“I hope not,” Rathe answered. “Or at least maybe he’ll put the blame where it belongs.”

“Master Eyes is never fair,” Siredy said.

That was all too true, and Rathe sighed. Eyes had seen the shrouded body carried out, had heard at least some of the actors’ gossip, knew as much and probably more than anyone except the murderer about de Raзan’s death… No, this was not going to make him friends in Dreams, and Trijn in particular was going to be livid. Keep things out of the broadsheets as long as possible, she had said, and if anyone could spot the political implications of the chorus, it would be Master Eyes. He shook himself then. That was borrowing trouble; still, the best thing to do would be to go straight to Trijn, and tell her what had happened.

He made it back to Dreams station in record time, but Trijn herself had gone out. Rathe stared down at the daybook, flipping back through the pages to hide his relief. He could leave her a note, then, and spare himself the lecture– or, more likely, put it off until tomorrow. Still, it was a reprieve of sorts, and he flipped back through another day’s entries, wondering if he should go to the deadhouse himself. Fanier would do the job as quickly and efficiently if he wasn’t there, but a part of him felt as though he should be present, somehow help shepherd the body through the alchemist’s rites. And that was foolish, he knew, and turned another page. Voillemin had been to Little Chain, he saw, and frowned as he read the brief notation. Spoke with stallholder, who had a story about flowers bought according to the Alphabet. Misadventure?

“What do you know about this?” he asked, and the duty point– Falasca again–looked up quickly.

“Not much. He’s been working on a report for a couple of days now.”

“Do you know if he ever spoke to Holles?” Rathe saw the woman shrug, and said, “Leussi’s leman. The one who found the body.”

“Oh.” Falasca shook her head. “I don’t think so–but of course I could be wrong. I think, my impression is, that he thinks this wraps up the case. He said something about the matter being resolved.”

“Resolved.” It was an odd word, not one that went with murder, and Rathe had to take a careful breath to control his anger. “Do you know what he found?”

“No,” Falasca answered. “I’m sorry.”

“Is Voillemin in?” Even as he asked, Rathe knew it was a forlorn hope, and Falasca shook her head again.

“He has the night watch, sir, he won’t be in until after second sunrise.”

Another four hours. Rathe looked back at the daybook, at Voillemin’s neat, well‑schooled handwriting. If he really had found information that would allow him to–resolve–the investigation surely he would have made his report by now; if the information wasn’t good enough, surely he would have spoken to Holles. Which meant that his fears, and Holles’s, were coming true: Voillemin was looking for a way to brush the case aside. He shook himself, frowning now at his own suspicions. It was just as possible that Voillemin was being conscientious, was making sure his conclusions could be justified, before he committed his opinion to a report–but if that were the case, why hadn’t he talked to Holles yet? Rathe hesitated, then reached for his daybook to copy the name and direction of the stallholder who claimed to know so much. It wasn’t his business to check up on Voillemin, and the regents would have a fit if they ever found out, but he couldn’t not follow up on this, if only for Leussi’s sake. With any luck, he’d simply confirm what Voillemin had found, and everyone could rest easier.

He crossed the Sier at the landings beside the Chain Tower, where in generations past the first watch towers had protected the city against attack from the west. The city had spread beyond the towers now, and it had been at least a hundred years since queen or regents had ordered chain strung from jetty to jetty to foul enemy ships, but the massive links were still stacked ready, greased and rewound twice a year by the Pontoises, the company of boatmen responsible for law on the river. Today a pack of children, too young even to work as runners, were playing tag around the pile of iron, their cries carrying like riverbirds’ in the cold air. The boatman was surly, sunk into a triple layer of heavy jerseys, fingers wrapped in wool beneath the leather palms, and Rathe was glad to pay him his fee, resolving to walk back to the Hopes‑point Bridge before he ventured on the water again.

Voillemin’s note had said that the woman was a stallholder in the Little Chain market, but a single glance at the stall, well painted and double‑sized, with cressets already lit against the gathering dusk and a banner of a star and bell, was enough to make Rathe swear under his breath. Whatever else Levee Estines was, she was more than a mere stallholder, and Voillemin should have known better than to take her that lightly. The woman herself was not at the stall, but the man who tended it, busy among jars and baskets of dried herbs and flowers, pointed him willingly enough to his mistress’s house. The house itself was neat and well kept, new plaster bright between the beams, and a glasshouse leaned against the southern wall where it could take the sunlight. The glass was fogged now, and in spite of everything Rathe felt a slight pang of envy. Glasshouses were expensive to build, even more expensive to heat through Astreiant’s long winter; his mother had always wanted one, and in the same breath called them a waste of coin and effort. This one was small, just a lean‑to, really, so that even a small woman would have to crouch to tend the plants on the lowest shelves, but he could see greenery through the clouded glass, and knew it was doing its job.

The maidservant who answered his knock seemed unsurprised to find a pointsman on their doorstep, and ushered him into what at second glance had to be a buyer’s receiving room. It faced away from the glasshouse, the single window giving onto what in the summer had to be an uncommonly pretty garden, and Rathe took a step toward it anyway, admiring the shapes of the empty beds. Half a dozen corms stood ready in forcing jars, already sending up vigorous green shoots, and he wondered again exactly what Estines’s trade was. Herbs and flowers, from her stall, but did she also trade in medicines, or perfumes, or even food, or just in the raw materials?

“Adjunct Point?” The voice broke off. “Oh. You’re not who I expected.”

Rathe turned to see a round woman frowning at him from the doorway. Her hair was caught up under a lace cap, her only concession to fashion, and as though she’d guessed his thought she shook her skirts down from where they’d been caught up for work.

“My name’s Nicolas Rathe, mistress, from Point of Dreams. I understood you wanted to speak to someone from our station.”

“But I spoke to someone.” Her voice was wary, and Rathe made himself smile. This was one of the reasons that checking up on a fellow pointsman was difficult.

“I know. To Adjunct Point Voillemin, right?”

“Yes.” Estines drew the word out into two syllables.

“I have some reason to believe that this case is connected to one of mine,” Rathe lied. “So I wondered if you could spare me a few moments to talk to me as well.”

“Connected?” Estines’s eyes grew very round. “Oh, surely not. That would be–” She checked herself and repeated, “Surely not.”

Damn Voillemin for not putting in his reports on time. Rathe said, “Oh? Why do you say that?”

Estines looked as though she wished she hadn’t spoken. “I don’t want to tell you your business, I know nothing of points’ affairs–”

Rathe smiled again, tried for his most soothing voice. “You sent to us, said you had information on the intendant Leussi’s death. What was that?”

“But I told the other man,” Estines said.

“I’d like to hear it again, from you.” It was one of the oldest tricks in the book, but Estines nodded slowly.