“I’m hardly important enough to catch Master Eyes’s notice, surely,” Eslingen answered. “What do you want me to do?”

It was hardly that simple, Rathe knew, but he didn’t have time to warn Sohier. Eyes would be gone at the first hint of trouble, fading back into the shadows where he could lose himself, where he could stay hidden until the theatre was cleared. “Get between him and the stairs–casually, like you’re looking for a place to catch a nap.”

“The Masters of Defense,” Eslingen said with dignity, “do not take naps during rehearsal.”

Rathe grinned in spite of himself. “For a tryst, then, or whatever it is the masters do allow themselves to do. Then I’ll flush him out.”

Eslingen nodded. “I’m at your service, Adjunct Point.”

He turned away, threading his way between the benches, and Rathe reached for his tablets, made a minor show of opening them, carving letters into the stiff wax. Not for the first time, he felt foolish, playacting in front of actors, but no one seemed to notice. Sohier was talking to another woman now, one of the masters, Rathe thought, and behind them he saw Eyes moving closer, easing toward them in hopes of catching a word or two. He ducked his head over the tablets again, not wanting to alarm the man, a part of his mind wondering if Eyes could have anything to do with these murders, or at least with Artinou’s death. By his previous record, there wasn’t much Eyes wouldn’t do to find a scandal he could sell to the printers–but then, Rathe amended, on his previous record, Eyes was more likely to invent scandal than to create it himself. He was not notably a man of his hands, preferred to let his pen do his fighting for him. Rather like Aconin in that, Rathe thought, and glanced up at the stage. The playwright was still there, standing a little apart from the others, arms folded across his chest as though he was cold. He was looking at something in the middle distance, Rathe realized, and frowning slightly, let his eyes follow the playwright’s gaze, found himself looking at the landseur Aubine, fussing over an uncovered tub of flowers. They were beautiful, brought to bloom only a few months early, the vivid blue stars of spring greeters bright even in the dimly lit theatre. He had a bank of them himself, tucked into a sheltered corner of his shared garden–they grew from corms, too, though far humbler than anything sold at market–had told himself it was for the bulb, good against fever, but the truth of it was, the bright flowers always lifted his spirits. They bloomed always in the last weeks of the Spider Moon, shoving up through snow if necessary, a full two weeks before the hardiest spring flowers showed their heads. They seemed an odd choice for the masque, there was no magistical significance that he knew of, but then, the color was certainly bright enough to show well in the theatre.

Eslingen was in position, leaning into a swordsman’s stretch that brought him between Eyes and the nearest staircase, and Sohier, Rathe saw, was between him and the tunnel that led to the door. He folded his tablets, trying to look casual, and took a careful step toward the group of actors. Eyes stayed where he was, still shadowed, then, as Rathe came closer, took a slow step backward, putting another tub of plants between himself and the approaching pointsman. Rathe kept coming, hurrying now, and Eyes took another backward step, almost tripping over a bench. Rathe allowed himself a grin, and the other man turned to run, stepping up onto and over the nearest bench. Eslingen straightened to attention, and Rathe shouted, “Hold him!”

Eyes darted sideways, floundering in the narrow space, and Eslingen lunged, caught him by the collar of his coat. The broadsheet writer writhed in his grip, trying to shed it, but Eslingen had him by the shirt as well, dragged him back and around until he could catch one arm and bend it backward.

“Is this your murderer, Adjunct Point?”

The guileless voice carried clearly, and actors and masters alike turned to stare. Rathe hid a grin– trust Philip to carry through–and managed a sober shake of the head. “No, I don’t believe so. But he doesn’t have any business here that I know of.”

“Master Eyes!”

The exclamation came from the actors, quickly stifled, and Rathe looked up at the stage, to see Gasquine staring down at them, something like horror filling her face. “He’s not part of your company, is he, Mathiee? Or yours, Master Duca?”

Gasquine shook her head warily. “Not of my company, no…”

“Nor mine,” Duca said, voice grim, and behind the writer’s shoulder Eslingen showed teeth in a cheerful smile.

“Then maybe he is your murderer.”

“Don’t think I don’t know who you are,” Master Eyes said. His voice was clear, tinged with a southriver accent. “And I know what you are to him, so don’t play games.”

“The only thing Orian ever murdered was a reputation,” Aconin said, from the stage. “But he has slain a few of those.”

“Master Eyes,” Rathe said, and felt the attention focus again on him, actors and masters alike. This must be something like what it felt like to be onstage, he thought, and wondered vaguely how they stood it. “You’re not of this company–of either company. I will have to ask you to leave.”

Eyes smiled with easy contempt. He was, Rathe thought remotely, surprisingly handsome, a pleasant face under brown hair just starting to show threads of grey, not at all what one would expect from his acid writing. “I’ll leave if I must, Adjunct Point. But don’t think I haven’t seen and heard more than enough to fill a dozen broadsheets.”

“I daresay you have,” Rathe answered. “But bear in mind you are talking about the masque. There’s a printer’s ban on the details, so I’d be very careful what I said, if I were you.”

Eyes laughed. “A good try, Adjunct Point, but it won’t wear. Besides, everyone is much more interested in the details of these deaths. The masque itself pales in comparison–no criticism meant of Master Aconite.”

It was true enough, and Rathe sighed. “Bring him, please, Lieutenant.”

Eslingen nodded, increasing the pressure on Eyes’s wrist until the writer gasped and took an involuntary step forward. Eslingen smiled, quite sweetly, and edged the man toward the tunnel. Rathe followed, taking a savage pleasure in the writer’s discomfort. He’d earned it, Sofia knew–but of course Eyes probably counted it as one of the hazards of his profession. Leenderts was still with the watchman and Siredy, the door barred behind them, and Rathe paused, beckoning to the other pointsman.

“Len. I need to make someone known to you.”

Leenderts nodded, his expression questioning, and Rathe smiled. “This is Orian Fiormi, better known to all of us as Master Eyes.”

Leenderts’s eyes widened almost comically, and Eyes swore under his breath. Anonymity was his stock in trade, Rathe knew, and allowed his smile to widen in turn. “Remember him,” he said, and Leenderts nodded.

“Absolutely, Adjunct Point. I won’t forget.”

“Good.” Rathe nodded to the doorkeeper. “Master Eyes was leaving.”

The doorkeeper nodded, scrambling to unfasten the bar and turn the heavy lock, and Eslingen eased his grip on the writer. Eyes straightened his shoulders, shrugging his coat back into place, looked from one to the other.

“You can’t stop the stories,” he said. “And Mathiee might have liked to have some say in them.”

“You can take that up with Mathiee,” Rathe answered. “Though I doubt you would have, frankly, offered her the chance. It’s so much easier to make things up out of whole cloth than to have to fit in unaccommodating things like facts. But this is a points matter, and you have no business with it.”

The door was open at last, and he nodded toward it. Eyes swept him a mocking bow, and stalked away, the skirts of his coat billowing in the breeze.

“Tyrseis,” Siredy said. “He’ll quarter us for that.”