For the first time, the playwright looked uneasy. “Mathiee can tell you better than I can.”

“There’s no point in bringing that up,” Gasquine said, through clenched teeth.

Rathe suppressed a sigh. He’d seen this reaction a hundred times before, the grief that wanted only to see the best in the dead, and he made his voice as gentle as he could. “It could be important, Mathiee, you know that–might explain something.”

Gasquine grimaced, but nodded. “I had to speak to him yesterday. Some of the actors–not the chorus, just the actors–came to me and said things had been moved about in the dressing rooms.”

“Stolen?” Rathe asked, and Gasquine shook her head.

“No, that was the odd thing. I mean, theft’s a constant problem, there’s always someone new to the city who doesn’t know the jewels are paste–I can’t count the number of times we’ve redeemed Anfelis’s Crown from pawn, we’ve practically got an account with the old woman.” She broke off with an apologetic smile. “And actors are careless, they leave things about that they shouldn’t. But, no, nothing was stolen, just–moved around, or so the actors told me. And from what they said, it seemed it must have happened overnight. So I told Artinou to take special care to make sure the house–all of it, stage and backstage and understage and the house, too–was locked tight and no one was there who shouldn’t be.”

“And then he was found dead,” Rathe said.

Gasquine looked stricken. “Oh, Tyrseis. I wish I hadn’t said anything.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Aconin said. “You had to say something.”

“Did you know about these–disturbances?” Rathe asked, and the playwright hesitated, then shook his head in turn.

“Not I. By hearsay only. You’d have to talk to the actors about that.”

“I’ll do that,” Rathe answered, and looked back at Gasquine. “With your permission, of course, Mathiee.”

“Of course.” Gasquine took a deep breath. “Oh, Nico, I so wish this hadn’t happened.”

And not just for the sake of the play, either, Rathe thought, though that had to be looming in her mind. The company owner seemed genuinely distressed. He murmured what he hoped was a soothing response, and glanced at the knot of actors gathered now in the pit. Sohier was talking to one of them, a tall, lanky woman whom Rathe had always seen playing the heroine’s best friend, and the rest seemed to be trying to listen without actually being caught eavesdropping. Guis Forveijl was among them, carefully not meeting Rathe’s eye, but also Gavi Jhirassi, and in spite of himself, Rathe’s mood lifted. Jhirassi was as keen an observer as any actor, and more to the point, he could be trusted.

“Gavi,” he called, and the younger man turned at once. His hair had been cropped short for The Drowned Island, to accommodate the young hero’s massive wigs, and the short curls set off the sharp bones of his face, made him look like a Silklands carving. “Over here, if you would.”

Jhirassi moved to join him, and Rathe climbed down the short stairs into the pit, moving him away from the other actors. He was aware of Forveijl’s eyes following them, and did his best to ignore it, took a deep breath of air that smelled suddenly and strongly of Aubine’s plants.

“What’s all this about things being–disturbed–in the dressing rooms?”

Jhirassi raised his eyebrows, spread both hands in a gesture that was gracefully uncertain. “What about it? A bunch of us complained to Mathiee–you don’t mean that’s why poor Artinou was killed?”

“I don’t know,” Rathe answered. “And, frankly, Gavi, I don’t even know exactly what happened, so…”

He let his voice trail off, and Jhirassi gave a wincing smile. “Sorry. We’re all a bit–unsettled–today.” He took a breath, visibly collecting his thoughts. “Sorry. What happened. Well, it wasn’t much, really, but it was disturbing, thinking someone had been in the dressing rooms. It was like someone had been through everything, all our goods and clothes–”

“Looking for something, do you think?” Rathe asked.

Jhirassi gestured helplessly. “I don’t think so? I don’t know. There was enough for the taking, Tyrseis knows, I’d left a nice gilt chain by mistake, but it was there, just moved from one hook to another. And some clothes were taken out of the press, Guis’s coat was dropped in a corner–”

“That could have been Guis,” Rathe said, in spite of himself, remembering Forveijl’s habits, and Jhirassi grinned.

“No, I saw him hang it up this time. The wardrobe mistress was going to fine him if he didn’t take better care of it, and she did charge him a demming anyway.” His smile vanished. “And there was more. All the paint pots were moved around–one was broken, Anjesine’s best rouge–and she had a posy for her throat, tea herbs, and they’d been pulled apart and rearranged.” He paused. “I think that was the strangest thing, someone bothering to rearrange a bunch of herbs.”

Rathe nodded. “Tell me about Artinou.”

“What’s to tell?” Jhirassi made a face. “I’m sorry, that sounds terrible, but he was the watchman. I didn’t know him very well.”

“Aconin says he ran errands for people, carried notes and such.”

“So do all the watchmen,” Jhirassi answered. “If anything, Artinou had more sense than most–he could remember who you wanted to see, and who was being hinted away.”

“A useful talent,” Rathe said. And potentially a dangerous one, if the watchman had remembered more than he should. He took the actor through the rest of his questions without learning more than he’d already heard from Gasquine, and when he’d finished stood for a moment, hands on hips, trying to decide who to question next. Sohier was working her way through the actors; maybe he should leave them to her, he thought, and concentrate on the masters. Even as he thought that, Eslingen stepped into his line of sight.

“Excuse me, Adjunct Point?”

Rathe frowned at the formal address, and Eslingen took a step closer.

“If I could have a word?”

Rathe’s frown deepened, but he nodded, stepping back out of earshot of the group still gathered in the pit.

“I think there’s someone here who doesn’t belong,” Eslingen said. “He’s not one of the actors, or a master–I thought he was Aubine’s man, but his lordship says not.”

“Where?” It took all of Rathe’s self‑control not to turn and stare. It had been known to happen, murderers returning compulsively to the scene of their crimes, particularly when a madman was involved…

“Toward the back of the pit,” Eslingen answered. “On the edge of the group of actors–by the biggest tub of plants. He’s an older man, brown coat, brown hair.”

Rathe nodded, letting his eyes drift sideways, scanning the crowd. The edges of the pit were in shadow, the sunlight that filtered through the canvas roof not adding much to the mage‑lights, but he found the man at last, leaning on the edge of the handcart that had carried Aubine’s plants. And that was probably how he’d gotten in, Rathe guessed, offering to help carry pots and then staying after Aubine had paid him off. No one would have noticed him, just another laborer.

“You know him,” Eslingen said, eyes narrowing, and Rathe nodded.

“Oh, yeah. All too well. That’s Master Eyes himself, come to see the scandal.”

“Master Eyes.” From the look on Eslingen’s face, he recognized the name– and well he should, considering how many broadsheets came from the bastard’s pen, Rathe thought. Not that Eyes wrote them himself, or not all of them, but his name, and his too‑astute observations, filled reams of paper. “What do we do about him?”

Rathe sighed. “He doesn’t have any right to be here, and I’m sure Mathiee would be glad to see his back, if she knew he was here. So I’ll do her a favor, kick him out myself–if you’ll help.”

“Of course.”

Rathe smiled lopsidedly. “Bear in mind that he has a lot to say about actors, and the Masters of Defense, for that matter.”