Eslingen lifted an eyebrow. “Adjunct Point, that sounded remarkably like a double entendre.”

“Was it?” Rathe asked. “I must be tired, then, I’d never consider going to bed with someone so far above my station.”

“Idiot,” Eslingen said, and helped himself to another nut. “You look tired.”

“It’s been a hell of a day,” Rathe answered. “Yours?”

“After discovering the body?” Eslingen laughed. “Oh, distinctly improved, especially by the discovery that there seems to be a romance among three of our landames–only each member of the triangle is unaware that it is a triangle.”

Rathe shook his head. “I don’t envy you that one, Philip.”

“Nor I you your murder,” Eslingen answered, and cast a quick glance over his shoulder. “With everything you tell me about the symbolism of the masque, one has to look with a less than easy eye on the death of any noble taking part in it.”

“Which is probably why the chamberlains will want to purify the whole theatre,” Rathe said. And I wonder what you know of the landseur, he thought, and what you can see for me. He shoved the thought away, appalled, but it made too much sense. A murder in the theatre, and Eslingen working there, with the people likeliest to have been involved, it was too good an opportunity to squander…

“Nico?” Eslingen asked, and Rathe shook his head.

“Let’s go home. We can talk there.”

By the time they reached Rathe’s flat, the sleet had thickened, gathering on Eslingen’s broad‑brimmed hat so that it caught the passing light like a crust of diamonds. The courtyard with its shared garden was treacherous underfoot, despite the sand the weaver had scattered carelessly across her end of the walk, and Rathe was glad to reach the shelter of his own rooms. The stove was cold, and Eslingen stooped to fumble with flint and tinder, lighting first one candle and then the lamp, while Rathe ran his hand through his hair, wringing out the worst of the damp. He felt like the southriver rat more than one person had called him–a drowned rat, he amended, and loosened his cloak reluctantly, leaving his jerkin on as he moved to relight the stove. Eslingen murmured something, and lit a second candle, another pinpoint of heat. The stove caught quickly, and Rathe straightened, stripping off jerkin and coat and hanging them on the peg by the door. Eslingen tended his own coat more carefully, settling it so it would dry without unfortunate creases, and Rathe turned away to find bread and cheese. It wasn’t the meal he would have chosen, if the weather had been better, but it would be enough.

Eslingen had freed himself from his waistcoat as well, wrapped himself in a dressing gown that was magnificent except for the frayed hem, and Rathe had to admit that there was a certain practicality in the ridiculous garment. Something like that, on a cold night… He shook himself, telling himself he’d look idiotic, and reached for the jug of wine. “The landseur,” he said. “You probably didn’t have any time to form an impression of him.”

Eslingen shrugged, accepting the filled cup, and settled himself at the table, stockinged feet reaching out to the stove. “A bit of one. I think he was used to getting his own way.”

“More than the rest of them?” The stove was blazing now, and Rathe sat down opposite the other man, feeling its warmth along his side. It was strange, this wasn’t how he would have wanted to acquire a lover, certainly wasn’t how he’d wanted to have Eslingen move into his life, but at the same time, there was an ease between them that he couldn’t deny.

“Oh, yes,” Eslingen answered. “Much more. But, as I’m sure you’ve heard, the vidame DuSorre put him in his place.”

“I hate that phrase,” Rathe said, and shook himself. “You didn’t see it, did you?”

“Not I, but it was common gossip.” Eslingen reached for the bread, tore off a healthy chunk. “I must have heard half a dozen versions of the story.”

“Not well liked, then,” Rathe said, and to his surprise Eslingen shook his head.

“No, it wasn’t that, it was just a good story. Nobody really cared, I don’t think. Seidos’s Horse, he was, what, the youngest of five, with three older sisters and an older brother who got what was left of anything that was on offer.”

“That’s sad,” Rathe said. It was also what the others had said, Gasquine and Siredy and even DuSorre all in perfect agreement, and he shook his head, wondering if the man had had any purpose to his life.

Eslingen nodded. “My impression is that he was the kind of person someone might trouble to slap, but never, ever, bother to kill.”

“But someone did,” Rathe said.

“What did happen to him?” Eslingen asked. “I didn’t see any wounds–how did he die?”

Rathe made a face, as though saying it made it worse. “He was drowned.”

Eslingen leaned back in his chair. “That’s a revolting thought. Do you mean someone drowned him and left him at the Tyrseia?”

“No.” Rathe rubbed his eyes, made himself take a piece of the sharp, creamy cheese. “I mean he was drowned at the Tyrseia. That’s according to Fanier, the best alchemist I’ve ever worked with. And unless Sohier found something I didn’t see, there wasn’t any way it could have been done. No troughs, no tubs, no buckets, nothing except–”

He broke off, shaking his head, and Eslingen frowned. “Except what?”

“You were there. You tell me.”

“I’m not a pointsman,” Eslingen said. “I don’t think I notice the same things you do.”

“I’m sorry, Philip, I’m not trying to be coy, I’m just not sure what it means. If it means anything.” And I really hope it doesn’t, he added silently. “Think about where you found him.”

“Onstage,” Eslingen said. “Center stage.”

Rathe nodded. “At the Tyrseia. Where the damned Drowned Islandis still on. Philip, he was lying between two pieces of the machinery. The final flood effect.”

There was a little silence, then Eslingen whistled softly through his teeth. “You can’t be saying he was drowned by the scenery.”

“Not yet, I’m not,” Rathe answered. “And never, if I can help it. But Fanier says he was drowned where he lay; the body wasn’t moved, period. He did allow as how there might be poison involved, but the cause; of death was drowning. I just hope Sohier found something I missed.”

“But you don’t think she will,” Eslingen said.

Rathe shook his head. The thought was suddenly utterly depressing, this–unnecessary–man, dead for no cause. Except he wasn’t quite unnecessary, Rathe thought, and grimaced. If he was in the masque he was related to one of the potential claimants, and that made him necessary after all. He saw Eslingen watching him, mouth opening to ask a question– and if I tell him, I know what the next step will be, exactly what I’ll ask him to do next, and that’s not fair, not after the last time.

“What?” Eslingen said, and Rathe sighed.

“This is not for public consumption, I know I don’t have to tell you.”

Eslingen shook his head, waiting.

“What makes this death particularly interesting is that every single member of the chorus is directly related to one of the queen’s possible successors–and Her Majesty plans to name her heir after the masque.”

Eslingen’s mouth dropped open for an instant. “Which makes them all hostages for their families’ good behavior. Dis, that’s– clever.”

“Sound I wouldn’t dare hazard,” Rathe said, and Eslingen laughed.

“What have I gotten myself into?”

“You do seem to have a talent for finding yourself at the center of things,” Rathe answered.

“It’s a recent knack, I assure you,” Eslingen answered. “Not one you want to cultivate in the army.”

Rathe grinned, but sobered in an instant. “Philip, I need your help.”

“You have it.” Eslingen leaned forward, his hands wrapped around his wineglass, and Rathe sighed.

“I feel like ten kinds of bastard, especially after the last time. But. You’re at the theatre, every day, with these people every day. I would take it kindly if…”