“Excuse me, Nico, but the alchemists would like a word with you. And with the sceneryman, if you please.”

Rathe nodded, glanced at Basa. “I’m sorry to do this, but–I think they’ll need your help getting the body free of the machinery.”

Basa made a face. “Oh, yeah. But I’ll need some backs to work the windlass, with the brake off.”

“How many?” Rathe asked.

“Three, at least,” Basa answered. “Four’s better.”

“Sohier and me,” Rathe said, and Eslingen’s head rose.

“And me, if you’d like.”

“Thanks,” Rathe said, and looked at Basa. “Enough?”

“It’ll do.”

They climbed back down into the understage, and Rathe was grateful for the overwhelming smell of the oil that coated the gears and the massive turnshaft. The alchemists were clustered around the body, mage‑lights poised to cast as much light as possible, and Rathe looked away from the too‑vivid picture. The woman apprentice– Ursine, Fanier had named her–looked over her shoulder at their approach, and came to join them, wiping her hands on her leather apron. There were new smears on it already, Rathe saw, and swallowed hard.

“You don’t deal in the common run of deaths, do you?” Ursine shook her head. “Dis Aidones, what a mess.”

And for an alchemist to say so… Rathe killed the thought, said, “What can you tell me?”

“Well, he’s dead for sure,” Ursine said with a fleeting smile. “But I’m not happy about this one, Adjunct Point. He–well, Master Fanier can say for sure, but I’d lay money he didn’t die where he’s lying.”

“Seidos’s Horse,” Eslingen said, and Rathe grimaced.

“You mean he died, or was killed, somewhere else, and then put into the machine?”

Ursine nodded, rubbing her hands on her apron again. “That would be my guess, Adjunct Point. But, as I say, Master Fanier can say for sure.”

“That’s an ugly thought,” Eslingen said, and Rathe nodded. It wasn’t hard to guess why someone would do it–the gears had crushed the man’s torso, would hide even a stab wound or a bullet hole, and without the alchemists’ testimony, there was a good chance that it would be taken for an accident–but it argued a colder heart than he’d thought they were dealing with. And it’s exactly the opposite of de Raзan’s death, he thought suddenly. He was found dead without apparent cause, with no chance of it being an accident, while what killed the watchman is almost too obvious, and almost too obviously an accident.

“I want to know as soon as possible,” he said aloud, and Ursine nodded again.

“We’ve done as much as we can here,” she said. “But I’m not sure of the best way to get him out of there.”

“I can help.” That was Basa, his voice cracking, and he cleared his throat. “Give me a minute, sir, dame, and I’ll get the machines switched over.”

He was as good as his word, pulling levers to move heavy bands of leather from one shaft to the next, careful to check each length of rope before he finally took his place at the main controls. “If you’ll take the windlass, pointsman–no, the other way–and just take up the strain…”

Rathe took his place at one of the long poles, saw Sohier and Eslingen do the same. He leaned his weight against the length of wood, felt the others doing the same, and then, slowly, the windlass moved, easily at first, and then more stiffly. The enormous shaft that ran the length of the understage turned with it, and there was a sigh of metal on metal as the great gears trembled behind them.

“Ready?” Basa called, and one of the alchemists lifted a hand.

“We’re ready.”

“Stay clear of the gears,” Basa warned, and Rathe bit down on unhappy laughter. Not that anyone should need that warning, with that object lesson staring them in the face.

“Clear,” the alchemist answered, and Basa dropped his hand.

“Go.”

Rathe threw his weight against the lever. There was a moment of resistance, and then it turned, more easily than he would have expected. The shaft turned, smooth and silent, and there was a muffled exclamation as the gears turned backward.

“Stop.”

Basa jerked two levers even as he spoke, and Rathe felt the windlass freeze under his hand. He straightened, catching a glimpse of the alchemists bending over the hunched body, and saw Basa, his face averted, adjusting levers and belts to hold everything in its place again.

“We’ll get on this one right away,” Ursine said, jerking her head toward the body, and Rathe nodded.

“I’d appreciate it,” he said, and Basa turned toward him.

“Pointsman–Adjunct Point. How soon can we–when can I bring my people down here, clean this up? The blood… I don’t want rats.”

Rathe swallowed hard, saw both Sohier and Eslingen flinch at the image. “We’re done,” he said aloud. “So the rest of it’s up to Mathiee.”

“Thank you,” Basa said, and shook his head. “Sweet Tyrseis, what a–the poor bastard.”

“Did you know him?” Rathe asked, almost on impulse, and the sceneryman shrugged.

“Not well. The actors would know him better. Who’d want to kill a man like him?”

“Like what?” Rathe asked, but the sceneryman was already out of earshot, scrambling back up the ladder to the stage itself. Rathe sighed, and looked at Sohier. “I’ll want an answer to that question. Let’s go.”

Gasquine was waiting on the stage, talking in an undervoice to the playwright. Aconin had changed his dark wig for one as pale as summer wine, and for once he looked genuinely worried. Rathe made a face–the last thing he wanted was to have to deal with Aconin– and beckoned to Sohier.

“You start with the actors, and any of the stagehouse staff. You know what I want, anything that might tell us why the man was killed. And I’ll talk to Mathiee.”

“He was the watchman,” Sohier said, and nodded. “You never know what he might have seen.”

Rathe nodded in agreement, and moved toward the company manager. She saw him coming, and broke off her conversation with Aconin, came toward him with a hand outstretched. “Is it–”

She broke off, as though she didn’t want to put it into words, and over her shoulder Aconin made a face.

“What else could it be, Mathiee?”

“An accident.” Gasquine frowned at him, but the playwright seemed not to see.

“What an ugly irony it would be if the man died for actually doing his duty. You couldn’t use it in a play.”

“ ‘Doing his duty’?” Rathe repeated, and looked at Gasquine. “I’m sorry, Mathiee, it’s most likely that this wasn’t an accident, so I’ll need to know anything you can tell me about him.”

“Tyrseis,” Gasquine said, and shook her head. “He’s been–he had been one of my watchmen for, oh, I suppose it’s been five years now. His father was an actor, comic parts, before your time, I think, but talented.”

“You gave him the job for his father’s sake?” Rathe asked, and Gasquine shrugged.

“Partly, I suppose. And I know his sister, too, she’s a seamstress–he lived with her and her man. So when I needed a watchman, and heard he was looking for work, it seemed to be a good match. He was willing enough.”

“So you’re saying he had no enemies that you know of,” Rathe said, though he thought he already knew the answer.

Gasquine shook her head again. “None, and I can’t imagine any. There are men who are born to be uncles, Nico, you know the sort, big sweet men who don’t want a household of their own, but live to indulge your own children. That was Artinou to the life, and he treated the actors all the same way. He was always doing them favors, carrying notes and flowers, that sort of thing.”

“And being well paid for it, too,” Aconin said.

Gasquine rounded on him with a frown. “And you, Master Aconite, can mind your tongue when you speak of the dead.”

“I don’t say he didn’t mean well,” Aconin said. “I believe he did. But be fair, Mathiee. He took coin for his pains, as much as any watchman did.”

“Master Aconin,” Rathe said. “What was it you meant about Artinou doing his duty for once?”