“There was a man killed today. Istre and I found him. In an alley between Hopes and Dreams. Only I knew him. He was a gardener– not a physick gardener like my mother, but she knew him, and I remembered him being around when I was a boy. One of the best, she always said. Could make anything bloom, anytime, knew all the right conditions, how to create them as best as possible–Metenere was better aspected in his stars than anyone she’d ever known, she said.” Rathe shook his head. “He didn’t die immediately. There wasn’t anything we could do…”

Eslingen nodded, still stirring, not surprised or shocked– and of course he does know a lot of it, Rathe thought. He was a soldier, he knows about dead men, dying men and no help for them; if he doesn’t know about the failure of justice, the points’ failure, my failure, come down to it, well, at least he knows this much. Eslingen turned away from the stove, then held out a stoneware cup.

“Your mother, I daresay, would concoct something infinitely more salubrious, but this can only help.”

Rathe sniffed it, expecting beer, blinked at the smell of wine. He took a sip, and then a longer swallow, the liquid ropy with spices and sugar, let it burn its way down his throat, warming him.

“So it wasn’t a fight, then,” Eslingen said, and Rathe shook his head. “Any idea who might have done it?”

Rathe wrapped both hands around the cup, his knuckles reddening now as feeling returned. “Not a clue. It makes no sense whatsoever. I may know more in the morning, when Fanier tells me what he’s found–if that’s anything. I mean, there’s no doubt it was murder, a bloody great wound and no knife to be found. Istre was there, I didn’t think to ask him about the ghost–”

He broke off, shaking his head–one more thing to take care of in the morning–and Eslingen kicked off his shoes, settled himself on the far end of the bed, resting his back against the cold plaster of the wall. “What was he like?”

Rathe shrugged, the wine cup still hot between his hands. “A gardener, and a good one. He was unusual–he had the stars, when most men possess the stars to be groundskeepers, he had the stars to create, not just to maintain. He was in demand, I know that. Worked for a number of great houses, never stayed with one, never let one noble or another put her livery on him. It wasn’t arrogance– or maybe it was, but he always demanded the freedom to work for whomever he pleased. And it was better to get him for part of a season than not at all, so…”

“So everyone took what they could,” Eslingen said.

Rathe nodded. “And so that’s where I have to start in the morning. After I talk to Istre.”

“You really think you’re dealing with someone jealous of their gardener’s attention to a rival–plant?” Eslingen asked, and Rathe smiled in spite of himself.

“You’ve been working with the chorus these weeks, and you think it’s unlikely?”

Eslingen shook his head, grinning, and Rathe sighed, the moment’s good humor fading.

“I don’t know. It makes no sense, but it’s the only place to start. Only–”

“Nico, you have got to start finishing sentences.”

Rathe ignored him, staring past him into the shadows that gathered in the corners of the room. The lamplight spread only so far; they sat in pleasant shadow, and the edges of the room were dark, the shutters closed against the night air and the winter‑sun. A coal snapped in the stove, sparks flaring behind the grill, and he looked back at the other man. “Except that–Ogier was never really well dressed, he wasn’t fashionable, it didn’t make sense when you were working in the earth all the time, but he did know how to choose clothes and fabric, he did know how to be–presentable.”

“Unlike certain pointsmen we could mention,” Eslingen murmured.

Rathe waved the words away, intent on the memory. “But from what I could see, his clothes were old, worn–mismatched. Like Temple handouts.”

Eslingen blinked, frowned. “So they were old clothes. Maybe he’d been working today.”

“It’s nearly winter, Philip, most gardens have been put to bed weeks since.”

“Do you think he’d fallen out of favor?” Eslingen’s voice was soft now, intent, and Rathe gave him a grateful look.

“I don’t know. I’d lost track of him. I know who will know, however.”

“Your mother?”

Rathe nodded grimly. “And I’m not looking forward to telling her her old friend is dead–is murdered.”

“No.” Eslingen gave him a sidelong glance, as though gauging his recovery. Whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him, and he laced his fingers together around one knee. “Apparently Chresta had some excitement today, too.”

Rathe swore. Eslingen lifted an eyebrow, and the other man shook his head. “No, how were you to know? Oh, yes, he had plenty of excitement.”

“He said it was a theft, he was late because of it–but surely that would be a matter for Point of Knives?”

“He said that to us. And he’s still saying it.” Rathe shook his head, unreasonably angry with Aconin yet again. “Mirremay–she’s head point at Knives, head point, not chief point, because it’s not a full station, and no one wants a member of that family being chief of anything, not in the Court–” He broke off, took a breath. “She called me in, because it was Aconin, and because of–everything. And it wasn’t theft, Philip, no matter what Aconin’s saying. It was total destruction, and there were plenty of goods there for the taking.” He was warming, finally, and hitched himself round on the bed, holding out the cup of wine. Eslingen took it with a nod of thanks, and Rathe frowned again. “Didn’t you once tell me about smashing an altar being a kind of warning in the League?”

Eslingen’s face went very still. “Oh, yes, it’s a kind of warning.”

Rathe cocked his head at him. “What does it mean?”

“It’s the last warning. It means no quarter.”

8

« ^ »

eslingen leaned against the locked versatile, its sides painted now to create a mountain pass, the palatine’s palace, and de Galhac’s stronghold. To his untutored eyes, the rehearsal seemed to be going unusually well, even the chorus keeping its place for once, and he let himself relax, his eyes straying from the tidy lines to the wing where Aubine was arranging yet another of his massive bouquets. This one was the most spectacular he’d seen so far, at least a dozen of the red and white streaked, cup‑shaped blossoms vivid against a background of smaller yellow flowers. Rathe would know all their names, of course; he himself recognized only that both grew from corms. Aubine would be happy to explain, of course, there seemed to be nothing he enjoyed more than discussing his plants, as proud of them as he would be of a promising daughter, but there was always the danger that idle conversation would lead to exactly the questions Eslingen wanted to avoid.

Onstage, Gasquine clapped her hands, bringing her scene to an abrupt end just before Forveijl’s set speech. For a moment, Eslingen thought the actor was going to protest, but Gasquine smiled, shaking her head, and Forveijl seemed to relax again. He had been getting better, Eslingen admitted–maybe Aconin had had words with him, since they seemed to still be intimate. Or at least intimate enough that Aconin could still seek sanctuary with the actor, which implied that they were still lovers. Aconin’s ex‑lovers generally thought less kindly of him, though maybe that had changed since Aconin had come to Astreiant.

“Five minutes,” Gasquine called, and nodded to the bookholder, who hastened to turn a massive minute glass in its polished stand. “Five minutes, all, and then we go through the high battle scene. Swordplay first, and then scene eight.”

There was a sudden surge of voices as actors and chorus relaxed into conversation, and Eslingen looked around for the duelists. Five of them were already in sight, young de Besselin laughing with a fair girl almost his own age, while the landseur Simar idly toyed with another of his flamboyant posies. Aubine had spoken to him again about it, Eslingen thought, remembering the two men standing with their heads together at the beginning of the rehearsal, and wondered if Simar was trying to impress the other man. The horse‑faced landame, Jarielle, straddled one of the benches in the pit, rolling a pair of dice between her palms, smiling at the pile of coin lying between her and one of the scenerymen. Now, if she’d been the one to be found dead, I wouldn’t be surprised, Eslingen thought–Jarielle was a chronic gambler and a gossip to boot–but so far, at least, she’d lost enough to keep her opponents sweet. One of the remaining landseurs was watching her, soberly, Eslingen thought, until he saw the money change hands. He looked around for the remaining three, and saw Siredy and the banneret d’Yres crossing the stage toward them. They parted smiling, d’Yres climbing down into the pit to watch the dice game, and Siredy moved to join the other master, his smile fading as he saw Eslingen’s expression.