Rathe nodded, looking wary. “Some things, yeah.”

“Can you name the flowers?” Trijn asked. “Better, can you remember how they were arranged? If you can sketch that, you and I– and Eslingen here, we might as well make use of him–can get through these books in a lot less time.”

“Makes sense.” Rathe rubbed his temples. “I know the flowers, they were those white corms with the purple splotches, with silverthorn and winterspice–more silverthorn than spice–but I’m not so sure about the arrangement. Let me see what I can do.”

Trijn nodded. “Do what you can. In the meantime, Eslingen, you and I can at least look for those flowers in conjunction.”

Eslingen reached for the stack of Alphabets, picked one at random and handed it to the chief point, then chose a second for himself. This one was bound in purple cloth, but the woodcuts were cheap, done fast by a less‑than‑talented artist, and as if to make up for that, the printer or her writer had added a list of all the plants in each arrangement at the corner of the print. He skimmed through the book, spotting the corms twice, and the silverthorn half a dozen times, but never together with winterspice. He started to set it aside, shaking his head, and Trijn said, “Put it here.”

Eslingen did as he was told and reached for another volume. This time, the binding was plain, cheap, dark blue cloth, but the prints were beautiful, done with an unusual delicacy of line. The text was less interesting, doggerel verse followed by a prose vignette linking the flowers shown to some important event long past, but he turned these pages more slowly, caught in spite of himself by the illustrations. There were numbers in the bottom corners of some of the prints, he realized suddenly, numbers that looked like act and scene, and he frowned, looking up at Trijn.

“I thought no one was allowed to print anything about the masque until it had been played.”

The chief point gave him a wary stare, and Rathe looked up from his sketching. “What do you mean?”

“This Alphabet,” Eslingen answered, and held it up. “It’s got act and scene numbers for every event that’s in the play. Verse numbers, too, for some of it. Pretty much the whole story’s in here, if you want to make the effort. Does that count?”

Trijn took the book from him, and paged quickly through. “What an interesting question,” she murmured. “Probably not, it’s not the play per se, but it might be interesting to try to call it–after we’ve dealt with this practical version.”

Eslingen nodded, blushing, and Rathe sat up straight again, spinning his sketch so that the others could see. “That’s the best I can do,” he said, and frowned. “You know, I’d swear I’d seen it before.”

“I most sincerely hope so,” Trijn answered, not looked up from her own copy. “I’m already spending too much of this station’s budget on these damn things.”

Rathe made a noncommittal noise, his expression distant, then reached for the book he’d taken from his lockbox. He paged through that, scanning each of the prints, stopped with a noise of satisfaction. “There,” he said, and held out the book. “That’s it.”

Eslingen took it before Trijn could stretch for it, held it where they both could see. “Seduction,” he read. “Victory over an adversary. Regaining lost fortunes.” That was the caption, cryptic as any broadsheet; on the page opposite, a writer of middle talent had composed thirteen couplets on the Ancient Queens.

“This reads like market cards,” Trijn said.

“But it works,” Rathe said. “Unlike market cards.”

His voice was remote, as though he was trying to remember something, and he reached for the Alphabet again. Eslingen let him take it, watched the other man flip hurriedly through the pages, frown deepening as he got further into the text. Then he stopped, his face lightening abruptly, and he spun the book so that the others could see.

“I knew I’d seen that before. Chief, Leussi was growing this less than a full moon before he died.”

“So?” Trijn demanded. “Was it one of the ones he bought from that woman in Little Chain?”

Rathe shook his head. “No. No, we talked about it, I didn’t know what it was, and I asked him. He said it was a gift, but he didn’t say from whom. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but now–”

Eslingen nodded, staring at the plate. It didn’t show an arrangement, but a single plant, rangy and rather ugly, with hairy leaves and stems that supported a surprisingly delicate blue flower. “Bluemory,” the text named it, and gave instructions for planting and harvesting it safely. “What exactly does it mean, ‘deadly in the right stars’?” he asked, and Rathe showed teeth in a feral grin.

“Exactly what it says, and you notice that these how‑to‑plant‑and‑harvest‑it instructions actually tell you everything you need to make it a deadly poison.”

“So you think that’s what killed the intendant,” Trijn said.

Rathe nodded. “I think it’s a good bet–and I hope to all the gods that Holles can remember who gave him the plant.”

“So why wasn’t Holles killed?” Trijn asked.

“If his stars weren’t right, it wouldn’t hurt him,” Rathe answered. “Look, to keep it safe you have to plant it when the moon is in trine to your natal star, and you have to avoid harvesting it when the moon’s in your natal sign. It’s all dependent on the gardener’s signs, individual signs. The only general thing is you can’t pick it when the sun and Seidos are in conjunction.”

“I’ll send to the university,” Trijn said, “see if they know of the plant–the phytomancers might even grow it, if we’re particularly lucky. But either way, it gives Fanier something more to work with.” She held up her hand, forestalling anything else Rathe might have said. “And I’ll ask Holles about it, too. There’s no need to get you into any more trouble with the regents.”

“I have no desire to get into any more trouble with the regents,” Rathe answered. He shook his head. “I hope they’ve found Gus.”

“They’re taking their time about it,” Trijn said. “Which edition is this?”

Rathe grimaced. “That’s the thing. I don’t think it’s a recent one. Not one of the ones we’ve picked up in the markets. Holles gave it to me, after Leussi was killed.”

Trijn’s eyebrows rose at that, and Rathe spread his hands. Eslingen looked back at the print, wondering just how hard it would be to make use of these directions. One would need to know the intended victim’s stars, but that wasn’t too hard to find out, and then you’d need to know enough about gardening to bring the plant to a reasonable size–or would you? he wondered. Could something as small as a stalk or cutting kill? He pulled the book toward him, looking for the answer, but instead the last line of the description seemed to leap out at him: “the true name of Bluemory is Basilisk.”

“Then we’d better find out who is printing it,” Trijn said, “or who’s done a new edition.”

Rathe nodded, but anything he might have said was interrupted by a knock at the door. It opened before he could say anything, and Sohier stuck her head into the workroom.

“Oh, good, I’m glad I found you. Falasca said you were doing much better.”

“Better enough,” Rathe answered.

“We’re going to have to track Forveijl down at home, assuming one of the addresses we got from his friends is correct, and I wondered if you wanted to come with us.” Sohier tilted her head to one side, looking in that moment like a large and ungainly river bird.

“You don’t have to, surely,” Eslingen said, and Rathe shook his head.

“But I want to. What do you mean, Sohier, ‘one of the addresses’?”

The pointswoman shrugged uncomfortably. “Gasquine was busy, so we asked some of the other actors–”

“Not from Gasquine, who would know?” Trijn asked, and Eslingen cleared his throat.

“Ah. I know where he lives.” Both women looked at him, and he suppressed the urge to duck his head like a schoolboy. “When Aconin was shot–”