“What’s wrong?”

“Have you seen our missing landames?” Eslingen asked, and Siredy turned instantly to survey the pit.

“Oh, Tyrseis, we’re not missing Txi and de Vannevaux, are we?”

Eslingen nodded. “I think the points would look very poorly on another death, even with the excuse of a hundred‑year feud.”

“Five hundred years,” Siredy said, “or at least that’s what Txi told me. I take your point. Out back, do you think?”

It was the logical place to go, if the women wanted to settle the quarrel privately, and Eslingen nodded. “I’ll look there,” he said. “You check the dressing rooms.”

Siredy nodded, shot a quick look at the minute glass just as the bookholder turned it. “Three minutes,” he said, and turned away.

Eslingen made his way through the tangle of machinery, found the passage that led to the courtyard, and felt his way up it, blinded by the sudden darkness. No one had bothered to put mage‑lights here, since no one was supposed to be using the courtyard, and he hoped the landames hadn’t gone too far. At least there were no real swords in the theatre, unless, of course, they’d brought their own. He grimaced at the thought–Rathe would call a point on them if they had, dueling swords were by definition well over the legal limit for a knife blade carried inside the city limits–and unbarred the narrow door.

To his surprise, the courtyard was empty, without even a discarded bottle or a crumpled broadsheet, and he stood for a second, staring, before he shook himself back to life. If the two weren’t trying to kill each other, where were they? Probably not working out a solution to the feud, Eslingen thought bitterly, setting the bar back in its socket, and turned back into the theatre. There was nowhere else in the Tyrseia suitable for a duel, and to be fair, he doubted either woman would consent to anything less than a fair fight. Maybe the second tier, where the props from The Drowned Islandwere stored? It was the only other space that might remotely be considered large enough, and it had the added advantage of being off‑limits to everyone but the scenerymen. Or at least that was the theory, Eslingen thought, and swung himself up the narrow ladder. There was nothing to keep out a determined malefactor except Gasquine’s orders.

The second tier was quiet and crowded, all sound muffled by the heavy canvas drapes that covered the various set pieces and props. In the faint light that seeped in from the stage, the space seemed filled to capacity, crowded with pale shapes that only vaguely resembled the objects beneath the coverings. Like snow sculptures, Eslingen thought, dredging up a long‑forgotten memory, a too‑warm midwinter in Esling, snow sculptures melting on a sunny day. There was less room than he had thought, certainly not enough to fight a duel no matter how determined the participants might be. He had turned to slide back down the ladder when he heard the muffled cry.

He swung back at once, straining his eyes to see through the gloom, caught the hint of movement among the scenery stored toward the back of the tier. He took a breath and moved toward it, wishing he had his halberd, or even his bated sword, and the sound came again. It was coming from behind the tallest of the shrouded pieces, and he stepped carefully around it, trying to move silently on the hollow floor. Mage‑light startled him, a lantern turned low and carefully set to throw light on a property couch–part of d’Auriens’s furniture, from The Drowned Island, Eslingen realized, and stifled a laugh–that had been carefully freed of its wrappings, and on that couch the two landames were locked in a passionate embrace. Txi’s hair was falling loose from its elaborate knot, her eyes closed in delight as de Vannevaux buried her face between the other woman’s breasts. Txi’s own hands were under de Vannevaux’s skirts, and Eslingen took a quick step backward, embarrassed and embarrassingly aroused. He took another step, and then a third, deliberately scuffing his shoes on the hollow floor, and heard another muffled exclamation.

“Maseigne de Vannevaux?” he called. “Are you there?”

This time he was sure he heard a curse, and then a rustling, before de Vannevaux’s breathless answer. “Yes. Who–what is it?”

“Lieutenant vaan Esling. You’re wanted onstage, maseigne, the duel scene is about to begin.” Eslingen heard more scuffling, and then de Vannevaux appeared from behind the nearest shrouded set piece. Her clothes were in order, but she shook out her skirts anyway, scowling, and Eslingen succumbed to temptation. “Have you by any chance seen Maseigne Txi? She’s missing, too.”

The color swept up the young woman’s face, but she answered steadily enough. “I’m sure she’ll be along, Lieutenant. Shall we go?”

Eslingen waved toward the ladder, let her climb down ahead of him. “Mistress Gasquine won’t be happy if she finds out you’ve been up here.”

De Vannevaux looked up at him. “I assure you, it won’t happen again.”

And that, Eslingen thought, would almost be too bad. “Just take care,” he said aloud, and the woman nodded. “Now, if you please, join the others.”

For a moment, he thought she would protest, but then she nodded again, jerkily, and swept across the stage, head up. One strand of hair had worked itself loose, and was trailing free of her neat cap, falling almost to her waist. Siredy, standing in the wings opposite, saw her coming, and looked past her to meet Eslingen’s eyes, his eyebrows rising in silent question. Eslingen shook his head, waved for the other man to wait. Siredy’s mouth tightened, and he pointed to the minute glass in silent warning. Eslingen nodded, lifting both hands in what he hoped was a placating gesture, and in the same moment, he heard a noise from the ladder. He stepped back quickly, and saw Txi climbing down. She’d done her best to tidy herself, but there was no way she could repair her elaborate hairstyle without the assistance of a maid. She’d rewound the heavy strands into a passable knot, and refastened corset and bodice–except, Eslingen saw, suppressing a grin, she’d managed to misbutton the bodice.

“Maseigne,” he said softly, and she turned to glare at him.

“What do you want?”

“Your bodice,” he said, and Txi blushed even more deeply than de Vannevaux had done.

“Oh, Seidos’s balls.” She reached for the buttons, hastily rearranging them, and Eslingen looked away quickly as the bookholder called time. Txi swore again, and darted away, taking her place hurriedly in the forming ranks.

“And what,” a familiar voice asked, “was that all about?”

Eslingen turned without haste to see Aconin standing in the shadow of the nearest versatile.

“No,” the playwright went on, “don’t tell me. The landames have decided to settle their feud, and in the most decisive way possible.”

Eslingen hesitated–the last thing he should do was betray the women to Aconin, of all people, but they’d been a monumental trouble ever since he’d met them. Besides, he told himself, the story will be all over the theatre in a matter of hours. And it’s too good to keep. “What a good guess,” he said. “Is it what you would have written?”

Aconin’s jaw dropped. “You’re joking.”

“Not at all.” Eslingen shook his head. “I don’t know if the feud is over, but the current generation has at least found a way around it.”

Aconin blinked once, a slow smile spreading over his face. “Tyrseis. No, I don’t think I could write it, it would be too unlikely. But, oh, I wish I could.”

“I’m sure you will,” Eslingen answered, and the playwright laughed softly.

“You’re probably right. But not until the landames are safely out of town.”

“I never thought you’d be afraid of their reprisals,” Eslingen said.

To his surprise, Aconin seemed to flinch at that. “Not exactly. But why court trouble?”