In spite of himself, Rathe laughed, the day’s sorrows receding even further. However they’d gotten to this point, it was good to sit here with Eslingen, good to share a drink and dinner and even this joke. “Aconin must have loved it. It’s just the sort of thing he does well.”

Eslingen’s smile faltered, and he leaned forward, resting both elbows on the table. “Aconin… I had a talk with him today, Nico. I think you want to question him.”

“Oh?” Back to business, Rathe thought, but couldn’t resent it. Here in the warmth of his own room, supper waiting on the stove, Eslingen’s easy presence across the table, it was almost like an ordinary profession, the comfortable chat of guild‑mates, not the fraught world of the points. I know it’s serious, deadly serious, but, Sofia, it’s so good to be a little free of it.

“Sorry.” Eslingen smiled regretfully. “But he knows who attacked him, I’m sure of that. You could probably get it out of him, he’s scared enough he might tell you.”

“What did he say?” It wasn’t exactly a surprise, Rathe thought, he’d been sure of it since he saw the playwright in his ransacked room.

Eslingen closed his eyes for a second, as though that would help him remember. “He said he’d made a mistake, taken something that had been promised to him–something he needed, he said. And that was what was behind all this.”

“Nothing more?” Rathe asked.

“No.” Eslingen reached for the pint bucket, ladled himself another tankard of beer. “Some people came up to us–he was afraid of being overheard–and then I was needed onstage. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, that’s more than we had before.” Rathe’s eyes narrowed. “Afraid of being overheard… Do you think it’s someone at the theatre?”

“Well, it has to be, doesn’t it, considering?” Eslingen answered, and Rathe shook his head.

“That wasn’t what I meant, I meant someone at the theatre today, at that moment, in fact.”

Eslingen shook his head in turn. “I’m afraid that doesn’t narrow it down very much. We had the whole chorus there–though not all the actors, not that I ever suspected them particularly. And the staff, and everyone.”

“Was Aubine there?” Rathe asked slowly.

“Yes, fiddling with his damn flowers. The arrangements just keep getting bigger and brighter, they’re going to be spectacular for the performance.” Eslingen paused. “Actually, he was one of the people who came up–you can’t suspect him, Nico.”

“Why not?”

Eslingen spread his hands. “He’s too–polite. Too calm. I just can’t see it.”

“Polite men have committed murder before this, Philip.”

“All right, why, then?”

Rathe stopped, frustrated. “I don’t know. I just…” He let his voice trail off, shook his head again. “I spoke to him today–Ogier worked for him, did I tell you that? Worked on the flowers for the masque, so his death is probably part of all this. But I spoke to Aubine, and… There’s something about him, Philip, makes my hackles rise. As you said–he’s too polite.”

“A landseur treats you with respect, so you suspect him of murder?” Eslingen asked, grinning, and in spite of himself, Rathe smiled back.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. No, I don’t trust the man, and I couldn’t tell you why. Sofia, I’d give a pillar or two to see his stars.”

“Is there someone you can ask?” Eslingen asked, and Rathe shook his head, shaking himself back to reality.

“No, no one. His family aren’t even Astreianter, so there won’t be servants to ask, even if I thought they’d tell me. No, I’ll start with Aconin, that sounds a lot more promising. But–” He hesitated, wishing he could put a finger on the cause of his uncertainty, recalled Aubine’s offer to send word via the Leaguer. “Be careful, Philip.”

Eslingen nodded. “I always am.”

9

« ^ »

for once, Rathe let Eslingen leave before him, biding his time until the clock struck half past nine and he was sure the playwright would be at the Tyrseia. The square in front of the theatre was quiet, the tavern closed, though he was aware of the owner watching from an upstairs window– probably wondering if there was going to be another body, he thought, and smiled in spite of himself. This was probably more excitement than they’d seen since The Drowned Islandclosed and the apprentices went home. As he came around the curve of the building, he saw a familiar carriage, every available space filled with bundled plants, and sighed to realize that Aubine was there before him. In the same moment, the landseur turned, motioning for his coachman to remain where he was, and moved to intercept him.

“Adjunct Point. I hadn’t hoped you would be here this morning, I thought I would have to send for you.”

“I had other business here,” Rathe answered, and knew he sounded wary.

“Unfortunately, I have–business–of my own for you,” Aubine said, and gave a small, sad smile. “Please, over here.”

Rathe followed him over to the carriage, frowning as he saw the torn leather curtain in its single window. Aubine reached through the window to open the door, and Rathe caught his breath. The floor of the carriage was covered with shards of glass, glass and water already freezing into ice, and a bouquet of summer flowers lay wilting on the seat. The warming box was cold to the touch, the coals extinguished, Rathe guessed, by the water that had spilled.

“Someone,” Aubine said, “shot at my carriage this morning.”

Rathe took a breath, shaking himself back to his duty. “When, maseigneur?”

Aubine looked at the coachman, who rolled his eyes almost as nervously as his horse. “I was told to bring the carriage at half past eight,” he said, “and then it took half an hour or more to load the flowers. So a little after nine, then, maseigneur.”

“A little after nine,” Aubine said.

Rathe fingered the torn curtain. It would have been stretched taut to keep out as much of the cold as possible; the hole was small, about the size of his little finger, but the ball had clearly hit the vase with enough force to shatter it, and that would easily have been enough to wound, probably to kill. For a second, he wished Eslingen were there–he didn’t have much experience with firearms himself, the average Astreianter bravo preferred knives–but pushed the thought away. Time enough to ask him later; for now, there were other matters to determine. “And where were you, maseigneur?”

“I was riding on the box.” Aubine looked almost embarrassed. “There were so many flowers, you see, and all of them delicate.”

“So there were more flowers in the coach?” Rathe asked, and leaned in to examine the floor and seats more closely. Sure enough, there was a tear in the far wall, where the ball had ripped through the coach itself. And it had to be a ball, he thought, couldn’t have been a birdbolt or any other projectile. Anything else would have been slowed by the curtain and the glass, and he would have found it somewhere among the broken pieces. And Aubine, sitting on the box with the driver, would have been, was muffled up against the cold like anyone, no one would expect him to be riding outside, or recognize him when he was.

“Yes,” Aubine said. “But we brought them inside, I didn’t want them to die in the cold. They were already wilting when we got here. I only hope they’ll recover–” He broke off, shaking his head, and Rathe gave him a curious look. At least Aubine realized how his obsessions must sound to outside ears.

“And where did it happen?” Rathe straightened so that he could see the other man clearly.

“Just at our gate,” the coachman said. “We’d just come up to it, the boy had it open, and I heard the shot.”

“The man was standing on our wall,” Aubine said. “Well, not on it, not quite, but looking over it–perhaps he had a ladder on the other side? I don’t know. I told Hue to drive on, and the man dropped out of sight. And we came on here.”