“You could make the complaint, I suppose,” Rathe said, but without conviction, and Eslingen shook his head.

“What good would that do? All he’d have to do is deny it, and where would you be?”

“There’s the wound,” Rathe said, and shook his own head. “No, you’re right, I’d never be able to prove it happened the way you said. Damn the man, anyway.”

“Why do I suspect that none of this would be happening if someone else had written the masque?” Eslingen slid his hands into the pocket of his coat, found the posy he’d picked up. He tossed it onto the table, and Rathe took it curiously.

“What’s this?”

“I found it in the street,” Eslingen answered. “After the attack.”

Rathe turned it over in his fingers, studying the flowers. They were very dark, Eslingen realized, that hadn’t been a trick of the light, a purpled red that was almost black. Probably when the buds opened, they’d be brighter, but for now they looked almost ominous, furled tight against the cold. The only spot of color was the narrow ribbon that bound them together, a spot of brighter red against the dark green of the stems.

“A posy for a knife,” he said, meaning a joke, and Rathe looked up sharply.

“Do you know the flowers?”

Eslingen shook his head. “You know I don’t.”

“Winter‑roses, they’re called, though they’re not really roses.” Rathe turned the posy over again, studying the ribbon now. “In Hearts, I’m told, you send them to end a relationship.”

“Do you think they were meant for Aconin?” Eslingen asked, and the other man shrugged.

“It would be a bit of a coincidence if they weren’t. But then, this never happened, right?”

Eslingen nodded, feeling unreasonably depressed.

Rathe shook himself, setting the flowers aside, and stood again, turning his attention to the stove. “Well, if Chresta Aconin doesn’t want our help, I’m not going to foist it on him. With all that’s going on, I’ve got problems enough to deal with, without him.”

6

« ^ »

the next few days were, mercifully, quiet, and Eslingen allowed himself, slowly, to relax a little. Aconin had been least in sight for the first day after the attack, and even after that, he’d kept to himself, consulting primarily with Gasquine and her assistants, and staying well clear of the chorus. So maybe it was a love affair gone wrong, Eslingen thought, making his way toward the Tyrseia once again, or maybe just Aconin’s unruly tongue had finally made an enemy who could do something about his hatred. In any case, it had worked to his advantage: the day after the attack he had seen the playwright lurking in the shadows, watching the rehearsal. How are you? he’d asked, and Aconin had given him a single, angry look.

My silence for yours, Philip. Agreed?

Eslingen smiled to himself. Agreed, definitely, even though it infuriated Rathe: anything that would help him keep his balance in this strange new world was to be embraced, particularly with Aubine watching him, seeking a kindred spirit. The landseur didn’t seem to have much in common with the rest of the chorus, seemed if anything older than his years, sober–still saddened, maybe, by the lost leman, if Siredy’s story was true. And I hope it isn’t, Eslingen added silently. No one deserves that sorrow.

He turned the last corner then, coming out into the plaza in front of the Tyrseia, and swore under his breath. At least half the other masters were there before him, clustered outside the actors’ entrance, and a cart was drawn up behind them, a heavy canvas pulled over its contents. The first batch of flowers, Eslingen guessed, as Aubine came out from behind the cart, and was relieved to see Siredy waiting with the others.

“Now what?” he asked softly, and the other man rolled his eyes.

“Oh, a lovely beginning to the day. The thrice‑damned doors are locked, and we can’t raise the watchman.”

“The plants won’t stand it,” Aubine said from the head of the wagon, and Duca threw up his hands in despair.

“I understand, maseigneur, but there’s nothing I can do.”

“I’ve wrapped them as best I can,” Aubine went on, as though the other man hadn’t spoken. “But they don’t like the cold.”

“Someone must have a key,” Eslingen said to Siredy, and the other master sighed.

“Gasquine does–the Venturers, too, probably, but Mathiee’s closer. Master Duca sent Peyo Rieux, but it’ll be a good half hour before she gets back. More, if she has to wake Gasquine.”

“Seidos’s Horse.” Eslingen took a step backward, looking up the long staircase that led to the narrow gallery door. It would be locked, of course, but there was a shuttered window on the tier above that might give access to the seats.

“And Master Duca’s not best pleased,” Siredy said, squinting up at the gallery. “You don’t seriously think you could get through there?”

“Maybe,” Eslingen answered. Actually, the hardest part would be getting to the window, clambering up over the staircase railing; after that, it would just be a matter of shouldering the shutters open– unless there was glass in the frame, he thought, and opened his mouth to ask the question.

Duca forestalled him. “Lieutenant vaan Esling. You’re late.”

The clock struck the hour as he spoke, giving him the lie, and Eslingen bit back an annoyed retort. “Sorry,” he said, without pretense of sincerity, and looked back up at the facade. “Would it be too much if one of us climbed up there and opened the door from the inside?”

“As long as you don’t strangle the damned watch while you’re at it,” Duca answered. “I’m reserving that for my particular privilege. Areton’s sword and shield, what next?”

For all his bluster, Duca sounded genuinely worried, and Eslingen felt a thin finger of fear work its way down his spine. Surely there was nothing seriously wrong, he told himself, just a man asleep on duty–but the watchman had seemed reasonably conscientious. He frowned, and saw the same concern reflected in Siredy’s eyes.

“Well, get on with it,” Duca said, scowling, and Eslingen shrugged out of his coat. The stairs were guarded only by a low gate, easy enough to step over, but the window of the gallery was more difficult, a good half his body length above the door it lit. He took a careful breath, kicking off his heavy shoes, and stepped cautiously onto the gallery rail. It was wide and dry, worn smooth by thousands of clutching hands, and he wished he’d thought to remove his stockings as well. It was solid enough, though, and he reached cautiously for the carved rails that bordered the narrow window, tugging first gently and then harder to make sure they’d hold his weight. They were firmly set, and he pulled himself up, grunting as his shoulders took the strain, to crouch awkwardly on the narrow sill. Bad as a gargoyle, he thought, and glanced down once, to see the others looking up at him, Aubine with his hand to his mouth as though afraid. It was farther down than he wanted to think about; he looked quickly away, one hand still locked to the rail, and pushed gently at the shutters. They gave a little, by the feel of them secured only by a simple latch, and he braced himself to give them a blow with his shoulder. The latch groaned and held, but the second, harder shove knocked them open, and he teetered for a second on the sill before he regained his balance. The others were still watching, and he lifted his free hand in reassurance before sliding through the empty frame.

The window gave onto one of the side corridors, unlit except for the patch of light from the open window, and he stood for a moment in the dark, letting his eyes adjust.

“Hello? Anyone here?”

There was no answer, not even an echo, and he wished he could remember the watchman’s name. A little more light seeped in between another pair of shutters farther along the building’s curve, and he turned toward it, trying to orient himself in the musty dark. There were curtains to his left, that was the source of the dusty smell, and he fumbled with the nearest set until he found the gap.