“I’d keep an eye on them for you?” Eslingen was smiling slightly, and Rathe hesitated, wondering what it meant.

“Yes. I’m just sorry to have to ask you again.”

Eslingen reached out, laid a hand gently over Rathe’s, the fingers still cold. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why not ask me? I’m pleased, I’m honored, and for the gods’ sake, I’m there. I think we work well together.” Eslingen’s smile widened. “Hells, if you hadn’t had the sense to ask, I’d probably have committed the ultimate folly and volunteered.”

We do work well together, Rathe thought. It’s been proved, last summer under fire, and in the dull aftermath. “At least I spared you that,” he said, and Eslingen’s hand tightened, a caress and a question. Rathe shook his head. “Philip, I’m going to be asleep as soon as my head hits the mattress.”

One eyebrow quirked upward. “If I had suspected our living together would have a deleterious effect on the admittedly vulgar pursuit of pleasure…”

Rathe laughed out loud. “All right, Lieutenant. If only to allay your suspicions.”

5

« ^ »

the performance banners were flying from the tower of the Tyrseia as Rathe made his way into Dreams station, and he hoped that meant that Sohier had found something after all. More likely, though, Trijn had been pressured into releasing the theatre as soon as possible, for fear that the unstable common folk wouldn’t be able to stand being deprived of their favorite play for an extra day. He was being unfair, he knew, as he stopped to consult the notices fluttering from a broadsheet‑seller’s display board, and took a careful breath, trying to control his temper. If anything, he was angry because he suspected the chamberlains might be right.

At least only one of the broadsheets mentioned the murder, and it was a crude thing, with a woodcut of two men dueling that Rathe had last seen illustrating an announcement of a fencing match. The paragraph below, smudged from hasty printing, spoke of mysterious death at the Tyrseia, and hinted at breathless possibilities, but, all in all, said less that he’d expected. It wouldn’t last, he knew, but at least they might have a day’s breathing space before the details were spread around the city. And one good thing might come of the mystery, he thought, turning away: the fact of the death might help hide the significance of the chorus.

Voillemin was still on duty, finishing out the night shift, and Rathe had to suppress the desire to ask what was happening with Leussi’s death. That was the other man’s case, he reminded himself, scanning the daybook; he’d do no one any good by interfering. There was a note from Sohier, stating that she and four others had searched the Tyrseia stage and stagehouse, but no note of the results.

Voillemin cleared his throat. “The chief wants to see you. As soon as may be.”

“No surprise there,” Rathe answered, and slid the book back to the other man. “What did Sohier find?”

The younger man shrugged. “Officially, the report’s still being copied. But unofficially–nothing. How in Astree’s name can the man have drowned?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Rathe said.

“Maybe–could the necromancer have made a mistake?” Voillemin asked, and Rathe sighed.

“We may be hoping that. But I’ve never seen Fanier make that kind of a mistake.”

Voillemin shook his head–he looked tired, Rathe thought, and felt an unexpected pang of sympathy. “Go home,” he said, and Voillemin smiled.

“As soon as Leenderts gets here. And the chief does want to see you.”

“I bet she does,” Rathe answered, and took the stairs two at a time.

The door to Trijn’s workroom stood open, sunlight spilling across the room and out into the narrow hallway. The last of the previous night’s ice was melting from the eaves, spangling the bubbled glass, and a kettle hissed on the roaring stove. Rathe tapped on the door frame, feeling the heat radiating from it even there, and Trijn looked up with a nod.

“Come in and shut the door. Fanier sent this for you.”

Rathe did as he was told, accepting the still‑sealed packet of papers addressed in Fanier’s thick scrawl. A lot of chief points would have taken it as their right and privilege to read it before him, he thought as he broke the seal and skimmed through the neatly copied pages, but not Trijn.

“Of course you had no idea who it was when you sent the body to Fanier,” Trijn said. She made it a statement, Rathe noted with relief. “This damned district. Everything has to be larger than life. It’s a hothouse. Not enough that we have a murder, no, it has to be–” She lifted her hand, ticking the points off on her fingers. “At the Tyrseia, involve a landseur–a landseur who is the brother of the castellan of Raзan, not an insignificant holding, as well as being related to Her Majesty–and not a straightforward bludgeoning or knifing, either, but something utterly mysterious.” She gestured to the report still in Rathe’s hands. “And how did he die, by the way?”

“He drowned,” Rathe said, and braced himself for the outburst.

It never came. Trijn rested her head in her hands. “Of course he did. What else? Did Fanier hazard a guess as to how he drowned? Nothing ordinary, I wager, like having drowned elsewhere and the body moved to the theatre?”

Rathe shook his head, sliding the three closely written sheets across the table toward her. “He died where he was found. There’s evidence of poison–Fanier said some of the body changes were consistent with poison, but–”

“He drowned,” Trijn finished for him. “Sofia’s tits. Which is why you kept five of my people busy yesterday looking for barrels and tubs that they did not find.”

“I had hoped we’d missed something,” Rathe said, and Trijn shook her head.

“No.”

So, Rathe thought. Drowned on a dry stage, among the machines that represent water. “I’ll need them again today,” he said. “I only had the chance to talk to a few of the cast, and it’ll go faster with more of us.”

“Understood,” Trijn answered. “I’ve already warned Sohier, she has a good head on her. But I want you to deal with the family first.”

“De Raзan’s family?” Rathe hid a grimace. “I had a messenger from the Temple inform them, I thought–”

“We’ll want his horoscope,” Trijn said firmly, and Rathe sighed. Yes, it was a logical first step, particularly in a death as odd as this one–a good horoscope could often reveal people destined for uncanny ends–but he’d hoped he wouldn’t have to be the one to collect it.

“I may need a writ from the surintendant, if the family doesn’t choose to release it,” he said aloud. “Because the university won’t help me without one.”

“I’ll see you get it,” Trijn answered. “But you may not need it. My understanding it, the castellan is a sensible soul.”

“Let’s hope so,” Rathe said, and Trijn smiled.

“Serves the regents right, you bagging a landseur when they couldn’t stomach the idea of you tampering with a mere intendant. Still, it may be political–see what you can find out about the family’s leanings while you’re at it.”

And how, Rathe thought, am I supposed to do that? You’re the one who brags of being intimate with Astreiant. He put the thought aside–he had his contacts, they all did, but his might ask more than he cared to pay–and pushed himself to his feet as the clock chimed ten.

“She lodges in Point of Hearts,” Trijn said, and Rathe’s eyebrows rose. Trijn met his look blandly. “Apparently the de Raзans prefer to enjoy themselves over midwinter.”

He had no trouble finding the house, a narrow‑fronted, white‑stone building with twisted iron gates that gave a glimpse of severely formal gardens. The stone troughs were mostly empty, the larger plants bound up for winter, but Rathe recognized at least one flowering cherry beyond the formal hedges. It was the sort of place one might rent for a new lover, Rathe thought, but not long‑term, and wondered whether the castellan recognized or even cared about the distinction.