She nodded, straightening. “I’m just a couple of streets over. I won’t be long.”

Rathe nodded again, too tired to speak, and she turned away, the carter’s coat shedding the worst of the sleet. Rathe shivered again, feeling the touch of ice on his scalp, and beside him b’Estorr shook his head.

“The poor man. What she did, it’s technically forbidden, but the gods know, it’ll do no harm in this case.” The necromancer paused. “So you knew him, then?”

Rathe nodded. He should search the body, he knew, but for the moment it was beyond him. “He was a friend of my mother’s–both my parents’, in actual fact, but he was a gardener, too, like her.”

He was babbling, he knew, and shook himself, made himself kneel again on the freezing stones. There was nothing in the coat pockets, and only a worn leather purse in the pocket of Ogier’s breeches–not much coin, only a few seillings, but if robbery had been the intent, the thief would surely have made certain of them. There was a sprig of some dried herb, a twisted branch of short, spiky leaves, and Rathe sniffed curiously at it, but could detect no aroma. It was new to him, whatever it was, and he tucked it back into the purse, slid that into his own pocket. He checked the cuffs of the coat then, thinking of Eslingen, but Ogier hadn’t shared the soldier’s habit of sliding odd bits of paper into them. There was only another scrap of greenery, a flower not quite out of the bud, faded and dried. It had probably fallen there while Ogier was working, Rathe thought– but if he was working, why was he dressed so badly? Ogier had always been a tidy man, not one to spend unnecessary money on his clothes, but these garments looked more like temple handouts even than working gear. Had he fallen out of favor, lost all his employment, to leave him so shabbily dressed with winter coming on? He’d never been one to tie himself to any one house, and he’d been good enough that he’d never had to, had always had the rich, merchants and even the city‑living landames, vying for his services. Maybe they’d all finally tired of the dance? Rathe shook his head, and sat back on his heels. There was no telling, though he’d make it his business to find out, “Maybe if he’d had a patronne, he’d still be alive.”

“Or maybe he did find one,” b’Estorr murmured, and Rathe looked sharply at him.

“What do you mean?”

b’Estorr shook his head. “Sorry, that’s a Chadroni thought. A patronne protects, yes, but–” He shrugged. “They’re also notoriously chancy.”

There was a sound of wheels and, miraculously, the slow clop of horse’s hooves, and Rathe pushed himself to his feet. The apothecary had been better than her word: not just a cart, but a small, shaggy, city‑bred pony in its harness. It snorted, smelling the blood, and b’Estorr went instantly to its head, turning it upwind of the body. The apothecary nodded her thanks, and stooped to help lift the body into the cart.

“Do you want your coat? It won’t do him any good.”

No more would it, Rathe thought, but shook his head. He was wet through already, and there was blood already on his clothes. “No, let him keep it. But can I get your name and direction?”

The woman made a face. “Madelen de Braemer. You can find me at the Grapes.”

That would be the tavern they had passed. Rathe nodded, not bothering to reach for his tablets. It was too cold, he was too wet, and besides, he was unlikely to forget the incongruously aristocratic name. “Thank you, dame.”

The apothecary was already moving away, but stopped as though a thought had struck her. “And where do I send for my horse, anyway? The deadhouse?”

“No, Point of Dreams,” Rathe answered. “He’ll go to the deadhouse from there.”

“Easier on the old boy anyway,” the apothecary said, and Rathe realized she meant the pony. “I’ll come by in the morning.”

“I’ll leave your name, if I’m not there,” Rathe answered, and she turned away.

“Shall I walk with you?” b’Estorr asked softly, and Rathe gave him a grateful glance.

“I’d take it kindly.” It wouldn’t be that long a walk, he thought, but it would be easier with live company.

By the time Rathe had written cursory reports, and sent a request to the Temple to handle the notification of any kin of Ogier’s, it was after midnight, and he was grateful for the idle escort of a junior pointsman, patrolling that way, to take him partway home. The winter‑sun was risen, at least, dispelling the worst of the darkness, and the sleet had ended, a few stars showing through the breaking clouds, but he was glad to come to his own gate. There were no lights in the weaver’s rooms as he crossed the courtyard–too late–and none in the actors’ rooms under the garrets–too early, probably– but lamplight shone in his own windows, a welcome that was still unexpected, and he climbed the stairs with more haste than he would have thought possible.

Eslingen was sitting at the narrow table, the lamp set to put the best light on a sheaf of broadsheets, chin resting on his cupped hands as he studied the awkward printing. His hair was loose, for once, falling forward to hide his face, but he looked up as the door opened, shaking it back again. The lazy smile faded as he took in the condition of the other’s clothes, the dark eyes flicking from vital spot to vital spot, and Rathe smothered a tired laugh, seeing him relax again.

“That had better not be your blood,” Eslingen said.

“No.” Rathe shook his head, looked down at the stains as though he hadn’t seen them before. He would owe Ardelis for the cleaning of the station’s spare coat as well as his own laundress’s bill, that was obvious. “No, it’s not. I doubt I’d be standing here talking to you if I had this much outside me.”

“Maybe you’re a ghost,” Eslingen said. He could practically feel the cold radiating off the other man, knew shock when he heard it, and swung himself gracefully up from his place at the table. Watching him, Rathe bit back another laugh, thinking it would play well onstage. Then Eslingen embraced him, pulled back to study his face, frowning in spite of his carefully light tone.

“Not a ghost, there never was a ghost this cold. Seidos’s Horse, what were they thinking of, to let you go like this?”

“That the senior adjunct wanted to go home,” Rathe answered. “I’m not hurt, Philip.”

A flicker of relief crossed the taller man’s face, but he said only, “Just chilled to the bone, it seems. Get your clothes off.”

Rathe obeyed, shrugging out of the borrowed coat, and instantly Eslingen was there to help, the gentle hand belying the rough words.

“You’ll never wear those again,” Eslingen said, and tossed the bloodied shirt into a corner.

“I don’t know.” Rathe shivered, left in his smallclothes, and Eslingen stripped the top blanket from the bed. “My laundress is very skilled–”

“With blood,” Eslingen said, and wound the blanket around the other’s shoulders. “What interesting people you know, Adjunct Point. Did you find this in the line of business?”

Rathe smiled in spite of himself, let himself be turned and settled on the edge of the mattress. He drew his feet up under him, worked them under the sheets–cold linen, but warming to his touch–and hunched his shoulders under the blanket. “This doesn’t often happen–”

“So you tell me.” Eslingen’s voice was remote, his back to the bed as he fiddled with something on the stove. “So what was it this time?”

Rathe took a breath, feeling creeping back into his toes. His fingers were better already, and he worked his shoulders against the rough wool. He was desperately tired, painfully sad, but knew he wouldn’t sleep now, that trying would only make him wearier in the morning, worn out with the effort. Better to stay awake, let the thoughts and memories die–share them, since he could, he thought, and cleared his throat. At the station, sure, tell all to his fellow points and let them comfort him just by knowing, but Eslingen–Eslingen was somehow different.