“And why was that, maseigneur?” Rathe asked. “Surely you’d have been safer if you’d waited in your own house, with your own people.”

“I–” Aubine sighed. “I’m not really sure, Adjunct Point. I suppose it would have been, at that. But I heard the shot, and I didn’t think. All I wanted was to get away. Not very brave, I admit, but there have been too many deaths already.”

And that, Rathe thought, I can certainly believe. Nobody was likely to think clearly while they were being shot at, and it would be easier to keep a carriage moving than to back it through the gates. “Did you get a good look at the man?” he asked, and Aubine shook his head.

“I’m sorry. It was a man, I’m sure of that, but he was wearing a driver’s coat and a big hat, it hid his face.”

“Did you see his hair?”

“No.” Aubine shook his head again. “It must have been short, or pulled back.”

Which could describe three‑quarters of the men in Astreiant, Rathe thought, but he hadn’t expected any better. “Was he heavy‑built, slim–anything at all you can tell me?”

Aubine pursed his lips. “Slim, I think. I couldn’t really tell his height, because of the wall, but I think–I would say he was built like Chresta, slim and light.”

Like Aconin. That name would come up once too often one of these days. Rathe kept his voice steady with an effort. “Could it have been Aconin, do you think?”

Aubine blinked, startled by the idea. “No, surely not. Why would he do such a thing?”

“But could it have been?” Rathe said, and Aubine shook his head, decisively this time.

“I can’t say it wasn’t, but I surely can’t, won’t, say it was. The man was built a little like him, that’s all.”

There’s something not right about this, Rathe thought, he’s lying somewhere. “You know Master Aconin,” he said aloud, and saw something flicker in the landseur’s eyes.

“We–I counted him a friend.”

“And no longer?” Rathe waited, saw Aubine’s mouth tighten.

“It’s a common enough occurrence, I believe, at least where Chresta is concerned. But he has been very much involved in this masque.”

And if he wants to believe that, who am I to disillusion him? For the first time, Rathe felt a stab of pity for the landseur. He himself knew what it was like to lose a lover; Aconin was notorious for the brutality of his partings. “You’d best get the rest of these inside,” he said, and Aubine nodded.

“Thank you, Adjunct Point. Oh, but–one more thing?”

“Yeah?”

“Is–can this be my official report to the points?” Aubine gave another of his soft smiles. “I’m reluctant to add any more to the stories about the masque.”

“I don’t blame you,” Rathe said. Aubine was, after all, the noble sponsor; all these disasters reflected as badly on him as they did on Gasquine, perhaps worse. And I’d hate to think what Caiazzo was making of all this. I daresay he’s watching very close from Customs Point. “I’ll make your report in private. But if I need to talk to you again, may I?”

“Of course.” Aubine nodded, the gesture almost a bow. “And thank you.”

Gasquine was watching from the wings, resting one hip on a tall stool, her hands folded across her chest. She looked exhausted, Rathe thought, with sympathy, and no wonder. The masque was hard enough in any year, but this time… She looked up then, seeing him, and her eyes narrowed.

“Not more trouble.”

Rathe laughed in spite of himself, shook his head. “I don’t think so, just the same old ones. I need to talk to Aconin.”

“Good luck to you,” Gasquine said. “He’s not here.”

There was a distinct note of annoyance in her voice. Rathe said, “I thought he was here every day, checking up on things.”

“Oh, yes, every day until today, making sure I do justice to his damned masterpiece.” Gasquine sighed. “No, that’s not fair, it is good, and to be even fairer, he doesn’t do as much harm as your average playwright. But today, when I need him, he’s nowhere to be found.”

“When you need him?” Rathe asked. “I thought the script was set.”

“It is,” Gasquine answered. “Or at least it should be. But there’s a speech one of the chorus–the landseur de Besselin–is having trouble with, and I’d like to cut it. But I don’t know if that will affect the magistry of it, and Aconin isn’t here to tell me. So we have to muddle on.”

“So I can assume you don’t have any idea where he might be,” Rathe said slowly, and the woman shook her head.

“Oriane knows. He’s probably holed up somewhere with a new discovery. Have you come to call a point on him?”

Rathe grinned. “No, or at least not yet. I just had some questions for him. Was he paying particular attention to anyone?”

“I have the managing of this masque, Nico,” Gasquine said. “That’s a cast of nearly three score, including a better‑born chorus than I’ve ever been unlucky enough to have to deal with. Plus two mysterious deaths in the theatre, and the broadsheets bleating about a haunted theatre or a cursed play, plus Master Eyes’s malice on top of it–you did me no favor there, Nico. Aconin’s affairs have been, I confess, outside my notice.”

“Sorry,” Rathe said, lifting his hands, and Gasquine sighed.

“Not your fault, I know. But I’m starting to feel that the stars are against me.”

“Mistress Gasquine?” That was one of the scenerymen, touching his hand to his forehead. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but–”

Gasquine sighed. “I’m needed?”

“Yes, mistress. Now.”

Gasquine spread her hands in wordless appeal, but slid off her stool and vanished into the shadows without a backward glance. Left to himself, Rathe glanced around, looking for Eslingen among the crowd in the pit. The soldier was nowhere in sight, and he grimaced, wondering if anyone else might know Aconin’s whereabouts.

“Nico?”

The voice was unwelcome– except, Rathe thought, of all the people here, Guis Forveijl is the person most likely to know where I can find Chresta Aconin. “Guis.”

“I wanted to talk to you,” Forveijl said. “I wouldn’t bother you except it’s important. It’s about Chresta. And–” He gestured to the stage, the movement surprisingly ineffective for an actor, and more compelling for it. “All this.”

Rathe stared at him, wondering if Aconin had finally abandoned the other man–and that, he told himself firmly, was an unworthy thought. Forveijl’s face was unusually sober, troubled, and Rathe made a face, capitulating. “All right, talk to me.”

Forveijl shook his head. “Please. Not here.”

He tilted his head to one side, and Rathe sighed again, seeing the rehearsal momentarily at a standstill. A dozen of the chorus were trooping onto the stage, all carrying property weapons–Eslingen was among them, he saw, met Rathe’s glance with a quick smile that was replaced almost instantly with the intent frown that was becoming as familiar to Rathe as any of Forveijl’s gestures had been–and several of the actors, dismissed from the stage, were watching them with open curiosity. No, he could hardly blame Forveijl for wanting to keep this conversation private. “Where, then?” he asked, and Forveijl looked over his shoulder again.

“The dressing rooms, I suppose. That should be private enough,”

Not from what Jhirassi had always told him, Rathe thought, but then, he had no particular desire to be closeted too closely with Forveijl. He nodded, and let the other man lead him through the wings and up a narrow staircase that ran along the theater’s rear wall. The dressing rooms were there, nearly a dozen of them, communal rooms for the common actors, tiny private rooms for the leading women, and Rathe wondered idly where Eslingen dressed. Or the chorus, for that matter: they could hardly enjoy being tucked into even the largest of the rooms, forced to share with half a hundred others. To his surprise, Forveijl pushed open the door of one of the smaller rooms–but then, Rathe thought, following the other man inside, Forveijl had earned his peers’ regard. Whatever Rathe thought of him, Forveijl had their respect.