“Was there anything?”

b’Estorr shook his head, his face bleached and tired in the uncertain lamplight. “Nothing–well, not nothing, you felt them, this is a populous neighborhood for the dead, but nothing recent, and nothing that belongs to Aconin.” He stopped then, tilting his head to one side. “That may not be strictly true, I could have sworn I felt almost– a ghost of a ghost, but there was no blood behind it.” He shook his head, dismissing the thought. “Someone, probably, close to him, who simply wouldn’t accept death. It happens.”

Rathe nodded. “But nothing killed?”

“Nothing,” b’Estorr said again. He paused, absently straightening the figures on the altar. “What made you think there might be?”

Rathe paused, remembering Aconin’s behavior. “I’m not sure. He was–very outspoken that he didn’t want me involved, or anyone from Point of Dreams, and then that he didn’t want a necromancer. And then he made damn sure he was gone before you got here.”

“We don’t get along,” b’Estorr said, mildly, and Rathe grinned in spite of himself.

“No.” He sobered quickly. “I suppose the main thing was how determined he was to downplay–all this, when I’d expect anyone to be screaming murder and crying vengeance on whoever did it. I wondered what he knew that he wasn’t telling.”

“It wasn’t a curse,” b’Estorr said positively. “A warning, I suppose?”

That was the second time someone had suggested that, and it still didn’t feel right. Rathe shook his head, less in disagreement than in puzzlement. “I suppose. But he didn’t seem frightened, either, just stood there dropping flowers out the window.”

“What?” b’Estorr’s attention sharpened visibly.

“There was a vase of them,” Rathe said. “On the table. They were wilted, and he tossed them out the window.”

“All at once, or one at a time?” b’Estorr asked.

“One at a time.” Rathe frowned. “All right, what am I missing?”

b’Estorr shook his head in turn, looking almost embarrassed. “I may be seeing too much in it, but–a vase of flowers, untouched in this mess? A posy he had to take apart flower by flower? It sounds like something out of the Alphabet to me.”

“A spell, you mean.” Rathe frowned, thinking of Leussi’s Alphabet, the flowers that might have caused his death. “Istre, did you get any message from Trijn today?”

The necromancer shook his head. “Should I have? I was in classes until the runner from Knives found me.”

“You will hear,” Rathe said grimly. “There’s another copy of the Alphabet that needs to be examined.”

“There are phytomancers I’d trust with it,” b’Estorr said.

Rathe made a face, looking back at the empty vase. “So that would be the counter to a posy? Taking it apart like that?”

b’Estorr nodded. “If the Alphabet exists, if you even suspect it exists and that it might work, that would be one way to counteract an arrangement, taking it apart. If, of course, you assume it works. And if it works, assuming it’s not too strong a spell.”

“Yeah.” Rathe glanced at the sheet of paper he’d separated from the rest, folded it carefully and tucked it into his daybook. Another list of flowers to give to the phytomancers, he thought, and to check against Leussi’s Alphabet. “And if anyone seems likely to make that assumption, Aconin would be the one. It didn’t feel like a spell, Istre.”

“It’s the university’s considered opinion that the Alphabet is a fraud,” b’Estorr answered, with a smile that showed teeth. “For what that’s worth, considering they’ve never seen a copy. But even if you knew that, would you take the chance?”

“Not when I was looking at this mess,” Rathe answered, and nodded: “I’ll have words with him, believe me. But in the meantime, I don’t see much reason to stay.”

“Nor do I,” b’Estorr answered, and stooped to blow out the first of the lamps. Rathe collected the lantern, adjusting its shutters so that it cast a welcome beam, while the other man doused the remaining candles.

“I’ll walk you to the bridge,” he said aloud. “And return this with my report.”

They headed back through Point of Knives toward Point of Dreams, leaving the unquiet darkness of the Court behind them, crossing the more respectable neighborhoods where most people were already at their dinners, behind shuttered windows and locked doors. Many had small lanterns burning, either at the doors or in a front window, honoring the ancestors who returned during the ghost‑tide. Rathe felt something brush his calf; at any other time of the year he would have swiped at a rat or a gargoyle and cursed but tonight, out of the corner of his eye, he caught the memory of the small rag‑eared, wire‑coated dog who had been his constant companion from boyhood into apprenticeship. He started to click his fingers to call it, then looked at b’Estorr, inexplicably embarrassed. b’Estorr smiled.

“It wouldn’t be ghost‑tide without Mud, Nico. There’s nothing to be ashamed of in so constant a ghost.”

Rathe laughed softly. “I’ve lost kin, Istre, and friends, but who do I see? My dog.”

“And I’ve got a really difficult ancient king of Chadron, and his favorite, and I’m no kin and had nothing to do with their deaths. We don’t choose our ghosts, Nico.”

Rathe nodded. They had reached the edge of a market square, where cressets burned in front of a well‑appointed tavern, and the smell of a tavern dinner, savory pie and hot wine, hung heavy for a moment in the cold air before the wind and the smoke drowned it again. They turned onto the wider avenue that led to the Hopes‑point Bridge, and Rathe felt himself relax a little, grateful to be away from the Court of the Thirty‑two Knives. Even in daylight, and even known as he was, and today brought in by Mirremay herself, it was a chancy place; the streets here, between Hopes and Dreams, were far safer, even with only the lantern to light their way.

Even as he thought that, he heard the sound of footsteps, running hard up the side street that led away from the river, looked sharply into the darkness as the cry followed them. He saw nothing, maybe the suggestion of a movement, a shadow shifting against the lesser dark where the street joined Beck’s Way, but he knew what he’d heard, couldn’t mistake the choked, wet sound of it, and dove into the darkness, flipping the lantern’s cover as wide as it would go. b’Estorr followed, metal sliding softly against leather as he drew his long knife, and Rathe swore, seeing the crumpled shape lying against the windowless wall of the nearest building. It looked more like a pile of discarded clothes than a man, but b’Estorr dropped instantly to his knees, sliding the knife back into its sheath, and reached to probe for a wound. Rathe stood still, the lantern still held high, tilting his head to listen for any further movement. Whoever had attacked the man was long gone, he was sure of it, had been the running footsteps they had first heard, but he stood watching anyway, not wanting to be taken by surprise. The street–it wasn’t much more than an alley, its central gutter rimed with ice and mud, the walls to either side broken only by a pair of carters’ gates, both closed and barred against the night–was empty, nothing moving in the lantern’s uncertain light, and he turned slowly, letting the wedge of light sweep behind them as well.

“Nico,” b’Estorr said, and at the urgency in his voice, Rathe lowered the lantern again, spilling its light over the wounded man.

“How is he?”

“Not good, but I can’t tell how bad.”

Rathe knelt beside him, wincing as he saw the blood still flowing hard over b’Estorr’s fingers. The wounded man looked serene enough, eyes closed, heedless of the sleet that splashed his face and hair. Not a good sign, Rathe thought, and set the lantern carefully on the cobbles, turning it so that the light fell strongly across the wounded man. The blood was still flowing, despite b’Estorr’s hand pressed hard on the wound–too low for the heart, but high enough to kill–and he reached for his stock, unwinding the length of linen.