“The castellans of Txi stole our land,” de Vannevaux said. “I will not be paired with her.”

“Stole?” Txi’s voice rose. “Damirai has claimed that for years, and never yet made good on the boast. The highlands are ours, they go with the city, not the forest–and I, for one, will be happy to meet her, under any circumstance.”

“That’s not your family’s usual style,” de Vannevaux said.

“Enough,” Eslingen said, and they both looked at him, startled. “Would you prefer not to be part of the masque?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of pure horror cross Siredy’s face, and hoped the landames hadn’t seen it. There was an instant of silence, and then Txi said quickly, “No, Lieutenant, but–”

“We won our places fairly,” de Vannevaux interrupted, looking mulish, and Eslingen lifted his hand again.

“Enough. Then you’re in the queen’s service here, and you can leave your petty family quarrels behind.”

“Petty?” de Vannevaux said, on a note of outrage.

“I have seen sons of Havigot and Artimalec fighting side by side, guarding each other’s backs,” Eslingen said. That feud was ancient and proverbial, and he just hoped there were descendants left. “You are under discipline, no less than they were. I expect no less of you.”

There was an instant of silence, Txi’s eyes wide, de Vannevaux’s delicately painted mouth slack with surprise, and then, to his relief, both women made quick curtsies. “Yes, Lieutenant,” de Vannevaux said, and an instant later Txi echoed her.

“Very well,” Eslingen said, and looked at Siredy, who quickly closed his own mouth. “Then let’s begin.”

The day dragged to an end at last, and Eslingen made his way out of the theatre with some relief. Not that they’d had any great successes, but at least the landames hadn’t actually tried to kill each other. In fact, they’d been remarkably silent, speaking only when one or the other needed some point of the swordplay explained, and he supposed he would have to take it as a favorable sign. The sun was low, and the yard was in shadow, making him grateful for the cloak he’d thrown on that morning. Unfashionable it might be, but at least he would be warm for the walk back to Rathe’s lodgings. And, now that he thought of it, it might be a notion to buy a loaf of bread, or even a hot pie, contribute something to their dinner. There were inns enough in Dreams where he could find something.

“Philip?”

Eslingen suppressed a groan. This was all he needed to complete a less than perfect day–but maybe he could get rid of the playwright quickly. He smoothed his expression as he turned. “Well, Chresta?”

“How unwelcoming,” Aconin murmured. “So unlike the charming lieutenant.”

“Let’s not play that game,” Eslingen said, and to his surprise, Aconin grinned.

“Fair enough. It’s been a bear of a day, hasn’t it? I’m even bored with myself.”

“So you seek me out,” Eslingen said.

“I wondered if we might talk.”

Eslingen looked at the other man, wondering if he had heard the fleeting note of fear in Aconin’s voice, and the theatre’s side door opened behind him. Aubine emerged into the amber light, an empty trug over his arm–looking, Eslingen thought, for all the stars like Nico on a garden day. He dipped his head, not quite a bow, and Aconin turned with a start, the bright hazel eyes widening fractionally before he swept into an overdone courtier’s bow. Aubine gave him an almost indulgent look, and nodded to Eslingen.

“A late‑stayer also, Lieutenant? Can I offer you a lift?” Even as he spoke, Eslingen heard the clatter of harness and the soft chirp of a groom, looked around to see a comfortable‑looking carriage pull into the theatre yard. It wasn’t new, but it had been expensive, and Eslingen wondered again how he could ever hope to pull off this deception. But there were more poor landame’s sons than rich ones, he reminded himself; just don’t let him see that you’re living off a pointsman, and you should be all right.

“Thank you, my lord, that’s very kind. But I’ve promised Chresta my company.”

“Ah.” Aubine smiled again. “Be careful, Lieutenant, Master Aconin has a sharp–tongue.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, my lord,” Eslingen said, and Aubine nodded, already moving away. Eslingen watched him into the carriage, the groom holding the step and handing in the trug, then closing the door to climb back to the box.

“Promised me your company,” Aconin said, the mockery back in his voice.

“You said you wanted to talk,” Eslingen answered. “I’ll listen.”

“I’d prefer somewhere less public than this,” Aconin said, and Eslingen shook his head.

“Then we can talk as we go, Chresta. I want to get home.”

“To your pointsman?”

“Home,” Eslingen said, and hoped it was true. “This is not the way to get me to–is it help you want, Chresta?”

Aconin sighed, fell into step with the taller man. “I’m not sure, frankly. At this point, I think I just want to talk to someone.”

“Why me?” Eslingen asked, and the words were almost a plea.

Aconin laughed softly. “Because I trust you.”

“Oh, very likely. You haven’t seen me in fifteen years.”

“I trusted you to remember that, didn’t I?” They turned a corner, and the harsh light caught them full on, deepening the sharp, discontented lines bracketing the playwright’s mouth. “I–think I’m in trouble, Philip.”

“Father it on someone else, it’s not mine.”

“Bastard,” Aconin said, and Eslingen spread his hands.

“And all the world knows it.”

He winced as he said it, remembering too late that he was no longer part of that world, that in fact this new world didn’t know it at all, and Aconin smiled again. “Except here.” He paused, shook his head. “I’ll make a bargain with you, Philip. I won’t say a word about your parentage if you’ll give me a hand.”

Eslingen caught the other man’s shoulder, swung him so that they stood face to face in the empty street. The shops to either side were shuttered; they stood bathed in the red‑gold light that swept up the street from the Sier, their shadows falling away behind them. “I don’t make that kind of bargain,” he said. “Not without knowing a good deal more about your troubles.”

Aconin looked away. “It’s complicated–”

“No, then.”

Aconin took a breath. “All right. Wait. It’s–there’s something about this play, the whole damned folly of it–”

Eslingen caught the first flash out of the corner of his eye, shoved Aconin so that the snap of the lock caught the playwright already stumbling backward, arms flailing for balance. He cried out, hand flying to his upper arm, and Eslingen drew his knife, wishing he had a sword–wishing for pistol‑proofed back‑and‑breast, and a lock of his own–spinning to put his body between the attacker and Aconin. The street was empty, and the doorways, even the dead‑end alley where he thought he’d seen the flash of the priming powder, and he turned on his heel again, scanning windows. They were all closed, too, and he turned to Aconin.

“Quickly, into cover.”

Aconin nodded, still clutching his arm, and Eslingen pushed him toward the nearest doorway, waiting for a second shot. It never came, and he leaned against the cold stone, trying to catch his breath. “Are you all right?”

Aconin nodded, but his face was pale beneath the paint. Eslingen frowned, and saw the first threads of blood on the playwright’s fingers.

“Let me see,” he said, and pried the other man’s hand gently away.

Aconin hissed with pain, but did not resist, and Eslingen allowed himself a sigh of relief. Aconin’s coat and shirt were ripped and bloody, but the wound was little more than a scratch, a shallow graze barely wider than his finger, painful enough, but hardly serious. “Not bad,” he said, and folded Aconin’s fingers back to stop the bleeding. “Come on, I think we can make it to Point of Dreams–”

“No.” Aconin shook his head hard, almost dislodging his wig. “No, this is not a points matter.”