Eslingen laughed appreciatively, but his eyes strayed to the duelists again. Still all there, though for once the two landames weren’t standing arm in arm, and he hoped nothing had happened to damp their friendship. They had defied the looks and whispers, and Aconin’s acid tongue, to maintain their affair openly; it would be a shame if the family enmities won after all. “Do you want to herd them on, or shall I?” he asked, and Siredy lifted his eyebrows.

“I’ll send them on, if you’ll get them off again.”

Eslingen nodded, knowing he’d been given the easier job, and grateful for it, and turned away, heading deeper into the backstage area so that he could cross the stage behind the massive backpiece. He had seen it from the pit for the first time just the day before, and it had taken his breath away: a mountain landscape, hills rising steeply to either side to frame the narrow valley. In the first act, and in the third, it was the Pass of Jetieve, in the second and fifth, the view from de Galhac’s fortress, and in the rest, all the mountains that bordered the palatinate; the versatiles were painted to change and complete each different setting. They were almost ready for the performance, everything in place except the final blessings of the chamberlains and their magists, and Eslingen paused at the center of the backpiece, peering out through the single narrow slit in the stiff canvas. Only the amateurs used it, or so he’d been told, but he’d also seen more than one of the professionals pausing to glance through the tiny gap. The only difference was that they didn’t use their hands to widen it, and risk spoiling the illusion.

Through the slit, he could see the actors standing in a semicircle around bes’Hallen, who stood stage center, draped in a floor‑length veil that gleamed like gold in the warm light of the practicals. Between their bodies, posed in stiff formality, he could see the empty benches of the pit, and the dark shadows of the galleries–except, he realized, the pit wasn’t entirely empty. Gasquine was sitting on one of the center benches, perhaps eight or ten rows back, her head and shoulders just visible as she watched intently. The chief sceneryman sat with her, and a tall woman in a long black gown who had to be one of the chamberlains. By rights, Eslingen thought, Aconin should be with them, but the playwright was still missing–not at the theatre, and not, according to Rathe, at his lodgings, or anywhere else he had been known to frequent. The gossips whispered that maybe he had caused the deaths, that at the least he was likely to be the person who’d put Forveijl up to trying the trick with the flowers, and quite possibly the one who killed Forveijl for it afterward, though there was a minority opinion that insisted that Rathe himself had done it. No one had said that to his face, of course, and Eslingen could guess that there were probably a few people who thought he could have done it–defending his lover–but that was easy to ignore. But Aconin wasn’t responsible, he thought, and turned away from the backpiece, crossing to the far side of the stage. It was more crowded there, and he had to press himself against the brick wall to avoid a pair of scenerymen hauling what looked like a roll of canvas. Another scenepiece, he guessed, or a carpet for one of the soueraine’s entrances. It wasn’t like Aconin to set someone up like that–or at least it wasn’t like him not to hang around to enjoy his victim’s disgrace. Eslingen made a face, remembering a childhood beating for stealing fruit from a neighbor’s garden. Aconin had put him up to it, and had enjoyed the outcome, the shouts and the pursuit and Eslingen’s wails, almost as much as he would have enjoyed the stolen plums. He’d gotten his own back, of course, and Aconin had learned better than to try that again, but the playwright had never been able to resist that kind of manipulation. And that, he thought, is why I’m so sure he isn’t behind any of this. If he was, he’d still be at the theatre, too secure in his own cleverness to think of running away. But that was almost impossible to explain to Rathe–the pointsman was right, it had been years since he’d been in contact with Aconin, but he doubted Aconin had changed fundamentally in those years.

He took his place in the wings, resting his halberd on the toe of his shoe to keep from making unwanted noise on the hollow stage, listening with half an ear to the end of the council scene. Ramani’s long speech was coming up, and then the council exited, and the battle–his responsibility–would begin. He could see Siredy waiting opposite, the duelists ready behind him, lined up two by two for the fighting entrance, and took a deep breath, willing everything to go right. The chorus had worked hard, and so had the masters; Tyrseis permitting, all would go well. This was stage fright, the demon that even the professionals propitiated as much as possible, and he looked back to the pit and galleries, trying to imagine them filled with faces. The thought was dizzying–a thousand faces, more, all watching his handiwork–and he took another breath, grateful that he had no onstage part in this particular performance. That might come, but, mercifully, not yet.

He made a face, angry at his own fears, looked over his shoulder to see the great wave still looming over his shoulder. It was too large to move, would probably stay there until some other play needed the mechanism for a similar effect, or so the scenerymen had said, and he wondered how long that would be. Probably long enough that de Raзan’s death would have been long forgotten–already most of the actors and chorus talked about the dead watchman, and Forveijl, less about the landseur. But they all had to be connected, Eslingen thought, and stepped back automatically as Aubine slipped past him, murmuring an apology, a trug full of flowers hooked in the crook of his arm. All the deaths had to do with the same thing–certainly with the masque, and maybe with the succession, though exactly how that would work, he couldn’t begin to see. The broadsheets, especially those fostered by Master Eyes, were having a field day, lurid tales of the haunted theatre drawing avid buyers to the stalls. The only mercy, Rathe had said sourly, was that de Raзan’s death was the only one that could be construed as political, and no one had, as yet, made the connection between the members of the chorus, and the claimants to Chenedolle’s throne. The other deaths covered a wide range of Astreiant’s population, from guildmember to artisan to artist–no connection except for the theatre. And that was only enough for children’s tales of haunting, not for anything more substantial.

Onstage, Ramani had finished her speech–Hyver was good, he thought, not for the first time, might be better than bes’Hallen someday–and stalked off, followed more slowly by the council. Above him, he heard the soft rumble of well‑greased pulleys, and the light brightened, yellow‑lensed practicals lowered to give the illusion of bright daylight. Across the stage, Siredy touched his leader’s shoulder–Simar, the landseur with the flowers, had proved to be far more sensible than his posies would suggest–and the pairs began to work their way onto the stage, swords clashing in steady rhythm. Eslingen released breath he hadn’t known he was holding as the second pair found their way past the first, took their place upstage and to the left. So far, he thought, so far, so good–except that Txi and de Vannevaux were out of step, Txi scowling at her erstwhile lover, her attacks too aggressive for pretense. Eslingen frowned, seeing the woman mouth something, saw de Vannevaux break the planned sequence with an attack, and swore under his breath. This was what they’d all been worried about, what they’d tried to drill out of the chorus, the excitement that said a fencer had to win at all costs. Txi cried out, wordless, stumbling back from another unexpected attack, and d’Yres missed a parry dodging away from her. The air was heavy suddenly, thick with tension, and the other duelists faltered, turning to see what was happening. In the pit, Gasquine rose to her feet, mouth open to call the halt, and Eslingen saw Siredy pale and staring in the far wing, as Txi swore, and wedged her blade against the stage floor, snapping the bate from the end of the blade.