And that’s the question, isn’t it? Rathe thought. There could be a dozen reasons for asking if Ogier had named his killer, not least among them the desire to see that person punished, but still, there was something about Aubine’s question that raised the hackles on the back of his neck. And that was probably unfair, he told himself, but chose his words carefully. “It’s early days yet, maseigneur, we’re still trying to answer that. But, no, it wasn’t robbery. He had his purse on him, and it was untouched.” He looked down at the nearest plant, a tiny sundew, pretending to study the pattern of the gold‑edged leaves, watching Aubine from under his lashes. “I can’t imagine he would have had anything else of value on him, besides his purse.”

“No,” Aubine said, and shook his head. “I paid him what he was worth, of course, and I think I paid him only a day or so before he disappeared, but–” He broke off, met Rathe’s curious stare wide‑eyed. “This is simply terrible.”

In spite of himself, his eyes moved, taking in the shelves of plants–thinking of the work to be done, Rathe guessed, and all the more difficult without a helper, and he wasn’t surprised to see the landseur’s shoulders sag. But then Aubine straightened, drawing himself up to his full height, and the moment passed.

“Had he family?”

“A sister,” Rathe answered. “She did some of his housekeeping.”

“Bice.”

The girl straightened, face pinched and still, and Rathe hid a grimace of sympathy.

“Tell Jonneau to prepare a gift for–” Aubine looked at Rathe.

“Frelise Ogier.”

“Frelise Ogier,” Aubine repeated. “She mustn’t suffer for her brother’s death. And, please, Adjunct Point, I’d have you do all you can to discover who’s responsible. I will pay any fee you require…”

“I’ll find out who killed him, my lord,” Rathe answered, “but I don’t take fees.”

Aubine’s eyebrows rose. “You don’t? But how do you survive?”

“It is a paid post,” Rathe said dryly.

“Oh, I know, but I’ve read… I’ve heard…” Aubine took a breath. “Forgive me, Adjunct Point. I hope I didn’t offend.”

“It’s a common assumption, and mostly accurate,” Rathe answered. “No offense taken.” He hesitated, remembering the story Eslingen had related. “May I ask you a question?”

“Of course.” Aubine’s expression was controlled, and perfectly courteous.

“I’ve heard stories,” Rathe said, “and forgive me now if I offend, that the points failed to investigate the death of your leman some years back, a death that was very probably, if not certainly, murder. Is that true?”

Aubine fixed his eyes on the plant still waiting on the table, brought the knife down in a single sharp blow, neatly severing the tangled ball of roots. He heeled one half into a trough set ready, set the other into a half‑empty pot, and only then took a careful breath. “I do believe that to be true, Adjunct Point. That my leman was indeed murdered. I don’t blame the points, though, please understand that.” He looked up, managed a wavering smile. “The death was ordered by my grandmother, who, in practice if not in theory, would have been outside their reach, even if he was killed in Astreiant.” He set the knife aside, rested both hands flat on the scarred table. “That’s why it was so important to me to be part of the masque, to give to it, even if it’s just the flowers, and it’s one of the reasons I love, and fear, being there, at the theatre. It’s so easy there, all the orders, all the proprieties of rank and station, they’re all thrown aside, but when the doors close again, you daren’t forget just how real they truly are. It was that way at the university, certainly, and the theatre– so much more so. It hurts, and I know I’m seeing people who are going to do themselves harm–I wonder if that isn’t what happened to poor de Raзan–but they’re all so eager to throw themselves into this, all so fearless. And they should fear, Adjunct Point, I know that so well.”

It was more than he’d expected to hear, and Rathe nodded in sympathy, the easy words dying on his tongue. Aubine was right, and most of the actors knew it, knew how to play by the rules when they had to, and when they could discard them, Siredy had proved that, but one miscalculation, and they could end up as dead as Aubine’s lost love. “Thank you,” he said softly, and cleared his throat. “Maseigneur, I’m sure–I hope you understand that we’ll want to talk to your people as well, at least the ones who knew Ogier.”

The landseur nodded, his hands slowly brushing soil from the table into a bucket, repeating the movement even though he had to know, as Rathe knew, that it was futile. The dirt was worked into the grain of the wood, the table would never be truly free of it, but the gesture looked more like habit, repeated for comfort, like someone stroking a dog. “Of course, Adjunct Point. And if I or anyone remembers anything that might be of use, I shall assuredly let you know.” He smiled then, the expression crooked. “If I remember at the theatre, should I send word by way of Lieutenant vaan Esling?”

So the gossip’s got that far, Rathe thought, not knowing why he felt a chill. “No,” he said, “send word to Point of Dreams. Even if I’m not there, it will reach me.”

“Ah.” Aubine’s smile widened briefly. “I beg your pardon, Adjunct Point. If I remember anything, I will let you know.”

There were lights in his windows again, and as he went up the stairs the smell of food wafted down to meet him. Not Eslingen’s cooking, he guessed–the ex‑soldier’s kitchen skills were limited–and he wasn’t surprised to see a pair of covered iron dishes stamped with the moon and twin stars that was Pires’s tavern’s mark. One was still covered, waiting on the hob to keep warm; the other was simmering gently on the stove itself. Eslingen was sitting at the table in shirt and waistcoat, and Rathe didn’t have to look to know that the man’s coat was hung neatly on its stand behind the door. A tankard of beer sat in front of him, perfuming the air, and Rathe wrinkled his nose.

“Are we celebrating something?”

Eslingen grinned. “There’s a bottle of wine for you, too. In the cold safe.”

“So what are we celebrating?” Rathe pulled off his jerkin, draped it carelessly on its hook, freed himself of coat and truncheon as well. Eslingen kept the little room warmer than he himself would have done, but so far the price of charcoal was good this winter. He lifted the lid on the warming pot, saw and smelled a mix of root vegetables spiced with butter and horseradish, saw, too, a fresh loaf of bread set above the safe.

“The end of a five‑hundred‑year feud,” Eslingen answered, and Rathe blinked.

“What are you talking about?”

“My landames, remember? I told you about them.”

“The ones who were fighting,” Rathe answered, nodding, and reached into the safe for the wine. There was a new wedge of cheese as well, and he shook his head as he tugged open the bottle. “You’ll spoil us both, Philip.”

“Well, they decided to stop fighting today,” Eslingen said. “Or maybe it was before then, I can’t be sure.”

“Try beginning at the beginning,” Rathe suggested, and seated himself opposite the other man. The wine was good, the same cheap flinty wine from Verniens that he always drank, and he took another long swallow, relaxing in spite of himself.

“They were missing when Gasquine called us to rehearse the swordplay,” Eslingen said obligingly. “So of course we, Siredy and I, thought they’d decided to settle the feud once and for all. But when I went looking for them, I found them in the props loft, in–shall we say–a most compromising position.”

“They weren’t,” Rathe said, grinning himself now, and Eslingen nodded.

“Oh, but they were. I’d say the feud was settled.”

“The poor women,” Rathe said. “The story must be all over the theatre by now–how old are they, anyway?”

“Old enough to know how to manage an affair,” Eslingen said. “Honestly, Nico, after all I’ve heard about their thrice‑damned families and their five‑hundred‑year feud, I’m delighted to see them embarrassed. And before you say it, I didn’t have to say anything. Maseigne Txi was foolish enough to wear her hair in an arrangement she couldn’t redo without help.”