The actors moved off, arm in arm, never quite leaving their characters even after they were well out of sight in the far wing, and Rathe drew a slow breath. Oh, they were good, both of them, bes’Hallen at the top of her career, Hyver only a little behind, but without Aconin’s lines to speak, those gestures would have fallen flat, meaningless. Something moved then, in the shadows to his left, and he looked over, startled, to see Aconin watching from behind a painted pillar. The playwright’s eyes fell, as though he was embarrassed– something I never thought to see–but then he straightened and came toward the other man.

“Well, Adjunct Point, how’d you like the scene?”

The tone was mocking, as was the punctilious insistence on the proper title–but the question, Rathe realized, was genuine. Aconin had been watching not the actors, but the man watching them, and he was good enough, the play was good enough, to deserve an honest answer. “You’ll have Astreiant at your feet if there’s any justice.”

Aconin paused, but then his painted lips quirked up into a smile. “Have you seen The Drowned Island?”

In spite of himself, Rathe grinned. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Is it by way of business? Or about the play?”

“Both.”

Aconin spread his hands, a graceful, easy movement that displayed the black and gold paint and his long fingers. “I’m at your service, Adjunct Point.”

“Where’d you get the idea for the play?”

“And how does that have to do with your business?” Aconin asked. “If I’d stolen someone else’s idea, they’d beat me to death, not complain to the points.”

Rathe smiled again, recognizing the truth of the playwright’s words. One thing he’d learned since coming to Point of Dreams, the players tended to settle their own affairs as much as possible. “I was thinking more about the way you use the Alphabet, actually. I don’t remember that being part of the de Galhac tales.”

“Ah.” Aconin’s eyes slid sideways, and Rathe followed his gaze, to see the landseur Aubine frankly listening, a self‑deprecating smile on his plain face. “Not in Astreiant, as far as I know, but in the west, there are tales that make her to be a descendant of the Ancient Queens, and a magist herself.”

The Ancient Queens were also known as the Southern Witches. Trust Aconin to find them appealing. Rathe nodded, not wanting to break the thread, but Aconin shrugged one shoulder, said nothing more.

“So why the Alphabet?” Rathe asked after a moment, and Aconin sighed.

“I don’t–honestly, I couldn’t say, it just seemed… suitable. I suppose because there was all the talk last spring about the verifiable copy, and it stuck in my head.” He shrugged again. “It’s an anachronism, of course, but I don’t think anyone will care.”

There was something not quite right about the playwright’s answer, Rathe thought. Maybe he wasn’t being fair, but somehow he was certain that Aconin always knew exactly why he’d made his choices. “Did you read it?” he said aloud, and could have sworn that Aconin jumped.

“What?”

“Did you read it–this verifiable copy?”

Aconin smiled, already turning away. “There’s no such thing.”

And you’re lying, Rathe thought. Either you’ve seen it or, more likely, you know it exists, but you are lying. He took a step forward, intending to pursue the matter, and Aubine cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Chresta, but Mathiee wants to talk to you.”

Rathe swore under his breath, and Aconin spread his hands again. “I’m in demand. If you’ll excuse me, Adjunct Point–”

“Of course,” Rathe said, knowing the moment was lost, and the playwright disappeared between another set of scenery. Aubine gave him an apologetic smile, and Rathe returned it. It wasn’t the landseur’s fault that he’d been given a message– but one of these days, Chresta, you and I will finish this conversation.

“Do you believe in the Alphabet, Adjunct Point?” Aubine asked, and Rathe shook himself back to the present.

“I find it hard to believe there could be so many false editions of something that never existed.”

Aubine’s smile seemed genuine enough. “I’d never thought of it that way.” He turned away, losing himself in the stack of hampers and cases that filled the backstage. Waiting to be carted to the Tyrseia, Rathe guessed, and realized he’d lost track of Gasquine.

The actors were rearranging themselves for the next scene under the watchful eye of one of Gasquine’s assistants, and Rathe winced, hearing a once‑familiar voice. He had managed to forget, or at least ignore, the fact that Guis Forveijl had been chosen for the masque, but there he was, tall and still good to look at, with hair of just the right shade of gold to be popular at any season. He seemed to be playing some sort of messenger–to be setting up one of the drills or dances, Rathe realized, and even as he thought it, he saw Eslingen coming down one of the backstage stairways. He looked as fine as any of the nobles, a new red coat warm in the mage‑light, and he inclined his head gracefully to listen to something one of the landseurs was saying to him. Lieutenant vaan Esling is settling in all too well. Rathe thought, and was ashamed of his jealousy. He had been jealous of Forveijl, too, jealous of the friendships and the parts that had seduced him away more than once before the final, showy role that Aconin had given him. They had been together for three years then, almost lemanry, though Rathe thanked Sofia he hadn’t committed at least that folly; to see it all vanish for the sake of a play, no matter how good, was almost enough to sour him on the theater. Maybe Philip’s finding a place here wasn’t such good fortune after all, he thought, and winced as Gasquine strode onto the stage, waving her hands to stop the action. Forveijl listened, head drooping as she corrected something in the performance, and Rathe was grateful she kept her voice down.

“Nico,” Eslingen said, and Rathe turned to greet him, forcing a smile. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“There’s still plenty to be done,” Rathe answered, and Eslingen sighed.

“I know that, I meant, when you weren’t here this morning. I looked for you, you know.”

Rathe felt his smile become more genuine. “I had business with the family. And how has your morning been?”

Eslingen rolled his eyes. “Like nothing in this world–” He broke off as a smiling woman touched his shoulder, murmuring something in his ear as she passed, and Rathe suppressed another stab of jealousy. Eslingen smiled back, but the expression faded as he turned back to face the other man. “As you see. And there’s a deal of gossip about the death, as you can well imagine. Some people are saying they’ll have to call in the necromancers to clear the stagehouse.”

“I doubt that,” Rathe said. “Resides, a necromancer’s already seen the body.”

“b’Estorr, of course,” Eslingen said, and a new voice spoke from behind them both.

“Of course. You must know about Nico’s white dog, Lieutenant.”

Forveijl, Rathe realized, and damned himself for not realizing the scene had ended. Eslingen gave him his most blandly cheerful smile.

“Keeps pocket terriers, does he?”

Forveijl blinked at the non sequitur, and Rathe took a breath, turning to face him. “Guis.”

“Nicolas. We’re keeping you busy these days.”

“Among other things,” Rathe answered. Forveijl opened his mouth to say something more, but someone–Gasquine’s assistant, by the sound of it–called his name. Forveijl smiled, sweeping a too‑deep bow, and moved away in answer. Eslingen lifted an eyebrow.

“That one… ?”

Rathe, to his own surprise, laughed softly. “Bad judgment, coming back to haunt me.”

Eslingen shrugged. “Your life never started with me. But whatever did you see in him?”

“I’m not sure anymore,” Rathe answered.