“Well, if you don’t know what happened, all I can do is treat the symptoms. Which look damnably like you were hit by lightning.”

“I feel like I was hit by lightning,” Rathe said, and struggled to sit up. Eslingen released him reluctantly, sat back on his heels ready to catch the other man if he faltered.

“Not very likely,” the physician said, and caught Rathe’s right hand. “Do you feel this?”

Rathe winced. “Yes.”

“Where else do you hurt?”

“My shoulders, both arms, my ribs–the muscles along them, not the ribs themselves.” Rathe leaned forward slightly, grimacing as he tested his strength. “It’s better than it was.”

The physician grunted again. “And they’ll be worse tomorrow.” She looked at Eslingen. “If you’re his leman–hells, if you’re a friend–treat him to the baths tonight. He’ll feel like he’s been lifting barrels by morning.”

Eslingen nodded, and the woman went on. “For the rest, well, there’s arnica, which I would recommend for the bruising. You may or may not see it, but for my money you’re bruised inside. And a tissane of moonwort, to ease things. You can get those at any herbalist. Go home, lie down, let your muscles rest, but don’t sleep for a few hours. After that, it’s the best thing for you.” She pushed herself to her feet, frowning. “If you could remember what had happened to you, I might be able to offer more, but since you can’t, all I can do is treat the symptoms that I see.”

“Of course,” Rathe said, and Eslingen thought he looked faintly embarrassed.

“Nico,” Gasquine said, and Rathe grimaced, starting to push himself upright. Eslingen rose with him, steadying him, was pleased when the pointsman found his balance quickly. “What–where’s Guis?”

“I don’t know,” Rathe answered, his voice grim. “But I will want to talk to him.”

“Guis isn’t in the theatre,” one of the theater runners said, poking her head around the edge of the door, and in the same moment the crowd parted to admit Sohier, truncheon in hand. Someone was thinking, Eslingen thought, and felt almost giddy with relief.

“Nico?” Sohier asked, and Rathe waved his hand impatiently.

“I’m all right, or I will be. But I need two things from you, Sohier, quick as you can. First, find Guis Forveijl, someone here must know where to look. Second–” He glanced down at the flowers still littering the floor. “Find out where these came from. Who they were given to, and when.”

Sohier nodded, her long face intent. “We’ll get on it right away.”

“We?” Rathe asked, and swayed unsteadily. Eslingen caught him, unobtrusively, he hoped, and felt the other man shiver again.

“Leenderts and me,” Sohier answered. “And I can get Persilon as well. I didn’t know what would be needed.”

“Good woman,” Rathe said. “But we need the answers as soon as possible.”

“Understood,” Sohier answered, and backed away.

“All right,” Gasquine said sharply, and Eslingen suppressed a giggle, seeing half the crowd vanish as though by magic. “There’s work to be done, and you’ll all be disappointed to know, there’s no disaster to be gawked at. Get along.” She waited, hands on hips, while the last of the actors made their way back down the narrow hall, then turned to face the waiting men. “Did Guis do this?” she asked, and Eslingen was surprised by the pain in her voice.

“I–don’t really know,” Rathe answered. “It’s possible, or it might have been meant for him as well.”

“You’re fairer than I’d be,” Eslingen muttered, and Rathe managed a crooked smile.

“It’s my job, Philip.”

He was sounding weaker again, and Eslingen looked at Gasquine. “I’m taking him home, Mathiee. I just have to tell Master Duca–”

Gasquine held up a hand. “I’ll speak to Duca. Take a low‑flyer, Lieutenant.” She held out her hand, shaking her head at Eslingen’s automatic protest. “It was in my theatre, and maybe one of my people who did this. The least I can do is see him home safely. Now go.”

Eslingen kept his arm around the other man as they made their way down the stairs, aware of the stares from actors and chorus as they made their way out into the plaza. He found a low‑flyer quickly, for once, but as he held open the door, Rathe shook his head.

“No.”

“Nico,” Eslingen began, and Rathe shook his head carefully.

“I’m not going home, there’s work to do. I want to go to Point of Dreams.”

“The physician said…”

“I know, Philip, but my books, the books are at Dreams, and I need to look at them.”

Eslingen eyed him uncertainly, on the verge of sending the driver to Rathe’s rooms anyway, and Rathe shook his head again.

“No, I’m not babbling, truly, it’s just there are things I have to know now. Refore it’s too late. Please, Philip, trust me on this.”

Eslingen lifted his hands, and reached up to tap the driver on his knee. “Change of plans. Take us to Point of Dreams station.”

Rathe was silent on the short ride, resting against the hard cushions, but as they turned the last corner before the station, he roused himself, working his shoulders as though they still pained him. “I’m sorry, Philip.”

Eslingen gave him a startled look. “For what?”

Rathe shrugged, wincing. “For worrying you.”

Eslingen hitched himself around carefully on the low‑flyer’s nar‑row seat. “Ah, and here I thought you meant about disobeying the physician’s direct order to go to bed for the rest of the day.”

Rathe shook his head again. “I’m not getting into bed in the middle of the day.”

In spite of everything, Eslingen grinned. “That’s not what you’ve said before this.”

“There was never a bed available.”

“You’ll be fine,” Eslingen said dryly. “No, I understand. If there’s work to do–and besides, there’s always the nasty thought that it’s the surgeons, not the battle, that’ll be the death of one.”

Rathe smiled at that, and leaned his head back against the cushions, but Eslingen sighed, knowing it had all too often been the truth.

The low‑flyer brought them into the courtyard of the Dreams station, the runners gathering to stare, and Rathe made a particular effort to descend without a helping hand. Eslingen let him, reluctantly, then paid off the driver and followed the other man inside. The duty point was a stocky, handsome woman, who eyed Rathe with a mixture of horror and relief, then looked down at her book, visibly mastering her emotions.

“Glad to see you’re all right,” she said roughly. “When the runner came…” She let her voice trail off, lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “They find the bastard?”

“Not yet,” Rathe answered, “and at the moment we don’t even know for sure who’s responsible.”

Eslingen snorted at that–it would be Forveijl, for his money– and Rathe gave him an admonishing look.

“We don’t know,” he repeated, and looked back at Falasca. “When Sohier gets back, send her up to my workroom, will you? And anything else I need to know about.”

“Will do,” Falasca said. “The chief’s out, but I sent word to her, and I’ll send her up when she comes. She’ll want to talk to you.”

“Thanks.” Rathe turned to the stairs, face set as he worked his way up, not willing to concede to his aching muscles. Eslingen, following close behind, was grateful when they finally reached the workroom, and Rathe let himself collapse into the large chair at his worktable.

“I need my books, Philip,” he began, and Eslingen shook his head.

“The stove first,” he said, and stooped to rake up the coals. “And then tea.” He found the pot, still half full of a dark, stewed brew, and added more water from the bucket that stood ready. “Now, what was it you wanted?”

“My books,” Rathe said again, but he was smiling. “On the shelf there.”

Eslingen crossed to the shelf that hung beside the long window. It was three‑quarters full of slim, board‑bound volumes, mostly octavos, but some larger, all held in place by an empty forcing jar. He lifted the first one down, and was not surprised to see a familiar title stamped on the dark blue cover. “Are these all the Alphabet?”