“Break!” the bookholder called.

Gasquine stepped out of the wings, nodding to de Besselin, and Eslingen wondered if the boy had finally gotten through the speech successfully. Apparently he’d done well enough to satisfy Gasquine; the manager waved to the bookholder, and then tucked her arm through the landseur’s, drawing him aside.

“Ten minutes,” the bookholder said, checking the expensive timepiece pinned to her bodice. “Clear the stage for a set change, please.”

Eslingen shuffled back out of the way along with the rest of the cast, watched as chorus and actors dispersed to their usual spots in the pit. There was still no sign of Rathe, and after a moment’s hesitation, he started up the stairs. Jhirassi met him at the top, smiling cheerfully, and Eslingen caught his shoulder before the actor could get away.

“Have you seen Nico?”

“No.” Jhirassi grinned. “Have you seen Verre?”

Siredy? Eslingen blinked. “He’s below. Gavi, wait.”

Jhirassi paused, looked back with a lifted eyebrow.

“Which one is Forveijl’s?”

Jhirassi’s eyebrows rose. “I wouldn’t worry, Philip, that’s been over for years.”

Eslingen shook his head. “It’s not that.” There was something wrong, he thought suddenly, Rathe should have been down by now, and the fear sharpened his voice. “Which one, Gavi?”

“Third from the far end,” Jhirassi answered, pointing, and Eslingen turned away.

The door was closed, he could see that from here, but he had to flatten himself against the wall as bes’Hallen stalked past, her antique petticoats taking up most of the narrow hall, before he could tap on the unpainted panels. There was no answer, and he reached for the latch, glanced over his shoulder to see Jhirassi still watching from the top of the stairs. To hell with it, Eslingen thought, and lifted the latch. To his surprise, the door opened, spilling sunlight across the worn floorboards, and he blinked to see Rathe sprawled on the floor like a heap of discarded clothes. There were flowers beneath him, and water; he was lying in a puddle, on top of the pieces of a broken vase. No blood, Eslingen thought, his own breath painfully short, and knelt quickly beside the body, groping for the pulse at the neck. It was there, and strong, and he rocked back onto his heels with a gasp of relief. A strong pulse, and no visible injury– did the bastard knock him down, knock him out, and just leave him? Eslingen wondered, running his hands over Rathe’s head and torso. There were no bruises, either, but no sign of returning consciousness–he looked, if anything, like a man lightning‑struck, except that he was breathing easily, but even so, Eslingen lifted each of Rathe’s hands in turn, looking for the faint burn. Maybe Forveijl had attacked him, then, he thought, but he couldn’t imagine the actor winning even an unfair fight, at least not without leaving a mark.

“Tyrseis!” Jhirassi’s shocked voice sounded from the doorway, and Eslingen looked up quickly.

“Fetch a doctor, please, Gavi. Quickly.”

“What’s wrong?” Jhirassi stood frozen, eyes suddenly huge, and Eslingen shook his head.

“I don’t know. He’s alive, but–send for a physician, please. He’s out cold.”

Jhirassi nodded, backing away, and a moment later, Eslingen heard his footsteps loud on the stairs, and the distant sound of his voice shouting for a runner. Thank Seidos for people who can make themselves heard, he thought, and carefully gathered Rathe into his arms, lifting him out of the spilled water. There was a scratch on the pointsman’s hand where he’d fallen on a shard of glass, and another on his shin, visible through a tear in the heavy stocking, but those had obviously happened when he fell, could not have caused this collapse. Eslingen touched Rathe’s cheek, feeling the first rasp of stubble, and to his relief the other man stirred slightly, opening his eyes.

“Guis–”

And was that accusation, or regret? Eslingen wondered, and stifled his own anger. “It’s me, Nico. Philip. Where are you hurt?”

“Philip.” That was definitely relief in Rathe’s voice, and Eslingen let out breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Where are you hurt?” he said again. “What happened, Nico?”

Rathe shuddered, a wracking, convulsive movement, and Eslingen gathered him more tightly into his arms. “Talk to me, Nico. Where–?”

“Besides all over?” Rathe managed a weak grin, and it was all Eslingen could do not to squeeze him still more tightly.

“Nico, look at me. Are you hurt anywhere in particular?”

Rathe’s head moved from side to side, not quite purposeful enough to be a headshake. “I–I’m not sure, I’m still…”

“What?”

“Tingling. The lights…” Rathe shook his head, more definitely this time. “I feel like I was hit by lightning.”

“That’s what you look like,” Eslingen said grimly. And damned unlikely, on a sunny day and no other sign of it.

“Do I?” Rathe tried to sit up, but Eslingen held him back.

“No, don’t push yourself. Tell me what happened.”

“I was an idiot,” Rathe answered, and Eslingen sighed.

“Possibly. It does seem to be going around. In what way were you an idiot?”

“I listened to Guis.”

“It seems that would qualify,” Eslingen said grimly, looking at the scattered flowers, and Rathe made a noise that might have been the start of laughter.

“Don’t. I hurt.”

“Where?” Eslingen asked, and Rathe grimaced.

“Everywhere.”

He was looking a little less pale, Eslingen thought, though the pupils of his eyes were still too wide, too black for the amount of light streaming in the window. “What happened?” he said again, and this time the words seemed to register.

“Guis,” Rathe began, then shook his head. “The flowers…” He stopped again, frowning, a little more color seeping back into his face, and Eslingen drew a slow sigh of relief. “Guis wanted me back–very convincing he was, too. But I don’t know if it was him or the flowers, this happened when I knocked them over. Philip, it’s important, you have to find out where these came from–”

Rathe’s hand closed on Eslingen’s arm, and the ex‑soldier winced at the grip, loosened the fingers carefully. “I’ll ask,” he said soothingly. “Don’t worry, we’ll find out, I will, or someone from Dreams.” And I’ll send someone else after Forveijl, he added silently, or the points will have another theatre murder on their hands. He didn’t doubt that the actor was long gone, and he took a careful breath, controlling his anger.

“It might have been aimed at Guis, too,” Rathe said painfully, and Eslingen snorted.

“Do you really believe that?”

Rathe shook his head, but whatever else he would have said was cut off by the sound of footsteps in the hall. Eslingen looked up quickly, to see Gasquine and a stocky, moon‑faced woman in a physician’s robe filling the doorway. There were more people behind them, Jhirassi and Siredy among them, and he made a face, thinking of the new rumors.

“And what’s the matter with this one?” the physician demanded.

The Phoebans were living up to their reputation, Eslingen thought. He said, “I don’t know, exactly. I found him like this.”

The woman squatted beside them, brushing flowers out of the way, tilted Rathe’s face up so that his eyes met her own. “Hah. Not drunk or drugged, and not lightning, either, on a clear day, not to mention it’s winter. Give me your left hand.”

Rathe held it out, and she nodded as though he’d passed the first test. “Your pulse is good,” she said after a moment, and reached into her case for a bodkin. Without warning, she pricked the tip of Rathe’s forefinger, nodded when she saw him wince, then touched the other fingers as well. “Good, you feel.”

“Yes,” Rathe said, and sounded almost indignant.

“So you tell me what happened.”

Eslingen saw the other man’s gaze flicker, knew he was debating telling the truth. “I don’t remember,” Rathe said after a moment, and the woman grunted.