“The house was just purified,” Duca began, and shook himself to silence. “Right. Back onstage with all of you, and make sure no one comes down here.”

“And that the other trap isn’t open,” Siredy said.

Duca gave him a look. “Good thought. See to it, Verre. And you, Janne, send to Point of Dreams. I want Rathe, and don’t take no for an answer.”

They found the second trap closed as well, and Duca straightened from it, breathing heavily through his mouth. “This is hard on Mathiee,” he said, and winced as the tower clock struck the half hour. “And she should be along any minute now, with her keys to let us in. Sofia, what a welcome.”

“You found the man?” The voice came from the pit, and Eslingen stepped back out onto the stage to see Aubine looking up from the pit. He was surrounded by tubs of plants, at least half a dozen half barrels packed full of greenery and blooms, too bright after the darkness below the stage. From the look in Duca’s eyes, the other master was thinking the same thing, and Siredy turned away with a muffled curse, leaning hard against the nearest versatile.

“I’m afraid so, my lord,” Eslingen said.

“Dead, then?” Aubine sounded more surprised than anything. “Oh, surely not.”

“Caught in the machinery,” Duca said, and cleared his throat hard. “The biggest of the lifts.”

Aubine said nothing for a long moment, his face very still, and then, slowly, he shook his head. “I’ve only seen the machines once, Master Duca, but they struck me then as treacherous things. What a terrible accident.”

“If it is an accident,” Eslingen said, in spite of himself, and Aubine frowned.

“Surely you’re not–oh, no, not again.”

The landseur looked genuinely horrified, and Duca lifted both hands placatingly. “It may not be, my lord, but we have to be sure.”

“What will it do to the masque?” Aubine asked. “A second death, so soon–practically on the heels of poor de Raзan–if it is untimely, and I pray it is not, Seidos, will they allow us to continue?”

There was no answer to that, the same question the other masters had to have been asking themselves, and Eslingen glanced over his shoulder at the sound of women’s voices from the tunnel.

“So you got in all right without me, I see.” Gasquine was wrapped in a serviceable‑looking cloak of grey wool, her thick hair untidy beneath a linen cap. “What in the name of all the gods is going on? And where’s Artinou?”

“Dead,” Duca answered, and the actor stopped as though she had been struck.

“Dead?”

Duca nodded. “In the gears, below stage. It’s not pretty.”

Gasquine paused, her foot on the first step leading up to the stage. “Tyrseis. The Starsmith forge his soul anew.”

Duca touched his forehead in respect, and Eslingen, belatedly, copied him.

“Did a rope break?” Gasquine began, and answered her own question. “No, the cordage is new–and what was he doing down there anyway?”

“We don’t know,” Duca said. “But it may not be an accident, Mathiee. We’ve sent for the points.”

For a second, Gasquine looked old and tired, but then she straightened, pulling herself back together with an effort of will. “Good,” she said, and sounded as though she was trying to convince herself.

Rathe arrived within the half hour, flanked by a pair Eslingen recognized from the Dreams station. He quickly commandeered Gasquine’s replacement watchman, setting him to guard the single open door, then made his way onto the stage. He hardly looked as though he belonged there, Eslingen thought, a wiry, unexceptional man in a badly battered coat under the pointsman’s leather jerkin, but then he nodded to Gasquine, the gesture drawing all eyes, and Eslingen couldn’t repress a smile.

“Mathiee.” Although he spoke directly to the actress, Rathe was careful to let his voice carry, taking in the other authority, Duca’s and Aubine’s, as well. “I’m sorry to see you again, at least like this.”

Gasquine managed a wan smile. “As are we all, Nico. Gerrat says he doubts it was an accident, and I’m afraid so do I.”

Rathe nodded. “Who found the body?”

“Master Duca and his people. They were to have the stage early this morning.”

So much for that plan, Eslingen thought. As things were, they’d be lucky to get any work done at all today– and I suppose I should feel guilty for thinking it, but Seidos knows, there’s work enough to be done. Rathe’s eyes slid over him without acknowledgment, but then, as the pointsman turned back to face Gasquine, Eslingen thought he saw the hint of a smile.

“All right. Let’s get it over with. I take it the body’s below stage– and who found it, anyway?”

“We did,” Siredy said. “All of us together. Philip saw that a rope was missing, so naturally we looked to the machinery, and–”

He stopped abruptly, grimacing, and Eslingen said, “The body’s caught in the gears. It’s not nice.”

Rathe made a face as well, but nodded. “Show me.”

Duca pointed to the trapdoor, and de Vicheau, still pale, lifted the heavy boards. Rathe slid down easily enough, stood for a moment in the dark before Eslingen followed with a lantern. Rathe took it with a nod and moved forward into the shadows. Eslingen hung back, not wanting to see again, heard Rathe swear as he found the mangled body. There was a little silence then, Eslingen careful not to see, and then a scuffling sound, and Rathe came back, bringing the light with him. His expression, in the mage‑light, was unreadable, but he was rubbing one hand convulsively on the edge of his jerkin.

“Did someone identify the man?”

“Master Duca said he recognized him,” Eslingen said. “From the clothes.”

“Not from the face, by the look of him,” Rathe answered. He took a deep breath. “Was it like this when you found him?”

Eslingen nodded. “We didn’t touch anything, just came down to look, found him, and came away.”

“No lights?” Rathe asked, and Eslingen felt a perverse thrill of pride at having guessed the right question.

“None. The lanterns were hanging by the ladder.”

“And the trap was closed,” Rathe said.

“Both of them,” Eslingen answered.

Rathe sighed. “Are any of the scenerymen around?”

“I don’t think so,” Eslingen answered. “Unless Mathiee’s sent for them already.”

“She’d better,” Rathe said, and motioned toward the ladder. “Come on, let’s get back up. They’ll need help to get him out of there.”

Eslingen made a face at the all‑too‑vivid image, and heard one of the other pointsmen choke. He hadn’t realized they’d come down behind him until then.

“And we’ll want to know if the ropes gave way,” Rathe went on, as though he hadn’t heard, “or if anything else is wrong. Len, find something heavy and block off the other trap–these are the only two ways down, right, Philip?”

“As far as I know,” Eslingen answered, and pulled himself up onto the stage again.

“And then watch this one yourself,” Rathe went on. “Sohier, I want you to wait for the people from the deadhouse, see if you can slip them in discreetly–”

The pointswoman shook her head, the braided lovelock flying. “It’s not going to happen, Nico, I’m sorry. There’s already a crowd gathering, and the Five Rings is open for business.”

Rathe swore again. “I’ve a mind to call a point on them for contributing to the disturbance. All right, do what you can. Let’s hope they hurry.”

Gasquine had sent for her sceneryman already, and he arrived with the deadhouse carters and a knot of actors, the group swirling down the tunnel into the pit in a confusion of voices. Rathe straightened from his examination of the loosened rope, and bit back an exclamation of disgust. The apprentice alchemist–the same woman who’d collected de Raзan’s body, he saw without surprise–matched him stare for stare, but he ignored her, beckoned to Gasquine instead.

“Mathiee. Get your people under control, please–and now that they’re here, they can stay until I’ve had a word with them. Keep them here in the pit, and I’ll get to them as soon as I can.”