“I have made a preliminary determination that the body brought to me a short time ago died by drowning at the hands of person or persons unknown, with other violence possibly perpetrated before death. This I do swear.” Fanier lifted a hand to his forehead, an ancient gesture, and Rathe shivered again.

“And I state that the body is that of the landseur de Raзan,” he said aloud, “identification being made by the examination of his belongings after the cause of death had been determined. So do I swear.”

“And I bear witness to you both,” b’Estorr said, “in the name of the university.” He paused. “Now what are you going to do, Nico?”

Rathe lifted a shoulder wearily. “Now we send for the priests of the Good Counsellor and let them notify the family–their business, thank all the gods, not mine. And then–” He glanced at the clock again, trying to guess the actors’ schedules. “Then I’m for Point of Dreams, and the Bells, and an evening talking to actors, if I’m lucky.”

b’Estorr grimaced in sympathy, and Fanier said, “I’ll have my report done up formally, Nico, and a copy for you by morning.”

“Thank you,” Rathe said with real gratitude, and let the apprentice lead him back out of the deadhouse.

His nose for weather was still good, he saw: the drizzle was changing to sleet as he made his way back across the river to Point of Dreams. The Bells was well lit, as he’d expected, and there were candy‑sellers and a dozen other hangers‑on clustered at the one unbarred entrance. At least some of the chorus was there, and a few of the actors, the latter gathered around a woman selling warm spiced beer. Happy to take a break from the day’s work, Rathe guessed, but his eyes narrowed as he recognized one of the men on the fringes of the chattering crowd. Lyhin was a known gossipmonger, served at least a dozen printers, and Rathe took himself firmly in hand. There had been no hope of keeping this story out of the broadsheets; all he could do was try to minimize it. Even so, he was aware of the looks that followed him as he showed his truncheon to the doorman, and heard his name repeated behind him, rippling out through the crowd.

It was warmer in the theatre, and someone had spread sawdust to absorb the worst of the mud. It made Rathe think of the Tyrseia, the dry barrels of sand and wood chips, and he shook his head, hoping Sohier had found something more. He paused for a moment at the edge of the stagehouse, looking for Gasquine, and found her finally on the stage itself, talking urgently to a tall, well‑built woman that Rathe recognized as Anjesine bes’Hallen. All the rivalries were suspended for the masque, he knew, but this was surprising: bes’Hallen was Savatier’s leading player, had the right to refuse a play she didn’t care for, so to see her here boded well for the quality of Aconin’s play. The air smelled of sweat and too much perfume, and he glanced into the pit to see what seemed to be half the chorus gathered idle. It didn’t take much imagination to guess what they were talking about, Rathe thought, and suppressed a sigh. One of them must have known de Raзan–no one could have so lackluster a life as the man’s belongings suggested–but for the rest… Well, he was a nine‑days’ wonder, if that, and nothing more. He started toward the stage just as a burst of laughter came from the group sitting closest, center front, and Gasquine rounded on them.

“And if you’ve nothing to do, I suggest you take yourselves to the loft, and let the masters put you through your paces.”

There was an appalled silence–their ladyships weren’t used to being spoken to in that fashion, Rathe thought, amused–but then one of them rose, and the rest followed, sweeping past Rathe up the center aisle. Gasquine remained standing, hands on hips, glowered down at him as he approached.

“And what in the names of all the hells do you want now?”

Rathe took a breath, trying to remember that the woman’s day had probably been as hard as his own. “A quarter hour of your time, for a start.” He held up his hand, forestalling protest. “I’m sorry, Mathiee, but you’d better get it over now.”

Gasquine took a breath in turn, visibly conquering her fury, and nodded abruptly. “At least I won’t be paying a fortune in fees–or not to you.” She pointed to the stairs that led up to the stage. “Come up, come up, and we’ll talk. The rest of you–” She looked over her shoulder, her face grim. “Silla, put them through the scene again. At least they can take the time to learn their lines.”

Rathe followed her into the relative quiet of the wings, was relieved when she waved him to a stool set in a sort of alcove, and seated herself in turn opposite him. “So what’s the word?” she asked, without hope, and Rathe grimaced in sympathy.

“De Raзan was murdered,” he answered. “That’s the alchemist’s and necromancer’s finding, which means it falls to Point of Dreams to find out who killed him. And that, Mathiee, is the official word, so you can take it up with the chamberlains as need be.”

“Tyrseis.” She sighed. “I’ll tell my people, too.”

“And there’s more.” Rathe braced himself, seeing the woman’s painted brows draw down into a deep frown. “I need to talk to your people, the ones who knew him today, the rest as soon as may be. I’ll do my best not to interrupt you, but time is of the essence.”

To his surprise, she nodded. “I understand. And if you take them one by one–well, maybe that won’t be so bad.” She glanced toward the stage. “And you might as well start with me, they’ll do without me for a while.”

“I’d fully intended to,” Rathe answered, and managed a smile to take the sting out of the words. Gasquine smiled back, the expression wry, and Rathe reached for his tablets again. The wax was getting crowded; he planed over a few old notes, and settled himself to begin. “First, who among the chorus or cast knew him well?”

Gasquine paused, blinking. “Ah. A hard question. He was most in company with the vidame DuSorre, but I’m not sure she knew him well.”

“Oh?”

“I saw her haul off and hit him once, hard, right across the face.” Gasquine smiled. “It wasn’t the action of an intimate.”

“When was this?”

“A day or so ago,” Gasquine answered.

“She hit him in public?” Rathe repeated, and Gasquine shrugged.

“Not quite public, Nico, but not in private, either. There must have been a dozen of us who saw. It’s a funny thing, though, it seemed to–even things up between them. She looked pleased, and he looked, I suppose, resigned. I doubt she’d have need to resort to murder.”

“And which one is DuSorre?” Rathe asked.

Gasquine looked around again. “Not here. Not a brayer, like the ones you saw before, a woman who works hard at whatever comes to hand. I was surprised she’d put in for the lottery, she doesn’t seem theatre‑mad like the ones we usually get, but then, it’s nice to have some cooler heads around.” Her eyes widened. “Nico, you can’t think…”

“I’m going to have to talk to her,” Rathe said. “Who else would you say knew the man?”

Gasquine swallowed whatever else she had been going to say. “Ah. That’s harder. I saw him playing at star‑dice with the landseur de Beleme, but I doubt that was more than passing time. And of course…” She hesitated, then shook her head. “But I don’t know anything about that.”

You know everything about everything within these walls, Rathe thought. And that note means it’s someone in the theatre. He frowned then, remembering the master of defense who had found the body, the hesitation in his voice as he named it, and said, “Master Siredy?”

“You know, then,” Gasquine said.

Rathe shook his head. “Not details. But he identified the body, and I thought he knew him.”

Gasquine sighed. “I’m old for tricks like that. Very well, the gossip is, they were intimates, at least for a while. But it was over and done long ago, to my understanding.”