“Let me,” he said, and b’Estorr nodded, shifting sideways so that Rathe could press the new pad into the wound. The blood slowed a little, or perhaps the man had simply bled as much as he was going to. “See if you can find a surgeon hereabouts, there must be someone. If not, I guess you’d better send for Fanier.”

“They’ll know at the tavern,” b’Estorr answered, and pushed himself to his feet.

Rathe nodded, keeping his hand pressed tight against the wound. The bleeding was definitely slowing, he thought, and tried to tell himself it was a hopeful sign. The man’s face was waxen in the lamplight, and he grimaced, knowing their efforts were likely to go for nothing, that it would be Fanier, not a doctor, who would be needed.

He looked at the assortment of garments covering the wounded man–a threadbare coat, shirt with sleeves too short, patched jerkin and breeches, castoffs, all of them, or temple handouts–and shrugged himself awkwardly out of his own coat, not taking his hand from the wound. He laid it over the stranger, knowing it was probably a futile gesture, and looked away, examining the cobbles for any signs left by the attackers. The sleet was heavier now, the ice collecting in the gaps between the stones, threatening to wash away any indication of what had happened. And there was precious little, he thought, not even a footprint in the mud of the gutter. Whoever had attacked the man was too clever to make that mistake. There was a dark stain on the wall above his head, probably where the man had fallen against it, and Rathe sighed, looked back at the man’s face. There was something familiar about it, an image teasing at the edge of memory, and then from somewhere he caught a whiff of evergreen, and he knew. Grener Ogier had been his parents’ friend, his mother’s in particular, they were both gardeners, had worked together more than once when he was a child at the dame school. But they’d drifted apart, not unfriendly, but on different paths, led by different stars, and the city had swallowed Ogier, spat him back now possibly dying, and Rathe shivered, knowing it was more than the sleet. A talented gardener, his mother had said, she who was always so sparing of her praise, a man under whose hands the most unlikely plots flourished.

He dipped his head, swallowing tears, and saw Ogier’s eyes flicker open. The pupils were huge, unfocused, probably sightless, but still he made a sound, as though he was trying to speak. Rathe leaned closer, trying to shield him from the worst of the sleet, and heard footsteps from the head of the alley. He turned, free hand reaching for his truncheon, relaxed as he saw b’Estorr, a woman in a carter’s longcoat trailing at his heels. Rathe frowned, but then he saw the apothecary’s badge on the cuff of her close‑buttoned coat. She knelt beside him, shifting the lantern a fraction to give better light, and nodded for him to move aside, her hand sliding briefly over his as she reached for the wound. Rathe relinquished it gladly, wiping his hands on his breeches before he’d thought, swore under his breath at the thought of the laundress’s bill.

The apothecary murmured something, probing, and Rathe caught a whiff of tobacco and sweetherb clinging to her hair and coat. Still, her hands were steady enough, and she moved with the ease of experience to probe the wound. The blood was still flowing, but sluggishly, and she sat back on her heels, shaking her head.

“Not even a surgeon could help him, masters, but damnation, this was a bungled job.”

“What do you mean?” Rathe asked. He was shivering now, without his coat, and wrapped his arms tightly around his body, tucking his hands into his armpits.

The woman shook her head. “He can’t live, but he’s likely to be a while yet dying, poor bastard.” She looked up at him, then her wide face suddenly, unhappily alive. “Maybe it’s a clue, pointsman. Find the one soul in this city who doesn’t know how to wield a knife properly, and you’ll have his murderer.”

Rathe bit back an angry retort, recognizing the reaction, and b’Estorr said, “Is there anything we can do?”

“You could finish the job–you’d do it for a horse or a dog.” The apothecary shook her head, her hair falling forward to hide her eyes. She swept it back with an angry hand, scowled at the coat covering the body. “Keeping him warm was a kindly thought. I don’t suppose you know his stars?”

b’Estorr shook his head, but Rathe said, “He was a gardener. And had the stars for it, I was told.”

The necromancer gave him a startled glance. “You know him?”

“From a long time ago,” Rathe answered. “He’s a friend of my mother’s.”

“A gardener,” the apothecary said. “Metenere, then, most likely.” She reached into her bag, brought out a jar marked with symbols that Rathe didn’t recognize.

“What are you doing?” he asked, and the woman looked up at him.

“A last chance, pointsman, to name his killer. Something his ghost can’t do.”

Rathe dropped to his knees beside her, heedless of the icy rime. “Will it hurt him?”

The apothecary shook her head. “He’s beyond pain.” She nodded to the bandage, so soaked in blood now that it was almost invisible. “Hold that.”

Rathe did as he was told, wincing as he felt the feeble pulse, and the apothecary uncorked her jar, waved it under Ogier’s nose. For a long moment, nothing happened, and then, suddenly, the man’s eyes flickered open again, blinked and focused.

“Who–”

Rathe shifted so that Ogier could see him clearly, if he could see at all. “Who did this, Ogier? It’s Nico Rathe, remember me? Do you know who did this?”

He broke off as Ogier’s eyes widened, and one hand lifted, fumbling at his sleeve. “Nico.”

Rathe caught the hand, ice‑cold, ice damp, held it tight. “Who did this?”

It was an awkward position, one hand still on the bandage, the other holding Ogier’s, and the apothecary made a soft noise, moved to take the bandage. Rathe sat back on his heels, grateful for the relief, and Ogier’s head moved slowly from side to side.

“Madness,” he whispered. “You remember. I was good. Too good…”

“One of the best,” Rathe said. “My mother said so. Who would do this? Why?”

Even as he spoke, Ogier’s eyes closed, the clasp of his fingers relaxing. Rathe tightened his own grip, but the hand in his was slack, falling into death.

The apothecary shook her head, released her hold on the bandage to touch wrist and mouth, then touched the closed eyes, the gesture more ritual than useful. “Well, that was quicker than I expected. I suppose the weather helped.”

“Why do you bother?” Rathe demanded, and her eyes fell.

“Did you want the poor bastard to linger?”

“And if easing his passing was the most important thing to you,” Rathe snapped, “why did you raise him long enough to speak?”

“I–” The apothecary made a face. “I hate waste. I hate deaths like this. You’re the pointsman, you can do something. Easing his death–that would be an office for his friends. If he had any.”

Rathe sighed, the anger draining from him. “He had friends. I know he did, at least once.”

“The Starsmith give him ease,” the apothecary said. She found a rag in her kit, scrubbed her hands. “Will you find his killer?”

“I don’t know,” Rathe said. “I will try.” He closed his eyes for a moment, still kneeling on the cold stones. There were too many deaths, first the landseur–no, first Leussi– and then de Raзan, and the watchman, and now Ogier, who had nothing to do with any of that, who had no enemies that he could imagine. But obviously he had had one enemy, and that was what he had to find. He pushed himself to his feet, aware for the first time that his breeches and stockings were soaked through, that his hair was dripping on his shoulders.

“I’ve got a cart,” the apothecary said. “You can use that, if you’d like.”

To deliver the body, Rathe knew she meant, either to Fanier directly or to Dreams. To Dreams, he decided, he’d had enough of the deadhouse lately to last a lifetime, and nodded. “Thank you. I’d appreciate it.”