“Thank you,” Rathe said, and had to suppress a yawn of his own at the reminder.

“Is there anything more?”

“No,” Rathe said. “And I appreciate both your candor and your willingness to cooperate.”

DuSorre’s eyes met his. “Not at all. My mother has always told me to embrace new experiences.” She swept him a mocking curtsy, and turned away.

And I could think she was flirting with me, if I didn’t know better. Rathe shook himself, and looked around for a clock. There were none in sight, but from the sounds on the stage, the rehearsal was winding to an untidy end. He made a face, hoping he had time, and beckoned to the waiting runner.

“Fetch Verre Siredy–of the Masters of Defense,” he said.

The boy nodded, as excited as the other runner had been, returned in record time with Siredy trailing behind him, his coat draped over one shoulder.

“Master Siredy, sir,” the runner announced, and retired without being told to his stool.

Rathe took a step forward, motioned for the other man to join him in the alcove. “If I might speak with you for a few minutes?”

“Of course, Adjunct Point.”

From Eslingen’s brief comments, Rathe had been expecting a more handsome man, and wondered briefly if he should be jealous. Even under the paint, he could see the freckles scattering the man’s nose and cheeks, and knew that the hair beneath the fashionably dark wig would be bright as scrubbed copper. “You named the landseur for me this morning. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Siredy looked, if anything, more wary, and Rathe’s attention sharpened.

“And it was you and Lieutenant–vaan Esling–who found the body?”

“Yes.” Siredy went through the story in a colorless voice, and Rathe made a note to get the same tale from Eslingen later. There was something about Siredy’s attitude, the care with which he recounted the events, that made the pointsman wary. But of course that could be the other story Gasquine had hinted at, and he leaned back on his stool as Siredy finished his account.

“How well did you know him?”

“The landseur?”

Stalling for time, Rathe thought. He nodded. Siredy didn’t look like a comfortable liar, his easy air would make lies mostly unnecessary– of course, I’ve been wrong about that before. But not, I think, this time.

“Oh, well, in the way of business,” Siredy said. “As long as anyone else in the masque.”

“And out of the way of business?”

Siredy hesitated, and Rathe said gently, “I’ve spoken to one or two here.”

“You don’t mince words, do you?”

“I’d prefer to hear the tale from you.”

“No tale.” Siredy sighed. “Ridiculous, I admit, but nothing you haven’t heard, I daresay. We were lovers, briefly–he took up fencing for a bit, and took me up with it, I suppose, and when he gave up swordplay, he gave me up, too.”

There was a brittle note in the other man’s voice that made Rathe’s eyes narrow. “And not gently, I gather,” he said, and saw Siredy flinch. “You did not part friends.”

“I doubt we ever were that,” Siredy flared. He stopped, went on in a more controlled tone, “His lordship lacked sufficient grace, when he called it off, to–” He stopped again, flushing, and Rathe sighed.

“Sufficiently express his regret and gratitude?”

“Oh, nicely put.” Siredy seemed to have his voice under control again, though there were two spots of color high on his cheeks, vivid through the paint. “Please don’t think me mercenary, it’s more a matter of–expectations.”

Rathe nodded. He knew the rules for such affairs as well as anyone southriver, knew, too, that they were more honored in the broadsheets and onstage than in reality. But even actors could get caught in their own fictions, he thought, and glanced at his tablets again. “In your time with the landseur, did you ever hear him speak of an enemy? Or anyone who’d have cause to injure him?”

Siredy shook his head. “No. He was–not that sort of man.”

“What sort of man?”

“The kind who made enemies.” Siredy shrugged. “You will have heard, the vidame DuSorre slapped his face the other day, and that’s more thought than I ever saw anyone give to him.”

Another bitter epitaph, Rathe thought. “And–you’ll pardon my asking, I’m sure–did anyone step into your shoes?”

“Not that I know of,” Siredy answered. “As far as I know, I’m the only person here to have committed that particular folly.” He seemed to bite the words off, and Rathe frowned faintly down at his tablets, trying to quell his own sympathy, knowing what it felt like to feel yourself made a fool of, by your own devices. But there were Gasquine’s words to consider, and he put stylus to wax.

“And now that you’d seen him again?” he asked quietly, lifting his eyes to meet Siredy’s. The master stared at him for a moment, then sighed, leaning his arms on his knees, tangling his hands carelessly in his hair–wig, Rathe corrected himself, remembering Eslingen’s description.

“Still the only one,” he admitted. “But this time, I stopped it before it started. I think he wanted to have bragging rights. Whether as the first to bring one of us to bed, or as having a prior connection, I’m not sure, but I don’t make mistakes twice, Adjunct Point. And there are some mistakes I don’t make once. Killing him would have been more than he deserved.”

Rathe nodded, accepting that at face value for the moment. “One thing more, then. Where did you spend your night, from second sunrise to first dawn?”

Siredy made a face. “Alas, I was alone, Adjunct Point. For most of the night, anyway. As soon as we finished here, I went to the baths–Philip, Lieutenant vaan Esling, can vouch for that, we had a drink there. But once we parted ways, well, there was no one. I lodge alone.”

There was no real significance to it, Rathe knew–in his experience, it was the ones who had a dozen witnesses to their every movement who were the ones to watch–and he made a note in his tablets. The clock struck as he carved the last letter, and he heard one of Gasquine’s assistants shouting the end of the day. Siredy looked over his shoulder.

“Are you done with me, Adjunct Point?”

“Yes.”

Siredy nodded, rising easily to shrug on his coat, and Rathe beckoned to the runner. “Tell Mathiee I’m done for now, but I or mine will be back tomorrow as soon as you open. She’ll know what I want.”

“Yes, Adjunct Point,” the boy answered, and hurried away.

Left to himself, Rathe joined the stream of actors and chorus members leaving the theatre, paused in the courtyard to scan the waiting crowd. It was bigger than ever, the nobles’ private carriages jostling one another at the edge of the main street, while a new set of market‑folk were clustered at the door, each fighting to call her wares louder than the rest. Rathe tucked his truncheon under his cloak, hoping to pass unnoticed, found himself a place at the edge of the throng. Eslingen would be out soon, he hoped, and even as he thought it, he saw the tall figure poised for an instant at the top of the stairs. He moved forward, smiling in spite of himself, and Eslingen came to join him, drawing his cloak tighter around his shoulders.

“Seidos’s Horse, what miserable weather. But I’m glad to see you, Nico.”

“Lieutenant vaan Esling,” Rathe said. The other man winced, and Rathe grinned, relenting. “You might have warned me, before I saw it in the broadsheets.” He beckoned to one of the marketwomen, her covered basket filled with hot spiced nuts, and accepted a paper cone in exchange for a demming. It was the first thing he’d eaten since before noon, and he was startled by his own hunger. “Still,” he said, around the first mouthful, “you should be thrilled, getting your name in one of them.”

Eslingen helped himself as well. “True gentlemen do everything in their power to keep their names out of the sheets.”

“Only their names?”