pit the masters drew together to watch. “Nico, The Drowned Islandplays again tomorrow, I’ve no use of the place for two days more, and I don’t have the time to waste. We need to work here.”

“And so do I.” Rathe knew better than to match her tone, let his own voice fall a little, become confidential. “There is–potentially– something very odd about this death–”

“Well, there would be,” Gasquine snapped, “de Raзan dead on my stage.”

Rathe winced. That killed any real pretense he had that the body hadn’t been identified, but he went on as though she hadn’t spoken. “And, there being something odd about it, it’s my responsibility– given the place and the circumstances–and the masque itself–to make very sure what happened before I turn the place back to you. For this or The Drowned Island.”

“You don’t mean it.” Gasquine’s voice had lost its theatrical ring.

“Can and do,” Rathe answered. “If we’re not done, The Drowned Islandwon’t play. Besides…” He paused. “You won’t like this, either, Mathiee, but I’d say, if the death’s not natural, the chamberlains may want to bring in a magist, perform, I don’t know, some cleansing, to make sure it doesn’t affect the masque.”

“Oh, gods, they might,” Gasquine said. “They would. Sweet Oriane, preserve me from the chamberlains.” She took a breath. “All right. You’ve made your point, Nico, and I’ll stand it. Master Duca, will you set one of your people to redirect mine, and I’ll return to the Bells and roust out the rest of my people there.”

“Thank you, mistress,” Rathe said, bowing, and Duca came forward, offering his hand to the actress as she descended from the stage. She turned back, looking up at Rathe, her heart‑shaped face set into an expression more regal than most queens’.

“But I will hold you to your promise, Adjunct Point. I want my stage again.”

“As soon as may be, mistress,” Rathe answered, and was grateful when she swept away.

The reinforcements from Point of Dreams arrived within the hour, and Rathe set them to a thorough search of the theatre, hoping they would find what he knew had to be there. The carters from the deadhouse were only a few minutes behind them, arriving with cart and boards just as Duca’s men were turning away the first of the actors. The chorus would be along shortly, Rathe knew, and wondered how they would react to the news. Time enough for that after the body was dealt with, though, and he nodded to the strapping woman in a shabby blue coat who led the group.

She nodded back, already unfastening its buttons, tossed it to one of the men behind her. “Can we take something for you, Adjunct Point?”

He gestured to the body, and wondered if the actors were corrupting him. “I’d appreciate it if you’d confirm my suspicions.”

The woman nodded briskly, rolling back her sleeves to reveal a stylized version of the Starsmith’s badge tattooed into her forearm. She knelt by the body, automatically folding her short skirts well out of the way, ran her hands over it once, feeling for any signs of life. She sat back, reaching into her jerkin for a pair of brass‑framed spectacles, and peered up at him over the top of the frame.

“You suspect he’s dead?”

Among other things. “Something like that,” he said aloud, and she nodded.

“He’s dead. We’ll take him along to Fanier for you.”

“Wait.” Rathe hesitated, then put aside his first question, not wanting to bias her with his own suspicions, said instead, “Can you tell if the body’s been moved?”

Her eyebrows rose, but she turned back to the body willingly enough, hands moving over it again. This time, she tested limbs– loosening from the rigor, by the look of them, Rathe thought, and winced as she tugged the landseur’s shirt free to examine his torso. “All things are possible,” she said at last, “but by the look and feel of him, I’d say not. I’d say he dropped dead here.”