“And if this isn’t, what is?” Eslingen demanded. “Chresta, someone just took a shot at you.”

“It’s not a matter for the points,” Aconin said again. “I’m serious, Philip.”

“Then you know who did it, and you’re going after him,” Eslingen said. “The points don’t take kindly to private revenge.”

“You mean your Nico doesn’t,” Aconin answered, and shivered suddenly. “No, Philip, I don’t know who did it. I swear to you. I just want to get home…”

In one piece, Eslingen finished silently. “Not to the Court,” he said aloud, and Aconin shook his head.

“No. Guis–Guis Forveijl. I’m still staying with him, on and off.”

“You should go to Point of Dreams,” Eslingen said again. “Come on, Chresta, you must have some idea what this is all about.”

“I don’t.” There was the hint of a tremor in Aconin’s voice. “I swear, I don’t.”

“Is it the play?”

Aconin shook his head again, again too hard, and Eslingen’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve heard that some of the rejected playwrights aren’t too fond of you these days.”

Aconin managed a laugh, and this time there was real humor in it. “None of them would know how to load a lock, much less come this close to hitting me. Knives and clubs would be more their game–or more likely just a nasty piece for the printers.”

That had the ring of truth to it, Eslingen admitted. “So who, then? You used to write a few broadsheets yourself, I hear.”

“Not recently,” Aconin answered. “I swear to you, Philip, on anything you want, I don’t know.”

“On your career?” Eslingen asked.

Aconin seemed to pause, then laughed softly, much more naturally this time. “You are a suspicious man.”

“And you haven’t answered me.” Aconin was, Eslingen thought, a better actor than he’d believed.

“I swear to you, on my career, that I do not know who took a shot at me.” In the shadowed doorway, Aconin’s expression was unreadable. “Tyrseis, Philip, this hurts.”

“You’ve been shot,” Eslingen said. “Be glad the ball’s not still in you.” He leaned carefully around the edge of the doorway, trying to judge distances in the fading light. They should be on their way, and soon, before the twilight settled over the city and gave more cover to the assassin if she decided to return. “Where does Forveijl lodge?

“Not far,” Aconin said, and straightened with a visible wince. “Not too far from the Salle, in fact.”

“Right.” Eslingen sighed, scanning the street a final time. It surprised him that no one had called out, protested the shot or questioned what they were doing skulking in doorways, but then, this was a chancy district when the playhouses were not in session, a place where the locals kept to themselves as much or more than they had ever done in Point of Hopes or Customs Point. And, to be fair, some of the shops were too small to house the shopkeepers, probably were looked after by watchmen or perhaps a dog or two. “Let’s go.”

The sun was on the horizon now, the air thick with shadow. Aconin glanced nervously over his shoulder as he stepped into the street, as though he still expected an attack. Eslingen took a slow breath, wishing again that he had a lock of his own, and body armor to go with it.

“Which way?”

“Toward the river,” Aconin said. He was still holding his arm, though the bleeding was sure to have slowed by now, and Eslingen flinched in sympathy. Flesh wounds were miserably painful, sometimes worse than something more serious; the playwright would be even more sore in the morning once the swelling set in. Something caught his eye then, more by its shadow, freakishly long just at sunset, a small patch of color just beyond the entrance to a narrow alley. He moved to pick it up, ignoring Aconin’s soft cry of warning, and saw it was a posy, a knot of flowers wound with a strip of ribbon. There were perhaps three flowers, jewel‑dark in the fading light, tight buds no bigger than his thumb, and he held it out to Aconin.

“Yours?” He didn’t remember seeing it on the other man’s coat, but the playwright shrugged it away.

“Hardly.”

The sun was almost down, just a narrow sliver showing above the rooftops, and Eslingen shook himself, tucking the posy into a pocket. First to get Aconin home, or at least to Forveijl’s lodgings, and then take himself home again before the second sunrise. He sighed to himself, knowing he’d be too late to buy bread or anything more than a pitcher of beer to contribute to his own dinner, and wished for an uncharitable moment that he could leave Aconin to his own devices. But the playwright was in trouble, and he could hardly leave him…

“And that reminds me,” he said as they started toward the river and Forveijl’s lodgings. “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

Aconin paused, looked almost startled. “Do you know, it’s gone completely out of my head.”

Liar, Eslingen thought, but swallowed the word. “You’re not my problem, Chresta,” he said. “Go to the points, let them deal with you.”

“I can’t,” Aconin said, almost too softly for the other man to hear, and shook his head. “Leave it, Philip, will you?”

And that’s what I get for listening to you in the first place, Eslingen thought. If I’d taken Aubine’s offer, you’d’ve been killed– well, at least there’s more of a chance that you would have– but do I get a word of gratitude? Not likely. In spite of himself, he smiled. And so typical of Aconin.

They reached Forveijl’s lodgings without further incident, and Eslingen left the playwright arguing with the landlady’s man. As he’d expected, the shops were shut by the time he reached Rathe’s neighborhood, and he climbed the steps empty‑handed. Rathe opened the door almost before he could knock, an almost worried look dissolving into something like impatience.

“You’re later than I expected.”

“Yes. Sorry.” Eslingen came into the sudden warmth and the smell of cooking–not Rathe’s, probably, the smells were too rich, must have come from Wicked’s–and stood for a second blinking in the lamplight before he started to unwind his cloak.

“Are you all right?”

“Sorry,” Eslingen said again. “Yes, I’m fine.”

“What happened?” Rathe turned back to the stove, shifting a pot from the hob to a hotter surface, but Eslingen could see the tension in his back.

“Somebody took a shot at Chresta Aconin,” he said, and hung his cloak carefully on the hook by the door. Rathe’s coat was tossed over the back of one of his chairs, and Eslingen adjusted it so that the shoulders hung straight before he removed his own.

“What?” Rathe turned quickly, and Eslingen spread his hands.

“Someone shot at him.”

“Why didn’t I know that?”

“Because it just happened, oh, less than an hour ago,” Eslingen answered.

“I was at Dreams less than an hour ago,” Rathe said.

“He didn’t report it to the points.” Eslingen took a breath. “And he’s not going to report it.”

Rathe slammed a wooden spoon down hard on the stove’s iron lid. “Is he mad? Or is it just the stars?” He paused. “And by any chance were you there?”

“Yes,” Eslingen said, and decided it could stand as an answer to all of them.

“Astree–” Rathe shook his head. “All right. What happened?”

I wish I knew. Eslingen sighed, reached for his dressing gown, pulled it close about his shoulders as the heat of his exertions faded. “I–it was not a good day, Nico, we had landames at feud who were assigned as partners, and, well, that’s not important now.”

In spite of everything, Rathe suppressed a smile as he came to sit at the table. “I will want to hear that story.”

Eslingen nodded. “But later.” He took a breath, composing his thoughts, and Rathe slid a glass of the harsh red wine across the table toward him. He sipped it, slightly warm from its place by the stove, said, “Aconin was leaving when I was, said he had something he wanted to talk to me about. And so I said I’d walk a way with him–I was going to pick up a loaf of bread, truly–but when we turned down one of the streets that runs straight to the river, someone took a shot at him. I saw the priming powder fire, pushed him, but I’m not sure it wouldn’t have missed him anyway.” He went through the rest of it, everything he could remember, lingering on Aconin’s refusal to take the matter to the points, and leaned back in the chair when he’d finished, stretching legs that were stiff from the day’s drill.